#a light at the end of the tunnel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumpdoyoumean · 1 year

Text

Whumptober #31

xxx a light at the end of the tunnel

Hope is a funny thing.

Having lived for well over half a millennium, Hob Gadling has lost hope more times than he cares to admit. But he’s also seen that hope rewarded, often in the most unexpected of ways, sometimes decades or even centuries after it had been seemingly lost.

It’s hope that keeps him from turning tail and running when he arrives at Fawney Rig, home of Alex Burgess. It’s a grand old estate, the type that requires a good deal of staff to keep up. Staff who are currently lying dead in the foyer, on the steps, in the upstairs hallway. Four of them that he can count, and he’s barely got one foot in the door.

Six hundred years, and the brutality of which man is capable still manages to surprise him. He does his best to avoid such barbarism, when he can. It does nothing for his mental well-being and, having not gotten used to it despite his overabundance of experience (maybe because of it). It eats away at him.

And yet here, in the middle of such darkness…still there exists that bright sliver of hope. That maybe something he thought he’d lost for good isn’t lost after all.

This is what he clings to as he enters the mansion. His footsteps echo on the tile, and it occurs to him just how quiet it is. No sounds of weeping or begging, no quiet pleas for help. His heart sinks, and he knows in his gut that there are no survivors. Whoever is responsible for this carnage will have seen to that.

Hob’s step quickens. He’d managed to find the public records on the house--architectural drawings, blueprints and floor plans, surveys. A long night’s study had led him to the conclusion that the paperwork was carefully curated, and that the strange American was right: Something is afoot at the Burgess estate.

A shudder runs through Hob as he thinks back on the man who’d come into the inn a few nights before, asking odd questions of the people there. It had seemed at first that he was just another tourist, curious about the old homes that are older, almost, than his country. But as the questions had grown more pointed, the man more insistent, it became clear that he was looking for something. There was a lot of talk of dreams. It was his mention of the Devil and the Wandering Jew that finally prompted Hob to speak.

“A fascinating little story isn’t it?”

He’ll never forget the flash of malice that had crossed the man’s face. It had only been there for a second before it was replaced by a forced smile that was no less discomfiting. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and laced with venom.

“Who says it’s just a story?”

There are more bodies as Hob continues through the halls. The American had seemed quietly unbalanced, like there was something desperate and dangerous and wild just below the surface, but this…

Could one man really have done all of this?

It’s with that thought that he begins to run.

He’s surprised at how quickly he finds the hidden basement door--due, largely, to the fact that it sits wide open. The air coming from the doorway is cold and musty-smelling and sends a shiver down his spine. His fingers land on the handle of the small knife at his hip, and then he’s moving down the stone steps, as quietly as he can. He can hear snippets of sound as he gets closer. The only thing he really makes out is Morpheus.

He doesn’t know why but the name, though he doesn’t recognize it, sends a warm jolt of familiarity through his heart. He’s so busy trying to piece together what the feeling might mean that he forgets his attempt at stealth as he steps through the open iron gates and down the two small steps into a dark, candlelit chamber. He certainly doesn’t notice the man lying in wait for him, until he feels a gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Turn around,” the American says, and Hob does so, though not before he catches a glimpse of a naked figure on a bed of broken glass, pale and bloodied and striking the same golden chord that the name Morpheus had. “Professor? I have to admit, this is unexpected.”

He launches into some long-winded monologue, but Hob doesn’t hear a word of it. Because he was right. He knows who it is lying there, unmoving, on the ground beneath the round metal frame. And he knows who it is that made him bleed.

He doesn’t enjoy killing people. He’s done it, of course. Not just out of necessity, either. He’s killed for reasons far more selfish and debauched than that. Never has he taken pleasure in the act.

This, though. This is maybe as close as he gets.

He moves with lightning speed, with reflexes refined by centuries of honing. It’s not a fight. The American doesn’t even have time for his finger to twitch before the blade is buried in his carotid. He stares at Hob with wide-eyed shock. Hob stares back for one hate-filled moment before he pulls the knife out, turning on his heel as red arcs out and the American falls to the ground.

The hatred is forgotten immediately as Hob runs to the naked man’s side, replaced by something gentler and more precarious.

“It’s you.”

Even beaten and bloodied, he knows this face. Of course he knows this face, how could he not? He quickly takes off his coat, draping it over the huddled and trembling and bleeding figure whose eyes remain shut.

“Alright, old friend,” Hob says softly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to move you now.”

He moves as quickly as he dares, mindful of the larger pieces of glass in the slight man’s body as he carefully lifts the man into his arms. He’s surprised at how easy it is, barely taking more effort than lifting a child, and the man stirs slightly, a groan slipping from lips that are pale white beneath the blood.

“Easy, now,” Hob murmurs. His eyes land on a sigil on the ground, and disgust rises in him as he scuffs the markings with one foot before continuing.

The man groans again and he starts to squirm in Hob’s arms. He’s skin and bones, and has just had the shit beat out of him, and it would be easy to subdue him if Hob weren’t so worried about doing further harm.

“Okay--alright! Let me at least get you away from all the glass and the damned binding circle.”

He walks hurriedly, moving to a subchamber that’s free of glass and blood, and eases the man onto the floor, covering him carefully with his coat. The man’s not fully conscious, eyes moving beneath slightly parted lids. Hob doesn’t want to leave him here alone for even a second, but the stone floors of the basement are frigid, and he can practically see the heat being leached from the man’s body.

“I’ll be back,” he says, brushing his fingers against the man’s icy knuckles. “I won’t be a minute. Don’t move.”

He runs up the stairs and then up another flight, barely noticing the bodies now as he ducks into the first room he sees. He’s got more pressing things on his mind. He loads his arms with blankets, a pillow, and a flannel nightshirt, and makes the journey back to that awful basement, twice nearly tripping in his haste. He grabs a bottle of water as he passes the desk where the guards lay dead, then hurries into the subchamber. The relief he feels when he sees that the man hasn’t vanished is quickly undercut by the fact he’s gone completely still.

“No.” He dumps everything from the bedroom onto the floor and kneels next to the man, his immortal heart beating so frantically it feels as if it might give out. His fingers shake lightly as he takes the man’s wrist in his hand. He’s spent a hundred and twenty-seven years waiting for this reunion. This can’t be the way it ends.

He almost cries when he finds the pulse, surprisingly strong given the state of the man.

“You scared me,” he says. He wipes the blood from his knife and cuts one of the blankets, ripping it the rest of the way with his hands and repeating the process until he’s got a small pile of cloth strips. He talks quietly the whole time. He’s not sure if the man can hear him, but he’d much rather speak and have his words fall on empty ears, than not speak and have the man be offered no comfort.

There are things Hob wants to tell him, of course. Things he’d planned on telling him when they were last supposed to meet, things he’s thought about telling him since. He doesn’t say them, though. He’ll save those for when the two of them can have a proper conversation.

For now, he talks about the weather, describing the color of the sky and the leaves, the feel of the breeze and the lovely scent that it carries, the birdsong. He talks as he winds a long strip of cloth around the large piece of glass in the man’s thigh, careful not to jostle it but also making the make-shift bandage tight enough to slow the bleeding, and to keep the glass in place until he’s in a better position to deal with it. By the time he finishes and moves to the man’s arm to repeat the process, he’s run out of ways to talk about the weather, so he talks about his recent holiday to the Isle of Wight. He doesn’t notice the silent tears that slip down the stranger’s face.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he drapes a blanket (one that he hasn’t torn up to use as bandages) over the man and turns his attention to his face. He can’t help but grimace as he does. An ugly bruise is already forming over the man’s left eye and there’s a nasty gash over his cheekbone, and a small knot is forming above his right temple. His lip is split, too, and his nose looks like it might be broken. Perhaps most alarming is the man’s lower jaw, which juts sharply to the right. Definitely dislocated.

A fresh dose of hatred courses through his veins.

He won’t be losing much sleep over the American, he decides.

He pours water over one of the strips of fabric and starts the work of cleaning the blood away. Only when he starts to gingerly dab at the cut on his head does the stranger flinch and begin to stir.

“Sorry!” Hob says, pausing as the man turns away from his touch. “Are you with me?”

The man’s eyes fly open and for a fraction of a second, Hob could swear that he sees the stars reflected in them. And then he’s staring into those familiar pools of blue, wide and panicked at first, but quickly softening with recognition. His lips begin to move, and Hob speaks quickly before the man has a chance to.

“Careful. Don’t--don’t try to speak. Your jaw’s been dislocated. I think I can move it back into place--I’ve learned a great many things in my lifetimes--but it’s going to be unpleasant. Painful…” His mind goes back to what he’d heard when he first came down the steps. “I heard the man say Morpheus. Is that your name?”

The man stares at him for a moment before bobbing his head up and down.

Morpheus.

“Alright, Morpheus. Do you trust me?”

Morpheus nods once, without hesitation. There’s not a hint of trepidation in his eyes.

“Good. I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can.”

It’s an uncomfortable procedure. Hob is impressed by how quiet and still Morpheus is as he puts his thumbs against his lower molars, wrapping his fingers under the man’s chin.

“I need you to relax for me, now, while I move it back into place. Ready? Relax relax relax…” He applies pressure, pushing the man’s jaw down and then back until he feels it click back into place. The man lets out a sharp gasp, and then sighs, his shoulders sagging a little as he leans his head back against the wall.

“Thank you,” he breathes. His whole body is trembling, even under the blanket. “Thank you. Thank you, Hob.”

“You’re welcome, Morpheus.”

The ghost of a smile crosses the man’s lips--lips which, Hob notes gladly, have begun to gain a bit of color back--and he reaches his uninjured arm out from under the blanket, resting his hand on Hob’s shoulder.

“You may call me Dream. That is what my friends call me.”

Hob can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest and escapes out his mouth at the word friends, and the chill of this place seems to fade a bit.

“We should get you out of this place, Dream,” he says after a long moment. He picks up the nightshirt and sets to work ripping off the right sleeve, pausing when he sees Dream’s stare which he interprets as being inquisitive, despite it looking very much like his usual staring. “The glass in your arm,” he explains.

Dream winces a little, as if he hadn’t noticed it until just now. The small surge of energy he’d had is clearly beginning to fade.

“Here, put this on. It isn’t quite to your taste, but it will cover you well enough until we can find something more suited to you.”

Dream scowls slightly at the red and black plaid, but takes it anyway, pushing the blanket down and pulling the nightshirt over his head.

“Can you stand?” Hob asks.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t look as sure as he sounds, though, and doesn’t turn down Hob’s proffered hand. The nightshirt falls down around him as he rises to his feet, and it’s clear that it was intended for a larger man. It makes for quite a sight: Dream, practically drowning in the bright fabric, save for his one care arm. Would’ve been quite funny, if not for the cuts and bruises, and the hiss he lets out as he tries to put weight on his injured leg.

“Easy, there. Are you alright? Can you walk?”

“I can walk.” There’s not so much confidence now, and Hob loops an arm around his bony waist.

“I’ve got you.”

It’s slow-going, and Hob finds himself cursing the spiral staircase more than once as they make their way up. Dream is gasping by the time they get to the ground floor, and shaking, a dazed, exhausted look on his face. He doesn’t react to the bloody scene in the foyer, and Hob’s not entirely convinced that the poor man even sees it. They make it the last few steps out the front door and onto the porch before it occurs to Hob that Dream is barefoot. He looks at the gravel drive and then at Dream’s bloodied feet and shakes his head.

“That’s it, I’m carrying you the rest of the way.”

Dream barely protests as Hob lifts him off of his feet, and it’s clear he’s given in when he loops his good arm around Hob’s neck and leans into him.

He’s unconscious again by the time they reach the car, and Hob has to wrangle him into the passenger side, careful not to jostle the glass. He’s just done the seatbelt when he looks up at that godforsaken house, and the hatred and rage for the people who imprisoned Dream come roaring up, all at once.

“Just one more thing I’ve got to do,” he says.

He’s never been more grateful for the extra petrol he keeps in the car just in case. The place is full of unattended candles and dry old books, anyway.

An accident was bound to happen.

xxx

The first thoughts that enter Dream’s mind upon regaining consciousness are soft and warm--both of which are things that he hasn’t been in a very, very long time. The next word is safe. And the word after that, a name:

Hob.

He opens his eyes to find himself in a bed that’s infinitely softer than any he’s been in in this realm. A quick examination reveals that the glass is gone from his arm, replaced with clean bandages, and when he brushes his fingers against his leg, the same is true there. There’s a bandage on his cheek, as well. Strangely, he can hardly feel his injuries. Instead, his whole body feels tingly, almost warm. And his head feels…sodd. Like it’s been filled with helium and would take flight if not for his neck keeping it attached to his body.

“Hob?” he asks. He’s about to repeat the name when a door opens to his left and Hob appears, his hair and body dripping, gripping a towel that’s wrapped around his waist.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wide.

Dream nods, and the world starts to spin. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and stop the movement. “I feel strange.”

“Ah, yes. That would be the medication. I had to give you something before I removed the glass. The piece in your leg was dangerously close to your femoral artery. Even the slightest movement could’ve caused you to bleed out.”

Dream forces his eyes open and stares at Hob, who’s opened his closet and is pulling out a bathrobe.

“You needn’t have worried,” he says, the words feeling strange on his tongue. His lids start to droop and he forces them open. “I can’t die, remember?”

He has just enough awareness to see a flicker of something in Hob’s expression. Something like guilt.

“Aye,” Hob says quietly. “But you can be hurt or captured.” He shakes his head, almost as if, Dream thinks, to shake the sadness from his face. And then he smiles, a warm expression crossing his handsome features. “Please, Dream. Don’t stay awake on my account; we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. You can rest now.”

And for the first time in a century, Dream does.

xxx end

79 notes · View notes

whump3000 · 1 year

Text

Whumptober No. 31- A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Tw: Death

“You’ll never escape me.”

Whumper’s words echoed in Whumpee’s head, reverberating with each footstep.

“You’ll never make it out. You’ll never be free.”

Well, looked like Whumpee had made it out, set themselves free. The question was, could they keep themselves free?

They could already hear the rumble of Whumper’s truck. It was only a matter of time until they pulled into the gravel driveway and saw the broken window, bedecked with a smattering of Whumpee’s blood.

They hadn’t been as careful as they should have been while escaping. But then again how could they? This was their first escape attempt in weeks. They had to take it.

Whumpee heard someone scream out in rage.

They gritted their teeth and ran harder. They ran as fast as they could, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough. Weeks of torment, days without food, not to mention that nasty cut on their arm, it was all too much for Whumpee, and try as they might, Whumper’s words rang true.

They could not escape. They could not make it out. They could not be free.

Whumper tackled Whumpee, sending them sprawling face-first into the dirt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Whumper flipped Whumpee over, punching them in the face. “I leave for two hours and you try and make an escape? This was a test, Whumpee. A test, and you failed miserably.”

Whumpee let out a quiet whimper, blood dripping out of their mouth. They thought they heard a motor in the distance, but maybe it was just the taunting echo of Whumper’s return.

“Come on.” Whumper yanked Whumpee to their feet, dragging them through the field. “You’re going back on the chain when we get inside. You’re never going to leave this house again.”

“No! I’ll never rest until I’m a million miles away from you!”

“That’s awfully far, considering you couldn’t make it across the field.”

Whumpee spat the blood from their mouth. “You’ll see!”

“Enough!” Whumper hit Whumpee with enough force to send them sprawling. “You have no right to speak to me like that!”

“You have no right to treat me like this!”

Whumper laughed, pulling a knife out of their pocket. “Oh, I have every right. You’re mine, Whumpee. You’re mine, and I can do whatever the fuck I want to.”

Whumpee tried to run, but Whumper grabbed them by the collar, raising the knife above their head—

It was as if the world was slowing down. Whumpee heard the shot. They saw the bloody pool in Whumper’s chest, and heard the thud of Whumper’s body hit the ground. They saw and heard every bit of it, but it wasn’t real, right? This wasn’t true. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean—

“Whumpee!” Caretaker dropped the gun they were holding and ran to Whumpee’s side, cupping their bloody face in their hands, crying.

“Caretaker? What?” Whumpee’s voice felt strange. Everything felt strange. This wasn’t real. None of this was real.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Caretaker whispered, holding Whumpee in their arms. “You can rest now.”

#whumptober 2022 #no. 31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #you can rest now #whump #whumpee #whumper #defiant whumpee #caretaker #aggressive caretaker #whump thoughts #whump scenario #whump writing

44 notes · View notes

starlit-hopes-and-dreams · 1 year

Text

Chapter 13 ~ A light at the end of the tunnel

Hidden Depths

Previous ~ Masterlist

Genre: Fantasy whump

Written per Whumptober 2022 prompts

CW: captivity flashback (dream), drugging, blood, debasement, creepy/intimate whumper, strangulation, vocal injury, lots and lots of beautiful angst

WC: 3787 4014

AN: Hey, I'm putting a title as a placeholder bc it bothers me to finish this arc without one.

I fully intend to continue this in a recovery arc. I might need to take a little break though lol.

Although, let me know if anyone wants an AU :D

Dual POV warning

Resh

Something must’ve been in the broth brought to him earlier because now the rusty bloodstains on the floor swam in uneven lines through the chalky white limestone. The light flickering from the lamps by the door created shadowed hands that reached out for him. Resh blinked, and he could hear his eyelashes brush together. His skin was buzzing, and his injuries throbbed mercilessly. He whimpered.

"What's the matter, Resh? Are you not feeling well today?" Marcus asked, brushing his hand down Resh's arm.

Resh flinched. Where had Marcus come from? He hadn't seen the prince enter the room, let alone crouch in front of him. His breath caught when Marcus dug his fingers into one of the wounds on his arm, cracking open the fragile edges. Marcus brought his bloody fingers up to Resh's face, traced them over the tear tracks running down his cheeks.

"Ah, a bloody tear trail. I like it." Marcus grinned and reached out to brush Resh's hair back.

Resh jerked back before he could stop himself.

Suddenly, Marcus' hand was behind Resh's head, his hair caught in a painful grip. The vine wrapped around his collar slithered away, and Marcus slammed his head to the floor at his feet.

Resh's brain ricocheted in his skull while bright sparks flashed behind his eyes. Fuck, that hurt.

"You can't seem to remember that you belong to me, can you? That you’re mine to do with as I will," Marcus said, grinding Resh's head into the stone.

"No, my lord. I'm sorry, my lord," Resh forced out, trying not to flinch at the harsh sound of his voice. What remained of it, anyway.

Fuck you, you piece of shit, is what he really wanted to say.

The prince released him. "On your hands and knees, eyes on the ground."

Resh scrambled to follow Marcus' instructions, but his limbs were unwieldy and weak. His head throbbed, and his vision swam, probably more from whatever drug he'd been given than the blow. Marcus' boots moved away, making a curious crunching noise while Resh struggled to get into position.

A wet warmth trickled down his forehead; Resh watched as a droplet of red splashed on the floor. The stone greedily drank the blood, leaving nothing but a tiny spot of rust behind.

"Eyes up." Marcus' voice sounded far away and oddly layered.

Resh raised his head, finding Marcus sitting on a chair across the room. Or rather, three Marcus’. The floor between them looked strange–the light reflected off it strangely. Resh tried to concentrate, to pick a Marcus to look at, but he couldn't decide which one was real.

Marcus laughed. "Having a little trouble, Resh?"

That lopsided grin he hated so much reflected back at him three times over. Resh shivered at the wrongness of it–the world couldn’t take three of Marcus. He couldn’t take three of Marcus.

"Come here," Marcus beckoned.

Resh sat up, tried to keep himself steady enough on his knees to stand.

"No, no, not like that," Marcus said, amusement lacing his tone. "Crawl."

Immediately, Resh balked. Fuck, no. No way in the pits of the damned was he doing that.

"Oh, you think you can say no?" Marcus asked, crossing three pairs of arms over three chests.

The collar around Resh's throat tightened, cutting off all access to air. Resh tried to dig his fingers underneath the vine, but his efforts were useless.

Three Marcus' laughed at him through his rapidly darkening vision. "You better start crawling. If you don't, I'll let you pass out. You’ll wake up soon enough when I release the pressure. I'll strangle you again, and again, and again. Then, when I get bored with that, I'll practice my technique on you a little more, and you'll have no strength left to even squirm."

Resh dropped to his hands and knees again, forcing himself to move. He would do almost anything not to feel that knife digging into his skin again, only to be replaced by Marcus' fingers, probing and pulling and tearing. Ripping him apart.

The collar loosened when he crawled forward. He sucked in a glorious breath, only to lose it in a hoarse scream as he put his weight on his left hand. His right shot out to support him so he could inspect it, find out what had sliced into his palm. A crunch followed by searing pain stopped him.

Resh reared back onto his knees with another cry. Tears blurred his vision even more while he cradled his bleeding hands to his chest. Echoes of the pain traveled all the way up Resh's arms.

The floor was covered in shards of glass.

"You are mine for another year, Resh. But you keep forgetting. Pulling away from me. Looking at me with hate in your eyes," Marcus said. "I own you, and I won't have you thinking otherwise. Now crawl."

The collar tightened again and didn't loosen until Resh was back on his hands and knees. He whimpered when he put weight on his hands once more, driving the shards further into his flesh. The glass dug into his knees next, and he froze, unable to force his body forward.

"Please, my lord, I can't," he sobbed.

Tears and blood fell from his face, mixing to stain the glass beneath him. Pools of red seeped out from under his palms. He felt paralyzed; he could either slice himself up on glass or let Marcus strangle him and strip more of his skin away.

"You can, Resh, and you will." Marcus' voices echoed through the room, ringing in Resh's head in triplets of cruel satisfaction.

He tried to move, he really did, but his arm trembled and stayed where it was. "Please," he cried. "I belong to you! I—"

His plea was cut off when the collar tightened.

"You will move, or I will drag you across the floor, how about that?" Marcus asked, sounding irritated now.

Somehow, he moved. Again and again, the glass crunched under his weight, drove into his skin. A steady whine emerged from his throat, interrupted by hiccuping sobs. His left arm gave out, and he fell on his shoulder. More glass embedded into previously compromised flesh, bruised and lacerated and stripped from earlier sessions with the prince.

It hurt it hurt it hurt

Resh could barely see, and what he could see was unreliable. He crawled, hoping he was heading toward the correct Marcus.

His world was nothing but pain, blood, and tears. And the sound of Marcus' laughter.

The relief he felt when he reached Marcus' actual feet was indescribable. Thank gods he hadn't guessed wrong. Thank gods. He hung his head, panting against the continuous onslaught of pain. His whole body was shaking–cold, he was so cold.

Marcus rose from his chair. Placed his boot on the back of Resh's neck. "Say it."

"I belong to you," he said dully, his voice little more than a whisper.

Marcus pressed down, and Resh's arm gave out again. He shrieked as the shards dug into his bare chest.

"Not good enough," Marcus said, pressing harder.

~~~

Resh bolted upright with a soundless scream.

Frantically, he tried to pluck the glass from his skin, to stop the pain streaking like lightning throughout his body. But his hands met fabric, fabric soaked through with sweat.

He stilled when he realized he was wearing a shirt. That didn't fit. His chest heaved while he tried to recenter himself.

It was dark, but he was sitting on something soft and warm. His left hand clenched in something silky... bedsheets? Yes, bedsheets. His right hand flew to his throat. A knot in his stomach loosened when he encountered no collar. Just the small dots of scar tissue left behind from the thorns.

It was dark, but moonlight streamed in from a window to his left, and a thin silvery beam crossed the foot of the bed. Slowly, achingly slowly, Resh's heart rate slowed. He traced his fingers over his throat, reminding himself he wasn't there anymore.

A dream—it had just been a dream. Or a nightmare, rather.

He was in a guest chamber in the palace.

The queen had visited him personally a few days after his rescue. While she hadn't acknowledged her son's behavior in any way, she'd released him from his contract and offered him… reparation? He thought that was the word she'd used. Money, he'd been given money. A lot of it, along with the use of this room for as long as he needed. And the offer of a ranked position serving the Crown.

Resh wondered if the queen thought money would erase his memories. If she thought money would remove the fucking brand from his forehead or the scars on his body. If she thought money would return his voice to him.

It had been weeks, and he still couldn't make a single sound. Resh rubbed his throat while he stared blankly out the window. And as it always did, his mind latched onto Carr. He wondered what she was doing, how she was doing. If she was okay. If she was sleeping any better than him.

A lump rose in his throat. She'd not left his side once during his time in the infirmary, and Resh had thought… but he hadn't seen her since he'd been released. It wasn't like he could go out into the city and ask around for one of Nykim's thieves, either. Carr had just felt guilty, he told himself. Once she'd assured herself he would recover, she’d returned to her life.

He tried to tell himself it was better that way.

It was better because he was using the queen's blood money to get out of this fucking city. He had no plan except to take his sister and travel north. It wasn't like he could expect Carr to go with him. Closing his eyes, Resh tried to breathe through a different kind of pain.

In the darkness behind his closed eyelids, he saw the look Marcus had given him when Carr and Nykim had carried him out of the manor. His eyes flew open, and he shook his head violently, concentrating on the way his new bangs brushed over his eyebrows. He was willing to travel north for as long as it took to forget that look, that promise in Marcus' eyes.

Marcus was gone, sent to foster with some former noble in the east. But the memories remained. And one day, Marcus would return, even if it was just for a visit. The city wasn't safe. Would never be safe.

Resh’s breathing eventually evened out, but his chest still ached, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. There would be no more sleep for him tonight.

Not with the echoes of his nightmare still lingering. He shivered and pushed out of bed. Might as well get a headstart on his preparations since he and Orla were leaving tomorrow.

Leaving. The thought increased the tension banding across his chest. He hated that he was leaving the city without seeing Carr again. But he had no way to contact her. Although, Nykim had contacts in the palace, so maybe she already knew and just didn't care.

He cared. He missed her.

Resh wiped his tears away and headed for the washbasin. He needed to change out of his sweat-soaked night clothes.

And find some way to deal with the fact that she was gone.

~~~

Carr

"How's he doin?" Carr asked the small girl sitting across from her.

They had met at a rather nice cafe in the city, one befitting the girl's current status. Perhaps Carr should've worn something a little nicer than her plain tunic and brown pants, but since she was still presenting as a man, no one gave her trouble.

Men could get away with a lot, Carr had discovered. She wrapped her hands around the delicate porcelain teacup in front of her, letting its coolness seep into her clammy palms. Cold tea, for this hot summer day.

Orla spun her teacup on its saucer, back and forth, back and forth. When she looked up, her brown eyes were shiny, and she swiped a gloved hand across her cheek when a tear slipped out. "He still can't speak. He writes stuff down for me, but he doesn't really tell me anything. I hate that I'm too young to help him."

Carr looked up at the green and white striped canopy shading the patio they were seated on, feeling her own tears forming. She couldn't read, so she wouldn't be able to communicate with him that way. Maybe she could teach him the thieves cant? The hand signs were rough approximations and not very versatile, but it was better than nothing. And she'd been practicing reading lips with Nykim.

A breeze kicked up, rustling through the white-leaved ornamental trees lining the street in front of her. Carr swallowed the lump in her throat and looked back down at Resh's sister. "Has he decided when he wants t’ leave?"

"Tomorrow," the girl said, perking up. Her lilac scarf slipped back a little, revealing the tiny curls in her short brown hair. "I think the change of location will be good for him. And seeing you, of course."

The lump in Carr's throat returned, so she took a sip of her tea. It didn't help. She folded her hands in her lap instead. Spoke to her hands, too. "You sure he'll want me t' come?"

It was a little fucking late to ask such a question. She'd been making preparations for weeks now. Training up a new beta, selling the things she didn't need, packing the things she did. Her bags were ready to go at a moment's notice, just in case Resh freaked out one night and decided to take off. The nightmares had been bad, she'd heard.

Carr wished she could've been there for him, but he barely left his rooms, and she couldn't be seen in the palace if she didn't want to be imprisoned again. There was also that niggling doubt that he’d want to see her. Just like the one that told her she was a fool for making these plans. Upending her entire life, and for what? Just to be rejected, left on her own again?

"That's a silly question. Of course he will!" Orla said with all the confidence of youth.

A wall came up, familiar and safe, one that she could tuck her feelings behind. Carr crossed her arms over her chest. "We'll see."

The words came out a bit harshly, and Carr felt bad when Orla bit down on her lip. It was a nervous habit of hers, Carr had noticed.

She drank the rest of her tea and stood. Tried to speak a little softer this time. "See you tomorrow?"

Orla nodded, giving her a small smile. "You have nothing to worry about, Carr. You'll see."

~~~

Carr stood in the shadows of the royal stable early the next morning, watching the hired coach that was being loaded. Orla stood to the side, twisting her hands in front of her while she glanced around. A servant was packing luggage into the carriage with Resh’s help.

Once she found Resh, she couldn’t look away. She studied him critically, although she was unsure what she was looking for.

The first thing she noticed was his hair. He’d had it trimmed; the brown waves framed his face, barely reaching his shoulders. A shorter length of hair fell across his forehead, mostly hiding the scar she knew was there.

Then, she noticed his clothes. He would be miserable, the way he was dressed. A long-sleeved shirt with fucking gloves? And a godsdamned scarf to boot. It was midsummer, and he was traveling north, where it would only get warmer. What the fuck was he thinking?

Did he think his sister would be traumatized if she saw a few scars on his hands, his forearms? The scars around his throat weren't even that noticeable. Fucking shit.

But the lantern light illuminated the dark circles under his eyes, making her wonder if he wore all that so he didn't have to look at it. Her anger faded away.

"You gonna go talk to him, Carrah? Or did you decide to stay after all? Flynn is okay, I suppose, but he definitely isn't you," Nykim said.

Carr turned her head to glare at her pack master. Or former pack master, she supposed, if she truly left.

She could admit to herself how fucking scared she was. What if Resh didn't want to see her? Didn't want her along? Her heart thrummed in her chest, and she clenched her hand around the strap of her bag.

If she could admit it to herself, she could surely admit it to this man who had done nothing but support and protect her in his own way for the last ten years.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered. It felt like her heart was trying to jump outta her throat. "What if… if…" She couldn't finish, just looked at Nykim helplessly.

"Carrah, that boy worships the ground you walk on. He's been moping around the palace since he moved out of the infirmary. I've had servants report him asking after you. Discreetly, of course." Nykim raised his hands when Carr's eyes widened. "You're a fool if you don't at least ask."

She stared at him for a moment, considering. Then, she extended her hand. Nykim cocked an eyebrow before sandwiching it between his own. A sadness crept into his eyes, and he didn't even try to push her physical boundaries. It was probably a first for him, and Carr smiled through her tears.

"I'm gonna miss you, Nykim. If… you know." She took a deep breath. "Thank you. For… for everything."

The corner of Nykim's mouth kicked up. "Nothing to thank me for. But… I’m gonna miss you too." He squeezed her hand and released her, stepping back.

Carr flexed her fingers and turned to check on Resh. Took a deep breath. When she glanced over at Nykim again, he was gone.

At least there was no one to witness whatever was about to happen. She knew if she came back to the lair, Nykim would take her back in, no questions asked. But first… she had to try. She owed it to Resh, at the very least.

Just in case, she dropped her bag against the stable wall. That way, it didn't look like she expected anything. Her chest felt too tight, and her hands trembled now that she had nothing to hold on to. She didn't think walking up clutching the hilts of her daggers was a good look, so she clasped them behind her back and forced herself to step forward.

Orla saw her first, and Carr gave her a tremulous smile. The girl ran over to Resh, chattering excitedly and waving her hands. He stiffened, the bag he was carrying slipping from his fingers. A plume of dust rose, the motes dancing around his body in the early morning light as he spun to face her.

Their eyes locked. Carr didn't know what to call the expression that crossed his face. It looked like a mixture of pain and relief. Happy and sad all at once. What did that mean?

Resh didn't move, so she was forced to cross the entire space between them. She stopped before him, probably too far away, and shuffled forward another step. Reminded herself that words were a thing.

"You leavin?" She could've kicked herself as soon as she said it. Words were a thing, and those were the ones she chose? Fucking shit.

Orla giggled, the sound light and happy. "You knew that already. You're so silly, Carr."

Resh looked at his sister, then back to her, and raised his eyebrows. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket, along with a piece of charcoal, but Carr reached out, placing a hand over his when he started to write. He looked up at her slowly, his brows drawn.

"I can't read that," she said, snatching her hand back while her cheeks filled with heat. This was going just great. Fucking great. "Just talk. I've been practicing readin lips."

You have? he asked, carefully forming the soundless words while his fingers clenched around his notebook.

She nodded.

What are you doing here? Resh asked, something indecipherable flickering across his face.

Carr cringed and backed up a step. Did that mean she shouldn't be here? Had this been a mistake after all? "I, umm…"

She looked over at Orla, who waved her hand in a circle, apparently trying to encourage her.

"Umm…” Her throat constricted, and she swallowed. Her next attempt resulted in her mouth opening and closing soundlessly, and she clenched her fists helplessly at her sides, taking another step back. And another.

Resh watched her, his dark brown eyes looking like bottomless pools of misery.

It was all she could do not to run away. And that pissed her the fuck off. Why wouldn’t the words come?

“For fucks' sake! I can't do this!" Carr spun, crossing her arms over her chest. She was either going to cry or throw one of her daggers. How did people deal with this fucking bullshit?

"Do you want to come with us?" Orla asked.

Carr turned back slowly, only to find Resh glaring at his sister, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

Her heart sank. "It's fine, Resh. If you don't want me t’ come, I mean. It was a stupid idea."

"It's not a stupid idea!" Orla said heatedly, glaring at her brother.

"I mean—" Carr said, backing away.

Orla started talking again, drowning Carr out. The girl was clearly agitated, her voice rising to an ear-piercing shriek.

Resh sliced a hand through the air, and they both stopped talking. He shook his head at his sister and then walked over to Carr. She stared at his mouth, waiting for him to speak. It took a few minutes.

Those few minutes felt like a lifetime.

I want you to come, he finally said.

"You do?" Carr said, her voice a touch higher than usual.

He nodded, standing a little straighter.

Something fluttered in her stomach. "Well, I guess I can come," Carr said, shifting her weight awkwardly.

Resh smiled, his eyes lighting up.

"Long as you don't think I'm marryin you!" she blurted.

Oh gods, what the fuck was wrong with her? Carr's face heated even further when he shook his head, his shoulders quivering with silent laughter.

She scowled but found she couldn't hold onto the expression. "Can I, maybe, hug you?" she asked quietly.

Resh’s eyebrows rose. He reached up to adjust his scarf, and Carr thought he would refuse. It was okay if he said no. She understood completely if he didn’t want to be touched.

But then he said, Of course. Can I hug you back?

Nodding, she stepped closer, tentatively wrapping her arms around his waist. Very gently, he folded his around her shoulders.

Carr let his heat envelop her, relaxing the unnatural stiffness her body held, and laid her head on his chest.

Yes, this felt right.

His heartbeat thundered under her ear, soothing her as surely as the rise and fall signaling his breaths. There was a time when she feared she’d see or hear neither ever again. He began to tremble when it became clear she wasn’t going to pull away any time soon, and she tightened her grip, struggling to keep her own tears at bay.

When Carr finally stepped back, she pretended not to notice as he wiped his face, just as he made no mention of her sudden fascination with the bird nest perched in the stable’s eaves.

After a few moments, when she was sure her emotions were back under control, she grabbed his hand, pulling him along with her to retrieve her bag.

"Let's get outta here," she said.

Resh’s answering grin was the best thing she’d ever seen.

This is the end of Arc 1! If you'd like to check out my artbreeder pics of Resh, Carr, and Nykim, they're linked on my masterlist, along with a commissioned sketch of this last scene! Stay tuned for Arc 2!

Masterlist

Also, I wrote an AU.

What if Carr didn't escape >:) Check out the first chapter here

Image Description

[ID: The banner is a blue-green background, with tree branches arching over a set of blue-green eyes, forming an approximation of a face. The words Hidden Depths are written in white above the eyes. end ID]

#whumptober2022 #no.31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #comfort #OC #writing #captivity #flashback #drugging #blood #debasement #strangulation #vocal injury #angst #whump #whump writing #fantasy whump #creepy whumper #hidden depths

33 notes · View notes

circlique · 1 year

Photo

31. A Light at the End of the Tunnel - “You can rest now.”

@whumptober-archive

And that’s a wrap! With this final piece, I am manifesting healing and closure for these two. Help me out. Likes charge, reblogs cast. Give them the happy ending they deserve!

Referenced this.

#whumptober2022 #no.31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #you can rest now #atla #art #avatar #avatar oc #avatar dnd #maino #circe draws

49 notes · View notes

annaizscribbling · 2 years

Photo

Idk if he has fangs but he does here. He just won’t leave my brain (not complaining tho)

This catboy Logan, Roman, and poor tired Janus are from this fic, which you gotta read if you enjoy angst and fricking catboy Logan.

Idk how they aren’t sick of me yet but the authors are amazing at both writing an incredible story and also putting up with me xoxo

@m4r4n14mh

#anais draws #logan sanders #a light at the end of the tunnel #ts logan #artwork #artist #art #fanart #i just love him #okay #roman Sanders #ts janus sanders #i love them all #so much #this story is just so good

36 notes · View notes

howtowhumpyourhiccup · 1 year

Text

The Storm Passes

Whumptober 2022 Day 31! FINAL DAY!

Summary: Written for Whumptober 2022 Day 31. Set after THW, the dragons never left. Hiccup’s pain has been mostly minimal, but the odd day does come when the pain comes and can only leave on its own. On those days, it’s nice to just have someone be there for him.

Warning: /

Rating: General

Characters: Hiccup, Astrid

Pairing: Hiccstrid

Words: 521

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL, Comfort, "You can rest now."

Whumpee: Hiccup

Author’s Notes: Me? Technically reusing a scenario from a previous prompt? Never!

But also, FINAL PROMPT!

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

Enjoy!

#You can rest now.#whumptober2022 #no. 31 #A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL #Comfort #httyd movies #httyd 3 #how to train your dragon 3 #httyd: the hidden world #hiccup haddock #hiccup whump #astrid hofferson #hiccstrid #my fanfics #the storm passes

12 notes · View notes

another-whump-sideblog · 1 year

Text

Jane’s Pets Pt. 47: A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Masterlist

Comfort | Bedside vigil | “You can rest now.”

I have been sitting beside Indira’s bed for 5 days. It’s a lot easier to do a bedside vigil when you don’t need to sleep or eat or anything. I can be here for as long as I need to be. As long as I want to be.

I hate it when it’s drawn out. That’s how most human deaths are. I much prefer when there’s no grey space, no slow descent. It’s easier to deal with. But Indira’s greatest fear was dying alone, so I will be here until her last breath.

I’m jealous. I shouldn’t be, she’s suffering. But I would take her place in a second. I’ve done everything I could ever want to do. Everything familiar to me has rotted away, or it will soon. Everyone else has the same light at the end of the tunnel to unite them, but I am left in the infinite dark.

I’m so tired. Indira must be tired. She’s suffering. We’re both suffering, but I can fix Indira’s problem.

I grab a knife from my void. I slit her throat, quick and painless. No more pain for her. No more boredom or loneliness.

“You can rest now.” I tell her. She can’t hear me, of course. She’s dead. Resting.

I’m jealous.

-~-~

Puppy is sobbing hysterically. Her punishment is done and Bunny’s is not. Kitty tries to comfort her.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not… Hey, want me to get you one of your stuffed animals? You like those, right?”

Puppy shows no sign that she heard them.

“Or… let’s just go to your room. You have all your stuff in there.”

Kitty gently guides Puppy to her room. Puppy cries and cries.

“Just… let it all out. The last few months have been a lot.”

Kitty wants to go yell at Jane that Puppy won’t feel better until she can talk about what she’s feeling. But Jane is in the basement with Bunny.

“You told her, about Bunny saying the wrong names, and you sleeping.”

It’s not a question. Puppy nods, choking on her sobs.

“I understand. I’m not mad.”

Puppy doesn’t seem comforted.

“Bunny wouldn’t be mad either. Not at you. I mean, maybe at first, but all you did is tell her what happened. Jane chose to hurt him, not you.”

Kitty is worried Puppy is going to pass out from crying so hard.

“Do you want me to distract you?”

Puppy shakes her head.

“Alright. I’ll be right here. Cry as long as you need to.”

Puppy holds her bunny plushie and pets it gently. She’s always gentle with her stuffed animals, never even hugging them too tight. She never squeezes them or holds them in uncomfortable positions.

Kitty knows Puppy would be helped by physical comfort, but the idea of it right now makes their skin crawl. The stuffed animals will have to be enough.

Eventually, Puppy tires herself out. She stares at the wall and pets her bunny.

“Bunny will be okay. Jane would’ve caught him doing it eventually anyway. It’s not your fault.”

Puppy sighs. She’s completely drained, but she can’t rest until Jane gives her permission.

“…Do you want a distraction now?”

Puppy nods.

“Let’s go watch a movie. I’ll see if I can convince Jane to let you have snacks and hot chocolate when she comes up.”

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

12 notes · View notes

ichoosechoasandbeingqueer · 1 year

Text

Faceless Memories And Broken Promises

This is Day 31 and the last day of Fili whumptober!

Warnings: death, mentions of war

Word count: 1281

Fili is reunited with his father in the halls of Mahal, he just doesn't realize it at first.

Please refer to the warnings of this story. If you go past this point you are consenting to reading this content.

Fili no longer remembered his fathers face. That was the revelation that had come to him on his sixtieth birthday.

He could not remember the colour of his eyes or the curve of his smile. He could not remember the way his father’s voice sounded as he sung him to sleep through the noise of a thunderstorm or the way his thick fingers felt combing through his hair, carefully braiding the golden strands away from his eyes.

He did remember the way his mother wept when he didn’t come home from the war, the candle they lit in his name, the hair that was cut in their mourning. So many memories with his name on their tongues, yet his face remained a blur to Fili.

Occasionally he would be stopped in the markets or in the tavern by the older darrow, or a gentle old dam who would tell him how much he looked like his father, that he held the same kind eyes or the strong stance. Every mirror or lake he would gaze into left him feeling empty and confused, wondering who was staring back at him in his reflection. He didn’t look like the rest of his family with dark hair and sharp features. His face was soft and his hair as bright as the sun that shone down upon the mountain, but all the stories he had ever heard about his father told him to have dark hair and a strong grin, neither things Fili carried.

It was his mother that had first braided his mustache the way it hung now, her fingers mindlessly working to braid the strands the way her fingers had done so for years. He remembered the way she had froze, her eyes going wide and her nose scrunching up in pain as she gaze at her son, the braids of his father in his beard. He had held her sobbing frame for hours that day, yet neither one of them was strong enough to take out the braids.

On days he snuck away from his busy life to think, he would spend hours thinking, recalling, and racking his brains for a single image. Did they share the same dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he smiled? Did he grip his sword in the same hand his father had?

It was a question he could never answer. That is why he was so confused when he closed his eyes, a blinding white light encasing him, only to open them again met with a face that held his soft cheekbones, his crocked nose, and his mustache braids. The darrow’s eyes were different. They looked like Kili’s, a soft warm brown with thick black lashes that battered against his cheeks. He held Kili’s grin too, the cat like smirk so familiar to Fili, yet adorning the features of a stranger.

It took Fili a moment to understand, to remember the horrific death he had faced by his enemy’s hand, and he rushed to check his body for wounds.

“Easy now little one, you are safe here. No one can hurt you again,”

Fili looked up at the voice, so gentle and deep it remined him of deepest cavern of the mountains where the darkness would cover you like a blanket and keep you safe. The stranger held a knowing glimmer in his eyes as he kneeled down to sit next to him.

“But- but Kili, uncle Throin?”

“I know, I know,” the dwarf hushed him, “I’m so sorry you had to live through such perils, that you did not have someone to protect you,”

“But- that’s my job. I’m meant to be the one to protect them,”

“So young, so brave,” he murmured to Fili, brushing his fingers against the braids on his crown. Curiously, Fili made no attempt to stop him, “You have served your kin honorably little one, but sometimes life can be cruel. Sometimes you can not protect the ones you love they way you want to,”

The smile that sat on his lips held sorrow as he pulled Fili closer.

“You know what that’s like?” Fili asked, “To try so hard yet still fail? To break the promises you made?”

“Aye, that is something I know all too well,”

The blond Durin sniffed and pulled his knees to his chest, “What did you promise? If you don’t mind me asking,”

The stranger thought for a moment, watching him carefully, “I promised the most beautiful dam in the world that I would see in her a few months. I never made it back to her,”

“Oh,” Fili frowned, his lips settling in a pout, “was she angry?”

“Angry? No. She was hurt and broken and lonely, but I don’t think she was ever angry at me. That fell onto someone else’s shoulders I’m afraid,”

“Who-”

“My son. My beautiful, crazy, brave son. He had to grow up without me, all because I broke my promise to him too,”

A small memory tugged at Fili’s mind.

The sounds of dwarves marching outside echoed through the mountain and the smell of a freshly polished blades hung in the wind like an omen. A small pebble with messy blond hair raced through the living room and wrapped himself around his father’s legs, his voice muffled through the fabric but begging him not to go.

“I took up my sword to join the fight,” the darrow continued, “and my son begged me to stay. He kicked and screamed and begged me not to go, so a made him a promise,”

The older darrow gave a chuckle, kneeling down and lifting his son’s jaw to look him in the eyes. They were kind and understanding, but still, they could not give the child what he sort. The war had started, and all would stand and fight for their king and ancestral home.

“I looked my son in the eyes and showed him my sword. I made a promise that when I got back, I would teach him how to use it. That next time, we would fight together,”

The child still held on to his father, his little hands gripping the fabric with all his might. His sniffles died down and he nodded weakly at his father’s promise. He had always wanted to wield a real sword after all, and if his adad promised he could use it, he would. His adad never broke a promise.

“Yet no matter how hard I fought, no matter how hard I tried, I didn’t come home. I never got to see my wife again and I never got to teach him how to use his swords. It was his uncle who had to teach him that, and I don’t think he ever forgave me for it,”

The little pebble was lifted into his mother’s arms, his hands waving franticly at his father who had joined the march. His eyes had become harsh, his lips set in a line, yet when he turned his head to glance back at his family, the softness shone through his brown eyes. He sent a sneaky wink and cat like grin back at them, one last promise that everything was going to be ok before he disappeared into the distance.

Fili looked the stranger in the face, and suddenly he could remember it all. Every wrinkle around his eyes when he grinned. The sound of his voice as he laughed. The smell of coal and steel one every one of his tunics.

Fili pulled the old darrow towards him and tucked his face into his neck, the tears running freely down his face.

“I missed you adad,”

“Aye little one, I missed you too,”

✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

See full 31 day whumptober Master List here

#whumptober2022 #no.31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #the hobbit #fili #fili durin #writing #death #mentions of war #my writing #the hall of Mahal #Vili #fili son of vili #closure

12 notes · View notes