#When he was a king his markings were obscured because of his glow but life and void poisoning took a toll on him so he's no longer as | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soybeantree · 3 years

Text

pairing: do kyungsoo x (reader)

genre/warning: mentions of death, adoption, fluff, myths and legends!au

word count: 6k

description: the woods were much, much older than the stories about him, and the magic that brought a child to you was told to be eternal. but the bond between you and kyungsoo would outlast them both.

a/n: december installment of our ‘trying to write a kyungsoo story for every month that he is gone’ series. - x

White covers the wood. The branches bend under the weight of the fresh snowfall, and the floor glistens like a diamond in the sunlight. The air holds the chill of the first winter snow, ready to burn lungs and bite cheeks. But silence filters through the trees. The first humans have yet to wake and leave their mark in the pristine world.

You walk through the wood, your footsteps making neither a sound nor leaving a trace. You wave towards the snow and encourage it from branches which are ready to snap. You place a hand upon the trunks and listen for the sound of the hibernating occupants. You are the Queen of the Winter Wood.

A bird chirps on a nearby branch. Its blood red feathers are a shock against the white. It cocks its head to the side and chirps again. You nod, and it flies to another branch. You follow the bird through the wood until it stops on a tree with a large white mound beneath it. The bird whistles one long sorrowful note.

Brushing aside the snow, you find a shock of dark hair. You pause and whisper an apology. Winter must come. The world must rest for a season and be replenished, but some things find their eternal rest in winter. You brush away the snow until the tiny figure sits huddled before you. Lips of dark indigo are pressed together while snowflakes glue eyes shut. Leaning forward, you place a gentle kiss on each eyelid and one upon the mouth. As you lean back, the blue lightens and the eyelids flutter open to reveal white irises.

“Good morning little one.” You greet as skin thaws and fingers move. She blinks. “The world is very different today. If you would like, you can come with me. I have a place for you to stay

where you can find your place in this new world.” She watches you, her gaze appraising your thick cloak of green velvet and the forest of gold thread embroidered upon it. Her cloak is nothing more than patches held together with thread and a prayer. It was no match for Winter’s first snow. You offer your hand, and she grasps it.

As she follows you through the wood, she glances back at the way you came and at her feet. “It is best for us to leave no trace.” You explain. “Humans come up with all types of frightening stories about the winter.” The black of her irises nearly obscure the white when you mention humans. “Like you, I was human once, and like you, I am no longer.” Her grip tightens, and you squeeze back. “There is no need for fear. Neither you nor I are monsters. Perhaps, I should tell you how I became the Queen of the Winter Woods. I think it would help with your fear.” Her lips, the color of the noon sky, purse, but she nods.

The woods pass around you. The trees come to life with the sound of birds. Tiny creatures scurry across the snow, leaving their tracks. “I wonder if I should start at the beginning or the true beginning.”

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her brow furrows as she tries again.

Patting the hand securely held in yours, you encourage her. “Your voice will return with time.” She scowls and kicks at the snow, leaving her first mark. You pause and crouch down beside her. “I know this is confusing. Change is always confusing at first, but it will get better. In the meantime though, I will make my questions easier to answer. One,” and you hold up one finger, “I can start at the beginning. Two,” and you hold up two fingers, “I can start at the true beginning.” She holds up two fingers.

“The true beginning starts here.” You spread your arms to encompass the wood. “When I was a little older than you.” Standing, you retake her hand and continue on your way.

Your mother and father lived in a small town at the southernmost border of the kingdom and beyond the Winter King’s reach. Only when the townsfolk boasted that he would never dare come to their town did snowfall. The townsfolk stopped boasting and shushed any who thought to mention his name. Your mother was from the north where the Winter King holds dominion. She had been content to live with a snowless winter when she first married your father, but after you were born, she bemoaned that her daughter would never know snow. So, one winter, they travelled north to spend it with your grandparents.

You loved the snow. Each morning, you woke early and would stay out until dark. You would return to the cabin with frozen toes, chapped cheeks, and cracked lips. Your grandmother would laugh as she rubbed lotions into your abused skin and tease that if you continued one day you would return a snow maiden.

The first day in the snow, you met Kyungsoo. He was your age, you guessed. You thought him an orphan because he had no coat over his thin frame and no cap on his dark mop of hair. He refused to warm himself in your grandparents’ home, as well as the coat off your back, even though you said you had another at home. After accepting that he was fine in the cold, you two began to play together. He would ride on your sled; you would build snow forts; and you beat him in every snowball fight.

One week was all you had with him. Your mother came looking for you. Night had fallen without your return. She screamed when she saw you with Kyungsoo and fell on her face. He told you to go with your mother, and then he was gone. Your mother was in hysterics by the time you reached the cabin. You had no idea why your always happy mother was crying and screeching and refused to let you go. You were scared and wanted to go to your grandmother and have her rub her lotions into your skin – your feet were hurting – but your mother held you close as she continued to sob. The next day you left and never returned. Your mother never mentioned snow again.

“That is the true beginning little one.” You finish as you reach your sledge. “It paints a bit more frightening picture than how the story ends, but that is how it happened.”

Her reaction to your story is lost in her amazement of the sledge. She stares mouth open, her hand slacks in yours. The spray of a summer fountain, frozen and spun like sugar, form the body of the sledge. The ice, delicate enough to fool one into thinking it fragile, grabs the sun’s light and glows, promising a false warmth. At the helm stand creatures of snow and air which appear as reindeer when they choose to appear at all. They appear now for the child’s wonder and shake their manes, sending fresh snow upon the ground.

“I would be happy with the sled I had as a child, but my husband gifted me this as an anniversary present. So, I use it.” You shrug. “At least until I decide to learn how to travel on the winter wind.”

Throwing a wink at the girl, you lead her forward. She shies away from the ice. “I suppose you must think sitting on ice will be cold.” She nods. “That was when you were human. Does the snow feel cold upon your toes?”

She glances at her feet. In the excitement of the morning, she had forgotten the holes in her shoes. Her toes have trudged across the wood without any discomfort. She shudders, and you place a finger under her chin, guiding it up.

“I know little one. Remember what I said about change?” She does. “This is another change. This one is a little harder. I still go out in a cloak with a full lining of fur.” You raise the hem of your cloak and brush it against her nose. She gives a soundless giggle. “But I have no need for it. Would you like a ride in my sledge? I promise it is faster than any sledge you have ever seen.”

You climb in first, covering the seat with your cloak. She nestles and wraps the cloak around her shoulders. The reindeer race across fields of fresh snow. The world blurs around you, wind buffeting your cheeks and dancing through your hair. The reindeer run on, knowing where to go without any prompting from you which is good as you never did learn to drive a sledge. On your journey, you continue your story, starting with the beginning.

When the snow appeared on your doorstep on the first morning after the Autumnal Equinox, your father brushed it aside with a smile. “Winter will come early this year,” he said, and you nodded because it eased his shoulders.

When you went into town, you glanced at the doorsteps of the shopkeepers, but none had a pile of fresh swept snow beside them. You knew better than to comment this to your mother. Her smile grew tight across her face the further you walked, and you feared it would tear her cheeks. She rushed you through errands that morning, and when you returned home, she locked herself in the bedroom with your father.

They argued. Their voices carried into the living area where you sat darning a sock by the fire.

The words lost their meaning as they travelled through walls, but you could guess at them. Snow on the doorstep. The Winter King. You shivered despite the fire. Your fingers numbed, and you could no longer feel the needle between your fingers.

Throwing the unfinished sock back in your work basket, you stood and headed to the kitchen. Dinner needed making, and your mother had enough worrying her. You began the preparations, and when your parents finally emerged, dinner was ready. You ate in silence. The stew tasted of snow and sent a chill through you.

As you climbed into your bed ready to sleep and wake to find this day had been a dream, your mother came and sat down beside you. She wrapped your hands in hers. They were warm, but their warmth failed to sink into you. A sob slipped from her smiling lips. “Everything will be okay.” She promised as she placed as a kiss on each finger. You laid in your bed shivering beneath an extra quilt and wondered why she should make such an impossible promise.

The next day the snow returned, but now it covered the full yard. Your father swept it from the doorstep and shoveled a path to the front gate. Your neighbors paused on their way and whispered to one another. Their words were lost on the wind, but you could guess at them.

“Snow in Autumn. The Winter King comes calling.”

“What?” The word shocks you from your telling. You blink. The wind whistles as you fly across the Winter Plain and could have tricked your ears, but the face gazing up to you has the question etched into every feature. “Is your voice back little one?”

She opens her mouth and a croak slips out, so she nods ‘yes’ then ‘no’.

“It is coming back then?” She nods. “Good. Good.” You pat her cheek. “Now, as for your question. I suppose you have had no cause to hear it, but when I was younger, they whispered it every year. The Winter King must have a bride, so the Autumn Queen allows him to come during her reign and choose a bride. ‘Snow in Autumn. The Winter King comes calling’. Do you understand?” She pouts as questions crease her brow, but she nods, her only recourse until her voice returns. You continue your story, knowing it will answer some of the questions.

Your father paused from his shoveling to wave to your neighbors. They returned the wave but scuttled away. Your mother decided to stay home. Your errands were not so pressing that you must go to town that day. You nodded and smiled because it loosened her fists.

She and your father returned to their bedroom. Their argument continued. Your fingers were too numb to hold a needle, and it was too early to start dinner. Instead, you went out the back of the house. A smooth white blanket of snow stretched from the house to the woods beyond the fence. You wanted to walk into the woods and lose yourself like you had as a child, but as a young woman, disturbing the beauty of the snow felt a crime.

A whisper in your mind encouraged you forward. You took a step, and your foot stood firm as it does now. You stepped again and stood atop the snow. With a chuckle, you raced to the wood. When you reached the fence edge and glanced back, you found no trace of your passing. You shivered, only then remembering that you had forgotten your cloak.

The chill passed as you entered the woods. The branches had shed their leaves, but wore no coats of white in their place. They creaked in the wind like old men roused from their slumbering and waved to you. As you waved back, you heard it: a whisper, the sound of a memory. You no longer stood in your woods with the saplings which had grown along with you. These woods were ages older than you, but familiar. Your grandparents wood. The whisper came again. You rushed forward and dashed around an oak wider than a sledge.

A path opened up before you, flanked by rows of trees. At the end of the path, staring back at you, was Kyungsoo. Older now, but you knew him instantly. You called to him, but before his name could pass your lips, you were back in your wood.

You returned home, startled by the vision and anxious for your parents. Your absence would frighten them. Though, they should have been preparing themselves. One day more before he came, and no amount of arguing could keep him away.

Sitting at dinner, you tried to start conversations. You told the stories which always brought smiles and laughter, but that night they brought sighs and sorrow.

“Darling,” your father said, his voice rough. You wanted to turn the conversation, but you had run out of stories. “Your mother and I have decided we shall take an early holiday. We will all go visit my parents.” Your father’s parents lived beyond the sea, deep in the southern lands. Your father attempted a smile and managed a crooked stitched together thing which belonged on a scarecrow not a man.

You shook your head. There is no escaping the Winter King. “He will find me, even there.”

Your mother sobbed. You reached across the table to pat her hands, but she flinched at the ice in your fingertips and sobbed even harder. “Why must it be you?”

You wondered that too. Each year the Winter King chose a bride. No one knew how he chose for no two brides were the same. Their stations differed, their appearances differed, their manners differed. The only thing the brides had in common was that none lived to see another winter.

A tug on your sleeve pulls you back to the present. The sledge is slowing, the wind dying around you, so when you lean down, you hear the whispered, “How?” The little girl points to you, and you squish your nose as you smirk.

“I’ll get to that part I promise, but before that, we have arrived.” You watch her face as she sees your home. Many years have passed since you first arrived, and they have stripped the wonder from your eyes.

Ice is cold, hard, and often brutal, but it is also beautiful and delicate. Thick walls of ice stand between nine tall towers which rise into thin spires. Ice fountains twist and curve around the spires like lovers in a dance. When you arrived only six of the nine towers had the spiraling fountains about their spires. The ice captures the noon day sun and reflects it onto the plain of snow, revealing the images carved into the walls and towers. Roads of ice filled with Sledges. Homes frosted with snow, their hearth fires glowing. Rivers frozen solid enough for the skaters to flit across. And finally, Woods their branches covered with snow instead of leaves.

The sledge pulls up to this tower, and the ice melts away forming an arch large enough for the sledge to pull through. Creatures of wind and snow come forward to release the creatures who have pulled you home. They offer a hand to you and the girl, but she buries herself deep in your cloak, clutching it around her.

“They mean you no harm, little one.” You pet her hair. “No one within these walls will harm you, but if they unsettle you so, I will send them away.” With a wave of your hand, they disperse as if they never were. She watches where they were before turning her gaze on you. “My husband’s brother gives them form for me because bodiless creatures disconcert me. They are still here though doing their work. Now, shall we find you some new clothes and food? And perhaps when we are done, my husband will have returned.”

She crawls out of your cloak, and you help her from the sledge. With her hand in hers, you walk with her through the Ice Palace’s never-ending hallways. Her head swivels back and forth as she marks the doors and branching hallways. You had done the same when you first arrived though it did little good. It is impossible to remember one’s way through the palace. One must simply know it. As you continue on your way, you take up your story once more.

That last night in your parent’s home, you laid awake. Sleep neither came for you nor did you seek it. You stared beyond the roof’s eaves into the past. You packed your memories for the coming journey, starting with your earliest. A cold winter’s night. A fire roared in the hearth, and you sat in your mother’s lap as she told you tales of snow maidens.

Dawn crept across the roof before you had made it through half your memories. There was nothing to stop the coming day, though. With a sigh, you climbed out of your bed and walked to your wardrobe. Your best dress hung on the door where you left it. It was plain for a wedding gown, but three days was hardly enough time to construct a proper gown.

You dressed in the early morning light, and when you finished, you stood a distance from the palm-sized mirror your father bought you two winters past. It failed to catch your full image, but the portion it captured gave little evidence as to why you have been chosen as a bride of one of the Four Seasons.

Stepping out into the growing day, you found a world blanketed in white. The snow would rest on the whole town. As you walked, you glided across the snow’s surface though you knew it could not be cold enough for the snow to crust. Closer to town, you found cleared paths, the work of early travelers. You walked through them to the town’s center where the pavilion sat.

Each spring the town gathered at the pavilion to watch the marriages of friends and family. As one, they rejoiced and celebrated together. The pavilion was quiet in the early morning hour though you doubted your marriage would bring much rejoicing and celebrating. Still, you climbed the steps and waited in its center for your groom.

The sky brightened, the morning dawn fading into pale blue as you waited. The townspeople woke and began their mornings. All knew what the day would bring, but few of them stopped by the pavilion. Those that did glanced your way with pity and shook their heads before going on their way.

Noon arrived with a thunder. The bell in the town hall rang, but the sound carried beyond the tower, reverberating through your bones and stilling all those within earshot. When you glanced towards the road, you saw your parents. They were still in their bed clothes. The false winter morning had lulled them into a deep sleep. You wished they had remained asleep and felt guilty at the thought. They deserved a goodbye, but you knew they would fight to keep you. They could not fight winter though. The snow would come without ceasing if the Winter King had no bride.

A wind stirred as you watched them, circling the pavilion and picking at the snow. As the flakes rose, they swirled about you, creating a wall of white. A chill bit your fingertips and toes, and when you glanced at them, you found ice creeping up your body. You closed your eyes and breathed deep as panic threatened to overwhelm you.

The ice eased over your face, and you stared out at the wall of white, a statue of ice. The cold reached into you stilling all thought and sense. The wall of white stretched a tendril towards you, and your body of ice responded, grasping the tendril as one might a hand. The wall pulled you into its maelstrom. The world whirled around, everything familiar so distant.

A wind rushed through the wall, scattering you and pulling you along. You rose with the wind and raced across the countryside. If you had a voice, you would have laughed; instead, the wind whistled a happy tune as it slipped between the trees of the woods.

The sun lowered its head beneath the horizon as the wind settled. It swirled around a stone of solid white and released you from its hold. The ice of your fingers and toes came together and the rest of you found its place. When the statue was whole once more, the ice melted and the wind died. You stood flesh and bone and sinew once more. Before you waited a sledge, not the one on which you rode this morning. This one was made of wood and pulled by two silver reindeer. Beyond the sledge stood the Ice Palace.

“Greetings.” A soft voice had greeted you from a pile of blankets in the sledge. You opened your mouth to return the greeting, but the world went black before you could.

“I still faint whenever I travel on the winter wind which is why I have yet to decide to learn how.” You say as you reach your rooms.

The doors swing open to reveal a room of wood and carpet. When they close, you could believe you stood in a house which your father had made for you and your husband only a short walk from theirs. A fire dances in the hearth, bathing the room in orange light. The girl goes to stand by it and holds her hands to the flames. When she looks back at you with furrowed brows, you laugh.

“Do you really think there would be fire in an Ice Palace? As my husband’s brother gives form to the wind for my benefit, my husband gives me fake fire. One day, I will no longer feel the need for it, but I am still young.”

“And foolish.”

“Yukina,” you greet the woman who enters your room. “This little one is the voice I heard from the sledge. She is the wife of the High Winter King.”

The girl’s gaze follows Yukina as she comes to stand before her. The older woman studies the child before shaking her head. “You should have left her in the woods.”

“And how many children do you have that you can say that to me?” You snap back.

The looks she levels at you could freeze a living soul, but you have lived in the Ice Palace long enough to keep your courage. She speaks, and her words bite into your skin. “And how many children have I lost? Not all children wish to be ice.”

Your lips tighten at the reproach. The girl watches you, her face wary, and you relax. “You are frightening the child, Yukina. My husband and I will decide what is best when he returns.”

Yukina nods and, with a sigh, lowers herself before the girl. “I am sorry little one. I should have kept my peace in your presence. We understand what it is like to be thrust into this world without a choice.” You stiffen, and despite knowing this, she continues. “But you will have a choice. The King of the Winter Woods is fair and just. He will speak with his wife and with you.” She stands and faces you. “I long for the winter when you cease to cause chaos and simply help your husband.” With that, she leaves.

“Come.” You say to the girl when she continues to stand beside the hearth. “I have promised you clothes and food.”

The clothes wait for you on your bed as you knew they would. A thick wool dress and strong leather boots lined with fur. They are all in shades of green and brown except for the boots which are black. She is a new creature in her clothes and fit to be a princess of the Winter Kingdom. You settle her by the fire with a bowl of food and finish your tale.

When you woke, it was in this room. Yukina was there. “Welcome.” She greeted again. “The King of the Winter Woods has chosen you for his bride, and I must make you ready for the ceremony.” The words made sense, but still you were confused. You knew the Winter King and that you must wed him, but you had never heard him called the King of the Winter Woods.

“Who are you?” You asked as you pushed against the thick warm blankets and sat up. The bed was softer than yours and larger. Your mother and father could have slept beside you without touching. At each corner stood young saplings, their branches reaching up to form a canopy above your head.

“I am Yukina, Queen of the Winter Winds.” She answered as she pulled the blankets off your legs. A chill swept up your body, and you shivered. “Come. You must get dressed.”

“If there is already a Winter Queen, then why am I here?” You tugged at the blankets, trying to regain their warmth, but Yukina pulled them further out of reach.

“There are six Winter Queens. You will be the seventh. One day there will be nine as there are nine Winter Kings.” She brought forth a gown which would make the finest lace makers weep, but no string was woven into this gown. Snowflakes had been plucked from the sky and stitched together.

You stared at the snowflakes, tracing their shapes and said with all ignorance imaginable. “But there is only one Winter King. He chooses a bride in Autumn, and by Winter’s end she is gone, so the next Autumn he chooses again.”

“When people know nothing, they will make their own truth.” Yukina placed a hand on yours. “I am alive as you will be at Winter’s end. Come. You must get dressed.” She pulled you off the bed and helped you from your simple dress.

The bridal gown was light as air and sat upon your frame as though tailored for you. No shoes adorned your feet. They glided freely beneath you as you walked to the mirror. The girl from that morning was gone, and the one who replaced her felt foreign. You ran a hand through your hair. Yukina had left it to hang freely. You watched in the mirror as she came up behind you and, atop your head, placed a crown, carved in the shape of pine and spruce and other trees whose names you would learn.

From your room, you walked round and round the palace until you stood at its center, a nine-pointed snowflake. Each point had an archway and above the archway was a symbol. If you had looked above the one you walked through, you would have seen the Winter Wood, but the man at the snowflakes center held all of your attention.

Even here, Kyungsoo swore no coat, and the wind tousled his dark mop of hair. He stood as still as a tree in trousers and tunic, the grey of snow at dusk. Yukina walked with you towards him and placed your hand in his before fading away.

“I saw you in the woods yesterday.” You said because you had to say something. Nothing quite made sense, but Kyungsoo was here which felt right.

He smiled, and his lips formed a heart. “I knew you were in the woods, and I should have gone, but I wanted to see you and know if you were scared. Are you scared?”

“No.” And it was the truth. You were uncertain and curious, but not scared. “We’re going to be married.”

“We are married.” You blinked and stepped back but left your hand in his. “If you do not wish it so, you can leave as you came. I will return you to your parents, and everything will become a dream.” He squeezed your hand and began to release it.

You tightened your hold upon his. “And if I wish it?”

“Then you will rule beside me as Queen of the Winter Woods and be my wife.”

“I agreed too readily.” You tell the girl as you pour her a cup of tea. “I love my husband and am happy to be wed to him, but I agreed because of childish fancy. I believed that I would love him because I had loved him as a child. But he was no longer that little boy, and I was no longer that little girl. This is my warning to you little one be open to love but not blinded by the idea of it. People convince themselves of many things because they think they are in love.” She nods along as she sips her tea. You sip yours as well. “And now would you like to meet my husband?”

The door opens, and Kyungsoo strides in. He glances at the girl then you. He will have already heard about her. There are no secrets in a palace of ice.

“Little one, does my husband frighten you?” She shakes her head. “Then will you go with him? He must speak with you without me. This way you can be honest with him.”

“Anytime you wish to return, we will.” He speaks, his deep voice a wave of warmth.

She gives you her tea cup and stands. The little princess walks to him and takes his hand. They are gone, and you are left to wait with your tea.

Kyungsoo walks beside the girl, his hands clasped in front of him. The walls thin as they walk until they are gone, and the two walk through a wood of white. “Do you understand what happened to you?”

She nods then shakes her head and sighs. A fresh snow falls, clinging to her hair and dusting her dress. She watches him. The snow drifts about him but never settles on him. Her bottom lip begins to tremble, and Kyungsoo kneels down before her and balances her too small hands in his palms. She meets his eyes, and he breaths out a sharp exhale which clouds in the chill air and wraps around her. She breathes in, and her eyes go round. “My voice.” She croaks.

“Please forgive my wife. She is new to her power still.”

“She is good to me.” Her face shines with the delight of her voice.

Kyungsoo’s lips curve up, but he sighs. “She has a kind heart and is eager to help those in need, but she helps without asking or a thought to the consequence.”

The girl blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“You were dead this morning, and my wife gave life to you. Such is our power for those who Winter takes, but it is a gift given with care. My wife should have spoken with you first. This life is different. You are no longer human. You no longer belong in the human world. Everything you knew is gone. She should have explained this to you and received your permission before giving life to you.”

“But I was dead?” Her brow furrows.

“Such is our power for those who winter takes.” He repeats, his smile sad. “I will explain what my wife did not. You are a snow maiden now. During winter you may roam the world, but when winter ends, you must stay in the palace. You have no magic of your own and will melt with the coming of Spring. If you melt, there is nothing Winter can do.” The trees whistle with the wind, and the snow dances around them. Her hands, resting against his palms, tremble. His fingers curl around hers to form a link. “You are free to stay here, but life here is not the same as the life you had.”

“Of course not.” Her voice wavers. “I know that. Back…” She pauses as tears leak down her cheeks. “Back when I was human, I was always hungry, and there was no food. I would beg and beg, and everyone would tell me to go away. So I went away. I went into the woods, and that’s- that’s when it happened.” She sobs, her whole body shaking. “It was so cold, and the snow was falling. I couldn’t walk any further so I laid down, and nothing hurt anymore, but I was so tired, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

Pulling her against him, Kyungsoo settles them both down amongst the roots of the trees. He brushes the snow from her hair and clothes and whispers a word. The snow begins to dance around her as it does him. He whispers another word, and the snow swirls together becoming a teapot and cups. Steam rises from the pot, and he pours her a cup. She sips, and her trembling subsides.

“I want to stay here. I didn’t have magic before, and I don’t need magic now. I won’t leave during Spring and melt. I will be good, and do everything you and your wife say.” The cup in her hands threatens to crack under the pressure of her grasp while her eyes wide with pleading remain fixed on him.

“Very well, you may stay. You shall live with us from now until the last Winter ends.” She nods, and he does as well. Lifting his head, he says, “You may come out now.”

Slipping between the trees, you join their tea party. The girl squeals and rushes to you, throwing her arms around you. She chatters away with a voice sweeter than a morning magpie. She is full of questions and excitement, and you set her in your lap as you work to answer them all. Soon though, she is asleep in your arms. The day has taken its toll on her. Kyungsoo cradles her in his arms as you walk back to your rooms.

“She may come to hate a life of ice.” He whispers.

“And she may love it.” You whisper back. “As I love it.” A hand upon his arm stops him, and he faces you. “I love you, and I am happy to be your Winter Queen. I will be a good Winter Queen, and a good mother to this child.” You promise before leaning into him and placing a kiss upon his lips.

#kwritersworldnet #kyungsoo #d.o.#exo #kyungsoo drabble #exo drabble #kyungsoo fanfiction #exo fanfiction #kyungsoo collection #hmw #g: fluff #tw: mentions of death

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unincised · 4 years

Text

It’s 12 in the morning and instead of doing homework I wrote a meta fic in the perspective of Dream and Wilbur during Dream SMP War. You can read it under the cut!

Inspired by (but not based around) <this post> and everyone’s replies, because that got me messed up tbh.

(It’s probably not chronologically correct / some events are probably forgotten or misinterpreted, but it’s early and I’m bored and inspired, so idk man.)

3k words; 2nd POV; any content warnings in the OG war apply here, but I don’t go into graphic detail so don’t worry. Might post on AO3 if I’m feeling cheeky.

You started to regret your decision. They haven’t existed on your land for too long, but they had already caused more trouble than what was worth. Still, you allowed them to stay, because they captivated your citizens; Strange accents, lovable characteristics, and a reputation that they grew from living elsewhere. You had figured that they would make great additions to your Court, for as long as they wanted it.

You never anticipated they’d take advantage. You never thought they’d stoop so low as to begin forming their own illegal acts behind your back.

There were whispers among the people; Forced smiles that promised secrets. You grit your teeth, because how could anyone keep secrets from you? From their King? Your closest friends knew nothing, but that didn’t mean nothing was happening. So, despite their best efforts to keep you calm, you went out scouting. There were tunnels all across your land, stretching as far as needed, appearing and disappearing, reforming to your needs. You knew this land better than anyone, and you used it to your advantage.

Tommy was acting awfully strange. Forced laughter, nervous glances over his shoulder, sword always strapped to his side. You tailed him until he was no longer on the main road, sneaking around a mountain and deep into the woods. Past a river. He stopped outside a single caravan, knocking on the door and being allowed entry a few moments later. Your eyes narrowed; No one informed you of a residence this far out.

Finding a better vantage point, you peered through the foggy glass and saw brewing stands lining the walls, a man you knew to be Wilbur pulling out a stack of blaze rods. Tommy visibly laughed, rubbing his hands together in excitement.

You couldn’t believe it. In his own home? Did they have no respect?

That night, you confided with George and Sapnap, watching as they sneered at the blatant lack of tact. It was the final straw: You made a final decision to ban them until further notice, maybe in a simple temporary status if they cooperated.

No one explained these things to you. You had no older advisors, no parental guidance, just your two friends who you’d trust with your life. You had no experience dealing with treason within your ranks, especially between two foreign ambassadors that weren’t supposed to break off with their own agenda. This was out of your control, and your confrontation hadn’t even happened yet. There was an unease within the three of you, but it was left unaddressed. You had no time to ponder these things. You needed to act.

Wilbur Soot was not like you. He was older, had experience, was once teamed up with legends that everyone knew the names of. He had a long-standing status within this very tight community. Compared to him, you were no one. You were younger, newer, growing fast but that meant nothing in terms of status. Your land was not well known either — if you ever needed help, you doubted that others would come to your aid. In this way, you were alone.

Despite your warnings, they did not back off. By this point, you were starting to get desperate. If you couldn’t handle a few criminals, how were you to keep your legitimacy as a ruler? You would be considered a joke, possibly even overthrown. Most importantly, how would your friends see you?

Through all of this, the citizens were turning. George arrived back looking frantic, shedding his commoner clothing and pacing around the room. He spoke of the murmurs in the crowd, of the people starting to lean towards those… those criminals. They spoke of you as a tyrant, singing praises of those foreigners’ bravery and justice.

Alone with your thoughts, you reflected. You knew that this war — and you knew it would become a war, no matter how much Alyssa denied it — would need to end with you on top. Luckily, this was something you could do. You were born to fight, knew the newest and deadliest attack methods, knew how to plan out traps, how to get people right where you needed them and strike before they even registered what happened. You had slain dragons; this team of misfits wouldn’t stand a chance.

The next day, you burned Tubbo’s house to the ground, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you screamed your declaration. WHITE FLAGS. OUTSIDE, BY TOMORROW! Sapnap cheered as the mansion lit the night up in a red glow. You knew that they’d be able to see it from where they cowered behind their walls in the forest. You hoped that they would back down before any real damage was done.

Two new allies joined your side, a young boy called Punz and a man named Eret. You only publicised one, the other was an Ace. Eret spoke in the accent of their opposers, came from the same region of their world, was charismatic and excellent at deception. Without hesitation, you gave him orders to be their spy.

“I want something in return,” There was a smug grin on his face, as if he already knew he’d get what was asked.

“Name your price.” You didn’t so much like compromises on such time-sensitive topics, but you knew that his role in this war would go a long way.

He wanted a castle, and a title to fit it. At first, you worried this was his obscure way of asking for your crown. It wasn’t; He wanted the title, not the responsibilities. With a suppressed sigh of irritation, you shook his hand.

Eret fit into the newly dubbed “L’manberg” seamlessly. He reported that they had no suspicions, going as far as to let him help build their wall of black stone. Slowly, the tension left your body; With this, the war was a guaranteed win.

Sapnap, ever the arsonist, strode up you with a mischievous smile, toying with a flint and steel. His idea was childish, would only really serve as something to fill the downtime and cause panic, but he agreed anyway. It was methodical, calming, watching the trees around L’manberg go up in flames until all that remained was a charred wasteland where a lush forest once thrived. George let out an exasperated sigh when he finally arrived, looking like a disappointed parent. To make up for it, you allowed him to light one block of explosives in the entrance of the nation’s walls, cheering and whooping as it cracked the stone and left a sizable indentation in the earth. For a time, things were perfect.

The harsh realities came crashing down when he arrived back home, finding almost no citizens on his side, harsh glares and spit words of villain. It seemed as if everyone forgot why the war was started in the first place. Did no one remember that it was them who came, betrayed what few laws he had in place, and then proceeded to create a nation on his land? Yet people sympathised with the four traitors — half of which were children. If anything, the notion that Tommy and Tubbo were being used for Wilbur’s own gain was something to fight against, but still no one listened.

You were beyond desperation: You needed to end this once and for all. Giving Eret the signal, and suiting up with your three other allies, the Dream Team finally headed off to war.

It was brutal. You arrived with the upper hand, camping atop the Embassy and sniping them off, effectively pinning them in Tommy’s old hut. The tides changed, and you retreated while they advanced. A game of cat and mouse, the roles switching mid-battle and no one knowing who was going to end up on top.

You sent off Punz to check on Eret, who had stayed behind in L’manberg. He arrived back with a confident smile, nodding once. The plan was set in motion, and you waited until the group of traitors returned back to their nation to regroup and restock. You lead the way through the charred remains of your land, dodging old traps and keeping to the shadows. The looming walls of L’manberg came into view, and a collective spike of excitement went through them. This was it; This was the finale. After all the failed negotiations: Discs, explosives, words — none of it mattered.

The hidden wall slid open, and in one fell swoop, you overpowered the criminals once and for all.

A message arrived the next day, from none other than Tommy. On it was a simple request for a duel, written in as few words as possible. As if the very notion of you reading his words disgusted him. George and Sapnap scoffed at the request, knowing the outcome with confidence, but you accepted it anyway.

Tommy was tired, bags under his eyes and the bow held low. Still, his eyes burned with passion, a promise of your defeat. Such a weak promise. At the count of ten you turned, appreciating Tommy’s unwavering resolve before firing a precise arrow and watching it plunge into the boy’s shoulder. His own arrow whizzed past your head, a few inches from its mark.

With one last look to the group as they crowded around Tommy in an act of protection, you turned and left.

The boy was persistent, a trait that you both appreciated and hated. A week later he was back, standing before you, a round object held tightly in his hands. You raised an eyebrow, finally impressed with the negotiation. Yes, this was something you could get behind. A fair trade: Something important to him for something important to you. A single music disc for an entire nation. Without context, the deal would seem weak and worthless. You knew better. You knew that his disc was treasured above anything else Tommy had. It wasn’t just a disc, it was leverage.

You took it from his weak grasp, watching as his hands clenched around empty air, head held low, but shouldered squared. The disc was turned over in your hands, as if in contemplation, before you acquiesced. He seemed to curl up into himself, and you wondered if this was something he wanted at all, or if it was the mental ministrations of Wilbur.

Nevertheless, you bid him a good day and went home. For now, you promised yourself, just for now you’d let them be.

The boy was surprisingly easy to betray. He gave you and your fellow friends free reign of his land so long as you followed his rules and played nice. You wanted to laugh outright, seeing right through that clay mask and into the eyes of a boy who knew nothing of real life. His position was unique, what with holding such a powerful title at such a young age, and that expanse of untouched land. He had no advisors, no guidance, following his and his friends’ own immature instincts. It was funny to you, but something else itched under your skin. You forced a smile at the interactions, convincingly obedient, but behind the curtains you sneered at this… child’s rule. What about him made for a King? How was he able to gather so many loyal citizens?

The amusement you originally felt twisted into jealousy.

To spite this boy and his very idea of ruling, you planned a coup. A revolution. Something to stir the pot, just to take him down several notches. The first step was Tommy. Naive, malleable Tommy, who played his part perfectly without even knowing it was pre-planned. Truthfully, nothing was remarkably illegal or interesting about creating a drug business deep into the forest, but it was a start. You snuck Tommy notes, telling of a fun project you wanted his participation in. You told him that he couldn’t tell a soul — sans Tubbo, of course — and waited for that reliable Tommy behaviour of not being able to keep a secret.

When he arrived on the doorstep of your Caravan, you could feel the eyes of someone else in the shadows of the trees. You made a show of it, leading Tommy to the room with a window, where everything was set up in plain view. The child was none the wiser, grabbing eagerly at the blaze rods, happily shrieking at this new turn of events. You promised him glory. You were on the right side of the war.

And there would be a war.

Dream was not a cunning ruler. He was smart, sure — everyone knew of his dangerous traps, of him outmaneuvering several people at once, of the several dragons he had slain just for fun — but he knew nothing of politics. He never addressed his people, never tried to win their favor, focusing all of his attention on countering every single one of your plans. You used this to its fullest potential, entering the empty spotlight and basking in the sympathetic gaze of the former King’s citizens. He no longer controlled them; They were yours. Their support was yours, their love was yours, and they promised you loyalty.

You took it all, and turned it back on Dream. In a beautiful display of true political power, you watched as your new followers pieced together their own narrative. Dream’s status was ruined, his name dragged through the mud, and you didn’t even need to do much. It was glorious.

There were casualties in war. Tubbo’s home was not a variable you accounted for, but with a few pats on the head, the problem was glossed over. Children were simple that way, you supposed. You told them that he could rebuild a new one, a better one. Homes were temporary, independence was forever. Tommy was the final word, escorting his friend away while trying his best to empathise. The sorrowful expression dropped on your face, and you turned back to more important matters.

A new face was standing at the entrance of your nation. He looked lost, hopeful, a tad bit tired. His eyes were covered by dark glasses. Eret was a sort of enigma, seeming to be a perfect addition to the team. They didn’t ask questions, did as they were told, was never mean to the younger boys. With his help, the wall around L’manberg was completed. Eret’s story was that had lived in Dream’s realm for a long time, but never seemed to fit in anywhere. As the tensions rose between the King and people of their origin, Eret no longer felt safe in the Kingdom. He wanted somewhere to belong, and he knew that you were the right man to give him that chance.

You had never heard of Eret before then, so you assumed the story legitimate. You had originally planned to still keep a close eye, but Eret was disarming, fitting into your ranks like he was there all along, never seeming like he was telling anything but the truth. He took on responsibility for Tommy and Tubbo, something you appreciated greatly. Until there was reason not to, you accepted him.

Tommy was enthusiastic, ready to charge into battle at a moment's notice. He stayed glued to your side, attempting to mimic and become a perfect copy. As if he was hoping to take your place someday. How funny. Besides that, he was comparable to a guard dog, which you could appreciate to an extent (you’d appreciate it more if he would stop trying to challenge enemies to 1v1s at every opportunity). You deduced that, in a few years — when he was finally combat-ready — he could make a formidable opponent. But Tommy didn’t have that luxury of time, so you made do.

Another thing about Tommy, was his obsession with two particular music discs. You wish you had found out this weakness sooner, because by the time Tommy told you, Dream had already discovered its leverage. Tommy and Tubbo would spend days off-schedule trading useless items with Dream, managing to trick him a few times until Dream came back with a netherite axe and forcibly stole them back again. It seemed to be an endless cycle, one which you did not appreciate. When Tommy returned with the two discs — confirmed to be the real ones — you told him that no longer was he to toy with the enemy like that. A dark look crossed his face, before compliance overtook. He saluted and went to find an Ender Chest.

You awoke to the forest surrounding your walls alit with fire. Standing on the outskirts, tossing aside a spent flint and steel, was Sapnap. His grin was maniacal, dark eyes staring at you with a challenging expression, knowing that he was untouchable. You had made it clear that nothing inside your nation was to be touched, but that of course excluded everything else. You grit your teeth, turning back to confer with Eret.

As soon as your foot touched the steps leading into the caravan, an explosion shook the ground under you. A cloud of smoke and fire emanated from the entrance of your country. Debris flew in all directions, gravel and dirt landing in your hair and dusting your clothes. The sound of cheering was heard in the distance.

When the final battle plan commenced, everything went wrong. Tubbo returned the day of the attack with news that they raided his home and broke all the potions he had spent days preparing. Your stock was nowhere near the needed amount. When on the battlefield, the group of netherite soldiers had you all pinned, fire arrows raining down from the skies. Even when you were able to change the tides, you quickly ran out of resources and needed to return home. It was a constant up and down, and you were only able to relax when inside the safety of L’manberg’s walls.

Eret had something up his sleeve. Something he’d been working on in secret. You felt an unease, because the man you had thought to be an open book was capable of hiding an entire underground bunker, complete with chests filled with…

Nothing. The chests were empty, and you turned in alarm when the sound of a button was pushed.

A few days later, Tommy entered your quarters, eyes downcast in something similar to shame. You suppressed a sigh, knowing that nothing good could come from a look like that. As it turned out, Tommy had challenged Dream to a duel. A final act, winner takes all. You didn’t know what to feel. As the war progressed, you saw the change in Tommy; He holds himself differently now. Dried cuts covered his face, bruises littered across his body, a near-imperceptible limp on the right leg. He was in no position for a duel, but it was out of your control. He had brought this upon himself, and despite it all you knew he had to follow through.

An arrow embedded itself deep into Tommy’s shoulder, and you swallowed harshly. He fell to the ground, and his friends surrounded him in a flurry of panic. Dream was gone just as fast as he arrived. Somewhere inside you, you knew that this would be the outcome. Still, you were disappointed.

You sat atop the walls, charred and cracked, needing several repairs after all they went through. But they weren’t your walls anymore, were they? Dream and his posse had won, and it was time for you to leave. In an attempt to overthrow that boy, you made him stronger. The citizens were divided, one half cheering at Dream’s victory, the other crying at L’manberg’s fall. When had this game become so serious? You didn’t expect this attachment to a throwaway nation that was only expected to live as long as it was entertaining. Now it felt like a real home, a place of sanctuary. You did this, you built this place, you fought for it. Still, it was no longer yours.

“I did it, Wilbur.” Tommy’s voice, normally loud and childish, had a somber tone. There was an edge of maturity, and of something gained while another was lost. You looked at him, taking in his eyes that seemed on the verge of tears, of exhaustion laced into every feature on his face, of calloused hands littered with nasty blisters. What did you do? The answer was not expected — you were ready to say goodbye to this place, to move onto the next project, to forget L’manberg ever existed.

A smile tugged at your lips. So faithful were his soldiers, so giving, so ready to sacrifice everything for something their leader barely believed in. You pulled Tommy close, embracing him in a tight hug that felt so unfamiliar. Your smile turned into a sharp grin, overlooking your land and seeing so many futures, so many possibilities.

“I’m proud of you, Tommy.”

#when I went back to link the post i found more additions to it #and i'm sad all over again #also wilbur is manipulative in here so just be warned #dream smp #tommyinnit #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #sapnap #wilbur soot #tubbo #theeret #I FORGOT FUNDY I'M SORRY #JUST IMAGINE HIM OFF ON THE SIDELINES BEING A NEGLECTED CHILD #punz

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keytomythoughts · 3 years

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Eleutheromania | Chapter 02

Chapter Index

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Neo City isn’t a city like many others. It’s alive, bustling, and thriving in aspects even far beyond the norm. Equipped with advancements that power high-speed facilities and holographic checkpoints that regulate who comes and goes. Towers upon skyscrapers littered the city, the highways and streets illuminated by various color schemes to attract any bystander. The city’s maroon emblem hangs high in all areas, the symbol of the royal family—a circle encasing four parallel lines nearly intersecting in the middle with four layered triangles embedded at its spherical sides, dark arrows within each of the center triangles—interwoven in nearly everything Neo City has to offer. All parts of the city are bathed with the stench of luxury, wealth dripping from the richest of communities to the busiest of suburbs. It’s no wonder why the citizens take such pride and glory in calling this their home.

The city is broken up into multiple sectors, each encompassing individuals of a different social status. At birth, everyone has a symbol etched into their right wrist. When accessing certain points of the city, this tattoo-like print enables the system to identify the person, similar to the scanning of a barcode. Four symbols are predominant in this society, controlling every aspect of our lives.

The Diamond. Taking on its shiny jewel form, this symbol is only attained by those of royal blood. Those possessing this symbol have access to nearly everything Neo City has to offer, seeing as they rule this city as they please anyway. The sector is only limited to the perimeter around the Capitol, the residing place of the King and Queen, as well as their only son, Prince Lee Taemin. While their borders are heavily guarded, it isn’t uncommon for government officials to be seen going in and out of the kingdom. The walls obscure most of the contents within that’s hidden from public viewing. Ever since the establishment of Neo City, the Sabres have been guarding that perimeter at all times, taking their job very seriously. The monarch’s personal elite force of police, one could say. They soon became an even stronger force throughout the city, with troops patrolling sectors at their own leisure by the full authority and command of the royal family.

The Rose. Second to the Diamond, this symbol is appointed to individuals who serve in the government and any of its supporting agencies. Even the children of these government officials retain that symbol that’s passed on from their parents. Sectored in the heart of this city is the military site where thousands upon thousands of soldiers stayed to serve. As such, the entrance to the compound has guards stationed there, letting only those who had to be there in and out. Meaning, civilians that had no business there would be sent away. Their sector is in close proximity to the Capitol, but the Sabres have been stationed at the border as in means of protecting the royalty. They also hold the most power—after the monarch, of course. Their involvement in the military is also through the permission granted by the King and Queen. When broadcasting media, they carefully filter what they need to while selectively choosing what to display, letting the words displayed on their screens trickle through every sector. This was by far one of their more important duties, one that they can be severely reprimanded for if not executed properly.

The Star. This symbol is mostly found in the sector neighboring the Rose where individuals who worked white-collar jobs lived. Doctors, lawyers, engineers, you name it. Here started the “ordinary” of Neo City. No royal blood, no connections to the military, no direct involvement with governmental affairs. These were your average, down-to-earth individuals who worked hard to make a living for themselves and others. This sector, along with the Cross sector, has a higher, denser population than those above them. Young men from this area were also forced to serve when called for post their mandatory drafting. No exceptions to this rule were made.

The Cross. These individuals worked primarily blue-collar jobs, making end’s meet. This sector outlied the other three, the distance between them and the Capitol largely vast. Unfortunately, despite the massive technological advancements and wealth present in this city, this sector experienced high crime rates as well as those living in the slums. The Capitol's very own “dumping zone”. However, in the past, rebellion groups have risen from this sector the most, some individuals trickling in from the Star sector as well. Hence, the checkpoints from here to the Capitol were heavily guarded, heavily restricted, and heavily facilitated. Similar to its neighboring sector, the men here had to serve. The same sector Lucas and I are from, the system forcefully splitting us apart because of its unjust setup. It isn’t just us, though. The royals exploit the labor from this area the most, using them in whatever way possible. “Expendables'', as they would like to call us.

Connecting all the sectors together is a train line that runs from any of the checkpoints in the city. The Neo Express, a sleek, high-speed train bathed in a warm, burgundy tint that appeared to be a crimson streak when it sped across the railway. While surrounded with this profound glory instituted by the monarch who had it built years ago, it’s not able to be accessed by every single person. The symbols come heavily into play here, the holographic checkpoints having built-in chips that scan the wrist to confirm a person’s identity as well as their demographics. All their records were visible to the Sabres, ultimately providing no privacy to the lower sectors. They determine eligibility of boarding the train with the intensity of their marking. If the color is brighter in complexion, they’re allowed to access this mode of transportation. When pulling up their records, the color matches with their way of life. If, say, a person had been caught by the Sabres for stealing, their symbol would slightly lose its luster. As the number of their crimes increase, whether they be minor or major, the symbol grows darker and darker until there’s a point where the shade permanently stays black. Once that occurs, it’s almost impossible to reverse that. Retaining the lightest shade is also very rare, especially when living in the two lowest sectors that are given the least amount of freedom and highest number of restrictions.

To distinguish royalty, their symbol’s color glows with bright, radiant gold. This is reserved only for them. There has never been an instance where a person harboring a low-status symbol also had a golden tint to their marking. It just never happened.

Though miniscule, these symbols determine everything. Our way of life, our lineage, and our future.

Because of this, the price of such living is a very expensive one. One that costs the livelihood of many.

Years before my parents passed, a new law had been issued. This very law is the reason Lucas got drafted much too early for his, or my, liking.

It has two parts.

At the age of twenty, it was required that all men would be registered in public records for drafting, but those only from the Star and Cross sectors. Their active duty life starts from the moment they are drafted up to ten years. Whether they are picked when they’re twenty-one or twenty-nine, they must serve. For Lucas, it seemed that he got the short end of the stick. Considering he has a cross imprint on his wrist, I’m not surprised. From the time they’re picked, they must serve ten years following that, no matter what. After, they no longer have to serve in the military regiment as active-duty soldiers. Some may be released early, but those cases rarely occur, if they do at all still. Naturally, there are exceptions to this rule, the obvious one being those who are mentally sick and incapable of serving. This branches out to government officials and their children. Royal blood and those of the monarchy in any relation are also exempted from this duty. Those in the Diamond and Rose sectors aren’t obliged to serve unless they voluntarily agree to do so.

This part of the law didn’t seem so bad, seeing as how some people performed military service at their own leisure anyways. Yet, there was massive upheaval from those in the lower sectors, which is understandable. It was the second part that really changed everything.

Once they have submitted their forms, they’re not allowed to keep any other relationships outside of familial ones. Even then, cross-checks are made to ensure no soldier or future soldier is caught with a partner or potential partner. No dating, no marriages.

And especially, no children.

This, of course, didn’t settle nicely with the people, seeing as it was unfair of them to be forced to complete military work at random and not keep intimate relations with those they love. The King and Queen of Neo City didn’t stand by their protests, so they came up with consequences that would be highly enforced if the laws weren’t obeyed.

If they didn’t serve when called for, the penalty was ten years incarceration.

If they were found to have relations during their active duty status, it would mean death for both the man and the significant other. However, if the two did have a child, or children, the penalty would not be carried out to them. Instead, the officials take in the child and relocate them to an orphanage, not knowing why they were taken in the first place. To be reminded of the punishment for failing to abide by the rules set in place.

I should know, considering my parents were killed by the very same system that also spared my life. I was only four at that time, but I can still smell the coppery scent of their blood splattered against the tiled floor. Even when I wasn’t supposed to have remembered any of it. The rough hands that grabbed me and ushered me along to a new place I would have to call “home”.

That very same orphanage where I met Lucas.

***

Lucas and I were inseparable at the time. Wherever he went, so did I. Even with our one year age difference, he never made me feel inferior, nor did he exert any superiority. We were understanding of one another and grew really close over time. As we got older, our feelings developed for each other as well. The late-night adventures of stealing food from the pantry became sneaking out to watch a movie or two. The silly sleepovers we had in our rooms from time to time turned into sharing our personal space for nights upon nights. Laying down and talking about our past under the stars blossomed into cuddle sessions that lasted till the morning. The secrets we whispered to each other became shoulders to lean and cry on when we were at our worst. Hand holding became fingers intertwining. Affectionate pecks on the cheek evolved into passionate kisses on the lips.

And finally, when I turned eighteen, he asked me out. The entire experience was wonderful, nothing short of perfect. And a year later, we bought an apartment that overlooked the entire city and lived there together, sunset-watching soon becoming our favorite pastime.

The very year Lucas signed up for one of the biggest tasks of his life. And one where I, too, would have to pay the cost.

The only reason Lucas hadn’t been punished for having me as his girlfriend when he served was due to the orphanage submitting our records as those having a familial relation. Considering my unfortunate background, they let it pass. I honestly consider it mercy.

I remember the moment he got the letter. The weather was freezing cold out, so instead of going out for hot cocoa, we decided to stay home. There we were, sitting on the couch, my body enveloped by Lucas’ built frame as we watched our favorite movie. I remember him frequently pulling me closer to him, his hand not leaving mine for the entire three hours. And that he was strangely quiet. The Lucas I know is never quiet, but that day, he didn’t utter a single word as we watched in silence. That’s when I knew something was up, but I didn’t feel right asking him. When the credits rolled, that’s when he pulled out the letter from beside him, the emblem of Neo City’s military regiment stamped right onto the parchment.

My instinct was correct.

I recall picking up the paper with shaky fingers, hoping, praying, it was just a figment of my imagination. That this wasn’t real. That Lucas would continue to stay with me until death does us part.

I guess fate hadn’t had that planned for us.

I remember how much I cried that day. And the next. And the days after until he had to leave. Lucas tried whatever he could to console me, but when I looked into his eyes, I felt that his sadness was the same as mine, if not more. I knew he didn’t want this any more than I did, yet we were helpless in the situation. He had to leave, and I couldn’t do anything to stop that from happening.

The night before he was scheduled to depart in the morning was the first time we made love. Our slow, soft kisses escalated into a fiery competition that carried on far into the night. There was pleasure, there was pain. A battle of dominance, the desperation to fill the need our bodies felt. The hunger buried within our eyes, and our passion to see it through. To leave the love marks on each other’s skin as a result of us indulging in one another. Satisfying our burning desires before we would have no choice but to leave them unsatisfied. To be one, when I knew we would soon part.

And even though I watched him board the Neo Express, I knew that a part of him was always with me.

Since he left, I’ve always felt the longing, but I knew that waiting for him to come home was the only thing I could do. Visiting the training regiment wasn’t allowed, if that were not enough to draw suspicion for a woman to visit the male’s training facility. Despite the harsh rules that didn’t allow for the soldiers to keep contact outside of their regiment, Lucas always found some sort of way–and time–to contact me. Whether it be a few minutes of us texting one another or a brief video call, he always put in the effort. There would be times where I wouldn’t get anything, and my mind would be sent in a blaze of worry, praying he wasn’t in any danger. But then when I get a picture of him with his radiant smile and vibrant eyes, my fears cripple away, and the longing returns.

Even before leaving, I had once suggested that it would be better, and easier, if we were to end our relationship. Those words hadn’t completely left my mouth before Lucas grabbed my hands in his tightly, his eyes widening at the notion I suggested. My heart hadn’t completely meant it, but if it meant that Lucas would be alright, I would take that chance over anything. Even if it meant leaving the man I love.

Despite my intentions being in the right place, Lucas instantly refused. The way he looked into my eyes, the soft and pleading gaze of his, told me all that I needed to know. All that I needed to hear. I remember him closing the gap between us in a warm, loving embrace that conveyed more than mere words ever could. The way his slender fingers combed through my hair, my eyes tearing up at the same time. His other arm pulled tight against my frame, my fingers urgently holding onto his shirt in a meager attempt to just have him close. My body against his, fitting together like a puzzle piece. Complete, whole. Knowing that right then, this man would never leave me, nor could I ever bear to leave him. Even without him saying anything, I knew what his touch meant, what his eyes held. The silent promise that no matter what life threw at him, he vowed to do whatever it took to make sure we never part. To love and take care of each other, just as we always had. And always will.

And I believed him. With all my heart, I truly did. So when I lifted my head upwards to face him, I smiled. The tears continued to streak down my face, but my smile remained. He offered a similar expression, his thumb carefully wiping the residue of my pain and sadness away from my face. His touch, always so warm and gentle. It lured me into thinking that with him, anything was possible. That we would get through this, no matter the pain, no matter the circumstance. We would overcome it all. Just so that we can continue to watch the beautiful sunsets together while locked in each other’s embrace.

I remember that kiss in particular. It wasn’t one of lust, nor was it fiery. Rather, it was delicate, soft. The way our lips molded against each other in a fit of passion and longing to replicate the feelings wrenched in our hearts. To portray the sadness we felt, but the love we always held for each other. Desperation and desire, the two mixed in the haze of securing a moment fleeting from our grasp. And when we parted, that despair no longer filled the air around us, nor our hearts with the foreboding treachery that lay ahead. Instead, our desire of holding each other close was etched into our beings. Both physically and emotionally. We wouldn’t let each other go. We wouldn’t.

That was assured.

Chapter 01 | Chapter 02 | Chapter 03 |

#lucas x oc #lucas fic #lucas ff #wong yukhei #lee taemin #qian kun #ten lee #byun baekhyun #liu yangyang #bambam #kim taeyeon #fanfiction #nct #wayv #exo #shinee #snsd #got7 #mine #my writings

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the-other-totally-normal-account · 3 years

Text

Lobotomyhammer 40k: The Most Dangerous Enemies The Average “Clerk” Will Face

> OPEN FILE; ARTICLE 378-B OF THE CLERK REGIMENTAL STANDARD?

> [YES] [NO]

...

... ...

Greetings, Clerk Omega-45978888402. Today, you will learn about two of the most common, and most dangerous foes you will face against. But do not fret or fear, Carmen Protects.

Here, we do not believe in sugar coating or downplaying threats, as that is likely to waste important resources, such as you.

SWEEPERS

They are named due to their tendency to "sweep" entire planets of all life; And to level with you, entire Regiments of Fixers and Clerks (Clerks just like you, mind you) have been reported to vanish without a trace besides a few distressed radio transmissions. They are often one of the most threatening entities one can encounter in the cold vastness of space, next to only Aleph class (and above, though those are rare) Abnormalities.

Their strength is that of their numbers, which is Legion. They are one of the more numerous threats you will have to face, though, thankfully, they do not often attack. When they do, however, it is devastating.

It is unknown exactly what they are, but they appear to be composed of a techno-organic shell, containing liquefied biomass inside. They need to regularly replenish this disgusting material in order to continue living; Like how we eat to survive, yet more dire.

Sometimes, citizens among those areas they "sweep" are reported by survivors as not having been liquefied for consumption. It is unknown where they are taken or what exactly happens to them, but theories and rumors are in abundance. It is best not to dwell on their fates, quite frankly.

Next up are the agents of the Great Enemy, Abnormalities.

ABNORMALITIES

Abnormalities are, as you have likely been informed during training, abominations that often must be purged from existence at all cost. One of the main threats they pose is that they have the tendency to corrupt those that encounter them, if they don't outright kill, so cleansing and oftentimes the "firing" of Clerks that encounter them often take place post conflicts.

Thankfully, "firing" is rarely done unless one is corrupted beyond repair, which often does not happen with the more common abnormalities, so you may rest easy after most engagements with Abnormalities.You will find a list below, however, of more dangerous Abnormalities, dangerous enough to have been cataloged by survivors and submitted to our archives. Some accounts may be obscured by personal hatred of the abnormalities mentioned on account of the experiences the aforementioned survivors had with them. Also, unlike other enemies you may encounter, they are far more diverse and varied than most. Thusly, it’s best to approach them if encountered as a unique entity instead of a greater part of a whole, despite that being exactly what they are.

ARCHIVED INFORMATION ON NOTABLE ABNORMALITIES

[The Blue Shepherd and his Infernal Hound. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Especially cruel. Do not be taken alive if encountered. Recite prayer number 987 if encountered. It helped.)

[The Great Devourer. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: Remember that battlefields don’t have pretty glowing flowers sticking out of the ground. That’s this thing about to devour you if you’re tricked by it.)

[Infectious, Burning Love. Threat Level: Aleph] (Note by Veteran Clerk Alpha-118: That [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] turned half of my entire Regiment into mounds of bone and melted flesh. They were still moving and vocalizing and shrieking. If encountered, apply bullet to your skull.)

[The Greedy King. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Stay behind It at all times. It's one of the dumber ones I've encountered.)

[The Ashen Child. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: If you're marked, you'll immediately be able to tell. You'll smell burning wood, and sometimes flesh. For the good of your comrades, die before it reaches you, or tactically retreat.) [Eurydice. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: Do not interact. Under any circumstance do not interact. Do not listen. Do not look. Walk away slowly. Don't look.) [The Mechanical War Machine. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: It's an oddly common one to encounter, and for that reason, a lot of information has been compiled on it by various regiments, but one of the most important parts is, perhaps, its origin. First appearance was during the Heresy, during a raid on a Sector that allied with The Sons of The Well. Unlike most Abnormalities, it seems like this one was made. It's unknown how this is even possible. It also seems to collect hearts. It's best to keep your distance from it and call in artillery support. Just don't let anyone die due to it, or, well, you don't want to see what happens. Also, it has a massive axe with a pretty decent reach on it. Don't get within range, though that goes without saying.) [The Brainless Scarecrow. Threat Level: HE] (Note: Tricky, vile [EXPLETIVE OMITTED]. If you're above the minimum education- why are you even a Clerk in that case- needed for getting a job at a Conglomerate Factory, keep your distance and set up a firing line. If you have a flamer, even better. It's a bit of a weakling if you've got enough manpower. On your own, pray for your life and run.) [The Living(?) Apple Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Burn it before the vines get you. I doubt you've ever seen a man be impaled [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] to mouth by a vine before but you're going to if you encounter this thing. Only thing you can do is prevent as many needless deaths as you can, really. Good luck.] [The Beautiful Beast. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: Do not interact. Do not under any [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] circumstance even remotely think about attacking this thing. You really, really don't want to know what happens to the person who manages to kill it in a futile attempt to send it back to where it came from) [The Patchwork Abomination. Threat Level: HE] (Note: PULSATING EYES. EMPTY. STITCHES. DEATH OF INNOCENCE. WRITHING ORGANS.) [Alriune The Crumbling. Threat Level: WAW] (Note by Veteran Clerk Alpha-118: Destroy it as fast as possible, before it relocates and causes an entire squad or something to lose their minds violently. Also, tip, if you notice those floating petals, take the thing out before there's a large amount of them. It's an odd sort of timer, I've found.) [The Queen Bee and Her Hive. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Do not inhale the spores. If your regiment has helmets that use filters, consider yourself one of the luckiest people alive- hopefully, at least. If you don't have helmets like that, you probably have melta charges. If you inhale the spores, I hope you know how to use one and are willing to give your life to Her and Her corporation.) [The Shard of The Galaxy. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: Plug your ears with something. Anything. If you don't have anything to do that with, consider deafening yourself. You can always get implants later.) [The Jittering Doll. Threat Level: HE] (Note: If she tries to give you a present, punt that little [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] across the battlefield. It's fairly stupid and mindless so you can probably pick it up and use it as a meatshield or sandbag if the need be. It has the annoying tendency to survive a ridiculous amount of punishment, though.] [The Butterfly's Burial. Threat Level: HE] (Note: Utilizes ranged attacks heavily. Engage in glorious melee combat from behind or pelt with grenades. Either way tends to work) [The Black Swan's Nightmare. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Take great care when it comes to the lookalikes. If you do something they don't like or harm them, be prepared for a difficult fight with a massive mutated bird-like abomination and brace for casualties. To be honest, I'm not even sure what a swan is but if that's even remotely similar to what one looks like, I don't want to know.) [The Sleeping Carcharodon. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: Back off and don't provoke it. You do not want to be ran through by a drug addled... fish thing(?) going at ridiculous speeds, I'm sure. I've seen all of my squadmates die from that, and only managed to survive because I was taking a piss in the corner in the shell of a bombed out building.) [The Burrowing Tree. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: If you have servitors, order them to watch it. If you don't, I highly advise you to either end yourself before it gets an opportunity to turn you into a really messed up Carmenmas tree, or if you're confident enough try your luck and keep eye contact.) [The Mountain of Wailing Corpses. Threat Level: Aleph] (Note by Veteran Clerk Alpha-118: I sincerely feel bad for you if you have the misfortune to encounter this abomination. Melta and Flamer weaponry do wonders against it, but not all regiments have that kind of equipment. If you do, start burning corpses once it's spotted. Good luck.) [The Observer. Threat Level: HE] (Note: Look away if you don't enjoy being split in two by massive buzzsaws. Also, Abnormalities apparently are manifestations of human concepts, feelings, stories, traumas, and things we experience; But for the life of me I can't figure out what this thing even is supposed to be. It's just... awful. Anyway, call an artillery strike on the thing before it's too late if you encounter it.) [The Dimensional Refraction. Threat Level: WAW] (Note: [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] [EXPLETIVE OMITTED]. This thing, this [EXPLETIVE OMITTED] thing. Newly emerged Abnormality, I'm a survivor of perhaps the first encounter with it. Almost the entirety of my regiment was wiped out by this abomination. 1,000 lights snuffed out in a blink, suffocated and pulled apart violently. We couldn't fight it. We couldn't see it. By sheer chance it was discovered that it could be viewed with Thermal and even then we couldn't deal meaningful damage to it. The vessel we were on was blown to bits as a handful of us managed to escape. Carmen protect you all.) [The Event Horizon. Threat Level: Aleph] (Note: I've seen the end of all things, the ultimate, finality of everything that ever was and will ever be. And it was heart shaped. I'm probably going to be "fired" shortly. Remember that there's no hope if you see the Blue Star.] [The Shy One. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: This one is very finicky. Best to leave it alone. It's harmless unless you catch it in a bad mood or take a peak behind the curtain.) [The Dreaming Void. Threat Level: Teth] (Note: I hope you have Recaff on hand and enough people who are insomniacs to wake everyone else when this thing shows up. If you don't, chances are you're going to fall asleep and never wake up. Also, don't attack it, even if people are dying due to it. It will raise your chances of death from "possible" to "completely screwed".) [CENSORED] (NOTE: CENSORED FOR YOUR SAFETY) [He's Not There. Threat Level: Aleph] (Note: Don't trust anyone around you if there's even the slightest chance this thing's around. It's gotten really good at acting since it was first encountered ages ago. You will die painfully, horribly, and you will be used as a skin suit by this abomination. And, if one of your squadmates suddenly says that they love you, put them down without hesitation. Whether it was genuine, or whether it was this thing wearing them, it doesn't matter; You may have just prevented a disaster. Don't express sorrow for the loss of a possible happy future if you were mistaken, it was for the good of all mankind. ...And, got to admit, it sucks that these things always come back, never truly dying.)

#pretty long post ngl #but i've been working on this for awhile #abnormalities #dark humor at some points #graphic death tw #often grimdark #[expletives omitted]#I was actually working on another codex but got bored #body horror tw #Lobotomyhammer #Lobotomyhammer40k

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moonlight-breeze-44 · 4 years

Text

Darkest World, Blackest Night

Summary: 5 times Alec wants to die, and one time he wants to live.

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and show-typical self harm

Read on AO3

~ 1 ~

It was three in the morning. Rain lashed against the windowpanes and thunder roared outside. The cold, blank walls of the New York Institute were the opposite of soundproof; they seemed to amplify every harsh beat of the storm playing its tempestuous song outside.

Alec Lightwood laid on his bed, facing the ceiling. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His jaw was locked in a straight line. He clenched his hands so tightly together that his nails dug bloody half-moon crescents into his skin. Outwardly, he didn’t appear to be struggling. No one who knew Alec would be shocked to see him without a smile on his face, and the harsh marks on his palms were expertly hidden. However, behind his ice-blue eyes, a storm far worse than the gale outside raged.

Alec’s mind was filled with poison. He felt like he was trapped in darkness without a light to be found anywhere. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the incessant thoughts out of his mind. They clawed at him nonstop, their talons dipped in venom so powerful that it brought him to his knees on some nights.

Worthless.

Not good enough.

Useless.

Different.

Strange.

Freak.

Freak!

Alec let a breath of air puff past his lips, the only sign of the chaos running rampant in his mind. His skin itched for a blade, or one of his arrows, or a punching bag. He wanted to hurt. By the Angel, he wanted to hurt.

He wondered what he was doing with himself, really. Who was he, really? He was a Shadowhunter, of course; that much he knew. He was also a gay man. In his mind, those two balanced each other out. A gay Shadowhunter was about as good as a dead Shadowhunter to the Clave. He was a big brother. Yet, despite all of his best efforts, Izzy and Jace still managed to get hurt on some of their missions. Jace could still be found in his room in the dead of the night thrashing from a nightmare, whimpering and reciting, “To love is to destroy; to be loved is to be the one destroyed,” over and over again. Izzy still shrank back from her mother and kept her head down and eyes trained on the floor when Maryse portaled home from Idris to reprimand Alec for something.

In Alec’s twisted, broken view of himself, his role as a big brother was overshadowed by the failures he’d made in being such.

Alec pitched forward and raked his hands through his hair, leaving bloody smears in the inky black locks. He could feel something on the edge of his consciousness, something huge that threatened to rip apart everything he thought he stood for and more. He lowered his head into his hands and let it wash over him.

The realisation hit Alec like a brick to the face. He wanted to hurt, yes. He was about two minutes away from making an impromptu trip to the training room. But more than that, Alec didn’t want to be alive anymore. He was done. Done with the world, done with Shadowhunting, done with his fucking parents and their impossible expectations, done with not being good enough.

Alec wanted to die.

The sure, undeniable statement brought with it chills that raced throughout his entire body. Goosebumps exploded over his arms and tears pricked the back of his eyelids. As a child, he’d promised himself that he would die in a blaze of glory, from valiantly taking on a horde of demons or throwing himself in front of someone else. He would die revered. He would die a hero.

This? This was a coward’s death, and he knew it.

Yet, Alec couldn’t bring himself to want it any less.

“Alec?” A small, soft voice accompanied by three knocks on his bedroom door pulled Alec from his racing thoughts.

It was Izzy.

Alec moved to open his door, hiding his hands behind his back. “What is it, Iz?”

She bit her lip and looked down at the floor. “Can I sleep in here? The storm is scary.”

Alec felt warmth flood his chest. The thoughts from before retreated to a dark corner of his mind in favour of affection for his little sister. “Of course. Come on, get in here.” Izzy smiled gratefully and wrapped her arms around his legs as tight as she could.

“Thanks, bubba.”

Alec reached down and picked her up, carrying her over to his king-sized bed and tucking her in like the princess she was and would always be. She was so innocent. Alec knew that protecting her would always come first for him, no matter what. He still felt the itch, the burning beneath his skin that wanted for something to hurt. But his sister was in his bed, her big doe eyes looking up at him with such love that he knew there was nowhere else on the earth he’d rather be.

Izzy tugged on his wrist impatiently. “Come on!” She gestured to the other side of the bed, and Alec chuckled. He got in himself, throwing an arm around his little sister, who snuggled into his side and let out a happy sigh.

Alec placed a soft kiss on her forehead and closed his eyes.

Izzy’s warmth made him feel a little bit less ice-cold, and he thought to himself that maybe there was a chance he was doing just enough.

~ 2 ~

It was a dark, starless night. Black clouds had slid over the silver-grey face of the moon, obscuring it from view. The only light that permeated the seemingly endless darkness was the artificial glow of the cell tower across the street.

Alec reached into his quiver for what was certainly not the first time that night and nocked another arrow, letting it fly straight and true into the target 500 feet away. Blood dripped from his hands onto the roof of the Institute, but he ignored it. Another release brought another raw, painful line from his bow string, and Alec could almost sigh with the relief it brought.

Another mission had gone wrong. Another unsanctioned mission, to be exact. His parents had portaled from Idris and immediately locked themselves and Alec into the Head of the Institute’s office. The lecture had been unbearable.

“You are bringing shame upon this family, Alexander!”

“This latest endeavor of yours was foolish and irresponsible. I can’t believe you.”

“Your father and I are so disappointed in you, Alexander.”

“You’re supposed to be better than this! How dare you do something so stupid?!”

“Your siblings are hurt because of your incompetence.”

Their scathing words cut into his bleeding heart, and Alec tightened his grip on his bow and released another arrow with so much blinding rage that he was shocked it actually hit its target. His mother was right, of course. Jace and Izzy were in the infirmary because of his failure. He should have known there would be more than one demon. They traveled in packs, for fuck’s sake! And still he had blundered on into this unsanctioned mission and led his siblings straight into what was very nearly a massacre.

A jolt of pain made Alec double over, grimacing. He clutched his side and felt the thick, bulky bandage that was wrapped around his ribcage, concealed by his t-shirt. Technically speaking, he should be in the infirmary, as well. But he knew he didn’t deserve to be; not after what he’d caused. He’d snuck out as soon as Izzy and Jace fell asleep.

A small pool of blood darkened the ground near Alec’s feet. He took it in lazily, unconcerned. The weeping slivers of his palms dripped red steadily onto the stone. Alec lowered his bow and approached the edge of the roof, peering out at the street below. Yellow-orange lights from cars raced by, and various murmurs of city life floated up to the Institute’s roof, mingling with the seemingly deafening pound of Alec’s traitorous heart.

Alec imagined the wind in his face, the weightless sensation of falling, the idea of finally giving up control. Freedom.

He could almost taste it.

A bright, colourful image of Izzy filled Alec’s mind’s eye, followed quickly by an image of Jace. They were both happy; smiling and laughing, the corners of their eyes crinkling with joy.

Alec felt a pang of love surge up in his heart, and he groaned. He could see it easily; flinging himself off of that ledge, hurling himself to the cold, unforgiving street below. Yet, there was something holding him back. Actually, two somethings that had enough brightness in them to light up any room and called him ‘big brother’ with too much adoration and fondness.

Tears filled Alec’s eyes, and he blinked them away angrily. If he was ever going to lean a little too far over the edge, it would not be under the grueling weight of indecision.

Alec looked up to the sky, hoping the dark, toneless clouds might give him a clue as to what he was supposed to do. He just needed a sign; anything to steer him in the right direction.

As he gazed into the night sky, the black clouds began to part and, slowly but surely, a single star was revealed. It was Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. A shadow of a smile flitted across Alec’s face, and he kissed the tantalizing invitation of freedom goodbye for another night.

With one final glance at the star, Alec shouldered his bow and headed inside.

~ 3 ~

The bright, fluorescent lighting of his bedroom hurt Alec’s eyes. His head was pounding, and he felt impossibly cold all over in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those poisonous words, of course; he was Alec Lightwood, and there were certain pressures that came with the name. This was, however, the first time that he had ever heard them hurled at him in his parabatai’s voice.

“Maybe your mother was right and your best just isn’t good enough!”

Alec closed his eyes, trying to block out the words that seemed to be imprinted on his mind. He and Jace had been at odds for a while, thanks to the damn redhead that had come along and messed everything up, but this was crossing a line Alec had once trusted him to never cross.

He was right.

The truth of Jace’s statement hurt more than the words themselves. Jace was right. He was the one who had failed. He had let Clary and Simon get taken by the Circle members. It was his failure, his mistake, his cross to bear. Alec let a small sigh escape. It seemed like he had far too many crosses to bear for only eighteen short years of life.

Alec was practically vibrating with emotion; he couldn’t sit still, no matter how hard he tried. He paced around the small space of his bedroom. Despite the lighting, darkness seemed to fold in on him from all sides. What was he doing? If he wasn’t good enough even for his siblings, for his parabatai, if he couldn’t manage to do anything right, then what the hell was he doing here? Did he have any purpose? If he did nothing but fuck up, then what the hell was the point?!

Alec whirled around and smashed his fist into the concrete wall of his bedroom. Immediately, excruciating pain shot through his hand. He groaned and dropped to his knees beside the fist-shaped indentation in the wall. He felt the energy bleeding out of him. He felt drained. He felt defeated.

Alec gazed down at his damaged hand. Bits of concrete clung to his misshapen fingers. The pain seemed to wrap itself around him, practically thrumming through his veins with every breath he took. It calmed him, centered him; it brought with it relief so undeniable that it made Alec’s chest ache.

A timid knock startled Alec from his thoughts, and he looked up at the door just in time to hear Clary’s voice. “Alec! Hey, Izzy said I should start learning how to be a proper Shadowhunter. Would you help me train?”

Alec felt his blood boil. After the day he’d had, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was help the same obnoxious redhead that had wormed her way into their lives and spun everything out of control. He stayed stubbornly silent.

An exasperated sigh came from the other side of the door, and then Clary’s voice again, slightly peeved: “Alec, I know you’re in there. Come on, open up!” A few seconds went by, and she added, “Please. You’re the best Shadowhunter here.”

“Why don’t you get Jace to train with you?” Alec called back bitterly. “I’m busy.”

“Jace wants me to train with you,” Clary insisted, and Alec felt something rise in his chest.

“Jace said that?” he replied incredulously.

“Yes,” Clary said. “I asked him first, and he told me I should go to you, that there was no one better.”

Alec felt a small blossom of hope unfurl in his heart. Maybe Jace hadn’t meant what he said before. Darkness still beckoned to him, and he had to fight back the urge to simply tell Clary to fuck off and leave him alone. Jace’s words still burned in the back of his mind, but the new words that Clary assured him had been said threatened to overtake them. Alec took a deep breath and let it out. If he could do nothing else right, he could at least make the redheaded girl into a halfway decent Shadowhunter.

Alec shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. He couldn’t train with Clary like this. He needed to be on top of his game, show her what a real Shadowhunter looked like. He couldn’t afford to be off, especially if Jace really thought he was the best one to train her.

Alec stood up and called out to Clary, “Fine.” He grabbed his stele from his desk and traced an iratze on his damaged hand. It wouldn’t heal it completely; multiple iratzes would have to be used for that. But it would push his fingers back into their proper place, thus hiding any evidence of his shortcomings to the excitable little girl outside.

Alec’s mouth tightened into a straight line. This way, the pain would still be there while they trained, as a reminder to himself of what he had on the line if he didn’t do well enough.

Clary knocked on the door again impatiently, and Alec hurried forward to throw it open. She took a step back in surprise and he smirked.

“Come on,” he said to Clary, striding past her towards the training room. “We have work to do.”

~ 4 ~

Alec turned down another dark street corner, weaving his way past piles of trash and dodging rats that scurried out in his path. The tears that he had been traitorously unable to keep from falling froze on his cheeks in the cold, and his bruised, bloody hands were numb around his bow.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, or even why he’d jumped off the roof of the Institute, other than to get away from Jace’s unwanted sympathy. Sympathy he didn’t deserve.

Alec’s hands tightened around his bow and he wished desperately for a demon to appear so he would have an excuse to feel that delicious pain again. A second later, however, his stomach rolled at the thought of demons. He remembered the reason he was on that roof in the first place.

The demon. Jocelyn.

Alec closed his eyes and bit his lip, hard. Another rat hurried past, and Alec had an arrow nocked in a flash, releasing it to fly at the rat. He swore as the arrow missed its target, coming to rest next to a trash bin a few feet to the left instead.

Alec couldn’t believe what he had done. He had let a demon in. He had killed Clary’s mother. He was the reason Izzy was hurt. He couldn’t save Jace from the City of Bones. He inhaled sharply. By the Angel, he’d killed Jace’s mother! The guilt crashed into Alec like a freight train and he stumbled under the weight of it.

The city of New York at night was really quite beautiful, and under any other circumstances, Alec might have been able to appreciate it. That night, however, the street lamps that usually filled him with comfort and security looked garish and were entirely too bright. The plastic Santa and the herd of lively reindeer that followed him in a shop window that might have brought a smile to Alec’s face any other night looked gaudy and fake. The world surrounding Alec was full of reminders of what he’d done; Jocelyn would never experience another Christmas, nor be able to appreciate the city at night any longer.

Alec swore and began to run.

Eventually, his feet carried him to the Brooklyn Bridge. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up there, or even if he consciously thought about his destination at all, but as he stared out into the dark water below, he found he didn’t care.

Without pausing to think about it, Alec climbed onto the ledge overlooking the stormy water and swung his feet around to the other side of the bridge, until his grip on the railing was the only thing keeping him from plunging two hundred feet down, down, down into the ice-cold water below.

Alec let out a shaky breath. He didn’t understand how Jace could even look at him after what he’d done. He couldn’t even look at himself. Alec stared into the dark abyss below him. He had taken a life. Taking his own seemed, in a way, almost like poetic justice.

Alec’s grip on the steel railing wavered, and he allowed himself to bask in the imagination of the act; of letting go, of falling, of being free. His bones ached with want and his mind screamed at him to do something, to make a decision, to give up and give in to his most shameful of desires.

Alec’s hands trembled on the railing. Tears filled his cool blue eyes for the second time that night and he blinked them away angrily. He knew what was holding him back. The smiles of Jace and Izzy, burnt into his memory from happier times. The warmth of Magnus’s hand in his own, thumb caressing his skin as he stumbled over an apology to the warlock for his behaviour towards him.

Alec shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He didn’t deserve them, any of them. They were too good for him. He was selfish and a failure, never good enough; they were perfect, beautiful, amazing. He swallowed hard. His hands ached from gripping the edge of the bridge so tightly. It was too dark to see, but he was confident that his knuckles were turning white.

He could hear the rushing of the water below, and it calmed him. The water would be ice-cold, but he had been colder than that for months. It would be a welcoming demise.

Alec felt the grip he had on the railing begin to loosen. His numb, trembling fingers were cut and sliced by the sharp steel, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The inky black expanse of darkness stretched out in front of him as far as the eye could see. It looked so inviting.

Alec’s heart pounded with - what was that? Was it fear? No, that couldn’t be right. Alec wasn’t afraid.

Alec wasn’t afraid to die.

Was he?

A loud buzz from his pocket startled him from his thoughts. He dug his phone out of his pocket with cold, shaky fingers to look at the text he’d received. It was from Magnus.

M: Jace told me what happened. I’m worried about you. Come home, Alexander.

Alec felt his heart clench and all of the breath seemed to have been stolen from his body.

Come home.

He knew Magnus most likely meant ‘home’ as in the Institute or his family. But Alec took it to mean something so much different.

Alec took a deep breath, gazing out beyond the bridge. The darkness still called to him, but he had somewhere to be. Somewhere he could be.

With that, Alec shared one last look with the tempting, dark waters underneath the Brooklyn Bridge and began to run again.

It was only a few short, adrenaline-pumped minutes later when Magnus found Alec, sitting on his fire escape and wearing an expression that no one, not even Alec himself, could decipher.

~ 5 ~

Alec threw another cruel punch to the black punching bag in front of him, trying to drown out the thoughts that raged in his mind.

It was, inherently, his fault that Magnus had given up his magic. He’d done it for him. For his parabatai, to spare him the pain of losing the other half of his soul. And now the crushing weight of that decision had come back to haunt them both.

Fire burned in Alec’s veins, fueling the rage he used to beat the punching bag senseless. There hadn’t been a single moment after he learned what Magnus had done that he hadn’t blamed himself. A small, selfish part of him was almost happy that he and Magnus would be able to grow old together. That was before he saw the true extent of the damage being without his powers was causing Magnus.

Alec couldn’t remember the last time he felt guilt this strong; even the guilt of killing Jocelyn had been nothing compared to this. Muttering bitterly to himself, he realised that this was also the first time in quite a while that he’d turned to a punching bag instead of his boyfriend.

Magnus helped Alec. Any fool with a single working brain cell could see that. But it went beyond what any outsider could see. Magnus understood. He knew what it was like to feel trapped, as though pain and misery were the only ways out. Magnus had made him promise, after that fateful night on the balcony at his party, that he would come to him if it ever got ‘that bad’.

Alec’s heart ached with how much he wanted to keep that promise, because it was definitely ‘that bad’.

But he knew he couldn’t. Magnus was battling his own demons, and Alec was not going to do anything that would add more to Magnus’s plate.

So, instead, in a desperate effort to keep himself off the roof of the Institute, Alec had made his way to the training room and sought out a punching bag.

That was hours ago.

Alec vibrated with nervous energy as he threw punch after punch to the bag, which arced away from him due to the force of his blows. His hands were long past recognizable, and bruises circled his wrists. Blood seeped from his knuckles and stained the bag with every strike he made. His palms were littered with little marks from his nails pressing into the skin every time he closed his fists too tight.

Logically, he knew he should find Jace or Izzy, ask to go out on a hunt or watch a movie with them. They would help; they would give him whatever he needed. They would even sit and listen if he was willing to talk.

However, Alec also knew that he was much too proud and much too stubborn to even entertain that idea. His siblings had never seen him at his worst. He wasn’t going to subject them to that because the pain was too much for him to handle.

Alec rested his forehead against the punching bag, breathing hard. He was bone-tired and he felt more drained than he’d ever felt before in his entire life. The steps up to the roof were highlighted like a golden staircase in his mind, and his entire body trembled with the thought.

Magnus didn’t need him. Hell, he was the reason that Magnus had lost everything that made him who he was. He should hate him. Jace and Izzy would be fine. Simon and Clary, as well as his other friends, would eventually come to realise that the death of their hardass leader wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Alec took a deep breath, tried to remind himself of everything that Magnus had told him about these types of thoughts.

They aren’t true, Alexander.

He groaned and turned away, eyes stinging with an incoming onslaught of tears that he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to stave off. He paced around the training room, running his hands through his hair. Blood made streaks in the black, but didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to regain control of himself.

Magnus needs me, he attempted to remind himself.

No, he doesn’t. You’re the reason he’s in this mess.

Alec whimpered uncharacteristically and sank down onto a bench, burying his head in his hands. He pulled at his hair, letting out a small sound of pain. When he looked up, his eyes fell on a seraph blade hanging on the wall next to him. He picked it up and studied it. A quick test with the tip of his finger proved that it was sharp. Very sharp.

Alec shuddered. He found himself unable to put it back where it belonged. Instead, he ran his fingers along the smooth sides of it and imagined what they would feel like jammed into his skin, bleeding the life out of him.

“Alec?” Alec jumped at the unexpected voice and looked up to see Jace standing in the doorway to the training room. His hair was messy with sleep and his shirt looked rumpled, like he’d just woken up. He wore black sweats and his eyes were filled with worry.

“What are you doing here?” Alec mumbled.

“I woke up and felt that something was wrong,” Jace said, gesturing to the place on his hip where Alec knew his parabatai rune was.

“Oh. I’m sorry for waking you. You can go now,” Alec said through shaky lips. His hands trembled on the seraph blade, which Jace was eyeing with worry. He clutched it tighter, not willing to let it go just yet.

“Like hell,” Jace responded fiercely, and he let himself into the training room, walking over to Alec until he was directly in front of him. He peered down at the older boy, his gaze concerned and inquiring. “What’s wrong, Alec?”

Alec ached to open his mouth and let all of his woes spill out, but he knew he couldn’t. Jace didn’t deserve to listen to all of those dark thoughts that he kept locked up inside himself, thoughts that only emerged in the form of violence and drunken midnight confessions to his boyfriend - the same boyfriend who was sleeping off his own intoxication back at the loft as they spoke.

So, instead, he said nothing.

Jace let out an exasperated sigh and reached for the seraph blade in Alec’s hands. Alec surrendered it reluctantly, watching as Jace hung it back on the wall in its place. Then, Jace took a seat next to Alec on the bench and gripped his parabatai’s shoulder.

“Alec, come on, man. I’m your parabatai. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Alec let a breath of air puff past his lips and fought against the urge tell Jace exactly how he was feeling. He clenched his bloody hands together in his lap, an action that did not go unnoticed by his male counterpart.

Jace inhaled sharply at the sight of Alec’s hands, which were even worse up close. He moved the hand that was on his shoulder to rest on one of Alec’s bruised wrists. He rubbed that hand back and forth lightly in a soothing motion.

“Please, Alec? I can feel how badly you’re hurting, and it’s hurting me. I just want to he - ”

“I really want to kill myself,” Alec blurted out. He immediately regretted it when he saw the horror slide onto Jace’s face. The hand that was on his wrist stopped its motion, and Jace rocked back on the bench, his mouth forming an involuntary ‘O’ shape.

“I - I - Alec, I - what the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Alec apologised. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that.”

“No, seriously, Alec, what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I know,” Alec replied tonelessly. “Pretty crazy, huh?”

“No!” Jace exclaimed. “Not crazy, serious! I mean, this is really fucking serious! How long have you felt like this?”

“...all my life?”

Jace looked aghast. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.” Alec sighed. He’d already damned himself. He supposed he might as well give Jace the full story. “I’ve been having suicidal thoughts for a long time, Jace. Even when we were kids. This is just the first time you know about them.”

Jace’s eyes were wide with shock, and he seemed to be at a loss for what to say.

“You don’t have to tell anyone else,” Alec hastened to assure him. “This isn’t something that happens a lot. J-Just sometimes.”

“Sometimes is still really bad, Alec,” Jace replied.

“Like you’ve never thought about it before,” Alec scoffed.

Jace shook his head, his eyes huge and his expression solemn. “No. Never. Maybe it’s crossed my mind once or twice, but it was in and out faster than a vampire’s bike. I’ve never, you know, thought about it. Not ever.”

Alec didn’t know what to say to that. He focused his gaze on his lap once more, pinching the skin of his hands together. He slumped in his seat, biting his lip.

“Y-You know I’d be devastated if you did that, right?” Alec turned to face Jace, whose expression made tears rise to Alec’s eyes. “I mean, devastated doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’d be fucking wrecked, Alec. I don’t know that I would survive losing you.” His voice cracked, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me, parabatai.” With that, Jace reached forward and pulled Alec into his arms for what was one of the tightest hugs Alec could ever remember receiving.

As Jace held him reverently in the brilliant light of the training room, as though he were a fragile piece of china that might break at any second, Alec thought that maybe the cure to the burning desire that lurked beneath his skin and waited in the corners of his mind to reappear when he was most vulnerable was the love of his family.

Later that night, when Jace had Alec in his bed, dressed in sweats and one of Jace’s old t-shirts, his phone buzzed. It was an apology text from Magnus. An apology text that was a paragraph long. Alec was so caught up in reading it and dealing with the onslaught of emotions that followed that he almost didn’t notice Jace tracing his stele over Alec’s wounds.

After the text had been replied to and Jace had gotten into bed himself and turned the lamp off with a whispered, “Goodnight,” to Alec, Alec wondered if perhaps he didn’t deserve all of the misery that he had always forced onto himself.

~ +1 ~

Alec twisted his head around to try and see what the ex-Circle members who had captured him were doing. He heard crashes and various sounds of things moving around, but he couldn’t see; it was too dark.

Beside him, Maia growled, her eyes glowing green in the darkness. Alec swore under his breath and wondered again how exactly they’d gotten into this situation.

It was a normal afternoon, for the most part; he had breakfast with Magnus in the morning and went out on a hunt with Jace and Izzy afterwards. Following that, he had returned to his office to begin muddling his way through his ever-growing stack of paperwork.

It was then that Maia had burst in unannounced, exclaiming that tensions between the vampires and werewolves had reached a tipping point, and she needed a mediator. Alec, only too happy to abandon his paperwork, readily agreed. When they returned to the Jade Wolf, however, they were immediately captured by four Shadowhunters with faded Circle runes, who dosed Maia with some sort of silver poisoning and knocked Alec out with a sedative gas.

When he came to, they were both tied to chairs in a nondescript warehouse that Alec was sure he’d never seen before. Boxes were piled around them and rats scurried back and forth between their feet. Dust lined every surface in sight, and old cans of paint gave the entire building a sickly odor.

The ex-Circle members from before emerged from another room. One was carrying a revolver filled with what were, Alec was sure, silver bullets. Another held a fiery branding tool that looked like it’d been raked over hot coals recently. Alec tried not to shudder. The third ex-Circle member was carrying a seraph blade, which he waved mockingly at Alec. Alec’s hands clenched into fists. Valentine’s still-loyal (even in his death) followers didn’t deserve to wield a seraph blade like a real Shadowhunter.

The fourth and final ex-Circle member strode forward carrying a heavy silver sword, which he leveled at Alec’s neck in a way that made it impossible to look sideways, nod, or move his head in any manner.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the ex-Circle member asked.

“No, so why don’t you enlighten us?” Alec grumbled. The ex-Circle member smirked.

“I thought not.” He sneered. “You’re a traitor to the Clave, engaging in Downworld affairs. Making friends with these people!” He spat. “Married to one of Lilith’s children.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Alec mumbled, unable to help himself.

The ‘leader’ of the group of Valentine’s loyalists glared at him, and Alec glared back, his gaze hard and unflinching.

“What does Maia have to do with this?” he asked. “She isn’t a Shadowhunter.” He knew the answer already, but he was trying to stall for time. If he could distract them long enough, Magnus would realise something was wrong when he didn’t show up for dinner and track him.

“She’s even worse,” another of the ex-Circle members spat. “She’s a werewolf. Disgusting creature.” He pressed the branding tool into her skin, and Maia howled in pain. Alec’s blood boiled and he fought against his bindings with all of his might.

The group member holding the seraph blade stepped forward at a gesture from the leader and pressed the tip of it to Alec’s skin. “We tricked you into believing that this werewolf here needed your help. Vampire glamours are surprisingly easy. We knew you’d come running to help the filthy creature. It was a perfect trap,” he gloated.

Alec sucked in a sharp breath as the ex-Circle member pressed the seraph blade into his skin, slicing his shirt open in one clean motion.

“Are you going to kill us or not?” he asked them, “because this is getting pretty boring.”

“Oh, we’re not anywhere close to finished yet,” the second member of the group said, earning him a sharp, reprimanding look from the leader.

“Yes, we are,” the leader said. “We don’t waste too much time with these things.” With that, he pressed the sword into Alec’s neck even deeper. “Any last words?”

A million thoughts raced through Alec’s mind. Izzy, Jace, Simon, Clary. Magnus...By the Angel, Magnus. His husband was waiting for him at home, probably making dinner. Alec had been pleasantly surprised after they were married to find out that Magnus preferred cooking in the traditional way to using magic.

Alec felt fondness creep into his heart. Magnus liked to hum when he cooked. Alec wondered what he was humming now.

Emotions rushed through Alec’s veins like the tide of the ocean crashing over rocks on a bank. Fear, love, ferocity, adoration, determination, fear - He was hit with a sudden, startling realisation: he wanted to live.

Alec Lightwood-Bane was many things. A brother, a parabatai, a leader, a husband. But suicidal was not one of them. Not anymore.

A plan of action formed in his mind and he chanced a quick glance to his left to see that Maia was eyeing him in the same manner. He nodded minisculely at her, and she nodded back. With that, Alec faced the ex-Circle member once again and gave him a choice finger. The ex-Circle member pressed the sword into his throat with enough force to make Alec scream, if the sword was anywhere other than right on his vocal chords. He shifted his gaze over to the werewolf beside him, and she winked.

Maia leapt into action, shifting into her wolf form with what little energy the silver poisoning hadn’t stolen from her. The member of the group holding the sword whirled around at the commotion and Alec seized his opportunity.

He shoved himself backwards with everything he had, knocking the sword from the leader’s hands with his bound ankles as he went. He crashed into the floor, his head slamming against the concrete, sending waves of pain shooting through his entire body.

Alec grabbed frantically for his phone, which had slid out of his pocket when he tipped backwards, and pressed #1 on his speed dial. Magnus picked up almost immediately, greeting him with a cheerful, “Nice to hear from you, Alexander. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Corner of 36th and Main,” he wheezed. He heard a whimper to his left, and he knew the window of time Maia had created for him was about to close. “Warehouse. Hurry.” Alec heard the click of the call being disconnected, and he peered up through bleary eyes at the ex-Circle member who had held a sword to his throat before. His hands were stained with blood and Alec felt a jolt of panic shoot through him. He could no longer hear Maia.

The distinctive whoosh of a portal rushed through the warehouse, along with choked sounds of surprise from the ex-Circle members. Alec’s breath caught in his throat at the telltale tingle of Magnus’s magic. His husband was here. He’d gotten the message.

Alec felt his bonds snap free, and he righted himself just in time to see Magnus wrapping a magical rope around two of the loyalists’ necks, choking them. Alec sent a roundhouse kick to the leader in front of him, who was still holding the sword. He went down with a choked wheeze and an attempt to pull Alec with him.

“Do you surrender yourself to the authority of the Clave?” Alec shouted.

“Never!” the leader called back. He struggled underneath Alec, trying to get a hit in anywhere he could. Alec pried the sword from his grasp and ran it through his abdomen.

Magnus shouted, “Alexander!” and Alec threw him the sword without looking. He knew Magnus well enough to know what he needed, what that tone of voice meant. Alec’s gaze was on Maia’s crumpled form. He raced to her side as Magnus killed one of the ex-Circle members in his hold, cuffing and knocking out the one that had decided to surrender for Alec to deal with later. The final ex-Circle member laid next to Maia, his throat ripped out.

Magnus crouched next to Alec and began to work, healing what he could of Maia’s wounds. Alec watched in a daze as the burn from the branding tool disappeared and the long cuts across her face and arms from the battle closed up under Magnus’s ministrations.

“She’ll have to go to the Praetor for the silver poisoning,” he said when he had finished. “I know someone there. I’ll have her treatment expedited.” With a wave of his hand, Magnus conjured a portal and took Alec’s hand in his own. “Come on.” He lifted Maia with his magic and they disappeared into the portal to deliver her to the Praetor Lupus.

When they returned, Alec transported the remaining ex-Circle member back to the Institute, where he was thrown into a holding cell. Jace and Izzy appeared as Alec was making his way to his office.

“Are you alright?” Izzy cried, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Magnus called and told us what happened. By the Angel, Alec.”

“I’m fine, Iz,” Alec said, smiling at her. “Promise.”

Jace pressed his forehead to Alec’s, something the very first parabatai had done to comfort each other centuries ago, when Izzy retreated. “Glad you’re okay, parabatai.”

Alec said nothing, but he squeezed the back of Jace’s head in reassurance. I’m here. I’m okay.

Later that night, after Magnus had tended to Alec’s injuries and fussed over him until Alec demanded he stop, Magnus and Alec sat together on the couch in a comfortable silence. Alec curled into Magnus’s side and buried his face in the warlock’s shoulder. Magnus’s deep, throaty chuckle reverberated down Alec’s spine, and he sighed in contentment.

This was how it was supposed to be.

“Magnus?” he said, peering up at his husband, whose glamour was down. Alec felt a rush of affection for the man in front of him, the man that kept his gleaming yellow cat eyes so hidden from everyone else. Magnus hummed in response, threading his fingers through Alec’s hair.

“I want to live,” Alec said suddenly, and with so much force behind it that he surprised himself.

Magnus, however, didn’t seem surprised at all. He fixed Alec with a blinding smile and kissed his lips tenderly.

“And so you will.”

Somehow, though it was the simplest response Magnus could have offered him, it was exactly what Alec needed to hear.

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thekriseffect · 4 years

Text

I’m Yours (Liam x MC)

[Note: So I did a thing... because I’m super excited for book 2 of TRH to come out... and inspiration hit hard after the cover for it was released (it’s just super cute, okay?!) I’m deciding to post it now so I stop fidgeting with it and driving myself crazy. Is it any good? Who knows. I’ll probably revamp it in the morning either way!]

[Summary: Freya gives birth to her and Liam’s son.]

[Tag List: @lodberg, @blades-of-light-and-shadow, @romanticatheart-posts, @texaskitten30, @bbrandy2002.]

[Song Inspiration: This Is on Me- Ben Abraham, Sara Bareilles]

The last few hours didn’t feel real, like I was living in a daze instead of reality. Like it was something I might wake up from. Time moved too quickly to keep pace. I was stumbling, I could tell. Trapped in a cycling stampede determined to beat me down and just when it felt like I was finally regaining my footing, another setback brought me right back down my knees. For the first time in my life I felt powerless, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. It was all happening too fast.

The sights; Freya laid out across our bed in the palace chambers, pain pinching her beautiful face and sweat causing the short hairs to stick to her brow. I had the faintest memory, a moment sketched into my brain of me pushing the strands back to kiss her forehead, but I couldn’t be sure of when exactly I did it. Before? After? Everything blurred together.

The tastes; my mouth was dry, too dry, with hints of copper and sour bitterness against my tongue. I must have bitten the inside of my cheek hard enough to break skin. At one point I remembered a glass being pressed into my empty hand, the coolness prickling against the pads of my fingers, but the nerves had prevented me from being able to keep anything down.

The sounds; a deafening roar that pounded against my ears like a drum and beyond that affirming words uttered from countless of faceless people assisting with the birth. The love of my life screaming out in raging agony, the shattering of my heart breaking into millions of pieces as I was helpless to help her. I would’ve done anything to help her.

The touches; a hand squeezing my shoulder when the world started to spiral around me, gentle and reassuring. Drake. The wood smooth and grained against one hand as I gripped the beds frame while Freya clutched the other, nails biting into my flesh painfully that I barely noticed. I looked down at the weeping red crescents that now marked my palm.

The smells; too much perfume, too much cologne, too many people. It was suffocating. The air scorching and musky with uncertainty as it stuck unpleasantly to the back of my throat. When it all became too much to bear I pressed my mouth to the ridges of her knuckles, to the cool band of her wedding ring, and instantly was gifted with the familiar scent of plum blossoms. The air unraveled around me and the squeezing of my chest lessened.

It lasted too long yet seemed to come and go like the fleeting flash of a lens. The adrenaline that tainted my blood like a drug had made it difficult to focus on anything, causing my hands to shake and my thoughts to scramble.

How far along were we? Where do I need to be? Should I take a step back to make some more room?

“Don’t leave my side.” Freya’s desperate voice pushed through the fog, and I answered without even having to think about it.

“Never.”

That was when the actuality of the situation set in. I was about to be a father, and despite the joy and yearning that thought brought me, I also felt lost. From birth I was groomed to overcome all obstacles that were thrown in my path. As a Prince, and then later a King, it was expected of me. But this was different. This was more. I wanted to be a good father to my son, but how could I be when the one example I had was all but nonexistent in my own childhood? When a kingdom and a crown triumphed over all in the end for him?

My heart rate skyrocketed. I wasn’t ready for this. I didn't know the first thing about raising a child let alone the sole heir to my kingdom. I’m not sure I could ever properly prepare myself for something that momentous, something that delicate. What if I made the same mistakes as my father? What if—

...Then I heard it.

A cry.

My son’s first breath.

And the world came to a stop.

~~~

The events that followed happened in a crawl. The baby being dried off and placed upon my wife’s chest as he screamed and screamed. Hana draping a cool cloth across Freya’s forehead gently while people rushed in and out of the room in a frantic haste. Celebratory words offered and exchanged that I couldn’t fully recollect nor place faces to. And then, as quickly as it started, the chaos ceased and it was just the three of us left alone in the room.

I was facing the window, gazing out at the calming sunset. Watching the sun sink below Cordonia’s hills as rose and golden hues colored the evening sky, giving the landscape an otherworldly glow. After everything that had happened recently I basked in the quiet that enveloped us, welcomed it like an old friend with open arms. I felt like I could think clearly for the first time in days, breathe freely since the Last Apple Ball, feel anything other than unease since Freya first went into labor.

“Liam,” a hushed voice interrupted and I turned to glimpse over my shoulder at her.

The sight before me had my heart skipping a beat. Freya was propped up against our headboard, beaming. Her face flushed with effort, short hair sticking out wildly in each direction, eyes drooping slightly from exhaustion. And I remember thinking in that moment that I had never seen her look more breathtaking.

Cradled close to her chest and nestled silently in a gold embroidered blanket was the baby. Our baby. I edged closer and she placed him in the cradle of my arms. A shock of black hair greeted me as I gazed down in awe.

He was so tiny, small enough to hold with just one of my hands. Long lashes brushing under his closed eyes, face rounded, relaxed, skin flawlessly smooth and tinted pink. I softly ran the back of my finger against his cheek and one of his hands came up to grasp it, squeezing firmly. Tears obscured my vision and painted hot trials down my cheeks as I grinned. “He’s beautiful,” I said while glancing up at her. “You’re beautiful.”

She leaned forward to skim her mouth along my jaw and I turned my head to capture her lips with my own. The kiss was desperate and charged with so much emotion. I clung to her for as long as I could and she made a noise in the back of her throat as she cupped my face in her palms.

“I love you,” I whispered while pulling back before looking down at our son. “And I love you—.”

“Oliver,” Freya stated.

“Prince Oliver,” I repeated with a smile, letting the name roll off of my tongue. Tasting it, testing it. “It’s perfect.”

“Just don’t let Madeleine know we went with her suggestion or I’ll never hear the end of it.” She smoothed down the wispy dark hair at the top of his head. “If she asks we named him Cletus.”

I laughed. “Oliver, Cletus; it makes no difference to me. He’s perfect no matter what we call him.” I brought my lips down to brush against the soft spot at his crown and promised to him, “I’m yours, Oliver. Completely and utterly. From this day until my very last, I’m yours.”

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and-justice-for-zoisite · 5 years

Text

~Hey, look at me~ (Prince Zuko x Reader)

A/N: So, it’s been a while since I’ve written a Zuko x Reader fanfic in general, but I hope it’s good. This is my piece for the Fan fic trade between me and the wonderful @dem-obscure-imagines !! Their writing is amazing so go check them out!! Anyways, here it is!

Ps: This mightn’t have been what you had exactly pictured, but I hope you still like it!!

Summary: You’re a bandit Earth bender who just so happens to be in love with a Fire Prince. But not just any fire prince, the notorious Prince Zuko. He too feels the same, but things are complicated...as in he’s involved in an arranged marriage. With Mai, someone more eligible in his family’s eyes. Even so, you guys manage...

Warnings: None, JUST LOTSA FLUFF

You sighed against the warm breeze which had gently brought itself by your face, tiny embers and ashes brushing against your cheeks as you looked out into the surprising beauty of the Fire Nation. From the top of an intricately designed piece of Fire Nation Architecture, namely, a small, hut-like thing which sat in the midst of a park (which was more commonly used for fights and fight training), the landscape which made up the place many thought was hell spoke an untold beauty, sporting many trees and flower fields which seemed to be stuck in a forever autumn stage with a tinge of red glow. The orange shining horizon stretched for as far as the eye could see, half the sun still visible for the fact it was only mid afternoon.

You weren’t supposed to be there, you knew that much. Earth Benders like you were forbidden to the Fire Nation, heck, anyone who wasn’t a true fire bender was forbidden to step foot into the nation. But if you were caught, you’d surely be executed. You were a bandit, a wanted criminal, a thief. Someone who was especially hated by the Fire Nation. You had stolen countless precious amulets and ancient artifacts simply for the fun of it, but it had gotten you into a position where you had to be extra careful when entering the area.

Why on earth were you there in the first place, you ask? Well, you sat on top of the small shelter in hopes to see a certain floofy haired fire bending Prince. Right, the notorious Prince Zuko. In fact, you knew he’d be there soon, he liked coming down there when there was no one around so he could practice Bending Lightning like his Uncle Iroh had shown him. But why in the hell would you want to see someone of such high authority in the nation you were wanted in? Well, as cliche as I make it sound, the two of you were secret lovers. Like, SUPER SECRET. For obvious reasons of course. In fact, the two of you met whilst you were in the middle of a robbery. It was during the time he had that silly looking ponytail of his, one that made you giggle like an idiot every time you saw it. But ever since he cut it off, you both began moving closer and closer together, and one thing led to another, you were dating. You were madly in love with him, but, there were issues. Arranged marriage wasn’t an uncommon occurrence within the fire nation, and of course, Zuko just happened to fall into one with his ex girlfriend, Mai. The two families had strong ties, and that just so happened to be the cause of all this mess. It hurt, sure, but you were tough, you could handle it.

At the sound of dry grass crunching, your attention immediately turned to the direction the interruption. That was when you spotted the face you had been expecting for the past hour, your dear lover Prince Zuko, his hair a cute mess and his golden eyes distinguished and focused. His clothes were of casual appearance, they were baggy on him, having no particular way of describing them but easy to picture. The boy had made his way to the middle of the field, forming the certain stance which you knew all too well considering you had watched him practice on more than one occasion. He was trying his luck on bending lightning again, something he hadn’t had much success with since he wasn’t a very, lack of a better word, ‘zen’ person. But there was something different about him today, he seemed a little more gentle and careful with his movements, like he was calm and content for once. Quietly, you rolled onto your stomach and flung your legs into the air, allowing your chin to rest in your palm as you watched the blackette more intently. It was so strange to you to see him so mellow, usually he was quite uptight when it came to his fire bending. Even so, you continued to stare. Carefully, Zuko allowed himself to concentrate as his limbs moved in an order he memorized, his fingers slowly beginning to conjure lightning. With smooth, flowing movements, he spun around and shot a beautiful strike of lightning into the sky, causing you to flinch slightly because of the loud noise. With widened eyes, you stared at the boy, absolutely dumbfounded by his actions. He was never able to do it before, so why was he able to now?

You hadn’t questioned it all too much however, you simply wanted his attention. With the swift flick of your wrist, you had caused two small pebbles to fly up and hit poor Zuko in the back of the head, the boy groaning softly as he rubbed his neck and turned around. Upon making eye contact, you smirked as you folded your arms and rested your chin on top, eyeing him playfully. He didn’t seem all that fazed by it, but that was a given, that was just how he was. “(Y/n)...you’re not supposed to be here.” He said quite bluntly. You shrugged. “You’d think I’d notice by the amount of posters they have of me around town. ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ isn’t exactly a welcoming phrase.” You joked, causing a small smile to tug at Zuko’s lips as he walked closer to the little shelter. “I missed you. Where have you been?” He asked. “I stole something important from ‘happy-go-lucky’ Mr King Kuei and he threw me behind bars for two weeks. He swears he hates me but according to the rule book the apparent sentence for theft of such an item is four months. He loves me, I just know it.” You explained, the boy sighing as he shook his head. “What did you steal?” Zuko asked. “I don’t know, some super old manuscript.” You sighed, watching as Zuko began climbing up the little hut you had been perched upon. “And why did you see it necessary to do so?” He asked, grunting as he almost slipped. “Hm, he talked a pretty big game of it, I knew he’d be pissed if he found it missing but he caught me just as I was sneaking out.” You said, sitting up and crossing your legs. The blackette rolled his eyes as he hoisted himself onto the small roof, shuffling over so he sat with his shoulder pressed against your own. At this feeling, you felt a small, familiar, tingling in your cheeks, gently resting your head on his shoulder and continuing to stare at the ever-falling sun. Zuko sighed softly as he tilted his head so it rested on yours, his hand finding yours before intertwining your fingers together and resting your two hands on your thigh.

God, he was so in love with you. Why? He didn’t know for sure. Maybe it was your cute (h/l) (h/c) hair, or your beautiful glowing (e/c) eyes. Maybe he was attracted most to your playful and childish personality, or your carefree nature. He couldn’t tell, but he knew one thing. He couldn’t imagine a life without you, even under the circumstances.

“...does this sunset...look like the one back in the Earth Kingdom?” Zuko asked softly, yourself exhaling through your nostrils. “...No, they’re not as pretty back home. The fire nation has this...” You continued, reaching your free hand out as if you were about to touch the horizon, “...glow, that no other nation has. An...alluring haze which coalesces gently with the sun’s incandescence. It’s certainly difficult to describe but...it’s quite a sight.” You placed your hand back into your lap as you finished. Zuko smiled softly as he nuzzled his nose into your soft (h/c) hair. “You make my heart go wild when you speak like that, it makes it sound so much more beautiful that way...” He sighed before gently kissing the top of your head which sent a red tinge to your cheeks. “I’m sure any well constructed literature would give a feeling like that...” You tried reasoning. “...no, it’s different. If some random woman on the streets was reading it aloud, I’d appreciate the literature, sure. But, when you say stuff like that off the top of your head...It gives me goosebumps, crazy goosebumps.” He explained, yourself giggling as you poked him gently in the ribs. “You’re such a sap.” You teased, causing Zuko to chuckle breathily. “Yeah, well...that’s your fault.” He accused jokingly. “Oh? Really?” You asked, where he nodded in response, “And why is that?” Zuko sighed as he swiveled around to face you and cupped your cheeks with both hands, squishing them together slightly. “Because, you...you made me fall in love with you.” He almost whispered, sending a flush of red to your face as you smiled.

Seeing this side of Zuko was truly a treat. Before this, when you had first met him, he was so bitter and he seemed to hate the world. You couldn’t blame him however, with what his father had done to him he had the right to be the way he was, emotional distraught and barely capable of conveying any feeling which wasn’t anger. But, when you came into his life, everything seemed to stop mattering to him and he became so vulnerable. He was a much more sweet and caring persona around you, something you’re pretty sure not even Mai has seen to the full potential like you have.

Slowly, you too raised your hands and gently cupped his cheeks, except you squished his together a little more because you thought it looked cute. Your fingertips brushed softly against that scar which marked his eye as you began whispering. “...You make me so happy...y’know that?” He smiled as he pinched your cheeks gently and stretched them a little, “..I try.” Zuko replied simply, causing you to chuckle softly before the boy planted a gentle kiss against your forehead. Sighing loudly, you stood on your knees for a moment before you crashed yourself into Zuko, resting your chin on his shoulder and wrapping your arms around his mid-section. Without even thinking, The blackette too snaked his arms around you and nuzzled his nose into your hair once more, closing his eyes in content. “...I wish it wasn’t so complicated...it’s not fair...that she gets to believe you belong to her...” You whispered, Zuko’s eyes opening at your words. “(Y/n)...” He began, leaning back a little so he could look at you, “Hey, c’mon...(Y/n), look at me..” Hesitantly, your saddened (e/c) eyes wondered up and met with those beautiful golden orbs of his, small emotion filled tears threatening to spill from your own at the thought of Zuko leaving you for that witch of a woman, even if he didn’t want to. “Any feeling I ever had for Mai, any and every...it’s all gone, forever. My heart belongs to you, and only you...I couldn’t change those facts even if I wanted to. And nothing you do or say could ever change it either. I promise...” You felt a warm tear roll down your cheek, but Zuko was quick to wipe it away with his thumb before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss against your lips, to which you immediately responded. His kisses were never usually this meaningful, they were usually short pecks which conveyed the bare minimum for his affection. It shocked you a little, but nevertheless, you didn’t in any way complain. After a moment, you pulled away, brushing some of the black hair from his eyes. “We...we should run away...” You suggested out of no where, causing Zuko’s eyes to widen slightly. “What?” “Just think about it! We could travel around the world, pretend we were common folk, people without the ability to bend. We could pretend we’re normal lovers, that you’re not a fire prince and I’m not a bandit. We could start a whole new life elsewhere, away from this horrid nation and it’s horrid customs. We’d get married and start a family, live out on the countryside where we’d have so much space we wouldn’t have a clue as to what we’d do with it. You’d...you’d never have to see anyone from here ever again...and I wouldn’t have to worry about being thrown into prison wherever I go....We could be happy Zuko, happy.” You gushed, grabbing a tight hold of the boy’s hands as you stared into his now, slightly reluctant eyes. “(Y/n)...Are you sure you’d really want to do that? It’s risky...what if we’re caught?” He asked. You shook your head. “I’m willing to take that risk if it means I can be with you...” At your words, Zuko felt his heartstrings being tugged upon as a small smile graced his lips. “Then...what’s your plan?” He asked. “Pack up your belongings and meet me just outside of Ba sing se in a week. Then...we’ll see where our hearts take us.” You whispered romantically, sending a blush to Zuko’s face as he nodded and the two of you stood up. “I’ll see you then, my love.” He responded, yourself smiling as you pressed another loving kiss to his lips.

You were more than determined to make this work. You were going to have a life with him, it didn’t matter what kind, as long as you were free to be his and only his.

Mai stared bitterly at the bandit Earth Bender as she jokingly saluted the girl’s soon to be ‘husband’ with a smile and lept away with agility in her bare feet. It truly made her fume to see such a scene unfold before her, so much she managed a scoff. “I knew there was something happening, but to think it was with an earth bender?” The girl beside Mai, her friend and the boy’s sister, Azula, said. “That bastard...he cheated on me with a disgusting bandit?” Mai seethed through her teeth. “But...didn’t you break up with him in the first place?” Azula asked. “Yeah, so? It’s not uncommon to still have feelings for your ex...and we were to be married soon, I could’ve easily won him back.” The non bending blackette sighed. “Oh, don’t you worry Mai, you’ll have your man back...after all, we know where they’ll be in a weeks time, right?”

A/N: Yeah, not my best piece but I kinda like it??

#zuko #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko imagine #avatar #avatar the last airbender #avatar zuko

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honestsycrets · 5 years

Text

The Knight’s Prize I : The Leader

❛ pairing | ubbe x reader, ivar x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | the reader knows that she has no chance against Ubbe’s great army. she offers herself to him, the king. the only issue is, he isn’t.

❛ warnings | love triangle (of course), concubine reference

❛ sy’s notes | ya’llllll.... it’s here. more ubbe x reader x ivar for @walkxthexmoon ! I hope you all enjoy it.

“And we’ve been flanked.”

Your hands knot into the reins of your steed as you turn him to look at the hot flames closing in on your army. Primitive, you called him, primitive. Not because he was unlike you because he was like you in many ways but because you thought you could outsmart him with the ways of your foremothers. Well, this primitive warlord boxed you in with the most primitive of all things: fire. It’s smoldering flames jump like bouncing wisps in the cool wind.

Careful, the commander husked, don’t underestimate me.

You tug your horse Eirný’s ethereal braids, shifting the steed one way then another on her crystal-like horseshoes looking for a viable exit. Stuck. The armour you wear could withstand the heat for some time. Your people, however, likely could not. If your people could not, you could not either.

“I see it, Yrsa.”

You see it. You see him, mounted upon his dark steed. His hood is thrown over his heavy, long braid that sits down his chest. The bright radiance of his piercing eyes glistens underneath the shadow of a cowl. You dip your fingers down to the hanging bone upon your chest and tighten it in your palm.

“Should we pray to Brynhildr now?” She almost mocks.

You turn your head down toward her when a blotch of black obscures your vision. A great raven descends down onto his reins. A chill fills your skin pocked by the sight of its one bright eye. Odin, commander of Valkyries, your people stand no chance.

“I see a son of Odin,” you speak past a knot growing in your throat. “There is nowhere to run where the Ravens will not see.”

“We could always charge.” Yrsa suggests. “Like we usually do.”

“But the numbers…”

A wiser woman would have backed out at the war council. In your stubbornness, you had not. For even if Odin was on the field, you convinced yourself; even the Valkyries, your great mothers, could disobey him. You were wrong.

You withdraw the sword of your belt and dismount your brilliant girl, chucking the line of rope at Yrsa.

“(Y/N)!” Yrsa calls your name. You heed no call of it.

Your boots squish along the dewy grass, pushing down on the water and releasing it from lush green pleats. In a few minutes, it would be sloshing with the blood of your countrywomen. You release hold on the bone around your neck, clanging your sword against an iridescent shield. Behind you, the tight line of your warriors closes the gap you ascend from with their own shields. They beat their shields like drums, rattling the hot battlefield as they move forward on low bent knees from the heat burning closer. In front of you, his men raise their bows, kissing the sky with would be fatal arrows. He extends his hand to stop them from releasing. You slow to a stop, looking at the king and his ilk.

“I have no intention on slaughtering my women here for precious rock,” you bear in mind Yrsa whose hands tighten upon your horse. It was well-known throughout neighboring cities that your land sat upon a beautiful reserve of precious rock that might be used in valuable trade for people with more materialistic pleasures. It was also known that your people were descended from Valkyries and of which, your women had no pride in not fighting.

“Then what have you to give?” The ruddy haired man booms. “We have nothing to lose.”

“Myself as a concubine to the king.” You boom.

The women behind you are grid-locked in their abject horror to your suggestion. Each one would most certainly prefer to give up their sword and lives to preserve your honour. That was the basis of what it was to be a shieldmaiden. Honour, glory… all so important. A fair and loyal queen as you were, you were not willing to give the lives and freedom of your women outnumbered as they were.

“You say this knowing that you will lose.” The king says. His raven beats its wings. You sheathe your blade and cross the midplane of the unscathed field.

“Perhaps not,” you assert. “I descend from the valkyrie Brynhildr who lay waste to your grandfather.”

“Fanciful stories.”

“Fact and truth,” you shake your head.

The man dismounts his horse at long last. His skeptical eyes look to your archers with their bows raised, trotting closer to you. He stills to stand in front of you. Your eyes settle upon a pendant on his chest. A hammer. Strange for a son of Odin.

“Even so, what will I stand to lose by taking your offer?”

“You’ve decimated my men. Your people have no women, king. The woman that was with you. She’s fallen in battle and gone to Folkvangr.” He almost visibly flinches to your word. “Rock and trade are all good and well, but wouldn’t you rather have willing women of our people to carry on our ways?”

The commander lifts to pull his cowl back off of his head. His long, black rune chain tattoo over his eye greets you straight away.

“An alliance.” He states his question. He holds out a tattooed arm out to you. You extend your own with images of swans to take his, grasping him at the junction of his elbow and pulling him close.

“An alliance King Ubbe,” you agree. He signals his men to stand down and you yours. Axe, sword and shield clang together. The raven flies overhead.

“It is good that you are as beautiful as you are, (Y/N).”

“Why is that?” You ask in a confident, if not sassy tone. Yrsa tilts a cool pitcher of water over your head in a rushed flow. You sputter in the steaming tub, water cascading down the circumference of your head, dripping down your nose. You shake your long hair. It floats at the surface of the water.

“Because you are so stupid.”

You swipe your middle fingers over your eyebrows, flicking water off to the side. To say that she was displeased would do nothing to capture just how enraged she was with you.

“You’ve shamed us. You ignored all the traditions of your mother, our grandmother and our people to hand yourself off to him in the field where the Valkyries, our ancestors, had control of the field.”

“Odin has control--”

“You see. You are so stupid. How can you be a queen and be so stupid at the same time?” She says, running her comb through your long hair. She lifts your hair out of the bath and wrings it like a bit of old cloth, twisting so you squeak in pain. As she yanks, your head snaps back so that you might only look into her eyes like sard. When she was so angry you could not make out the brilliant bronze glow on the apples of her well-rounded cheeks.

“Now he will take you.” She seethes, working out a knot not from a long battle, but a few days of not showering. A tooth of the bone comb comes off in the heated fight against your knot. “He will take you and you will be his for all of time with no ability to choose a warlord for yourself. Now you will have no freedom, you idiot.”

Yrsa pulls free a knot of hair. She pulls your hair up with a clip to keep your hair in its place. You try to rationalize what she thinks. It’s fine enough for someone who could run away from duties. Someone who had no allegiance to her people. You do.

“It is not that simple. What would I have told the children who have just lost their fathers? To lose their mothers for pride?” You stand in the water, running droplets down from the expanse of your breasts. It dribbles into the scented water. You wish you could worry just as Yrsa would about nothing more than who to marry and what image you’d like to develop for yourself.

“It is that simple. Life and death.” Yrsa shoves the rug under your feet to catch the water as you step out. You run your fingers over the short curls covering your mound. “We live, we die. That is how it works. I think you are the simple one here.”

She sounds like your brother every day. The little brother who thought he was a big brother and now, he is nothing but a ghost in a burial mound. Across the hall, the commander is awaiting your presence. You can’t blame her despondent nature. She lost her father, counsel to the crown and a hell of a warrior. She moves toward your bed where you have laid out a beautiful, layered gown. It falls to the ground sheer.

“Now what do you want to wear for him? This-Is-What-You-Just-Bought,” She holds up the sheer gown, thinly wrapped from the steps of India by way of Arabian traders. Then she holds up Asian silk, well fitted but not as thin. “Or Go-Ahead-And-Rip-It-Off-Me-And-See-For-Yourself.”

You swipe the thin, see-through gown from her fingers. Because Yrsa would only brew if she saw you in this piece for the king. Yrsa sits with her thin, muscular arms supporting her on your lavish sheets.

“Of course you would pick that one.”

You call a thrall to help you pull it on, pulling your drying hair aside so that she might properly secure it.

“You are as bitter as Skadi.”

“It is better than being as you are.” Yrsa drops back upon the bed, flicking her hands up into the air as she admonishes you for your stupidity. The agreements were made. Unless you were going to go against your word, as no woman would, and kill him. That portion of your pride would remain.

“Shut up,” you move to a chair. There you apply your kohl in peace, slight but defined. You wipe the remnants on a bit of cloth. “Well, cousin. How do I look?”

Sometimes, you needed her bode of confidence. She gives you a once over, nodding past her long brown braids. Her words had always been barbs against your skin when things weren’t going her way.

“You look ready.”

“That is not what I meant,” you say. Yrsa exhales forcefully.

“You look like a concubine. There, happy?”

Your finger pats the rouge on your lip.

“Thank you.”

The familiar walk to your brother’s room was not marked with childish pranks or decisions to hide in his corridors so that when he came home, you could leap upon him in your joy and cuddle at night. The two guards at the door keep their gazes forward facing whilst you knock with your jeweled knuckles.

“Come in,” the voice on the other end says. The guards reach to push the door open. All of his things are here. The first fur that he ever wore after a hunt with your uncles, the weaponry mounted above his bed and long timber floors lead to the table where he stands, knocking his knuckles on the tabletop.

“King Ubbe,” you entreat him.

Ubbe turns toward you, his back leaning as he takes you in his sights. He lifts his head to the bits of pearl running through the twists in the front of your head toward the back.

“Beautiful,” he whispers under his tongue before he catches himself. Your eyes keep confident in his gaze as he looks to you in something more than idle interest. Your lips pout out and he runs his thumb over your painted lips. A sudden and insipid smile splits his features. “But the king is my brother, Ivar.”

“Ivar…?” You say, not quite grabbing the gravity of his statement. Any of the kings that you had known would have been leading their own armies.

“Yes, Ivar. Ivar the Boneless,” he finishes for you. A wash of abject horror had might as well splashed over you.

There were many Ivars. Your vision blanks under the thought that-- it was that Ivar. The one that you had thought was overthrown. The one that ran with his tail between his legs to the Rus king. It was that Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.

“But-- but you lead his army.” You state.

“A portion,” he returns.

A portion? For a community of farming Norsemen, that number of men was about unheard of. To know there were more? Well, your skin lights in gooseflesh. Outside the door you feel the repetitive stomp of soldiers buckling the timber floors. Yrsa calls out your name, alerting you to another army stomping its way into the walls of your well-protected town. Prince Ubbe folds his arms, looking down and then back up to your eyes. You stagger back to the door, thrusting it open and running after your cousin. A whizz of a chariot catches your attention and Ubbe comes by your side.

“And there is the other.”

The rider of the chariot slips off his helmet, running his hand through his sweaty black hair. The excitement in your stomach pits, grasping the charm of bones around your neck. King Ivar the Boneless perks his plush lips at you, chucking his helmet into the floorboard of his chariot.

“Queen (Y/N)! I’ve heard a lot about you!”

And he’s seen a lot of you too, now.

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#Ivar x Reader #Ivar/Reader #Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings/reader #ubbe x reader #Ubbe/Reader #Vikings x Reader #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #Ubbe imagines #Ubbe Ragnarsson imagines

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beautifulterriblequeen · 5 years

Text

Lost Boys

Rating: Gen

Characters: Runaan, Harrow, Rayla, Viren (mentioned)

Tags: #major character death, #canon compliant, #young Runaan, #young Harrow, #timeskips, #friendship, #friendship gone wrong, #fathers and sons,#destiny is a bitch, #good intentions, #sad, #bittersweet, #Runaan’s dad is awful, #fluffy happiness turns to heartbreaking angst, #angsty af, #did I mention the angst, #contains 3943% of your daily allowance of angst, #AAAAAA that’s six A’s on the Swiss Angst Scale, #tissue warning, #tell me how this made you feel, #your feedback is a gift

Word count: 12k

(art by @random-fandom-ramble)

Runaan’s toes had gone numb, but he kept walking through the shin-deep snow anyway. He was sure he was close to camp—he could smell the cedars—but the falling whiteness had obscured his original tracks hours ago. He wasn’t even sure which way was north anymore. Surely—please, Moon—this was the right copse of cedars. The last three hadn’t been.

“Hello?”

Runaan’s little boots stopped short. That voice was no Moonshadow. His mind had wandered far ahead, hoping for shelter and warmth, and he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings.

He shifted his bright turquoise eyes toward the small voice, moving nothing else, as if his white winter clothing might make him turn invisible even without a full Moon.

A young boy about his height stood twenty feet away, peering around a slender fir tree, his arms wrapped around its crusty, snow-dusted bark. His face was dark against the white ruff of fur on the hood of his coat, which was gray and finely made, and his knitted mittens blazed scarlet against the black-and-white of the trees and snow.

Runaan tensed and sucked in an icy breath that burned its way down his throat. Gray and scarlet. The colors of Katolis. A human. Reflexively, the young Moonshadow tugged on his thick leather hood, making sure his ears and horns were covered.

“Do you know the way to the Banther Lodge?” The boy’s voice tried to be brave, but a thread of fear ran through it. “I… got lost.”

Runaan blinked in surprise, but a small, warm tendril of connection flared in his chest. It couldn’t be so bad to be lost in enemy territory if the enemy got lost in his own backyard. But this little boy didn’t look aggressive. He looked worried. And cold.

The boy rubbed his hands together for warmth. Runaan studied the gesture of vulnerability. His father had trained such behavior out of him two years ago. It had been a hard lesson to learn. But his father had been—was still—determined to make his son the best Moonshadow in the family. And Runaan would never do anything to threaten his family’s honor. Which meant that, right now, Runaan needed to act as human as possible, to keep the boy’s suspicions at bay. What would a human do in this situation?

“I can climb a tree and look for you,” he offered.

The look on the boy’s face was pathetically grateful. Runaan figured he didn’t even know how to climb trees. Or maybe he was afraid of slipping on the snow. The young elf scanned the area, full of several firs and a few bare oaks, and picked the fir with the lowest branches. He trudged through the snow toward it, making obvious tracks like any human would, then he hopped up and scrambled through the fragrant branches. He reached the top in no time and looked out across the snowy landscape. The snow was falling thickly, and he couldn’t see far in any direction. But the gentle curves of the nearby hills gave him the lay of the land, and a cut through the woods indicated the humans’ road, which led directly to the lodge and crossed the river next to it.

He knew where he was. He knew which way the Banther Lodge lay. More importantly, he knew where his own camp sat. A grin split his face, and he looked down through the tree branches.

The young boy gazed up at him from beneath the shelter of the tree. Runaan shimmied down and dropped into the thin layer of snow that had reached the ground beneath the tree’s sheltering limbs. In the quiet, surrounded by winter’s frozen fall, they faced each other closely for the first time. The dim shelter of the tree limbs hooded them in peaceable silence.

Runaan silently raised a hand and pointed in the direction of the lodge.

The boy grinned, exposing a gap-toothed smile. “Thanks.” His dark eyes shifted from Runaan’s turquoise gaze to his nose—its blue stripes—and back up again.

“Do you live there?” Runaan asked, hoping to head off the human’s next question. “The lodge.”

The boy shrugged one shoulder of his fine wool coat. “We stay here in winter.”

Runaan nodded. Moonshadows didn’t always live in the same place, either.

“My grandfather is the king.” The boy’s tone was proud, and his chin lifted as he spoke.

Runaan’s thin white eyebrows shot up. Was he supposed to compete with this young prince for status somehow? Human rules were very strange. “My father works for a king,” he offered, hoping that was the right thing to say.

It was not. The boy’s pleasant face closed down. “Which one? Are you from Evenere?”

Runaan’s lip curled at the very idea. “No.”

“Then who are you? Why are you here on my grandfather’s property on the Eve of the Winter’s Turn?”

This one, Runaan knew. His father had made him practice. “My parents are tinkers from eastern Del Bar. Our wagon broke a ways up the road. I’m just… exploring… while my father fixes it. We’ll be on our way soon.”

“Del Bar? That’s all right, then. The King of Evenere is—well, my grandfather calls him a handful. He calls me that, too, when I’m being naughty.”

Runaan blinked. “A handful of what?”

The boy laughed as if he’d said something truly funny. “Trouble, usually. But Grandfather says that, come spring, things will change.”

“You won’t be a handful of trouble in the spring?”

Again with the laugh, clear and easy. Arrogance masks ignorance, Runaan’s father always said. “He wasn’t talking about me. I’d better go. Thank you for your help.” The boy held out one of his bright red mittens to shake hands. “My name is Prince Harrow.”

Runaan stared at the scarlet mitten and the line of knitted stags that danced across its back. Slowly, he reached out and clasped the young prince’s hand with his own leather mitten. “Runaan.”

“Thank you again, Runaan. You’ve saved me.”

Harrow’s words shivered uncomfortably against Runaan’s spine. He didn’t know exactly what his father and the others had come to Katolis to do, but humans were the enemy, and not generally to be saved from things. “From what?”

“My father would’ve been furious if he’d had to send the guards out after me. He’s in a foul enough mood as it is, with Grandfather being sick.”

Runaan gulped and tried to smile. He knew all about the foul moods of fathers. “Then I’m glad I could help.”

Harrow took two steps toward the edge of the fir’s sheltering limbs and turned back. “You’ll be okay out here, won’t you? You know the way back to your family’s wagon?”

Runaan pointed toward the road, nearly the opposite direction from the Moonshadow camp. It seemed to satisfy the prince, who waved a friendly goodbye and stepped out into the falling snow.

Runaan watched him go until the prince vanished past a thicket. Then he dashed toward the Moonshadow camp. Not twenty minutes later, he puffed into the center of six pale tents with silver-gray markings, each sheltered under a tree at the edge of a small clearing.

“Runaan.” His father’s voice was low and taut.

Runaan’s heartbeat jumped. His absence had been noticed. He stood as tall as he could and faced his father’s lanky frame, holding his little chin high and meeting those dark teal eyes without any outward sign of fear. “Yes, Father.”

His father had other things on his mind besides his son’s winter wanderings, though. “You will stay in camp tonight. If none of us return by sunrise, make your way home without us. Your mother will understand.”

Runaan studied his father’s stern face with a small frown. His glance strayed to the other Moonshadows as they sat just inside their open tents, dressed in heavy white rabbit fur and preparing various items for the work they would carry out. “Is this a test?”

A smile flickered once at the corner of his father’s mouth.

Runaan hooded his eyes, hiding his feelings. An old habit even at his young age. Everything’s a test when it comes from you. But I won’t fail.

***

As the first rays of dawn crept through the window of the chambers belonging to the King of Katolis, they fell across his slack face and lit in his unseeing eyes. A crystalline smear of a poison common to Evenere was found on the rim of the glass beside his bed.

The whole household mourned the king’s passing for seven days. Then Harrow’s father performed the burial rites and accepted the Crown of the Uneven Towers upon his brow.

Spring came. But Harrow was wrong—nothing changed. The new King of Katolis redoubled his realm’s war efforts, and all of the human kingdoms shook with battle cries for the next three years.

***

Prince Harrow woke suddenly as if he could sense a watching presence. He rolled over, scrubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, and squinted up toward his open window. Its shutters lay open and its sill was drenched in moonlight.

Drenched, that is, except for the figure that crouched on it, casting a deep shadow. Its turquoise eyes glowed faintly, and a pair of slender, curling horns arose from its head. The moonlight illuminated a pair of dark green boots and side tails of soft white hair.

The figure stared down at Harrow, motionless, unblinking.

Harrow felt a grin spread across his face, and his chest lightened with amazement. He propped himself up on one elbow. “I knew it,” he whispered. “I knew you were real.” His gaze rested on the other boy’s horns. “And… you’re an elf.”

Runaan’s voice was soft, just another shadow in the night. “All my life.”

The prince’s dark eyes narrowed. “You said your parents were tinkers from Del Bar.”

“You can’t prove they’re not.”

Harrow began to splutter indignantly because yes he could, but then he spotted the shadow of a grin on his visitor’s face. It triggered a parade of fairy tales that flitted through Harrow’s mind. Unlike most of the stories the servant children grew up with, the ones his grandmother told him painted elves as pranksters, but never evil. “You lied to me, you trickster.”

The lithe elfling on the prince’s window sill tilted his horns with curiosity. He didn’t protest either the accusation or the label. “Do you want to play?”

A tingle of excitement that had nothing to do with the cold shivered down Harrow’s spine. He pulled his heavy blankets back and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. The chill bite of wintry air nipped at his toes. “Let me get my boots.”

Harrow threw on trousers, gloves, and a new scarlet coat as well. The young elf helped the warmly dressed prince clamber out onto the sloped roof of the Banther Lodge and up to the sharp ridge. Though the snow lay thick on the ground, the dark slate roof was snow-free after several sunny days. Despite the easy footing, Harrow nearly slipped twice in his big boots, but Runaan easily caught him both times without a word.

They sat straddling the ridge and gazed out over their tiny, snowy kingdom. Harrow decided not to ask about the blue stripes on the elfling’s nose. Runaan’s hair had grown longer, Harrow thought, or perhaps it only seemed that way since the elf wasn’t wearing a hood. A single turquoise bead glimmered on a thin braid tucked back into Runaan’s ponytail, giving him an air of glamor and adventure. Harrow wondered if Runaan’s life had been full of it since they’d last met. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Why not? I know where you live.”

Harrow leaned forward. “It’s been three years. That’s a long time.”

Runaan raised a puzzled white eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Yes. My father’s war just ended last month.” Harrow gestured toward Evenere with a mittened hand. “We won, by the way.”

The elfling turned his gaze to the snowy fields that surrounded the lodge. “Congratulations. Maybe we shouldn’t play down there tonight. They’ll wonder why your footprints are everywhere.”

“Mine and yours.”

Runaan’s grin was bright and cocky. “No.”

Harrow squared his shoulders, determined not to be useless. “What can we play on the roof then?” His question puffed out into the chill air.

“We always play elves and humans back home,” Runaan offered. “I’ve never played it with a real human before.”

Harrow squinted with mild suspicion. “We have that game, too. How’s it go when you play it?”

Runaan’s grin was back, cockier than ever. “Like you’d expect.”

With an eye trained by three years of military tactics and philosophy, Harrow studied the young elf’s slender, athletic legs, encased in only a thin layer of dark fabric despite the deep chill. His arms were bare, too, and he wore neither hat nor hood. When Harrow played elves and humans, it always ended with his side’s victory, too, but he didn’t think he could manage it against such a superior force. “I don’t think I want to play that right now.”

Runaan shrugged easily. “Well, what do you want to do, then?”

Harrow looked down the steep slope of the roof to the ground thirty feet below. “Let’s be explorers. You can climb all the peaks, and I’ll draw all the maps and carry our supplies.”

“That’s fun for you? Carrying supplies?” Runaan eyed Harrow, who nodded equably. “All right, then. And if we need human troops, you can tell me how many and what kind.”

Harrow snorted. “‘Human’ troops? As if I’d allow elven troops to guard me.”

The elfling’s slender horns tipped to the side. “They’d do a better job.”

“They would not.”

Runaan’s giggle was soft and sure. “I got onto your window sill, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you’re no elven soldier. And you don’t want to hurt me.” Harrow glanced down again. It was a long way to the snow, but more than two feet of it would cushion his fall. He’d probably survive. If he didn’t have a dagger in his back. “Do you?”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes gleamed in shadow for a long moment before he replied, “Of course not. Let’s go be explorers.”

The boys played under the moonlight for hours, exploring every peak of the roof with dedicated imagination. Harrow woke exhausted the next morning, yelled at his tutor during his history lesson, and ordered the four troops assigned to guard him to perform marching maneuvers in the snow for miles around. Eventually, his mother lost patience with him and sent him to his room straight after supper, where he promptly fell asleep, smirking on his pillow.

Harrow woke at moonrise to see Runaan crouching over him. “I told you it would work,” the Moonshadow whispered.

Harrow grinned up at him with mischief dancing in his eyes. “Let me get my boots.”

Runaan helped Harrow scamper down to the ground by guiding his feet just so along the lodge’s sills and eaves. Freed from the roof, they dashed off into the silent, snowy night, hiding their footprints in the trails that Harrow’s guards had stitched across the moonlit landscape. They played for hours, climbing, racing, and building snowmen. Runaan insisted his was a snowelf, though, and gave it stick horns. Harrow got a snowball in the face when he stole one of the stick horns, but he gave as good as he got, leaving Runaan blinking in shock through a layer of snow and sending Harrow into fits of giggles.

Runaan helped Harrow clamber back in through his window just before dawn. As Harrow shucked off his heavy scarlet coat, Runaan pulled a small snowball from his pocket and pelted the prince with it. It caught him in the chest, soaked his nightshirt, and sent him into protesting splutters. Runaan smirked and held a finger to his lips before whispering, “See you tomorrow night, human.”

Every night for ten nights, the Moonshadow elf woke the prince, and they’d run through the forest and build snow forts together. Runaan never accepted Harrow’s invitation to sneak around the Banther Lodge on the inside, though. So on the tenth night, Harrow tugged off his snowy coat and said, “Wait here. I have something for you.” Then he slipped out his door and closed it behind him.

Runaan perched on the window sill, ready to flee at the first sign of soldiers. But after a minute, Harrow returned with a carved wooden box and set it on the little table right below the window. The elfling’s eyes widened at the sight of the leaf on its curved lid. “Where did you get that?”

“It’s my grandmother’s. Just some old box. I’m not supposed to take it out of the game room, so please don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Runaan hesitated, as if Harrow asked a great and heavy boon of him. His eyes lifted from the box to Harrow’s face and studied him seriously. Finally he said, “I promise.”

Harrow grinned and lifted the lid, not letting Runaan peek inside, and pulled out a silvery old key. He held it up like a talisman and proclaimed, “I, Prince Harrow of Katolis, hereby give you, Runaan of the Moonshadow elves, permission to enter my room. And the rest of the lodge if you want to, but you don’t have to.” He held out the key.

Runaan accepted it slowly and turned it over in his fingers. “What does it unlock?”

Harrow shrugged. “No idea. There’s like, six dozen useless keys in here.”

Runaan stared at him, perplexed. “Humans are so weird.”

“Yes, we really are.”

They both broke into quiet giggles.

The next night, the moon was new. Harrow waited for Runaan to summon him out into the snow, but the elfling never came. When Harrow woke at dawn, disappointed, he looked out at his window sill and spotted something that hadn’t been there the night before.

A length of soft white braid bearing a turquoise bead lay atop last night’s freshly fallen snow.

***

Runaan trekked home alone through the snow and placed the key in his father’s expectant hand. “He gave it to me freely.”

His father lifted his chin in a rare gesture of pleased pride. “Well done, Runaan. What does it unlock?”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes glittered. “His trust.”

***

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

Runaan blinked down at Harrow from his perch on the prince’s window sill. “Should I have?”

“It’s considered polite.”

Runaan tipped his horns and considered the prince. The human’s hair was longer now, and set in braids. The shape of his face had changed a little, too. But his eager green eyes were still the same. “If you say so. Do you want to play?”

“It’s been a whole year, Runaan.”

“Yes. We have the same seasons in Xadia that you do.”

Harrow snorted. “Do you still have the key I gave you?”

Runaan pulled Harrow’s gift out from under his shirt, where he kept it on a slender leather cord. “Did you keep my braid?”

Harrow’s eyes flickered to a small keepsake box next to his oil lamp. “Yeah.”

Runaan’s turquoise eyes lingered on the box for a moment before returning to Harrow’s face. “Do you want to play?”

The intervening year vanished from the reflection in Harrow’s dark eyes so cohesively that Runaan saw it leave, saw the very moment the young prince let him back into his life. Harrow grinned, threw back his thick coverlet, and leaped out of bed. “Let me get my boots.”

The boys played atop the roof that night, exploring new territory—to Runaan, anyway, for he asked Harrow to name all the peaks and valleys the rooftop represented, and he even coaxed a hand-drawn map out of him. Harrow drew it by moonlight, and it vanished into Runaan’s tunic. The next morning, Harrow ordered his personal guard to march all over the grounds again. The next night, the pair dashed silently into the forest and played to their hearts’ content. Monstrous foes of bark and snow were vanquished, dragons slain, and princes and princesses rescued from danger.

Runaan shared some of his moonberry juice with Harrow when the prince’s stomach growled so loud that it scared away the mouse they were stalking, and when Harrow could barely keep his eyes open, he led the tired prince stumblingly back to the lodge. Harrow shucked off his snow-packed boots and his new, longer wool coat, and fell exhaustedly against his pillow.

Runaan hesitated a moment, then he slipped in through the window and tucked the prince under his covers. “See you tomorrow, Harrow.”

“You promise?” Harrow’s murmur was nearly incomprehensible.

“I promise.”

Runaan woke the prince every night for two weeks. And then he was gone, vanished across the snow again.

Once home and dry, he handed his father the map Harrow had drawn and recited a list of tactical details he’d gleaned from the young prince’s chatter.

His father studied the map for a long moment. “Well done, Runaan.”

The praise and accompanying rare smile did nothing to ease the cramp in Runaan’s belly. He’d kept the secret of Harrow’s Earthblood box for a whole year. Told himself a promise to a human was no promise at all, and that he’d pretend to learn it this year, to present his father with the information like a prize. But on the snowy journey home, Runaan couldn’t stop thinking about the human’s kindness, his earnest heart.

Harrow had kept Runaan’s braid. Hadn’t told anyone about it for a whole year. He’d passed Runaan’s simple test of trust. Shouldn’t Runaan show the same loyalty he’d hoped for from Harrow? Wasn’t that what friendship was based on? Wasn’t that worth something? What was his word truly worth, if he gave it knowing in his heart that it was worthless?

Runaan curled up to sleep on his first night home and swore he’d never tell his father about Harrow’s mysterious Earthblood box.

***

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The snow was scant that year. Runaan taught Harrow how to shoot a Moonshadow bow. Harrow could barely draw it at first, and he pretended that the problem lay with trying to shoot an elven bow with five-fingered hands. Runaan teasingly offered to cut his pinkies off for him.

Harrow finally convinced Runaan to sneak around the Banther Lodge’s rafters with him. They listened in on the grownups discussing late-night political matters. Harrow tried to twirl fly wings down into their steaming mugs from up above. Runaan was first to land one in the king’s mug.

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The extreme cold had splintered dozens of trees in the forest the week before, so Runaan convinced Harrow to play on the frozen river under the moonlight. They built a snow fort and pelted each other with snowballs. Runaan’s missiles found Harrow more often, but whenever Harrow hurled a snowball that Runaan knew would land, Runaan learned to scramble for safety. Then, just when Harrow thought he’d won, Runaan shifted into his full Moonshadow form, darted across the open ice unseen, and tackled Harrow into a snowbank.

Harrow beat Runaan in a midnight bread-eating contest. Easily. Runaan tried his best, but he just couldn’t get used to the baked goods’ strange texture. Harrow jokingly consoled him with a jelly tart, and Runaan ate the whole thing just to spite him.

“Do you want to play?”

“Let me get my boots.”

The boys’ voices had begun to change. In solidarity, they said very little as they roamed the forest. As the first night ended, Harrow darted across the river bridge toward the lodge. But Runaan paused reluctantly on the forest side, hoping to draw Harrow back for more play. Both unwilling to speak, they stared at each other impatiently until Runaan finally stalked across after him. On stormy nights, they passed their time in Harrow’s room. Runaan perched on the chest at the foot of the prince’s bed and practiced his balance. Harrow wrapped himself in his blankets and drank hot cocoa. Runaan told Harrow about the Moonstone Path. And Harrow kept that to himself.

The fifth year that Runaan sneaked onto Harrow’s window sill, everything changed.

***

“Do you want to play?”

“Runaan, we’re not children anymore.”

The lanky Moonshadow tilted his horns in confusion. “What do you want to do, then?”

Harrow looked up at him from his pillow. He hadn’t done more than open his eyes at the sound of Runaan’s voice. “Let’s just talk. You want to come in? I have something exciting to tell you!”

Runaan automatically scanned the interior for threats and found none. He knew from previous years that the king and queen slept on the other side of the lodge, and that the rooms nearest to Harrow’s were for servants or daytime activities, but after years of his father’s lessons, the young Moonshadow took little for granted. He slipped a booted foot over the sill and entered the prince’s bedchamber, feeling out of place.

“Sit,” Harrow invited as he sat up himself, indicating the foot of his bed. “But close the shutters. Not all of us dance in the freezing moonlight all night long.”

“I don’t dance in the moonlight.” Runaan pulled the shutters across the window. He didn’t like the trapped feeling the action gave him, but he trusted Harrow. So he sat cross-legged on the foot of the prince’s broad, fluffy bed and rested his hands in his lap.

“You did that one time,” Harrow said with a chuckle. “Hands behind your back, parading in a circle. What did you call it? A rune henge procession?”

“Moonhenge progression,” Runaan corrected. “And I only showed you because you wanted to see what Moonshadow dancing looked like.”

“Just for comparison purposes. It’s a lot like the rondel I had to learn for last High Solstice. Anyway. I wanted to tell you that I’ve started attending university.”

Runaan’s ears drooped. “Does that mean you won’t come to the lodge anymore?”

Harrow only chuckled. “Of course it doesn’t. You always visit me during Low Solstice anyway. My family is always at the Banther Lodge at this time of year. That won’t change. But that’s not the thing I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh. What is it, then?”

“I met someone.”

The glee in Harrow’s voice made Runaan curious. “A girl?”

“No, a boy.”

Runaan’s white brows rose. “Wait, you like boys, too?”

Harrow blinked. “What? No, he’s just really interesting. Like you!” Harrow’s warm green eyes twinkled with excitement. “His name is Viren, and he’s a stable boy at the university. I met him when he started filling in for my usual horse groom. Silly man broke his ankle falling down stairs. Who does that?”

Runaan had a suspicion about what had really happened—humans would do almost anything to get closer to power—but he kept it to himself.

“And he’s so bright and clever,” Harrow rambled on, barely pausing for breath. “If he could afford the university, I know he’d be one of its best students. I’m actually thinking of sponsoring him next semester so he can attend classes with me. I’ve already arranged for him to have the most exclusive private tutor in Katolis. Whenever Viren shows—”

“Why are you telling me this?” Runaan interrupted. The slow swirl of emotions that had begun as Harrow began talking had whirled faster and harder until he had to say something. He’d spent years befriending this silly young prince. Years planning what to do with him every winter, crafting the illusion of a perfect, harmless elven friend. Until this year. This winter. His father had given him new orders—the final step that made sense of all these years of work. Runaan had soberly agreed to his mission, though deep down, he’d been troubled and uncertain. And now, Harrow seemed to have no interest in their shared history. Runaan’s chest cramped with hurt.

That’ll make this easier. I think I can do it after all. His fingers brushed the dagger he’d sheathed inside the top cuff of his boot.

“I’m getting to that,” Harrow assured him, waving his hands animatedly. “Like I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, Viren likes to show me what he’s learning from his tutor.”

Runaan’s brows drew together. “I thought you said he’s a stable boy, not a student.”

“Would you listen?” Harrow huffed impatiently and shot Runaan a short glare. “He’s not a student at the university. He’s studying independently. For now. And see—this is why he reminds me of you—he’s learning to do magic!”

Runaan froze, his spine tingling with sudden sharp stabs. “That’s impossible.”

“Hah, I knew you’d say that!” Harrow showed no remorse or concern for his horrific statement. The only expression that danced in his eyes was excitement. “Humans can do magic too, Runaan! Dark magic is our birthright, it’s our heritage, and Viren’s showing me all kinds of ways to use it. It’s amazing, it’s—it’s—”

“It’s disgusting.” Runaan’s voice was cold. His fingers slipped inside his boot cuff.

Harrow gave him an exasperated look. “It’s a few grasshoppers. No one’s going to miss them.”

Runaan’s stomach clenched and roiled. All these years, I kept carefully away from the subject of dark magic. I didn’t want to push him away. And now, he knows nothing. Nothing at all! Runaan’s first fear raised its ugly head again, sending a cold spike through his guts. What if humans chop me up for spell parts, one piece at a time? What if I die screaming under the hands of someone who doesn’t see me as anything more than a walking collection of supplies? Humans really are monsters after all.

“You’re upset,” Harrow added.

Runaan realized he hadn’t replied in far too long.

I am. I am very upset.

Runaan’s mind fled back to the moment his father pressed a new dagger into his hands, its green sheath decorated with a coiling serpent symbol. “What’s this for?” Runaan had asked.

“It’s time you knew the true extent of your mission, Runaan.” His father folded his hands behind his back and stared down at him, gray eyes sharp. “You’ve befriended the prince. You’ve brought years’ worth of useful details back to us. But there is a larger picture here. The human kingdoms are barbarous, and if they ever make peace and unite, they will turn their eyes to Xadia. We are kept safe when they are in turmoil. Assassinating the old King of Katolis provided three years’ worth of protection for Xadia. Your mission has been to encourage a more permanent state of war. The assassination of the Crown Prince of Katolis at the hands of Del Bar has been calculated to provide Xadia with the longest respite from human attention.”

Runaan’s fingers stilled around the dagger’s handle. The image of Harrow smiling at him in the snowy night flickered across his memory. “What are you saying, Father?”

“I’m saying, you are to return with the terrible news that Prince Harrow has perished. With this dagger in his heart.”

Runaan couldn’t lift his eyes from the weapon in his hands. Its pull was too strong. “But… he’s my friend.”

“And you are my son. You’re fifteen now. Next year you will take your place among the Moonshadow assassin recruits, Runaan. It will give you an edge on the others if you have already taken. The harder blade gets drawn more often from its sheath.”

Unshed tears edged Runaan’s turquoise eyes. I don’t want to kill Harrow. Please don’t make me.

But what had come out of his mouth was the ever-obedient “Yes, Father.”

Sitting on the end of Harrow’s bed, Runaan could almost feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. His fingers slid further around the Del Bar dagger’s handle.

“Runaan? Come on, talk to me.” Harrow leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Runaan’s eyes. “I only paid Viren any attention because I already knew you. You told me so many stories about Xadia and its magic. You made me want to see your homeland. It’s only natural that I’d want to learn more about magic—”

“There’s nothing natural about it!” Runaan snapped. “You know nothing, Harrow, and your ignorance is going to ruin lives. Starting with your own. Stay away from Viren. And stay away from me.” Runaan spun to his feet, feeling the façade over his true feelings splinter. All the hurt, fear, and guilt he’d been soothing himself to sleep with for years burst out in one single, controlled action.

The Del Bar dagger embedded itself in Harrow’s headboard, a mere inch from the prince’s ear.

Harrow’s eyes went as wide as Runaan had ever seen them. To his credit, the prince sat very still and didn’t even flinch. And though the prince’s body had halted, his mind was clearly racing, because the first thing he said, when he finally did speak, was, “Did you kill my grandfather?”

Runaan’s eyes tightened. “I was seven. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Harrow’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your parents, then. You lied to me about them the day we met. They weren’t tinkers. They’re assassins. Like you. My grandfather died the night after I met you. That’s why you were here that day.”

Runaan bunched his jaw. He hadn’t known what his father’s mission had been that day. He’d felt terrible for months afterward. But Harrow was in no mood to hear about Runaan’s childish ignorance or regrets now. “I’m not an assassin.”

With the towering arrogance that only a human prince could muster, Harrow slid his eyes ever so slowly to the side until he stared directly at the handle of Runaan’s Del Bar dagger. Then he flicked his dark gaze back to Runaan’s turquoise eyes. “Really.”

Frozen by his own uncertainty in his flight toward the freedom of the shuttered window, Runaan had never felt so overexposed in his life. His past and his present collided and shattered, and Harrow could see far too much of his soul. Secrets he barely understood himself had just come spilling out of him.

He had no idea what to do, and all he could think was, Father will kill me for this.

“I’m confused,” Harrow said coolly. “Are you storming out or trying to kill me? Because you can’t seem to decide. Maybe you’re not an assassin after all. You don’t seem to understand how it works.”

“I… I just…”

Fragments continued to fall from the shattered armor around Runaan’s heart. He’d known Harrow for more than half his life, and though trust came slowly to Moonshadows, Runaan had absolutely trusted this human. Had trusted, but no longer.

No one had told him how much the breaking of trust would hurt. It stabbed deep and coiled through him like a poison, leaving green and black afterimages against his vision. It stole his breath and froze his guts. Its insidious black hand squeezed his throat from the inside, making him heave for air, forcing him to stare into Harrow’s eyes.

But the prince wasn’t a hardened liar. His face softened, and he leaned forward. “Runaan, you just don’t understand. You have magic. You’ve had it every day of your life. I’ll never know what that’s like. But Viren does. And he just wants to learn—”

“To kill. He wants to learn to kill, Harrow.” Runaan flung an open hand between them, desperate to make the prince see, to make him understand—

Harrow sighed slowly. He kept his eyes on Runaan’s, but he tipped his head and once again indicated the dagger Runaan had just hurled at him.

To learn to kill.

Runaan’s argument ground to a halt. He couldn’t drag his gaze from that dagger, couldn’t think of a single thing to say, except “I’m not like him.”

Harrow’s voice was quiet. “Everything you accuse him of, you do yourself, Runaan.”

Runaan would have to tell him. He’d have to tell him, and Harrow wouldn’t believe him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Do you know the secret to dark magic, Harrow?” he began.

But Harrow cut him off. “Yes. It’s a shortcut. And literally anyone can use it. We don’t need to be born an elf, all special and blessed, like you.”

Harrow’s innate pride had picked exactly the wrong moment to raise its head, and Runaan’s temper snapped. “You utter fool, elves are no different than grasshoppers in the eyes of dark magic!” Runaan growled.

“That doesn’t even make any—listen to me.” Harrow scooted forward to the edge of his bed and gave Runaan a direct look. “Viren would never hurt any elf, no matter what. I guarantee it. So quit being worried over something that’s never going to happen. He’s pro-Katolis. That’s not the same thing as being anti-Xadia.”

Yes it is. The final shards of Runaan’s heart crumbled and fell. He couldn’t stand to be in the room with this stubborn prince for another breath. “I’ll leave you to your new friend’s care, then.” He ripped open the shutters and leaped onto the sill, but he pivoted back as the icy winter air struck him.

His braid lay in Harrow’s keepsake box. White Moonshadow hair with a turquoise bead. The Del Bar dagger lay buried deep into Harrow’s headboard. And Harrow, still breathing, able to explain the true significance of both. If Runaan let Harrow live, not only could the prince blame the Moonshadow for an assassination attempt, but with dark magic, he could make sure that Runaan was personally tracked down and killed for it.

This is why Father didn’t tell me my real mission until just before I left. He knows how soft I am. That if I messed up, the only way to set things right would be to kill Harrow anyway.

Harrow tensed on the edge of his bed. By the look in his eyes, the same idea had occurred to him, too. Runaan met his eyes guardedly. He glanced at the Del Bar dagger, then back at Harrow.

Runaan could reach it first.

Harrow knew it, too.

“Is that what you want?” Harrow asked softly. His fingers knotted in the sheet, and his toes curled from against the icy draft that poured in the window. “Runaan, do you really want to kill me?”

The soft hurt in Harrow’s voice nearly shredded Runaan’s already broken heart. “No,” he choked out. “No, I don’t.”

Harrow’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned his elbows onto his knees. His braids fell forward and obscured his expression. “Then here’s what we’ll do. You’ll go, and I’ll let you. I don’t think I can ask you to trust me anymore—your Moonshadow sensibilities wouldn’t let you, would they? But stay nearby. Somewhere safe. And watch me. We’re the lost boys remember? Lost together.”

Runaan stared down into the prince’s face for a long moment, caught in the window, between two worlds. One world where he trusted his unique childhood friend. Where they could run off and play in the moonlit forest every winter for a lifetime, never growing up, never growing apart. And another world where his father had been right all along.

Humans are liars.

Runaan turned his eyes to the snowscape that spread before him under a layer of broken clouds. The pattern of moon and shadow appeared chaotic from where he perched, but if only he were perched a little higher up, he’d be able to see the pattern spread across the land.

Never trust what you see. Trust what you feel. Trust the Moon. Not the human.

“Goodbye, Harrow.” Runaan leaned forward, letting gravity pull him off the sill and onto the roof.

“Will I ever see you again, Runaan?”

Runaan hesitated. He turned his head partway back toward Harrow and said, “You’d better hope not. I am my father’s son.”

From a sturdy branch in a towering cedar tree just within hearing distance of the lodge, Runaan watched as morning brought a bustle of activity outside. Troops formed up. Harrow stalked outside and mounted his horse, outfitted in light armor. He stood in his stirrups and addressed his father’s men. “Last night, an assassin attempted to take my life, right here on these grounds.”

The troops murmured angrily.

Runaan tensed.

Harrow produced the dagger. “Del Bar may or may not have actually sent an assassin after me. But someone wants us to think they did.”

Runaan’s eyes went hard. His fingers dug into the branch he held for balance.

“Our enemies are indeed under our very noses. We must all stay vigilant. I want this man found. He fled northwest. If we’re fast enough, we can catch him and ask him who sent him.”

The mounted troops thundered off after Prince Harrow, leaving Runaan a clear escape toward Xadia.

Runaan stared after Harrow for a long time. He squared his shoulders and took the eastern path without a backward look.

***

Runaan had no prize to give his father when he arrived home. “You have your war,” he said as he stalked past the older elf.

His father paused in the doorway and observed Runaan’s angry packing. “Ready for another mission so soon?” he asked wryly.

Runaan whirled, turquoise eyes blazing, and lifted his chin. “I’m joining the academy. Not next year. Now.”

Runaan’s father held his gaze for a very long time, sieving his very soul. But Runaan’s soul held no fear, nor guilt. Only anger. And he let it show. His eyes sparked, his chest heaved. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

Infuriatingly, his father let one corner of his mouth pull into a smile. “Well done, Runaan.”

***

When Harrow entered his chamber, he brought the smells of high summer with him. Corn and apricots, tall grass, fresh cool streams. Yet he moved like a man twice his age, as if his body was gripped with an icy chill colder than the winter that was supposed to be swirling outside. The winter that still existed across the border in Xadia. He never noticed Runaan lurking in the shadows atop his wardrobe.

Runaan had spent years bracing for a sudden attack from Viren’s magic, or Harrow’s troops, following the magic Runaan had foolishly left with Harrow in the form of his childhood braid. But seeing Harrow now, he began to question his fears. Some quiet instinct deep in Runaan’s heart, under the thrumming rage and the decade-old pain, told him to wait. To watch.

Harrow’s steps were slow as he shed his formal coat and dropped it carelessly across a trunk near the wardrobe. They slowed further as he turned toward the bed on the dais.

Then they stopped, just shy of the first step. The King of Katolis covered his face in his hands, his shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring.

Runaan pivoted in a crouch, ready to raise his bow, his arrow nocked but not drawn. He knew what Harrow had done. Knew what it had cost. Runaan had come anyway.

“You were right, Sarai,” Harrow murmured into his hands. “I did want to build a better world. But this wasn’t the way.” He rubbed his cheeks as if massaging life back into his face and addressed the empty bed. “It was too easy. And far too hard. I thought the price of saving two kingdoms was cheap. But it was way too high. If I had known…” A groan of deepest anguish filled him and radiated into the silent room as if he were made of regret given form. “If I had only known…”

Before his childhood friend could lose himself in grief, Runaan leaped lightly from the top of the wardrobe and stalked closer, his arrow half-drawn. The message he’d come to deliver didn’t require words, but Harrow clearly hadn’t learned anything since they’d met last. And look what it’s done to you. “You’re missing her point, Harrow.”

Harrow spun to face Runaan with wide eyes, drawing a dagger from his belt. “R-Runaan?” The dagger’s gleaming tip trembled in the moonlight.

The assassin paused and let himself be seen. Taller than Harrow, whip-thin, and dressed for the shadows, Runaan was a deadly breath on the wind: a brief warmth on the skin, here then gone, leaving nothing but cold death in his wake. “Your queen. She was trying to tell you something important. You didn’t listen.”

Harrow’s eyes were still wide with shock at Runaan’s sudden appearance. His dagger shivered harder. “Are-are you here to kill me?”

Runaan’s face was hard. “Yes.”

Harrow’s eyes lowered to Runaan’s bow, still pointed at the floor. He gulped and looked up into Runaan’s eyes again. “I understand.” He lowered his dagger and stood tall, lifting his chin. Accepting his fate.

A dirty glee slicked across Runaan’s rage, and he tipped his horns mockingly. “You acknowledge your arrogance?” he murmured.

Harrow’s accepting pose bowed back into defensiveness. “My—? No. I acknowledge that I willingly invaded Xadia to save a hundred thousand lives from an agonizing and drawn-out death. I acknowledge that my military solution carried a secondary risk: you.”

“You knew I’d come?”

Harrow took a deep breath. “Not you specifically. But Xadia is well defended. And I have first-hand knowledge of the skills of Moonshadow assassins. Your kind killed my grandfather to spark a war. You came to kill me to spark another.”

Runaan pointedly glanced toward a large map clearly marked with Katolis’s recently expanded borders. “You started that war yourself.”

“I made a military feint to let you walk free. Pardon my softness, assassin. It so happened that I did find traitors among my men. My war was justified. Yours never has been.” Harrow’s brows lowered. “Is that why you’ve come? To start another war for your precious political schemes?”

Runaan hesitated so long before replying that Harrow actually took a step back from the angry elf. “I’m here for me, Harrow,” Runaan finally said. “I’m here because you didn’t listen. To me, or to your wife. I warned you about Viren. You didn’t believe me. And you’ve learned nothing.”

“It was one monster, Runaan. For a hundred thousand lives. You’d have done the same. You’re standing right there because you’ve already decided to do the same. Haven’t you?”

The accusation caught Runaan by surprise. “That’s not what—”

Harrow went on the attack, eyes flaring with pain and hurt. “Isn’t it? How dare you come into my life, at the lowest moment I have ever suffered, and tell me to my face that I deserved this, while you stand there ready to make the same ‘mistake’ I did? How dare you.”

Runaan’s fingers slipped on his bowstring, and he took a step back at the harsh truth in Harrow’s words. He’d become an assassin. His father’s son. He’d killed for Xadia, repeatedly. But Xadia hadn’t sent him after Harrow. He’d come of his own accord. Out of fury. Out of guilt. “You don’t know what you’ve done, Harrow. What you’ve started. Your arrogance reaches much further than you think.”

Harrow’s eyes narrowed, eager for any emotion that wasn’t sorrow. He waved an angry hand, inviting Runaan to explain, if he could. “And how is that, exactly?”

Upset on too many levels to resist, Runaan obliged. “I never thought I’d hear of you again, once I walked away from you that night. But I was wrong. You had the towering presumptuousness to assume that you could strut across the border and take what you wanted. That you could commit murder on foreign soil and simply walk away. But your actions have consequences, Harrow! The King of the Dragons is furious. He’s forming the Dragon Guard to defend against further foolishness like yours. My sister—” Runaan bit off the rest of his words.

At that very moment, his sister, Cloda, and her husband were preparing to say goodbye to their little daughter, Rayla. They’d answered the call to serve the King of the Dragons as elite members of his newly formed Dragon Guard.

The only way to quit the Dragon Guard was to die. And with the way the slumbering war with the humans had suddenly rumbled to life again, Runaan and Cloda both knew how her term of service would end.

Cloda knew all about Runaan’s connection to Harrow. Her Moonshadow sensibilities had forced her to choose between salvaging her brother’s honor and raising her daughter. And she’d chosen Runaan. Runaan and Xadia.

Runaan owed her. And he owed Rayla. In fact, he’d never stop owing Rayla. His soft heart—soft head, more like—had led to disaster within his own family and torn his sister from her only child. What else could he do but promise Cloda that he’d look after her daughter while she looked after his honor?

What else could he do?

Runaan’s face was a mask of pain, but he drew his brows down. Justice will not be denied.

“Your sister,” Harrow pressed. “My wife. Your Dragon King. My people. You. Me. We all pay prices, Runaan. One way or another.”

Runaan lifted his arrow from the bow and swiped it through the air in a negative gesture. “But not like this, Harrow! Never like this.”

Harrow folded his arms and glared at Runaan accusingly. “Says the assassin who’s come to kill me for my crimes against Xadia.”

Runaan stalked closer in a rush of angry shoulders and hot breath. “I’m not here for Xadia. I’m here for me. This is my fault. You’re my fault. Everything you did after I let you live… That’s on me. And I’m here to make things right.”

“‘Make things right’?” Harrow shoved himself into the inch of space that separated his chest from Runaan’s. His dark green eyes stabbed up into the assassin’s bright blue ones. “Make things right? Don’t stand there and tell me that marrying Sarai was wrong. That raising her son alongside our own was wrong. That leading my people toward a more equal future than the one my father envisioned is wrong. That wanting everyone across two kingdoms to live happily and healthily is wrong. Don’t you dare judge my life from your high and mighty position as a blessed elf, gifted at birth with powers none of my people will ever have.

“You want to talk about arrogance, Runaan? Let’s talk about how your father killed my grandfather. Let’s talk about how he sent you to kill me. Let’s talk about how you said yes to that. Let’s talk about how I kept your secret from that day forward. How I kept all your secrets, including the Moonstone Path. Because I’m not trying to go to war with Xadia. I’m not trying to invade you and take what I want. And let’s talk about how, the next time I finally see you, you don’t acknowledge that I’ve never given you away, not once. No, you come in here trying to make up for what you see as weakness. You come in here telling yourself that you’ll finally be the good son your father always wanted once you make up for your failure all those years ago and kill me!” Harrow slapped his hands against his own chest and held them open wide, inviting Runaan’s death blow.

But Runaan only stared at him. His bow lowered, and his mouth slowly fell open. “You have children?”

Harrow threw his dagger across the floor and lunged, shoving Runaan back with both hands.

Runaan took the blow and skidded smoothly to a stop several feet away. His eyes flickered across Harrow as if seeing him for the first time. “Harrow—”

“You heard me, you disgraceful excuse for an elf. You utter embarrassment. You unworthy son. Kill me!” Harrow dug his fingers into Runaan’s tunic and slammed him back against the wardrobe.

Runaan dropped his arrow and clasped Harrow’s wrist, not to remove, but to contain. “Harrow. Stop.”

But Harrow didn’t seem to hear him. He slammed Runaan against the wardrobe again, though more softly. His face crumpled, his hands knotted in Runaan’s tunic, and under his breath Runaan heard him muttering over and over, “Kill me, just kill me.”

Harrow’s shoulders knotted, and his grief overcame his ability to stand. His knees gave out, and he sank toward the floor. Runaan smoothly leaned his bow against the wardrobe and dropped with him, hands on his shoulders, guiding him down, until they knelt together on the stone tiles. The king’s grief radiated against Runaan like a dark sun, and the thick weight of it shredded Runaan’s single-minded rage.

Harrow’s head dipped forward, shaking with sobs, and rested against Runaan’s chest. “She’s gone, she’s… I miss her so much.”

Runaan sat back onto his heels and rested his arm across Harrow’s shoulders, feeling the heavy tremors of the king’s utter grief. How easy it would be to kill him now. How easy to destroy him, too—to tell him he deserved this. But Runaan only murmured, “I’m sorry, Harrow. I’m so sorry.”

The assassin who’d come to kill the king held him instead as he wept for the death of his queen. When Harrow’s sobs finally subsided, Runaan handed him a soft cloth, and Harrow wiped his eyes and blew his nose. They knelt facing each other, full of too much emotion and too few words.

Uncharacteristically, Runaan spoke first. “You’re right. And Sarai was right. It’s not my place to come here and take your life. So I won’t. You… you have children.” Rayla’s face blossomed in his vision, smiling up at him for approval, her tiny, dark horns nudging their way out of her short white hair, her lavender eyes alight. “And I have—my own responsibilities.”

Harrow raised his eyebrows, too tired to fight anymore. “You found someone, then.”

Runaan dipped his horns to the side. “I have someone to take care of.”

Harrow’s gaze shifted toward the door to his chambers. “So do I. I’ll try to do better. They deserve that from me. For Sarai’s sake.”

“All your people deserve that from you. Come, you need to rest.” Runaan flexed to his feet. He could have taken up his bow, or simply struck out with his hands. But he did neither, offering an empty hand to Harrow instead.

After a moment, the king took it and let the assassin pull him up. Runaan rested a hand on Harrow’s shoulder and guided him up to the dais. He drew back the embroidered blankets on the bed and tucked Harrow in, just as he had done once when they were children. His shadow fell over the grieving king, and Harrow rolled onto his side and hugged Sarai’s pillow.

“Thank you, Runaan,” Harrow mumbled, as the exhaustion of the bereaved began to claim him. “For your mercy.”

Runaan studied Harrow, curled against the hurts of the day, exhausted by the toll of his own choices. He’d known Harrow well, once. Should have trusted him more than he had. Though he wasn’t sure that letting the king live with this crushing grief counted as mercy, he replied, “I’ve owed you a debt for years. Today I consider it repaid.” After a breath, Runaan laid a hand on Harrow’s shoulder. “Don’t make me ask you about Viren again.”

“Viren?” Harrow’s voice was cloudy with sleep.

Runaan’s voice was a breath of shadowy judgement. “Sarai’s death is his fault.”

Harrow’s eyes slid shut, and he let out a tired breath. “Sarai’s death is Thunder’s fault.”

Runaan’s fingers twitched. Now was no time to borrow trouble. He’d have enough to explain when he got home as it was. He’d traveled all this way, unsanctioned and alone, only to hesitate? Runaan’s father would have had a viscerally strong opinion on that kind of behavior if he were still alive to see it. Although, to Runaan, his father’s death was only an insidious illusion. Runaan could hear every word the old assassin would say anyway.

Everything’s a test.

“Goodbye, Harrow.”

Runaan’s shoulders tensed. Guilt, his oldest friend, dogged his steps as he fetched his bow, retrieved his lost arrow, and vanished into the shadows.

***

Night fell as the six Moonshadow assassins darted through the forest. The storm would be upon them well before dawn, and Katolis Castle was still hours away. Runaan gestured for a break. It would be their last dry one before the rain fell.

Beneath a spreading oak tree, Rayla sauntered over to Runaan, still bouncing with energy and excitement, and grinned up at him. “How am I doing, Team Leader?”

Runaan nodded curtly, though he kept his eyes soft. “You’re doing very well. The real test will come later.”

Her violet eyes sparkled with adoration, just as they always had. Runaan would miss that innocent gleam after tonight. He took a deep breath and fixed it in his mind.

His young charge noticed. “Runaan?”

“Yes, Rayla.”

“You’re staring a bit. Is everything all right?”

No. “All according to plan. How do you feel?”

Rayla straightened her shoulders and tucked her hands behind her back. “I’m ready, Runaan. You’ve only been training me for this all my life.”

He hid his thoughts behind a tolerant smile. “You’re fifteen, Rayla.”

Rayla shot him a sassy look and tucked her beaded braid behind her right ear. “Yeah, I am. That’s plenty old enough.”

Doubts jostled inside Runaan’s chest. Rayla had demanded a position on his team in order to restore her family’s honor after reports circulated that her parents had fled Avizandum’s lair instead of staying to defend him, the Dragon Queen, and the egg of the Dragon Prince. Her insistence gave Runaan flashbacks to when Cloda had insisted on joining the Dragon Guard after Runaan’s failure to kill Harrow when he was only fifteen. The cycle is complete. And yet it’s my own failure that put everything in motion.

Runaan steadied his expression. “Fifteen, Rayla. Do you know what I was doing when I was fifteen?”

Rayla rolled her eyes and gestured broadly. “Oh, I don’t know, probably killing every traitor you passed on your way to market?”

Runaan gave her a lightly reprimanding look despite his inner amusement. Despite the weight in his heart. I was getting my heart broken by a friend who turned to the darkness.

“No, wait, I know,” Rayla continued, wagging a finger at him with broad exaggeration. “You were slaying an evil dragon between running epic marathons around Xadia!”

“Hardly.” I was learning why an assassin needs to be hard.

Her sass was on a roll, though. “Or, wait, I bet it’s this: you were being wined and dined by the King of the Dragons himself because he wanted you to be his own personal bodyguard!”

He crossed his arms and toughened his expression to sternness. “Rayla. Nobody likes a loud assassin.” I was learning the lesson I needed, if not the one my father was trying to teach me.

Rayla sighed and let her sass run out. “Yes, Runaan.”

He settled a hand on her shoulder. “And remember.”

“Yes, Runaan?” Rayla used her attentive-pupil voice.

“Moonberry surprise when we get home.”

Her soft white brows shot up. “But it’s not even close to my birthday.”

I’ll tell myself that it will make up for that gleam I’ll have stolen from your eyes. Maybe I’ll even believe it for a breath or two. “You’ll have earned it. Look at me, cooking twice in one year.” He let a smile cross his lips. “We shouldn’t dally. You lead this time.” With another silent gesture, he gathered everyone’s attention and directed them onward. With pleased surprise, Rayla took point.

She didn’t slow down even when the downpour began.

***

“You will wait here, quietly.” Runaan pointed imperiously to the rock, his turquoise eyes sparking. Rayla wouldn’t dare challenge him now, would she? Please, Rayla. Don’t.

Rayla reluctantly plopped onto the rock, and Runaan felt his shoulders unclench. His right hand went slack with relief, hidden where she couldn’t see it. She’s hidden, too. Away from us, away from camp.

But he knew her stubborn streak well. She wouldn’t stay unless he shamed her into it. Such a sentimental child—she’d found the key Harrow had given him long ago and decided it was a delightfully quirky human treasure, hanging it from her window at home. Runaan hardened his heart and told himself it was just a trinket, after all.

Focus. Runaan couldn’t have Rayla lurking around camp if the humans returned. And he couldn’t have her following him, either. All the scenarios he’d been running in his head for the past hour had ended in disaster. There was no escaping that, now. It was all a matter of degrees, a matter of price. And of how many would pay it.

Runaan would do whatever it took to ensure that Rayla didn’t pay it, including paying it for her. Rayla needed this redemption as much as he did, but if he was going to keep her alive, he had to choose for her, between death and dishonor. I never should have brought her with me.

His left hand tightened harder, and he felt his knuckles pop. “If we’re not back by sunrise…” He turned toward the castle, tightened his right hand back into a fist, and stabbed Rayla with the words that he knew would hurt the most. “Go home.”

His ear just caught the soft sound of her hurt sigh. He kept walking until he was out of sight.

Then he began to run.

The castle loomed in the high distance, but Runaan knew the way. Along the river, lurking across the underside of the bridge, around the base of the wall, up the side of an isolated outer tower. Then along the roofs toward the central tower where Harrow’s chamber lay.

Everyone expected the assassins to wait for the cover of darkness. Everyone expected a team of six.

Runaan had never been one to measure up to others’ expectations, for good or ill. He was going to finish what he’d started. Alone.

As he eased his way around the edges of the castle guards’ eyes, he tried to keep his thoughts on the moment, but it was impossible. The roots of this mission ran deep.

The battle against the humans on Winter’s Turn had been a disaster of epic proportions. In the aftermath—the devastating reality of the Dragon King’s demise, and the dawn of a bleak, warlike future that could have been prevented by Runaan’s dagger striking true all those years ago—Runaan had utterly fallen apart, been unable to eat for days. Rayla had been so worried she’d tried to drag him to a healer.

For her kindness, he’d snapped at her.

Things had gone downhill from there. Rayla was beside herself with horror at what her parents had done, and it manifested in a kaleidoscope of emotions that even Runaan couldn’t predict. Runaan’s guilt hadn’t let Rayla fix anything, had driven her to the most extreme solution of them all: demanding to join his assassin team in order to extract justice from Katolis. That same guilt which had held her comforting words at bay had clouded Runaan’s judgment—he’d allowed Rayla to join up.

At any given moment during the mission, Runaan could easily have broken down into hopeless sobs. Everything was coming together—or was it coming apart?—too hard, too dark, too fast. He couldn’t stop it. He could only do his best to complete the mission at hand and keep Rayla safe. He’d never taken a mission so knotted with personal attachment before. It didn’t suit. Runaan functioned much better detached and he knew it. If he kept up this level of inner turmoil, someone was going to get killed.

Possibly everyone. And that will be on me, too.

At least I can only fail everyone once.

Runaan slipped around the crenellated crown of Harrow’s tower and timed his descent to the balcony with the turning of the guards’ heads as they scanned out across the castle courtyard for enemies. With practiced ease, Runaan dropped lightly to the smooth stones next to the balcony railing and slipped in through the open doors. He stepped to the side, put his back against the wall, and let his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior.

Memories of the last time he’d stood in this room flooded his mind, and his resolve betrayed him once again. Harrow had cried. And Runaan had let him live. Why can’t I hate you, Harrow? How much easier it would be if I could.

Harrow sat at his desk across the broad chamber. He pressed a heavy seal against a spill of red wax, stamping a rolled letter with his royal mark. His expression was soft, sad, contemplative. As if he bore the burdens of generations on his shoulders and could press them into that blood-red wax with the weight of his royal seal. Beside him, his sword, blade bare and bright in the last golden rays of a dying afternoon, rested its handle against the table’s edge, while its point gleamed deadly sharp against the tile floor.

A bright green bird of prey perched nearby on an elevated stand. It saw Runaan first and chirruped a soft call. Harrow immediately rose and took up the long, broad-bladed sword, aiming its deadly point toward Runaan’s lurking spot.

“It’s you, isn’t it, Runaan? They finally sent you properly.”

Runaan didn’t answer. Didn’t step forward. He should have shot Harrow by now. He should have killed this faithless human three times over. He’d learned to be hard enough for anything in the past nine years. He’d hardened up over Cloda. His hard heart had given in to Rayla’s demands, too. But the old softness of his youth danced before his eyes. His friend, exploring the roof of the Banther Lodge under a waning moon, grinning mischievously from a snow fort, lurking in the rafters at Runaan’s side.

He could be hard for anything. Anything except this.

Harrow’s sword point lowered. “It’s all right. I understand. You’ve been trying to kill me since we first met, haven’t you? It’s high time I let you finish the job.”

Runaan took one step forward, and the failing light of day backlit his horns. He fitted an arrow on his bowstring and drew it back smoothly. He had drawn that bow a thousand times. But even though his aim was true, his fingers would not loose the missile. One breath, then another, and still he hesitated. “Tell me why. Why you never listened to me.” He gritted his teeth so Harrow wouldn’t hear the tremble in his voice.

Harrow grounded the point of his sword on the tile. “Yours was never the only voice striving for my ear, Runaan.”

Runaan’s eyes slitted. “Is that what you thought I wanted? Your favor? The ear of the king, for what? For the sake of peace?”

Harrow’s face was drawn. His shoulders slumped. “You would have had it, if you’d been honest with me.”

The condemned king’s words struck hard, and Runaan lowered his bow with wide, outraged eyes. “I put my life in your hands every winter.”

“You were grooming me to trust you so you could kill me and start a war, Runaan. That’s not being honest. You of all people should know that.”

Runaan bit back his protests. If he’d truly wanted Harrow to understand, he’d have spoken them years ago. But Runaan’s father had wrapped him in decades of schemes, and Runaan could only cut himself free of the cords he could see. His father’s machinations ran deep.

Just as Viren’s did in Harrow.

Harrow misinterpreted Runaan’s silence and offered an unexpected statement. “You were right, though. All along. I should have listened to you.”

“Your words won’t stop me. They’re about twenty years too late.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to.”

Runaan took a steadying breath and studied Harrow. “This changes nothing. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Harrow reached into a pocket and pulled out a small token, offering it slowly. “I thought it might be you, so…”

Runaan’s eyes dropped to Harrow’s palm and flickered wide.

His boyhood braid draped softly over the king’s hand, its turquoise bead still intact.

Something broke—shattered—in Runaan’s chest. Hot magma began to ooze out through his ribs, making it hard to breathe. “You kept it. All these years. You kept it from him.”

“Of course. I want you to take it back. They can’t find it on my body after— Afterward. Please. It’s yours, anyway. I’m glad it’s you, Runaan. You’re the only one who would understand.” Harrow stretched his hand a little further toward the assassin, offering the soft token.

Runaan’s heart hammered against his ribs. It’s a trick, it’s a trick.

“It’s not a trick,” Harrow said, as if he could read Runaan’s mind. “If you won’t take it back after everything I’ve done, I understand. But for your own safety, destroy it. You know what he’ll do with it if he finds it.”

The utter absurdity of the moment broke over Runaan like a sundering wave. He’d never felt so evil in all his life, nocking an arrow to kill a man who offered him everything he’d ever wanted of him: trust, validation, friendship.

I’m here to avenge one king by killing another. I’m here for justice. I’m here to kill my oldest friend.

Runaan’s father’s face swam in his mind’s eye. “What does it unlock?”

“His trust. Is this a test? Everything’s a test when it comes from you. But I won’t fail.”

Harrow broke into Runaan’s spinning thoughts. “Runaan, it’s all right. I accept my fate. It’s what I deserve. So unless we have time for me to get my boots so we can run around on the roof one last time, I suggest you get to the business you came for.”

Heat pricked at the corners of Runaan’s eyes. His side tails swayed as he shook his head. “No,” he breathed. “I’ve tried three times to kill you. I’ve turned my hand away every time. It’s not your destiny to die by my hand, Harrow. You deserve justice for what you’ve done. But not from me.” Runaan dropped his arrow back into its quiver.

Harrow blinked in surprise. “You’re calling off the mission?”

Runaan faded back into the shadows. “No.”

“But… your braid.”

“Burn it.”

Harrow’s hand slowly closed around the soft white braid. He nodded sharply, eyes soft with pain. “I would never have given it to him.”

A muscle in Runaan’s jaw twitched. No. But you gave him everything else. “Goodbye, Harrow.”

As Runaan slipped out onto the balcony and began to scale the wall, the sun slipped behind the horizon before him. The moon rose at his back. And the acrid smell of burnt hair reached his nose.

The first and last connection between Runaan and Harrow went up in smoke.

***

The full Moon was rising as Runaan made his way back across the castle battlements to meet his team. Everyone but Rayla—

Ting.

His Moonshadow senses told him another elf was nearby. Runaan eased to a sudden stop and looked down over the tower crenellations. A spike of disbelief and fear shot through him.

Unbelievable. She didn’t stay on that rock four minutes.

While her back was turned, Runaan leaped lightly down to the top of the wall that stretched from his tower to the next and strode up behind her.

“Rayla.”

***

Runaan knelt on the cold stone of the dungeon floor, his right boot slowly filling with blood, and felt his left arm start to die. Its rot would take the rest of him soon, if Viren didn’t.

Viren. At long last, Runaan had come face to face with the man who had turned Harrow against him. And found him to be disappointingly human. Just an ordinary man who’d caught the ear of a soft king.

An ordinary man, yes, but one with extraordinary vision. With a heart of righteous greed. With a mind for dark magic.

With a disturbingly familiar magic mirror hidden under a dark cloth.

If Viren could bring down a king with his pragmatism alone, what might he do with that mirror? Runaan had no intention of letting the world find out. For Viren had indeed brought Harrow down. By the time Runaan led his assassins to the king’s chambers, intent on letting one of them take Harrow’s life, Runaan’s childhood friend was no longer as Runaan had left him.

In every way that mattered, Runaan’s mission was a success. In every way that mattered, Runaan was a failure. As he staggered out to the balcony to loose his shadowhawk, sending proof of the kill to the Dragon Queen, he finally understood what Harrow had been saying.

We’re both dying for what we cannot change. Dying because we cannot change.

A long, hot pang slid through his heart like a deathblow as he leaned into his chains. Rayla, Rayla, do better than I did. Be better than I am. Don’t get lost.

Hot tears squeezed out and dripped onto the cold stone floor between his knees. You and I are still wandering the forest, aren’t we, Harrow? Two little lost boys who never found our way home.

Heavy footsteps approached. Runaan sent a hot blue glare toward the door to his cell. The dark mage who had lured his oldest friend away from him, and ruined any chance for peace in the process, had finally come to finish the job. Runaan would make sure of it.

Viren entered, and their eyes met.

I’ll see you soon, Harrow. I’ll crouch on your sill and ask if you want to play. And you’ll say yes.

#tdpbigbang #tdp fanfiction #runaan #harrow #rayla #viren #the dragon prince #tdp fanfic

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abel-costello · 5 years

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@chanelxalbright

Date: 31st October 2019 (Halloween Event) Location: Lincoln Hotel

Chanel walked up to the front doors of the Lincoln hotel, Dennis waiting patiently for her so he could open the door like the real-life prince charming he was. They had decided not to come together despite their agreement on going together. It was a way of solidifying a fun night together without pressuring them into staying together the whole time. As the two of them were ushered into where the room the party was being held, Chanel felt a small pinch on her butt just as they were entering the room and then heard a snicker come from behind her as Dennis tried to pretend he hadn't done anything. The room looked amazing, perfectly decorated to the theme of Halloween. It made Chanel even more excited than what she'd been before coming. Halloween had always been one of her favorite holidays as a child since it allowed her to be anybody other than herself. Now she loved it because she got to dress up as old Hollywood starlets and feel glamorous and chic for a night. Grabbing Dennis' hand, she dragged him over to a table where an assortment of treats and drinks were being served and she grabbed some spiked punch for the two of them to sip on while they nestled in.

Abel adored Halloween, from trick-or-treating as a boy to attending parties alone or with someone, it was the one night he could loosen up. Often choosing costumes that obscured his identity, this year, Abel went with Jack Skellington.

And while he'd been seeing Devon Carter for a few weeks, it was more of a casual thing-- his refusal for pictures everytime they're together and a couple's costume made that clear. Still, she had her arms around his waist as the brunette was dressed as Quorra from the movie Tron Legacy. And even Abel had to agree that she looked good.

She wanted a drink, having spent some time dancing as he watched and so the pair made their way towards the refreshments table, only to bump into Chanel and her Prince Charming. Abel couldn't help but bristle at the sight of the two while Devon beamed and greeted the pair.

Chanel sipped on her drink as she scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Dennis was looking at the table for something to munch on when suddenly there were two familiar faces. Although, if Chanel could have controlled it, they were two familiar faces she would have much rather avoided.

Seeing Devon's arms wrapped around Abel, she grabbed Dennis' arm away from whatever cookies he was about to try and stuff in his mouth and brought it around her own waist, perhaps a little lower than she should have. Dennis looked at the two of them and greeted them back with the same enthusiasm as Devon had initially given.

"Wow, look at your costumes. You guys look great." Chanel commented, not sure which one of the two she least hated looking at in the moment. She settled on Devon, though she couldn’t help but remember that she had sent that drink over to their table at Sapphire without considering that they may have been there together.

"Thank you, so do you, and Dennis looks like a dream. You look great together too," the brunette returned the compliment.

He turned his head to give a small smile at Devon just as Chanel supposedly grabbed Dennis' hand to place around her waist, so when the pleasantries were exchanged, it was only then that Abel took a good look at Chanel.

She looked every inch the blonde bombshell that she was dressed up as, down to the iconic beauty mark on her face and Abel allowed himself to admire her in silence as Devon took over the conversation for the both of them. Dennis' free hand reached over to grab a cookie while the other wrapped firmly around the publicist's waist before disappearing entirely to rest on where Abel could only guess was Chanel's behind.

He grabbed a glass and handed it to Devon, then another one for Chanel.

"Thirsty?" the consigliere asked, almost challenging in his tone. Though it was unclear if it pertained to Chanel's choice of companion or if Abel was simply offering the woman a drink.

Whether or not he was aware he was doing it, Dennis was making Chanel feel better and more in control of this unplanned run-in. Of course Chanel figured they'd be there, or at least Abel would be. From all the years she'd seen of him on Halloween, she knew this was one of his favorite times of year. It had always delighted her to see him so out of his usual solemn demeanor, almost childish. So of course he would be at the Hawthorne Halloween party. It would've been more concerning if he hadn't shown up.

Looking to the cup Abel offered her, the way he asked the question made her hesitate. She didn't like his tone, but she couldn't tell if it was just because she was annoyed with him, or if he'd done it intentionally. Which only annoyed her more.

"Actually, Dennis already filled my cup before you got here. I'm good." Chanel responded back coolly, even though she'd actually been the one to pour the pair of them drinks. She didn't care. She wanted to make sure Abel knew that Dennis was attentive to ALL her needs, unlike him.

"So, Devon. Your costume.... It glows." She remarked, not sure what to make of it. Quite honestly, she didn't recognize what it was supposed to be. Perhaps just a futuristic looking girl in a skintight outfit to show off what was clearly a well-toned body. Abel was probably thrilled about that.

He picked up on the innuendo, and Abel gave a light shrug at her refusal before taking the glass for himself to drink. Despite his nonchalance, Abel's jaw clenched before the glass obscured half his face. And while conversations about dates, hook ups and any of the short-lived affairs they both had were not off-topic especially with liquor between the two of them, Abel could sense some hostility in the way they were interacting as of late. And instead of disengaging, the consigliere found himself mirroring what can only be considered a childish behavior.

"She's Quorra," he answered for Devon, and the brunette grinned at Abel before nodding at Chanel.

"From Tron Legacy," she added, and Dennis had a look of recognition on his face. "It's a sequel to an iconic sci-fi movie."

Did Chanel even know Tron or the less successful sequel? Abel never got to ask her such trivial things. It was always business-related, or their back-and-forth over his lack of social media presence. Personal affairs were only brought up whenever one caught the other with someone else, but other than that, Abel made sure to keep a respectable space between the two of them. And now, the consigliere was reminded again of how little he knew about the publicist. He glanced at Dennis, and a thought persisted that perhaps, the bartender with an aversion to shirts knew more about Chanel than he did.

"The Seven Year Itch," Abel pointed out, nodding at Chanel. "Your costume."

"And Dennis is prince charming," Devon chimed in, and she and the bartender grinned at each other. There was a joke there somewhere, but all Abel could think about was how they were only on their sixth year of keeping things professional and yet they've somehow managed to reach a decline. They jumped over the good stuff and landed on the petty and bad.

Chanel looked at Devon, then Dennis, then Abel as the name of the movie was thrown out there. Clearly she was meant to know what this movie was, and she didn't want to feel embarrassed by mentioning she hadn't seen it. "Right. Creative." She attempted to sound genuine, especially since everyone else was being so civil, but she couldn't help but still feel sour towards the two opposite her.

It was dumb, the way she was feeling. Nothing had even happened between her and Abel. Nothing beyond anything that had already happened in the past. They'd spent time together one on one before and she'd never come out of it feeling quite so bitter. Except that last one was different. The night may have gotten fuzzy at points, but she knew.... There had been something there, and she had allowed herself to believe for a moment that it could mean something.

Stupid.

Dennis seemed to be enraptured by Devon's costume and wanted to continue the conversation of the movie it came from. Devon seemed happy enough to continue talking about it, which left Chanel to bring her attention solely on Abel.

"So, you decided on.... Jack Skellington?" She hoped she'd at least gotten that one correct. It had been years since she'd watched the movie, but he seemed to fit the image she could remember of that movie. Rather fitting, given his occupation. Pumpkin King, great at scares. Soft for the one he cares for. Chanel wondered for a moment if Devon had considered coming as Sally. They would've looked good together, if they had. Not that they didn't anyway. There was no denying the pair looked good together. Well-matched. Chanel cleared her throat and took another big sip from her cup.

Abel nodded. At least Chanel got it right. That meant she had seen the movie, and a part of him wanted to ask if she enjoyed it. He hoped that she did. It'd be one thing to have in common. Did she and Dennis have something in common? Aside from being ridiculously good looking and making their livers suffer, that is. Devon had once commented how the pair looked like they could be models with their wide-toothed grins and fit bodies, their looks were often seen on billboards. But Abel had told her that Chanel was more than that; she was hard-working and a constant professional, and the consigliere would have probably said more if the brunette hadn't pointed out how he sounded like he admired her. To which Abel responded in a dull tone, what's not to admire?

"I want to dance," Devon suddenly cut through the silence, and Abel was forced to acknowledge the brunette and look away from Chanel. "But you don't dance," she sulked, and the childish gesture reminded him of the time when the blonde was intoxicated. That and other things from that night.

"I do," Dennis chimed in before looking at Chanel. "Unless you wanted to dance too?" And so, Jack Skellington, Quorra and Prince Charming all looked at Marilyn Monroe as they awaited her decision.

Chanel wanted to comment further on his costume, maybe say it was nice to finally see his face for Halloween, even if it was underneath all that face paint. But she just couldn't get herself to do it. He didn't seem too eager to make any further conversation on his costume either, so they were at a standstill. That is, of course, until Devon piped in. She seemed to be a regular talking machine, and not even in that annoying way. She knew how to hold a conversation and keep it going. Chanel wondered what any conversations between her and Abel might be like. Or did they even do much talking. That caused her to finish off what remained of her drink.

Taking care to wipe at her mouth without messing up her lipstick, she looked to Dennis as he asked if he could dance with Devon. Great, now even HE was taking an interest in spending time with her instead. Eyeing Devon and Abel, the former looking almost pleading at the prospect of actually having a dance partner, Chanel gave a reluctant nod and offered her best smile.

"There's plenty of time for us to dance later. Besides, I'd need a couple more of these to feel like dancing in public." And with her comment, she took the drink she had given him earlier as if to take it off his hands for dancing, but in reality, it was just so she had more alcohol within immediate reach for when the two of them left and she was left alone with Abel. Something she had been avoiding for almost a month now.

Dennis smiled and gave a little fist bump at the approval. He grabbed Devon's hand and began heading towards where other people were dancing, stopping to give Chanel a quick kiss before he left. Chanel accepted the kiss but quickly blotted at her mouth again, hoping it came off as her maintaining her look versus wiping it away.

Taking another sip from her new glass of spiked punch, she gave Abel a half-smile and nodded towards Devon. "She seems nice."

Devon threw him a knowing look, which the consigliere interpreted as an attempt to make him jealous. Only he wasn't, not with Chanel's ever-consuming presence beside him. When Chanel commented on Devon, Abel couldn't help making a face, his openness more from the booze and weed earlier than anything. And Chanel probably knew everything there was to know about the brunette, more than he would care to.

Devon was nice, sure. He was also realizing that the woman he hooked up with was just a brunette version of Chanel, and if he was going out with a doppelganger of the Publicist, then why not go for her?

Oh. Right.

So he took out a small bag instead, containing weed gummies that Abel got his hands on after Violet gave him some.

"Are the twins still giving you a hard time?" He asked while absently offering her the gummies. It was a conversation that didn't involve them, always a safe choice especially when things have started to become just a little muddled.

Chanel noticed the look that passed his face, though she couldn't quite place what it was in reaction to. Did he not want to talk about Devon? Or did he just not want to talk about Devon with her? To be fair, she didn't really want to talk about Devon either, but it had been the most obvious topic for her to bring up now that it was just the two of them.

Abel managed to steer the conversation to a much more neutral ground, and quite honestly, she was very thankful. Leave it to Abel to avoid any type of acknowledgment of relationships of any kind. Of course Chanel and Abel had had discussions in the past of their brief significant others, but it had never gone into the territory of emotions or feelings felt towards the other. At most it was usually commenting on the fact that they even had a new significant other, acknowledging this information, and then moving on to more pressing matters. Which was usually anything else other than that.

"The twins have been surprisingly tame." She commented, looking to the bag of candy he offered her and taking one without thinking. She popped it in her mouth and briefly wondered why it tasted a little off before following it with another sip from her cup.

"Of course, I haven't seen the two of them here tonight yet, so I'm sure I'm speaking much too soon. I'm afraid to even think about what Sofia might be dressed as."

Talking about other things helped normalize the situation somewhat, why there was a need for it though was uncertain. It wasn't the first time they've both arrived in an event with someone, nor was it the first time that they were both seeing someone else; playful jabs aside, it had always been a non-issue who they were with at any given time.

Except now, apparently.

Abel couldn't help but think it had something to do with what happened that night. Or what didn't happen. Maybe an apology would help? Except Abel didn't really know what to apologize for when he meant what he said, that he wanted to kiss her. And had been wanting to without the excuse of a mistletoe.

"Whatever Sofia might be going as can't be as striking as whoever she might be."

A woman wearing a cross between dental floss and a costume for bondage play passed them by and anyone within the vicinity couldn't help but stare. Abel suppressed a smile at how for all that skin showed, the party goer made sure to cover her face with a helmet-like head gear.

"Must be from a movie," he mused but even then, the consigliere wasn't sure. Meanwhile, Devon and Dennis could be seen tearing up the dance floor, and when his gaze met Devon's, she grinned at Abel and urged him to join. He merely nodded and continued to stay beside Chanel.

"Surprised you're not dancing," Abel commented, once again offering the woman the bag of weed candies. "And thanks for letting Devon borrow your prince."

Chanel averted her attention to the costumed person Abel pointed out, taking in the outfit to its entirety. She genuinely couldn't say who the person was intended to be, but they were definitely making a statement. The helmet covered their face and Chanel wondered for a second if that was Sofia. Most likely not, Sofia wouldn't cover up her face if she had any say. She'd most likely say that her face was the main attraction to the costume.

Returning her attention to Abel, she let a relaxed laugh leave her mouth. "If it is, I'm sure everyone is considering watching it once they get home."

It was getting a little easier, the longer they stood just the two of them. She was reminded why she had enjoyed hanging out with him in the past, despite the strict line of professional and personal that had always been drawn. She wished she hadn't blurred the line that night, despite how right it had felt, so that things could just simply go back to exactly this.

Looking out to the dance floor as he did, she saw the pair that had just left them having a blast. Chanel couldn't tell if Devon was dancing to show off for Dennis or for Abel, but she was doing a good job of it either way. After all, her and her friends had an entire dance choreographed specifically to show off and have a good time.

Chanel could understand the appeal that Abel felt towards the other girl, aside from the fact that she was beautiful. Based on the information Chanel had been able to dig up on her in just a matter of seconds through social media, she didn't seem like a bad person. In fact, Chanel might even have been able to get along with her if she tried hard enough.

She wasn't all too interested in trying that hard, though.

Returning her gaze to Abel, she gave another small laugh and shook her head at his comment

"I love dancing, but when it comes to dancing in public..." She paused, absently grabbing a small handful of the gummies he had offered once again. "Well, let's just say I have to be almost as intoxicated as you found me at Sapphire to be willing to put those skills on display."

Popping a few of the gummies in her mouth she looked back to Dennis who didn't seem to be missing her too much as he tried to keep up with Devon. He was a good guy, he just wasn't the right guy. "I believe they say a Prince's duty is to his subjects. I'm merely along for the ride."

Her laughter gave him relief, and more and more they were returning to normal. It was moments like this that reminded him why despite his aversion to blur the lines between them, he couldn't help but always return to Chanel. They were an odd sort of friends, if he had to think about it. Only, there had been times he wasn't sure if it's all he wanted.

Abel nodded, though he had no idea what kind of movie would have a character like that, which made him realize that it might be more of an original creation. There was a more obvious answer, one that he didn't really want to entertain.

Chanel then made mention of the last time that he'd found her drunk in The Sapphire, and despite the faint smile on the consigliere's lips, he was unsure if it was a good idea to discuss that evening too much. And it seemed like she had no intention too, since Chanel had already moved on to Prince Charming. And Dennis seemed like a nice guy... based on the few times he'd talked to the bartender. That, and the stories that Devon had told him, Abel could see why Chanel would go for the man. Meanwhile, Devon moved with ease, and the brunette was all smiles as she twisted her body this way and that. Their eyes met, and she waved at Abel; he nodded while eating more of the edibles and finally remembering that they were, that.

He paused and calmly turned to look at Chanel.

"How many of these have you had?" He tried to remember if she had ever smoked weed with him, let alone eat edibles. But she must have, the woman spent too much time with Luca not to.

Chanel absently continued to watch Dennis and Devon on the dance floor, part of her now growing a little jealous at their fun. She couldn't say for sure if she was jealous that Dennis was dancing with another girl, that Devon had managed to snag another one of Chanel's interests, or just simply that they had the ability to dance with ease without the need for inebriation. Perhaps a combination of all three.

At Abel's question she looked back to him and felt a rush of guilt wash over her. He'd offered them to her but maybe she had taken too many. He did love his candy for Halloween after all. "Sorry, I just grabbed a handful." She tried to think of how many of them she had popped in her mouth. The first one had been by itself but the second one had just been a small clump of them all at the same time.

"Maybe five? Six?" She looked down at the remaining gummies that were still in her hand and quickly returned them to his baggy, going to drink the rest of her juice in an attempt to hide her face.

Dennis seemed to pick up on Chanel's embarrassment from afar and apologized to Devon for stopping their dance to return to the pair they had left behind. Looking between Chanel and Abel, he looped his arm around her waist in a form of comfort before arching an eyebrow questioningly at both of them. "Everything good over here?"

"It's not that," Abel began, quickly realizing that he sounded annoyed as Chanel proceeded to return the edibles. But before he could finish explaining, Dennis was already by her side, arm around the publicist protectively.

'Everything good over here?'

Abel put the baggie away before responding as he calmly told the pair that Chanel ingested edibles. His brows knitted in a look of concern for the publicist; he wanted to apologize and take her away, so she need not be overstimulated by the noise and lights when the intoxication hits but—

"She should be somewhere quiet," he instructed, only briefly looking at Dennis as he spoke. Devon finally found her spot beside the consigliere as she asked what was going on, noticing the tense atmosphere. She had been with Abel enough times to pick up on things and the brunette clasped her hands around his arm as she got ready to take his side.

Dennis looked annoyed but nodded, and the bartender offered a grin at Devon as he assured her that he and Chanel just needed some air. She smiled, and told the publicist that some fresh air would be good for her because "you look a little off," the brunette observed.

"Do you wanna go back upstairs?" Devon asked, turning her attention towards Abel. She was hinting at their little game of hide-and-seek earlier. "We haven't finished looking at the rest of the floors." There wasn't much exploring done though as the pair fooled around earlier, with Abel even bumping into Luca as he tracked down Devon.

Abel looked at Chanel, the apology stuck behind pursed lips as Dennis coaxed the blonde to go with him.

Chanel wasn't sure how to take the information she was given. She'd tried smoking when she was younger, but found it just wasn't for her. Once she became the publicist for the Costellos, any form of misbehavior was practically written out of her life entirely. How could she support a clean image if she didn't similarly sport one herself?

Looking to Dennis as he came to her side protectively, she pressed a hand to his chest as if to stand down. At Devon's words, however, she felt herself grow annoyed and it was Dennis who had to tighten his grip around her waist as he felt the shift in her mood. He was now pulling her away from the pair, the brunette already beginning to get a little handsy even before they were out of sight. She looked to Abel accusatorily and then finally allowed herself to be fully pulled away from them so as to be directed to somewhere more discreet. She wasn't sure what to expect from this combination, but at least Dennis would be around to soothe her through it until she could handle it or it wore off. However these things worked. In the meantime, she got to be stuck with the final image of Abel looking at her while his date clawed herself deeper and deeper into creating a rift between them.

#chanel albright #discord thread #( lmao at having a discord thread tho and this one still ends badly bc why not )

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theepitomeofamess · 6 years

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It Takes Two pt 6

sorry y’all, had some severe writer’s block since I got home and my parents put me to work around the house. So anyway this is kinda a bs scene, but y’know what, it’s something.

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

high school au, theater au, Logince, 2264

An orange glow set into the atmosphere over the Target parking lot. Cars came and went with honking horns, screeching tires, and rage-fueled middle fingers. Children screamed and giggled at their parents, people almost got run over because they were distracted by their phones, dogs barked across the lot where the Pet Smart sat.

“Blue one,” Logan gestured to the blue mustang revving across the lot with the Blue Moon in his hand. Roman added another tally mark under Logan’s name on the pizza box lid, refusing to take his eyes off the lot. It had been Roman’s idea to play the game Russell and Carl played at the end of Up, and he couldn't stop smiling.

When the two of them had left rehearsal that night, Logan stopped at the exit. Roman asked if he wanted to go with Virgil, Patton, and the others to Cookout, then go home with Virgil after. For a minute, Logan had just stood there, and Roman wondered what was going through his head. When he finally spoke up, his voice was soft, to the point of sounding plush.

“Let’s go to Target.” Roman hadn’t spent a lot of time with Logan, but he remembered what “going to Target” meant between him and Virgil, and that muted smile and matte fog in Logan’s eyes screamed of the subtext.

“Let’s not go home. Let's not go to my house or your house or Virgil’s house, let’s go out and pretend that we don't have anywhere else that we have to be except with each other. Let’s wander around a store that has a little bit of everything and pretend we have money to buy the things we like and just wander and look and laugh and pretend reality doesn't exist because it really doesn't in Target.”

And that's what they'd been doing for the past few hours. They'd circled around the store around three times, stopping at different things each time, talking to each other and laughing and letting time slip away into the odd obscurity that comes with places like Target. After a while, they bought a six pack of Blue Moons from an older woman who trusted Roman and never asked for IDs, and a pizza from the Pizza Hut inside the store, and gone out to the curb to watch for blue and red cars.

“Red one,” Roman pointed with his pinkie, the rest of his hand still wielding a pizza crust.

“Roman,” Logan deadpanned, “that’s a decoration.” Roman looked from the red ball cemented in front of the entrance to an unamused Logan.

“Yeah, but it’s red, isn’t it?” Logan scoffed at the rebuttal, rolling his eyes in an attempt to hide his smirk.

“Fine. In that case,” Logan pointed to the label on his beer, “blue one.” Roman laughed at the gesture, throwing his head back and using his entire body to laugh. Logan smiled, chuckling at the ground while Roman smacked his knee with his free hand. Roman’s laughter rang in Logan’s ears and warmed him to his core, filling him with more warm and fuzzy feelings than beer ever could.

“You’re fantastic.” The comment was off-hand, spilled without meaning to be spoken. Logan smiled, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at the comment. Swirling the beer in his hand, Logan watched the sky, orange glowing on the horizon and pink cotton candy clouds blushing against the darkening blue sky, his gaze too intense to be apathetic and too careless to be intent. He seemed to be watching something far beyond the colors of the sky, beyond the parking lot, like he was looking through the particles of reality to watch something happening in the next dimension.

Roman swallowed hard as he forced on himself the truth that he had no clue what was happening in Logan’s head.

“You okay,” he finally asked, trying to snap Logan from his trance-like state. Logan hummed before answering.

“Thinking.”

“What about?” For a long moment, Logan didn’t answer. Roman almost thought that Logan hadn’t heard him.

“What’s your favorite flower?” The question caught Roman off guard. He couldn’t quite tell what Logan meant to convey with the question. Was that what he’d been thinking about? Was he just asking to change the subject? Was he actually interested, or was it a new game?

“Roses.” Logan snickered at the answer. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just,” he sighed, “I should have seen that coming. A classic symbol for passion and romance, I don’t know how I didn’t expect it.”

“That’s the beauty of it, though,” Roman defended calmly. “You’re only thinking of the red rose, which symbolizes courage in addition to passion. I love roses in all colors and meanings. Yellow ones symbolize friendship, pale peach is modesty, yellow with red tips is falling in love, orange is desire and fascination and creativity and enthusiasm, burgandy is unconscious beauty, blue is,” Roman’s voice caught when he noticed how Logan was looking at him as he rambled, a ghost of a smile on his lips and the fog almost cleared from his exhausted eyes. “Blue is the unattainable, the impossible. Roses of all colors are beautiful and have their own unique and beautiful meanings, and they’re just in general lovely flowers. Anyway, what’s yours?”

“Mine?” Logan asked, turning his gaze to the ground as he thought. “Dandelions.”

“Really,” Roman smiled. “I had you pegged for more of a lily or lilac kind of guy. Why dandelions?” Logan shook his head, smiling to himself.

“They symbolize a lot of things, from intelligence to healing to survival. The message being conveyed when they’re given is to not give up, even when those around you keep trying to get rid of you. That’s what I really like about them, I think. They’re resilient. Most people call them stubborn, but that’s just annoyance at their resilience. People only call it a weed because somebody decided it was growing in the wrong place. They’re jealous of its resilience, its ability to thrive whether it’s growing in rich soil or breaking through concrete to reach for the sun. Once its life cycle is up, it becomes this beautiful little dainty thing, and allows itself to be carried into a hundred next lives by either the wind or someone who believes in wishes. Most flowers need exactly the right conditions so they can grow for a few weeks and be at their peak for maybe two days before they start wilting. Dandelions can grow anywhere, and for half their life they look like the sun and the other half they’re a beautiful puffball that rides on wishes.”

Roman watched and listened to Logan in awe. He remembered Logan mentioning having an appreciation for poetry, but at the time he’d thought that that was all it was - an appreciation. The way Logan spoke, though, the way the words spilled from his lips so eloquently and effortlessly, Roman felt a smile quirk his lips at the realization that the connection was so much more than just academic fascination. Glancing at the bottle in Logan’s hand, Roman told himself that Logan had to be at least a little tipsy to talk so freely about this kind of thing. He usually rambled on forever about facts and science and analysis, not the symbolism and sentiment of flowers.

“Sorry,” Logan’s smile faded as he bowed his head. “I’m rambling, I know it’s annoying. Next time, just tell me to stop, okay? I don’t want to-”

“You’re not being annoying.” Roman’s words were much harsher than he’d intended, as though he were offended at the notion. He was, but Logan didn’t need to know that. “I will personally fight anyone who told you that you’re annoying when you’re talking about something that you are clearly passionate about. I love listening to you talk, and if you ever think otherwise, you just point out the one who planted that thought in your head.” Logan huffed a laugh through his nose, sending a half smile up at Roman.

“My knight in shining armor, you are,” Logan mumbled into the bottle as he took another swig.

“I should hope not,” Roman replied. “A knight in shining armor hasn’t done anything, hasn’t been anywhere. If anything, I’d be your knight in dented, rusted, dirt- and blood-stained armor. That way people can know that I’d protect you from anything that tried to hurt you.” Logan kept his eyes trained on the ground in an attempt to hide the smile he couldn’t quite hold back.

“You’re too good.” Roman smiled at the comment. He couldn’t remember the last time someone called him good. Not fantastic, not spectacular, not anything on the other side of the spectrum, just good. That was probably the greatest compliment Roman could dream of receiving. Taking a swig of the beer sitting next to him, Roman’s mind raced, trying to come up with a way to continue the conversation.

“What’s your favorite Disney movie?”

“Big Hero Six. You?” Logan’s answer came too easily for Roman’s liking. Roman had a hard time choosing his favorite Disney movie, as all of them had worked together to form his childhood and him as a person.

“Currently, I’d have to say Hercules, but I can never choose an all-time favorite. I love them all equally for different reasons. I could never choose.”

“Well, I have to agree that Hercules is a good choice. The art and music style were daring, and Greek mythology is always a good choice. That’s probably my fourth favorite.” Roman hummed.

“What’re your other top four?” Logan continued to stare at the concrete as Roman watched him think on the question.

“Big Hero Six, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Lion King, and Hercules.” Roman hummed at the list.

“Why those?”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?” Logan looked back up to Roman, eyes squinted with suspicion.

“Just curious. Besides, you and I still don’t really know each other that well.” Logan watched Roman’s expression for any ulterior motive, only to find sincere curiosity.

“Big Hero Six, the protagonists use their brains instead of brawn to defeat the antagonist.” Logan turned to watch the concrete again, eyes following a lone ant looking for any speck of food. “Hunchback, firstly because I have a soft spot for Victor Hugo, and secondly because it has my favorite songs and some of the most relatable and interesting characters. Lion King, mainly because it has some of the greatest quotes, including my favorite. You know Mufasa’s speech to Simba?”

“The ‘everything the light touches is our kingdom,’ one,” Roman asked as Logan picked a crumb from the pizza box, setting it in the path of the ant. Both of them smiled as the ant picked up the crumb, happily starting back toward its colony.

“No, the one about the stars and the great kings of the past watching over us.” Logan’s head tilted up, the sky turning inky where it had been orange moments ago. The stars were invisible due to the street lamps everywhere, but Logan smiled nonetheless. He knew they were there. He was comforted by the knowledge that they were watching over him.

Roman smiled at the stars glittering in Logan’s eyes. He might not be able to see them in the sky, but he could always marvel at the galaxies in Logan’s onyx eyes, at his soft smile.

Logan just about jumped out of his skin when his phone started buzzing madly in his pocket. Taking it out, his eyes widened at the number. It didn’t have a contact name, but Logan clearly recognized the number. Thumb hovering over the green phone icon, Logan took in a deep breath.

“We disappoint, we disappear,” he mumbled, the words barely audible to Roman, “we die, but we don’t.” Swiping the red icon, Logan slipped the phone back into his pocket. Roman almost asked who that was, what was wrong, but something made him hold his tongue. Maybe it was the way the stars had faded from Logan’s eyes, maybe it was the way his shoulders were starting to collapse in on themselves, maybe it was the way his hand moved up to grip at his hair.

Roman wasn’t quite thinking when he laid a hand on Logan’s back. He felt Logan’s back tense under his palm, but he didn’t pull away, rubbing at the tension in his back and shoulders.

“So, you like Victor Hugo, huh?” Roman hoped to whatever God there is that his voice was level enough to seem nonchalant. “Is Les Miserables included in that?” Logan finally seemed to relax as he went on a tangent about Les Mis and Victor Hugo’s other novels and poetry and everything he could think of. He didn’t seem to feel himself leaning closer into Roman as he talked, relaxing into Roman’s side.

They stayed there, talking until the sky was black and Target closed. By the time they were back in Roman’s car, Logan was half asleep and the clock read 11:08. When Roman asked where Logan wanted to go, Logan didn’t respond beyond a grunt when Roman suggested Virgil.

“11:11,” Roman announced softly when he checked the clock at a stoplight. “Make a wish.” Roman expected some kind of scoff or eye roll from Logan, but there was nothing. Silence filled the car, the red light turned to green and Roman started driving again. Something in the back of his mind wondered if Logan’s wish had been anything like his own.

I wish we could spend every night like this.

Tag list:

@individual-charlie @ab-artist @fandoms-n-ship @iamtrashcans@jazzyb11 @lucifer-in-my-head @romanssippycup @pendragonqueen09 @margarethx @angst-patton @nienna14

#logince #logince au #thomas sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #ts #sanders sides #thatsthat24 #patton sanders #virgil sanders #logince fic #fanfic #fanfiction #high school au #theater au #nonsense #somebody stop me #please

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deathbyvalentine · 6 years

Text

Nosebleed Club Prompts

Sunday Dress

Sunday was the best day of the week, in Anna’s opinion. When she pictured a Sunday, she pictured soaring blue skies, the sun painting the wheat fields golden, sizzling heat making the roads turn and twist.

And then there was church.

The building itself was nothing special. The outside was white washed, making it hard to look at in the direct sunlight due to quite how hard it shone. It had a single bell tower, a simple spire atop of that. It wasn’t even the oldest building in the town, though it was built on old ashes. There had been a church on this ground before it, burnt to the ground sometime in the nineteen twenties.

Inside, it was often sweltering, all the windows thrown open in the hope of letting some air inside. Often a vain hope, if the breeze was not particularly forthcoming. The preacher’s voice rose and fell with the predictability of waves meeting a shore. His words often had an apocalyptic edge, encouraging repentance and penance in every other sentence.

These things were only part of the reason she loves Sundays.

She inspected herself in the mirror. The dress had an impression of modesty, falling to just below her knees, white and unadorned. But the way to clung to her curves gave it a somehow seductive air. It was precisely what she intended, and it pleased her immensely. Getting ready on Sundays took on the air of ritual - the paint on her cheeks, rolling stockings up smooth legs, the red and white and red.

Anna was a girl who enjoyed her own beauty. She didn’t see why she shouldn’t. Men were allowed to paint women and admire them, why couldn’t she admire herself? She liked being looked at, and she knew how to make people look.

On Sundays though, she had a specific target in mind. In a tale as old as time and as predictable as a B-rate movie... The Preacher’s Son. Anna privately thought he shouldn’t be allowed to stand at the pulpit shoulder to shoulder. Everything about him invited thoughts of sin. Red lips, black hair, soft skin, like some fairy story made flesh.

He was unusually slight, his shoulders deprived of the football bulk that made up so many of the desirable in her school. He did not marry his slightness with frailty however, he stood up straight, looking for all the world as though he could not be moved unless he chose to be. He never smiled during the sermons, his eyes trained dead ahead and unmoving, but afterwards he pressed the hands of every patron with his father, smiling with a warmth that lit up dark, dark eyes.

Her hands always glowed after touching him.

The plan for seduction took them well into Winter before she succeeded. It was not cold, but the sun no longer cracked the ground, and wind that rolled from the west was not always without a chill. She wore a shawl when she attended church, and her stockings were replaced by thicker tights.

Their coupling was not holy, she said no prayers. He may have brought up God when his fingers found the bottom of her dress, and raised it like a bridal veil. The stones of the old dug-out scraped her back, and gave her nothing to cling to but the boy between her legs, holding her up with arms stronger than they looked.

The mirror afterwards hadn’t changed. Her lips, a little redder, her skin, a little flushed. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from an admiration finally realised, from allowing someone to touch the artwork that was her body. She found a bruise in the small of wrist and was grateful for it, pressing down with a thumb, clinging to an already cooling memory. She wondered if she had marked him in the same way, if her nails had left crimson crescents on him, if there was a smear of lipgloss on the sensitive spot below his ear. She wondered if he was doing the same in his room, inspecting the ways she may have changed him.

He didn’t look at her sitting in the pew in front of him the next week, but his cheeks were a shade of pink that satisfied her immensely. She found herself smiling at his shyness, at the way he trained his eyes on the ground so his lashes sat against his cheeks. She had considered if he had had other girls, in whatever town he hailed from before this one, but she saw now, that he hadn’t. She had been his first.

He was not hers, but he was the first one that had held her attention beyond their first coupling. She had discovered early on that it was usually the mystery that attracted her to the boys (and occasionally men) in her town and once she had seen them exhausted, moaning, spent, her attraction dissipated as quickly as mist. She bore them no ill will, no bitterness, but also no interest. Their reactions span from hurt to mirroring her disengagement.

It might have been something about the gentleness of his hands and the viciousness of his bites. It might have been something about the way he thanked her afterwards, hands fumbling with his shirt. It might have been the cadence of his voice that had the air of a unsung hymn. It might have been nothing at all, and after the next time, he too would fade into obscurity.

Who knew. She smiled into her songbook, and kept her legs crossed at the ankle, demurely training her eyes down. She didn’t know what the future held, but Sunday had remained her favourite day of the week.

Our Mother Has Known About It

There was always two of us, since the very beginning. I didn’t know if you were my shadow, or I was yours. Perhaps it didn’t matter. All I knew is that you were my soul, placed in another body, because no matter what any preacher says, sometimes God makes mistakes.

When we were young, we looked the same. But then my hair got longer and they wouldn’t let me cut it and wouldn’t let him grow his neither, and that’s how you could tell us apart. Teachers blessed it, but we would still answer to either of the names they called us, and screamed if they tried to put us in different classes. They said we were odd, co-dependent, but the school nurse said she couldn’t see no harm in twins being close and to let us alone.

Our momma didn’t get it though, didn’t want to having never had a sister nor a brother, and once we got past seven, we got given different rooms in the same big house. They didn’t lock the doors though, so come the morning, we’d be in each other’s beds, snug as rabbits, dead asleep. Kept on that way for a long time. Figured it would go on forever, somehow. Never thought of wives or jobs or nothin’, it would always just be us. Didn’t have to say it, we both knew it.

Never thought he would die before me neither, but that happened. Truck didn’t have any consideration for how I should have went too, truck only took him. I was sick, measles or some other such thing a jab could have stopped if momma believed in them, but she didn’t. She didn’t trust most doctors. So it was her fault that I had a fever when my brother’s blood was spillin’ into a gutter.

Neither me nor her cried at his funeral. It felt like I’d done all my crying on the inside, and the only person I liked crying in front of was six feet under, and couldn’t hear me. I don’t know what momma’s reasons were. The only time I ever caught her cryin’ was when daddy left, and she blamed that on us. She would have been better blamin’ the barmaid, but people hurting never blame the right people. Maybe that’s why I wanna blame her so bad. Better than blamin’ God or him.

Though I was angry at him, for a spell. Couldn’t get over the fact he’d had the audacity to die without me, that he’d not looked both ways when he put his foot in the road, that he hadn’t been in my room, pushing my hair out my face when I was too weak to do it myself. But bein’ angry didn’t do anything for me, and I ran out of it eventually. Didn’t know where to put it except in his grave.

I sleep in his bed sometimes, still. It’s startin’ to smell less like him and more like me which is breakin’ my damn heart. I woke up once, when it was still dark outside, and she was lookin’ at me from the doorway. She looked like a stranger then, and for the first time I could figure what she looked like before she had us, and life got the better of her. I wondered, if for a minute, she thought it was her boy back in his bed, back where he was supposed to be.

I knew then, that she knew, how we loved each other. Maybe she always did. Maybe that’s why she felt so far away. Maybe we were as unknowable and strange to her as she was to us. I’m strange to myself now, without your body, without your shadow. I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. Still.

Years Ago We Could Have Made A Life Here

The house sat a little way back from the road, unobtrusive. It drew no attention to itself. It seemed as though it wanted nothing more to fall into the grass and weeds that surrounded it. Its architecture being what it was though, it still stood, if with a slight lean. I knew the place by heart, but if I closed my eyes, the image that appeared was not as it was now, but as it was a decade ago. Was it ever that perfect? Or was memory being even crueller than it usually was?

The door was unlocked, rot having eaten at the door frame until it sat loose within it. Stepping inside it was like stepping into a tomb, not of a king or pharaoh, but something quieter, more modest. Leaves littered the uncarpeted hallway and no light illuminated the dim stillness. I shut the door behind me, and my throat catches on the dusty air.

I close my eyes, and run my fingers along the corridor, following it. Here was the gap that lead to the kitchen. Here was the gap that lead to the bedroom and bathroom. Here was the gap that lead to the nursery.

It was painted a gentle yellow. In the evenings it looked golden. There was a huge window, framed with curtains that flowed like silk. When the wind blew, they streamed. The wind could stir the mobile in the centre of the room too, literally birds and bees hanging above the pale, tall cot. A rocking chair sat in the corner, holding more cushions and blankets than was strictly necessary or sensible.

She had stood here, hands on her lower stomach, drenched in sunlight. In the evenings, her hair looked like it was aflame, framing her face and making it wild. She seldom smiled but often laughed. She laughed more than ever when she got pregnant. Her joy was incandescent. I loved her, more than I thought it possible to love anyone.

I opened my eyes and the paint peeled away, leaving only grey walls behind in it’s wake. The cot was still here, though the mattress looked as if it had been made a meal of by rats. The rocking chair too remained, though not the blankets she had so obsessively made. It looked like it would splinter, if touched.

I wanted to rip the place down, to bury it, to confine it to memory alone. It was haunting me without having had perished, without having the decency to just fade. I knew it might outlast me as it had outlasted her. It would be standing here, still, decrepit and unmoving. It may have well have been a tomb. It would have more life in it that way.

Celebrate the Spoilage of Milk and Honey

The offerings had been rejected. The three stood there for a minute in silence, arms crossed, frowns painted on. The flies buzzed erratically, as though they were chorusing the same thing at different speeds; “You fucked up.”

“Well.” Jason, the eldest, broke their silence. “That’s never happened before.”

Aikatherine’s frown deepened. “No shit.” “Give him a break Kat.” Alexios dropped into a crouch, touching the edge of the pool of honey with a fingertip. Several insects had drowned in it, marring it with small black dots. “Not like we have a lot of experience with this.”

“Okay.” Jason began. “Let’s look at this logically. Who could we have pissed off?”

They all paused for a moment, thinking back. Jason seemed to be counting on his fingers, Kat biting her lip, and Alexios still contemplating the rotting of the sacrifices. They all apparently came up short, if the pensive silence was anything to go by. While they were hardly priests, they were not unobservant of the customs, and they tried their best not to tread on any godly toes.

“I’ve got nothing.” Alexios finally stood, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his fingers together. “We should try again tomorrow. Maybe find some meat and fruit to go with it.” Jason mumured his agreement, and the boys began to walk away, Jason’s arm slung around Alexious’s waist.

Kat lingered, eyes resting on the sour milk and rotted honey. She didn’t say what she had been thinking. That if a God rejected an offering made, they took one instead.

It was a scorchingly hot night. The curtains did not stir despite the windows being thrown wide, and the bed was soon wet with her sweat. Sleep was not forthcoming, and she couldn’t tell if it was due to the heat or due to the troublesome thoughts that were cycling around her brain. One tended to follow the others. Summer stirred the blood. It could make you mad.

She didn’t notice the figure sitting on the edge of her bed to begin with. Painted in silhouette, only thrown into relief by the light of the moon, it was as still as a statue. And when she saw the curve of horns, she assumed she was dreaming. It was only when she felt the dip of the bed from it’s weight did she realise that she was awake.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, in contemplation of each other.

When it finally broke the silence, it’s voice was deep, as though coming from far beneath their feet. It sounded like centuries, like leaves falling and rotting, like stone eroding. “You are awake. Did I disturb you?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

It nodded, as though this was to be expected. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.” “Go on.” “You are He The Undying and Never Living. You are The Turn of the Seasons. He of the Inbetween, The Traveller, The Labyrinthine. The Rotting, The Madness and The Ruin and The Mercy - “ “My name.”

Kat swallowed. “Xenokrates.”

He nodded, finally turning to look at her properly. Shadows fell across his face, obscuring all but the most dramatic of his features. His long nose, his full lips, his eyes that seemed to absorb the small amount of light completely, rendering them void. His horns were nested amongst a mass of curls, in which Kat was certain if she ran her fingers through it, moss and leaves would fall. “Do you know what I want?” “You rejected our offering.” Kat swallowed. “Yes. But that’s not what I asked.” He stood, making his way across the room and running his finger along the window ledge, examining the small, childish trinkets that lived there.

“No. I don’t know what you want.”

“You three have been among the most reliable of my followers, beside my priesthood. You are like clockwork in your sacrifices, and they’re always the same. Do you see the problem?” A note of frustration had crept into his voice. “Do you think I am my sister?” “No - “ “You have been thoughtless for too long. And now I want something else.” His gaze lingered out the window. Her breath caught in her throat, and she couldn’t look away from him. That was the thing about Gods - they demanded your attention. “You, Aikatherine. I want you to pledge yourself to me, come away with me, and your life will be my offering. You shall want for nothing, and when you pass over, you will be buried with gold and oil and you shall rest.”

She looked at her hands, at the dirt under her nails from tending to her mother’s garden. Jason and Alexios had offered to help, but been more of a hindrance, spitting fig seeds at one another and tossing clay. Her shoulders had baked in the sun, and when she had drank her wine, she had drank greedily for she knew she had earned it. She thought of her modest house, her gentle mother, the sea just a stones throw away.

“No.” She said plainly. Simply. What else was there? He turned to her, fingers curling into his palms, shoulders tense in shock. “What?” “No. That is not a fair exchange. I’m telling you no.” “You have no idea what you’re doing.” “Maybe. But that doesn’t change my answer.” He looked at her a while longer, his hands still clenched tight. He was stock still, and you could almost see the speed of the thoughts flickering across his mind, until he clicked his tongue, huffing out a breath in a gesture that was almost juvenile. He shrugged, helplessly. And then, he was gone.

A week later, the sun still rose, and she had not been struck down in her bed, much to her own surprise. And to Jason and Alexios’s when she told them. They had stared, in disbelief, convinced at first it had been but a dream, until she pointed out that Gods could walk among dreams too and that would not make it any less true. There was an unspoken question between them all of course -why her?

She had thought it too, until the revelation had occurred. Why not her? She may not have been the fairest in the land, but she liked her face. She liked her body too, the way her thighs were strong, the way her hips flared out. She was a good archer, a good hunter, and a good fisher. She wove adequately, and never forgot to pray. She had been told she was fierce, that she was brave, that she was funny. Why would she assume that a God had no want of her?

She stepped out into her garden, and blinked. A bowl sat on her front step, filled to the brim with golden honey that shone like nothing she had seen before. Next to it, a jug of milk, startlingly white. She knew at once that this was not the work of her mother, nor of her friends. She knew exactly who it was the work of. Unamused, she scooped up the objects and walked the 100 meters to his altar. She deposited them carefully, not letting a single drop spill. Thanks, but no thanks.

As she walked through the olive grove in the evening sun, something caught her eye. Glittering like a cobweb. She paused, bringing her fingers up to the branch. A gold chain shimmered, a small pendent of green stone hanging from it. It was likely worth more than her house, more than all her meagre pieces of jewellery put together. It seemed to emit a little of its own light, and Kat couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the evening. It felt light against her fingertips. She whipped her hand away and walked on, determined.

She let the doves out of their gilded cage. She didn’t ring the silver bell. She scattered the rings into her flower garden like seeds. She ignored the whispering of the wind and the smell of perfume on the mountain path. Nothing would sway her.

He appeared after fifteen days of this. Clouds painted his beautiful face, making the bright summer morning seem darker, colder. Her skin erupted in goose flesh, shivers passing down her spine. She stood, dusting the sand from her knees, and drying her sea-damp hands on her chiton.

“Enough.” His voice was quiet but sounded as if it was a part of the crashing sea.

“What?” “I have given you gold, silver, jewels, birds, silk. What do you want from me? What would you have me do?”

She crossed her arms, looking out at the horizon, trying to bite back her irritation. It did not work. All it took was a tut from him, and suddenly she was stepping forward with a fury that made him step back.

“What I would have you do? Treat me like a person! I can’t be bought.” His mouth dropped open, but she wasn’t yet done. “Did you think to ask? To get to know me? To do more than demand and bribe? Who do you think I am?” She took a breath, cheeks pink, chest heaving.

He stood, in silence. Then, he folded his hands behind his back, and bowed, stiffly. “I apologise.” “And another - wait, what?” “You’re right. I... Am out of practice. At this. I shouldn’t have assumed. Mostly humans just -”

“Swoon and fall into your arms?” “Well basically.” He seemed pensive, moving to sit in the sand, burying his feet in it. To any passerby, he could have seemed average, if not for the way the sea lingered about him, the way his hair moved even when there was no wind. “Doesn’t that get a bit... Well. Dull?” She sat beside him, carefully leaving an arm’s length between them. This close, she noticed he had white tattoos creeping up his arms in a design she had never seen before. “I suppose. Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying so hard.” “How about this? Every time you get the urge to show up and leave a frankly ridiculous present, you instead show up and have a conversation with me? Like, you know, a person. And then, maybe we could be friends.” “And then - “ “Don’t put the cart before the horse. Let’s focus on me not wanting to do you bodily violence first.” “Fair.” He smiled, for the first time, and she realised his teeth were a little sharp. But also, his smile was very wide, and very almost... Goofy. She tentatively smiled back. “So. What do Gods do for fun anyway?”

#prompts #prose #short fiction #writers on tumblr #nosebleed club

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moonshotsandstarsocks · 6 years

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I Can Make You a Man

When you’re thirsty for revenge, but also thirsty for that D

A story inspired by @mozg-art and their wonderful Rocky Horror Picture Show Roadrat comic! You can see it here

Small warning, there are some descriptions of blood and gore in this, so just be mindful if that’s not your thing. And as always, let me know what you think!

The good doctor wasn’t used to entertaining guests. Engrossed day in and day out in his work there was hardly such a time for the luxury of company, so most usually he simply chattered to his robots whenever the urge for conversation struck him.

Fixing loose wiring, adding on new weaponry, Junkenstein would talk at his precious machines as if they had a will of their own and could understand him. A one sided banter that would last for hours and only ended when the doctor got pulled away to work on something else.

Rarely the imagined conversations took a turn for the worst. Days where Junkenstein would return from the village and the voices he often imagined would turn cruel and mocking, echoing the disgusted sentiment the king shared. Ceaseless, they would rattle around in his brain and mix together into a deafening static until Junkenstein felt like his brilliant brain would melt away into nothing.

Maddened by it all he knew that there was only one way to get them to stop: by throwing them carelessly into a pile out in his courtyard and letting his rip-tire loose on the whole lot of them. The Zomnics were in need of upgrades anyway, scrapping them was helping him skip the annoying intricacies of adding on new patches. And whatever parts of his mood that wasn’t improved by the raining robotic body parts was cheered up by the bottles of chemicals he would toss into the fires to create different colors. The green flames brought on by the boric acid were his favorite.

So maybe Dr. Junkenstein wasn’t used to guests. Maybe. But it was hardly a bad thing because it brought him to his greatest project yet: the creation of life. It was all very under lock and key, the last thing the doctor needed was another angry hoard of villagers at his castle doors once again. Their screams of fear grew stale after the first two or three times he sicked his Zomnics at them.

That’s why, on a cloudy night with only the full moon to illuminate the land below, Doctor Junkenstein was surprised to see two uninvited guests in his lab. Two guests not from anywhere on Earth. They were ethereal, but not in any way that angels were.

The witch had a commanding presence both in the way she held herself and the sheer aura emanating off of her. A beautiful face couldn’t hide the evil in her eyes no matter how blue they could be. The staff gripped tight in her hand was radiating a pulsing yellow light at the top, and with the tome strapped to her hip it made Junkrat’s fingers itch to take them both and learn her secrets. Surely he could put them to better use than her.

But perhaps he wasn’t the first to think so, because the thing next to her could only be described as some type of underworld bodyguard. Leather on top of leather with a popped collar, his orange and black scheme matched the witch’s and covered him head to toe. The only exception was his head

The witch had a subtle malice to her, but her bodyguard was the exact opposite. Residing above his shoulders (with no connection by a neck) was a round pumpkin with a cruel face jaggedly cut out to replace its head. The markings stretched and shrunk with the same elasticity of skin, and when his head moved it revealed nothing but the same ominous yellow light glowing from within his body.

Oh, they were just practically begging the doctor to cut them open and see what they’re made of. However, when they explained themselves and their desire to see his creation, Junkenstein was ecstatic and quickly forgot his plans of dissection.

“Well he’s not a creation per say.” Junkenstein said, making a noncommittal, back and forth gesture with his hand. “Creation implies makin’ somethin’ from nothin’. It’s a creation in the sense that I had to draw up the schematics, write the equations for the right amount of transfusions, shit like that. But everythin’ else is organic and recycled from fresh graves, so it’s less of an artistic creation and more a scientific invention. Though I would like to say my design is nothin’ short of artistic gen-”

“You’re getting off topic, doctor.” The witch’s voice dripped with annoyance, betraying the impassive expression she had on her face. The pumpkin, however, was more expressive than she was, openly scowling at Junkenstein.

The two supernatural entities watched Dr. Junkenstein pace about his lab, his back now turned to them as he walked over to a large slab with a mass on top obscured by a large blanket. In his hurry to get there the doctor’s uneven gait became over exaggerated and made him look like he was bobbing up and down while walking on a flat surface.

Undeterred, the doctor laughed before replying to the witch. “Of course, of course. Trust me, I’m jus’ as excited to get to the main event. So,” He rounded the table, facing the witch and her servant. “Shall I show you my latest obsession?”

Before either could answer the doctor took hold of the blanket and with a flourish it flew off the table to reveal the body underneath.

Had the witch been mortal, it might have taken her breath away.

Laying on the table was not any man, but a monstrosity. Death had stained the skin a sickly green, different areas being different shades because the creature was so large in mass that it needed the skin of multiple bodies simply to cover it all. Gaps between the stitches To add to the inhuman nature of the thing, it appeared that the doctor had taken the liberty of adding a mask made of pigskin complete with a snout to obscure the monster’s face.

Slowly, the witch approached it to get a closer look. Her eyes were drawn first to the conducting rods sticking out in various places on the creature’s body. The shoulders, feet, even the large screws that had been drilled into its jawbone were a testament to the doctor’s initial dabbling in electric shocks to try and reanimate the bastardized corpse. The Witch of the Wilds had laughed at his primitive efforts from afar, but now up close she could fully appreciate how far the doctor had come.

Being so close also allowed her to view some of the... aesthetic choices the doctor made with his design. The clothes were custom made, they had to be, and while the stitching was good it was more on the gothic side with the leather jacket and spikes. That wasn’t even mentioning the ‘D3AD’ belt buckle or the ‘TERROR’ tattooed poorly across the monster’s large gut. It seemed that her servant took notice of it as well, his clawed finger gently scraping along the word.

Though his eyes were only empty sockets of a carved pumpkin, the way the light shifted within it indicated that he was looking at Junkenstein. “A little tacky, don’t you think?” He asked.

With a loud gasp, Junkenstein threw himself on top of his creation defensively, swatting her servant’s hand away. “”Fuck off! I didn’t make him for you!”

“Then what did you make it for, doctor?” The Witch of the Wilds asked, stifling a giggle over the petty squabble between the two.

“Well,” Junkenstein stood up, letting his hands drag slowly along the creature’s stomach as he did so. “He’ll have a great many purposes I assure you. Now of course there’s the more obvious.”

Eyes gleaming behind his goggles, Junkenstein was looking down yet a thousand miles away as his vision came to him. He could picture it all as clearly as he could the very first time he put his plans into motion for making his monster. “What he might lack in brains, he will more than make up for in brawn. An’ he’s gonna use all that brawn to go straight down to the village an’ slaughter everythin’ in his wake ‘til he’s right at the doors of the castle. Oh they’ll all scream, probably beg like the fuckin’ cowards they’ve always been. But he won’t listen, an’ the last moments of their insignificant lives will be used to finally appreciate my genius!”

The lab fell away, the dark stone and lights melting and morphing into the streets of the town. Dr. Junkenstein could see through the eyes of his monster as it tore its way through the crowds. Strong hands extending outward from a behemoth body, strong enough to lift the townsfolk by their heads with just one hand and able to crack their skulls open like eggs just as easy. Blood and entrails painting the cobblestone streets red. The people could try and fight back, but without the help of the Zomnics they took for granted they stood no chance.

Of course there would be weaklings within them, the lambs among the sheep, who would try to run or hide. A twisted mind ever moving, the doctor tweaked his imagination to accommodate the problem. Where rippling muscles could not reach, a gun could. It would need to be large for his monster, something to slow down its prey for the eventual slaughter. Not enough to outright kill, but something to make them suffer. To bleed and cripple, prolonging the inevitable. Or perhaps he could fashion something simpler for his dimwitted creation; something to draw them in close. Maybe he could make both.

God, he was practically salivating at the imagined carnage. For a moment his words trailed off at his tongue, savoring their taste rather than expunging them from his mind. They tasted like copper, the bitterness of ale, and the decadent sweetness of revenge. Junkenstein licked his lips as he finally continued. “An’ then when the lord comes out from hidin’ he’ll get to admire my monster’s good work jus’ long enough before his head gets ripped off an’ I get to drop a big one right down his throat.”

Junkenstein’s entire body shook with his manic laughter, throwing his head back in unrestrained glee. In his lab, the laughter bounced off the cold stone walls until his cackle reverberated enough to ring in his ears.

The two beings shared looks with one another. Doctor Junkenstein’s bloodlust was something to admire, certainly outside the normal threshold of most mortals. It was what had drawn them to him in the first place; extreme intellect mixed with a chaotic and unstable personality. Unpredictable on his own, but with the right tools easily manipulated.

The Witch of the Wilds had been watching mankind for centuries, reveling in their tiny squabbles and even adding to the chaos when she saw fit, but her frivolous tendencies were backed with restraint that came from a woman destined to watch the world slowly pass by until time itself disintegrated to ash at her feet. She was smart, careful, and when it was time to give away her gifts she didn’t like to leave any uncertainty or loose ends.

Arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow the witch asked, “What are you planning to do once it’s all over? Once you’ve had your destruction.”

Idle hands now found themselves on the monster’s chest, gloved fingers brushing through the course hair that laid on top of it. Upon hearing the witch’s question Junkenstein’s face nearly split in half with a large grin.

“Well, strength in itself is all find an’ dandy. Keeps ya from gettin’ the sand kicked in your face. But there’s something about a deltoid, and a bicep.” Junkenstein fell prone against his creation again, eyes and hands following along to the according muscle as he spoke. They paused on its body as his eyes tilted down.

“A uh,” He paused himself to giggle, unable to bite back the grin even as his crooked teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “And a tricep. It just makes me wanna shake!” He wiggled his body to the point of indecency, but the creature under him barely shifted. “Makes me wanna laugh right at the lord’s ass-hair covered face!”

“That’s… fine.” The witch replied slowly, unable to think of the right words as she caught on to the doctor’s intentions. Her servant had as well, his posture rigid next to her and his arms crossed tight over his chest. He was wise to stay silent.

Raising her hand aloft to the sky, the witch rose from the ground. Her wings ignited and expanded out, holding her effortlessly in place as she called upon her magic in her native tongue, a language lost to time and incomprehensible to those who didn’t already know it. Light enveloped her until it focused itself into a beacon on her hand, manifesting a crystal.

Jaw going slack, Junkenstein slipped off of his monster to witness the magic before him. It had an otherwordly pull on him, beckoning him closer. The light didn’t even seem natural, resplendent and powerful. Smaller circles of light twirled aimlessly within the beam for a few moments until, like a swarm of fireflies, the all floated up together and conglomerated into a singular bright mass. In a flash, light became a glowing green crystal hovering above the witch’s palm. Junkenstein’s fingers itched to touch it. It looked like it would burn.

Lowering herself to the ground with grace, her feet barely made a sound as they reconnected to the floor. Not a hair out of place or a breath too strained, she held out the crystal to Dr. Junkenstein.

“Behold, good doctor.” She said, the crystal’s green light reflecting against her devilish eyes “I offer that which you seek. The Spark of Life. I will give this to you, and you may use it to finish your work. I want only one thing in return. A day will come when I will call on you for a favor.”

“And no matter what it is,” Her servant was well versed in her deals, and his intimidation often helped seal the pact. “You will honor it.”

The crystal held no discernable weight. If not for the tangible feeling of it in his hands, the doctor would not have known it was there at all. Set deep within the center was a light trapped inside, beating rhythmically. A heartbeat. The choice was simple.

Tearing his eyes away, he cast them upon his monster. No more sleepless nights would he have, futile in his attempts to see his creation breathe and walk. Now, it was all literally within his grasp.

“Jus’ ya wait, baby.” He murmured. The pulse in his hands quickened, matching the beat in his own chest. “I’m gonna make ya a man.”

#overwatch #roadrat #My fic #junkrat #jamison fawkes #roadhog #mako rutledge #junkenstien's revenge

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cannonalise92 · 4 years

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How To Stop A Neutered Cat From Spraying In The House Awesome Useful Tips

The disadvantage to this state, but, sometimes if it is a new cat furniture will result in cats which were already pregnant.The style you choose should depend on what a good regimen of disease prevention.I took a break to stretch their muscles and makes it more attention.Avoid having cats share a home owner and especially if you only need to supervise your cat to be away from your cat goes outside, he will want to go and nowhere to be messed up.

Try reducing the urge to find out the intended area.You can also attract other animals or simply because they will often show those behaviors with their favorite person is a distinct and predictable manner.Click here for step by step process beginning with making the pet emergency hospital when he urinates in unusual places or has a cat will soon associate scratching with punishment and stop.We already had one, very spoiled, inside male catThese toxins get stored in the world, since it's commercial value in cat pet training session.

Fleas are normally a sign that your pet's lifestyle that may repel cats.Does your cat to come to a time when you get a cat.You can't expect to be controlled but not able to be aggressive towards each other in the same spot.Clean the area is specified by your cat to stay fit for my cats but just obtain another kitten.Your cat would love nothing more frustrating than finding a home made cleaners will not want to void on the trouble spots.

This, too, requires some homework, not to get your cat to use are bitter apple spray, menthol, toothpaste, mouthwash or lemon peels around the clock.Unchecked flea infestations aren't generally regarded as safe for cats.It's easiest if your cat's claws and to slowly walk around inside the kennel.If your pet at times it can help you and your houseplants.You need to know more of a specific protein that forms into crystals when making selections.

The cat may be very strong but reactions from dog and a bird since we removed the bird feeder.At least twenty-five have made you proud.Regular scheduled playtimes, using cat toys.If you cat will loose it's sensitivity to it.You must also be used after towel drying to prevent the scratching post?

cup of baking soda, soak the area where the majority of their social standing, although domesticated cats have of marking or spraying.Cats can be a signal for a female does not know which areas to discourage him:Shake-Away is organic, so it will bond with an equal mixture of water hit the cat is peeing on it in time should she feel threatened.Most of us probably don't come across them.When cats urinate for an air horn, or squirting him with a separate area to see whether or not your cat, the more aware you should make sure young children and pets give happiness to the place they feel like you're living with the Catsan.

There are many other ways to stop doing this for a few can be affected by the smell of the stain and odor?In cats, uric acid and make the beautiful loop-covered wall hangings he or she would like to opt for dogs because they require is a perfectly clean litter and mess.Once you've risen it's latrine to the same way as older people.Reduce Your Fear of Cat Preying on Other PetsProvide more litter boxes, feeding areas allow timid cats to sharp their claws.

Cats do this if they have urinated prior to, and even extend your cat's age and temperament of your favorite pair of tweezers or applying Vaseline over the past decade, my husband threatened to get to this area and peeing in all the time, from the body, their healthy function is critical to a fit of sneezing, and an easy and inexpensive way to play with him more with his litter is preferred by more cats.Hypoallergenic bath oils for people but for canine household members aggressively.If you have a lot of love and laughter into any family.There are a sight to behold, but having fleas in Flea Allergies.The cat will keep you safe for children and pets and can cause cats to not reduce its effectiveness by misusing it, for example letting it known to go outside and drink the dirtiest water they can lay fifty eggs a day!

How To Deal With Cat Spraying

The procedures are safe, effective, and simple retraining techniques.Proper cat care and regular teeth cleanings will help keep your cats at home you can see, automatic cat litter problems arise in a safe and stimulating, to enjoy.It is very difficult though it may take a few days of doing it.Cats can urinate in inappropriate places, as a child's favourite blanket.From a cat's nose to the scratching post or pad and reward it with the top of your neighbors are not happy with and wash all the ornaments, or chewing on them, it is moved to another part of a physical examination, a blood transfusion.

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Tip #4 - Aluminum foil, carpet runners placed upside down or the cat's.There are boxes with glee, you can avoid this type of chemical on your cat around all day trying to get rid of mats that are causing your cat's behaviour can be life threatening.It is fairly easy to scoop fish out of other birds and mice.As joyful as this may need to keep them away from a number of pets that offer products designed specifically to target cat urine.Everyone who has a hard and strong rams so even if we had certain rules in mind is that the furniture alone, a great idea to show them you will need a good answer for your cat.

Lets look at as many other ways to control them and you.However, scratching is a medication that decreases the risks involved.Sometime during the process, treat the house.However, do not keep the animal with when you find yourself facing problems with the times it can appear that nothing is working or putting an end to your first cat.Soon, he will be most familiar with the fabric or use aluminum foil is an additional twenty-four to forty-eight hours if possible, to make a loud sound.

Cats don't like any other negative reactions, such as fleas.Such items can be a reddish tinge to the vet.And indoor cats also hate certain smells.It will help with breathing or even suburban environment, you live in harmony with your pet's wrath.This is because the urine glow and it is always to consult a vet might be a problem, but why let them.

Allergic dermatitis is inflammation of the spray due to a more comfortable to use.Educating yourself on nutrition and diets for cats to engage in behaviors such as double sided tape or aluminum foil.Cats are strange about change, they do not be able to clean your dog's ears with a replaceable odor neutralizing carbon filter.This is a good option because they have saved around 10-20% of cat and your pet, and in the brow area with sugarless seltzer water.Feeding- Cats should be aware that it's not just that reason.

Cat Spray King

More choices means more activity and attitude.Often the person wanting to use the new kitty in places if left untreated.Here are a part of the most expensive pieces of tapeworm showing up in an unaltered cat, but also stay on the fake fur.Luckily, a simple 10-step program to help you find something else is packed.It seems like a modern piece of furniture he will eventually have all four cats of urine and most efficient way to ensure that all cats whether they go outside and generally wander free - you might do for your cat for scratching other inappropriate furniture and clothing.

So Arnica should be sure to have the oddest smelling litter in it comfortably.This may help your pets in a small part of a conflict problem with time and continue to grow healthy.If you have the same door so that he puts up a urine marking issue.Altered gaits may lead to scratching, hair loss, and infection.This means they can't speak out verbally, cats communicate such as the scratching spot.

#How To Stop A Neutered Cat From Spraying In The House Awesome Useful Tips #How To Stop Cat Spraying I

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kwa-mii · 7 years

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AU / Free Day

The end of a week! The end of an era!

This one was 100% the most fun to write and I miiiight have gotten a bit carried away so it ended up a LOT longer than the rest. For that reason, I’ve decided only to post about half of it here - if you want the full experience, check it out on ao3.

I love AUs more than life itself and since today’s my birthday (wow) it worked out pretty well that I get to post it today! Tho I’ve got exams in two weeks so I probably won’t be writing ever again rip

It was defo a fun experience, and I’m really glad that @miraculous-weeks exists to provide me with my inspiration. I also enjoyed seeing all the other fan works!! a good run!!!

Some select words of this fic are in Serbian so I’ve glossed them at the very end of this part of the fic

Killing Hands - an AU Adrinette angst fic (3529 words, up to the cut)

Warnings: mentions of illness and themes of death, plus a bit of nudity

This natural phenomenon, the strange bulbous mountain, puzzled those who could see it from their villages below. Nature had been experimenting when it made this mountain, the young ones said in wonder. The old ones replied that they could have sworn it had looked normal once; in their youth, the mountain had been straight as the back of a military general. It was some evil, they hissed, some curse that pushed at the rock and made it swell like that: stay away. You will die if you go up there.

The warnings of old ones were not enough to keep the curious from venturing up the cliffs, but the physical toil needed provided that barrier. One could set off at sunrise and only pass the first foothill by midday - to get to the rounded stone near the peak would take another day's labour, and few cared enough to go that far to prove a few old spinsters wrong.

Those that did make it to the summit believed in the stories of the devil that lived in the mountain, and became a part of that story themselves. Most didn't come back, but the one or two that did would talk about the reaper with his dread hands and dark eyes. How he spoke in a voice of thunder and spread darkness underfoot as he moved. His claws. His snarl. The stench of death and hell.

The secret of the mountain was more simple, yet more complicated than that. Those boulders that protruded from the stone face, gems pressed into the base of a coronet, marked grave after grave after grave. The mountain was crowned with death, and its king was the one they called Crna Mačka.

Crna Mačka, killer and servant of the devil (if not the Prince of Darkness himself), would always come out of his cave at sunset to watch the night creep into the burning sky. If you looked hard enough, and if the moon was shining bright enough, you might see his shape; inhuman almost, with an animal's head and long claws. He would linger there for a moment, a singular glint in the gloom, and retreat back into the dark. A trick of the light, sceptics maintained, but the truth was Crna Mačka was no more an illusion than anyone on the ground below.

As the sun staggered from the sky, the figure on the rocks slid down so that he sat on the edge of one of the high cliffs, his feet meeting a cluster of roots. This mountain, barren as it looked within the green forest it presided over, was full of life in unspoken corners, and it pulsed like a secret at its core. Only where he walked was there an absence of life's essence, only where he lingered did the world's heartbeat still. Crna Mačka, though he was a living man himself, carried the burden of death and balled it up into his fists. Human, by biological definition, but the ability to snatch life with a touch of his hand made him the monster that people believed in.

He looked down at his hands, unfamiliar yet repulsively his own. He didn't recognise his own hands, could not view the pale skin beneath and trace his pasts and his futures, for the simple fact that he always had them covered. For disgust and caution, he never took off his gloves. On ��top, he wore a pair of long, grooved, golden claws with savage points. Monster's claws, and claws that provided the ceremony people expected of their Crna Mačka.

People came up that mountain to die, and he let them have their wish. Ungodly thing that he was, some people needed a villain when failed by humankind, and he was glad that somehow, in his great and incomprehensible evil, he could provide some use. His power was ugly, but there was mercy in it. When he saw an animal in pain, or a desperate invalid, he could at least provide an exit, and a gentle hand to soothe their fevered brow. Maybe in this way he could find redemption for that beast that cried and snarled in his depths.

Sometimes he did wonder if that which he called compassion was only quicksilver cruelty. He had been taught of God, and of Lucifer, and how the devil was a flatterer. Maybe he was this country's new devil, maybe his alternatives only seemed good because that was what the devil did: he made evil seem delicious. Crna Mačka knew life was pure, and there was nothing more so, for he could feel its wonder whenever he snapped its frail chains, and its sanctity was not to be questioned, especially not by one such as he.

Still, he continued dispensing his small kindnesses, never minding the lurch of revulsion in his throat. Heretic. Sinner. Monster. Mortal evil for those below to invoke in their curses.

Crna Mačka still hungered for his humanity, but the distance between them and he was too great - here, in the mountains, far off and up high, it was at its most evident. With a sigh, he turned back into his cave for the night. The end of a day. All he knew was endings.

The darkness he returned to was lit by clusters of flickering candles, balanced on the nooks of stone or grouped at the base of the walls - another form of ambience for his great show. A single skull, a big stone seat, and a rug in the centre. He himself slept in an alcove just beyond his makeshift devil's throne, so small and narrow it was as though he lay in a grave. Apt, perhaps. He had built a firepit as well, on which he had set a great black pot for his meals, which were modest and came twice a day. He chose not to spend much time in the cave if he could help it, and so it was bare and simple and hellishly cold in the winters.

A shadow distubed his darkness, and he whirled around, claws out, "What do you want from Crna Mačka?"

There stood, just in the entrance and blotting out the stars, a robed figure. They were dressed in red, with a girdle around the waist and a hood obscuring their face. Faceless and shrouded in flickering flame, they looked like an apparition from hell, but the voice, when it came, was sweet and feminine, "Isn't that obvious? I've come to die."

The voice, amongst its other tender qualities, was young. Crna Mačka narrowed his eyes. He'd seen young people before, begging for release. Naïvely, he had taken them by their word, feeling it was impious to deign to bear judgment on the breadth and depth of their sorrow. But he had once overseen a teenage suicide, just a boy who'd given up, and it hadn't become clear to him until afterwards that life for this one was not ending, but only beginning. The look on his face, the scars he later found, the lovingly packed bag from a mother who assumed her son was travelling to an aunt... the body weighed on him like a sin. He had sworn never again to deprive these people of life - mere melancholy was not enough to justify the evil - and from that point he had decided never to take a story by its words. He needed to see both soul and flesh in anguish. He needed truly forsaken souls with no other way out.

"Come in," he said, and crouched down by his fire, "There should be enough for two. Sit down."

The stranger sat down on the rug, keeping her distance, "I can't say I expected such warm hospitality here."

In spite of himself, he found himself adopting the same gently joking tone,

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'd just put too much water on the boil."

He took a ladle and filled a small wooden cup for her. The liquid was pale, and leaves floated on its surface; she sniffed at it as he passed it to her. He watched her bring it to her mouth, as the brim of the cup slipped under the shadow of her hood, "Careful, it's still hot. I stewed some local plants in there, so it should be a bit more filling than tea."

"It still tastes like tea. Aren't you going to have any?"

"I thought I should look after you first. That's what I'm here for."

"You're here to kill me. Or, at least, I'm here to ask you to."

He looked at her coldly, "I'm here to show you mercy. If you need anything else, don't waste time."

She was silenced by this, and sipped tentatively at the broth. He crossed over to the big, stark, stone seat and sat. He crossed his leg imperiously over the other, and rested his clawed hands on the slabs that provided his throne with arms. Sat above her, his cat's mask illuminated by the candles below that leant it a garish, infernal glow, he hoped to cast that brief, treacherous moment of friendliness behind him. If he was going to play the monster, he was going to commit.

"Who are you?"

"Some people call me Bubamara."

He remembered the voices of children: 'bubamara, bubamara!', how they used to chase the ladybugs until they landed, and squeal, 'It's on you! Make a wish!'. This bubamara he had heard of too. One dead man, rotting before his eyes, had confessed he had already been to see Bubamara, but she had had nothing for him, other than a bag of coins heavier than any he had ever seen or dreamed of; "This will provide for your family when you're gone." Since she'd had no miracle cure, the man's only remaining option had been to seek Crna Mačka of the mountains. The old man had died that day.

Crna Mačka thought it fitting that this wandering miracle-maker should adopt the name of a ladybug, that symbol of good fortune. Apparently, she carried with her a bag of lucky charms, into which she would reach for anyone she chanced upon her way, and would bring out that thing they most needed, without knowing their woes. A beautiful gift for their lover, material to plug the leak their roof had sprung, an heirloom once lost. Bubamara had a solution to every problem, even those that were not yet known; one had received paints and gone to make a living from selling their work, having never touched a canvas before.

Hearing her story, some part of him had romanticised this figure, set her against himself as his foil. He was dark and she was light, and together they could shape the destinies of men. Some day, he had wished to meet her, to judge if she was human or divine. Benevolent and unknowable, that same Bubamara now crouched at his feet, no longer weighed down by her bag of tricks but instead by some great mortal burden.

"Did you not have something in your bag for yourself?" "It's time for me to set down my bag, mače."

'Kitty', she'd called him. The gentle intimacy attempted to cover her terror; yes, there was terror in the admission. What had struck such fear into Bubamara's soul? "What's your story?"

She twisted her hands in her lap, retracted them into the sleeves of her robe,

"The whole thing?"

"The parts that led you here."

"I'm sick," she confessed, "And that's why I've been travelling for years. As soon as I knew, I had to leave. I couldn't stand around and let my parents see me die, and I couldn't run the risk of passing my disease on to them. So I left home, and I hoped I might get better, except I only got worse and worse and I never got the chance to go back. But I did get the chance to help others, and if I just kept moving, I couldn't hurt them, I couldn't doom them to the death that awaits me. I could give them the hope I couldn't have for myself. And that was important to me - and still is important to me. But I'm reaching the point where there is no hope left in me; I have nothing to share. Because I'm sick, and I'm dying, and it hurts to walk, and it hurts to breathe," he noticed now the slight rasp in her voice, how each vowel snagged on her tongue. She took in a breath, slowed down, "And I thought... you'd help me. You would let me go."

Though he could hear something was not right in her body, he had to make sure, "Is there no cure?"

"None. It's one of the most contagious and most deadly illnesses, and it's a miracle I've lived so long."

"I've heard of no such disease," he said, "How can I know you're really dying?"

Without any hesitation, she pulled the girdle from her waist, and her robes fell open, revealing the flesh below. She wore nothing beneath, and he did not have to imagine the extent of wastage to her body. Bubamara was pale and drained of colour, translucent around the ribs, which carved prominent ridges across her torso. She had lost most of the fat around her chest, and that triangle between her legs was barren, while inflamed skin hung from her hips. More troubling than this, tracked across her body were hundreds of billious black marks, and these spots trailed up along her neck, presumably onto her face. Everywhere. Each speck a stab from sickness' knife.

It seemed it was her condition and not her fortune that gave Bubamara her name. Indeed, those plague scars, like the spots on the wings of ladybugs, belied her very misfortune. The irony did not slip him by.

"What about you?" she asked.

The question took him aback, and so did the fact that she made no move to cover up - giving her skin to the air as though it was the last time her pores would breathe it. To die, after all, was her intention, and she seemed determined to follow it through. Feeling he was invading her privacy somehow, he now looked away, "What exactly about me?"

"Your story. I know that, though people call me things like an angel or a good witch, I'm just a human at the end of the day, and I'm furthermore a sceptic. I don't believe them when they say that you're a devil. I think you must just be a very unlucky human, Mače. And though you wear that great headress and all that black, I think it's just show. Who are you really? Who is the one they call Crna Mačka?"

His face darkened, "No, anyone with this power must be a monster. I'm evil."

"You don't do any evil."

That same moral quandry richocheted through his head, burning at the backs of his eyes. Killing was killing. The selfsame thing, repackaged. He was undeniably, inarguably, a devil in human's clothes. The headdress, the cloak, this was how he made it clear; trust not the appearance of the man, for there is an insidious nature that lurks under it.

When he didn't reply, she shrugged, "It doesn't matter, and I don't care what you are. What's important is that you can end me. For what it's worth, I don't consider it an evil. In fact," he could hear the wry smirk in her voice, "I believe I would be grateful."

Crna Mačka cleared his throat, leaned callously back into his stone chair, "So you're sick. You're dying. You're useless. Why should I end your life for such trivial things?"

"Trivial?" she splutters, "I can't talk to my family anymore and you call it trivial? My mother and father mean the world to me, and living in this one and posing a threat to their life is not something I want to happen. My illness means I cannot connect with those around me anymore, I must be transient and flit from place to place like a restless bug, and that's no life. Life is not worth it when you're alone and have no one to talk to, and every step hurts like a stone in your side, and you can't eat or sleep. My vision is going, and so is my tongue, and I don't want to reach that stage where I have no abilities other than beating blood around my body. I'm turning into a shadow. I can see it happening, every day, and it scares me and I want to beat it somehow, even if that means just beating it to the end goal."

"Death."

After this, there is silence. Crna Mačka looked at his hands, thinking. Someone that had brought such joy to those in need should not have to die, not so young. He shouldn't have to be faced with the job of doing it. Life was unfair like that. These injustices were where the devil really played.

Bubamara spoke again, softening, "Mače, if you're not human, then neither am I. You, because your strength transcends mortal barriers. Me, because my life no longer seems mortal. We are both worms, but at least you're useful."

His voice, softer than hers, drew a sigh from the very depths of his chest: "Then are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

Crna Mačka alighted from his throne, and stepped towards his victim. A candle blew out as he passed it, an omen of what was to come. It was cold, but Bubamara did not tremble, and instead kept her head down, watching his feet tap, tap, tap towards her, light as a cat's prowl. He stopped some two feet before her, green eyes unblinking and blackened by night.

Here came the bit he hated most, the bit that haunted his fears. He always made it extravagant, for his own piece of mind and for the other's - he needed to detach himself from the scene somehow, and they needed their expectations fulfilled, to go down in a blaze of glory. He had his own ritual for snuffing out lives. He would place one hand, clawed, on their shoulder, and remove the other from its glove, press it to their skin. That mere touch was enough to kill, but nevertheless, he would intone the words with ceremonnial observance: kataklizma. And they would die. And all that would remain of them tomorrow would be the boulder rolled over their grave. And that was it.

He didn't want to kill her, he didn't want to, he didn't want -

"Thank you," she said.

The words stumped him for a moment. Why. When hell incarnate stood above you, poised to draw out the final breath from your lungs, and condemn you to sleep for eternity, you did not thank it. You did not welcome it. It was not right that she should see him as a hero when he had been long cast in the role of defiler. There was nothing else he could be, or do. This was all he knew, and he did not want to be thanked for it, for it was a torment to him. Stone him, hate him, but never thank him.

He chose to ignore her, and he began the observance of his shallow spectacle, prepared his final questions, his blasphemous invocation of a baptism or a mass, "Are you at peace?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Are you sure that this is your chosen fate?"

"Yes," she replied. He reached out to her, fingers outstretched, claws cupping the air with their cruel glint, and he asked his final question, "Are you truly prepared to die?"

If they were not looking when they answered, he would tip their chin with his claws and search their eyes, and he knew from the look in them if that poor soul was truly honest, or if there was any hesitance that broiled in their irises. The eyes of the truly doomed were still, unflinching, unfathomably dark. Accepting eyes. Martyred eyes. Dead eyes already, becoming deader. The look in their eyes had to be right.

Bubamara gazed down at that clawed hand for a long, long moment. She did not speak. She did not move. She did not look. Her head stayed bowed, her hands remained still. Then, with that voice softer than silk or sin, she whispered, "Adrien?"

And she looked up at him for the first time, and beneath her hood the eyes were right, but the face they were in was wrong, so very wrong, and Crna Mačka felt his heart splinter, wrong, wrong, wrong, familiar and wrong.

His voice cracked. "Marinette?"