#a red sun rises. blood has been spilled this night | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

utterlyazriel · 2 months

Text

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here she is... chappie four <3 thank u for ur patience and 1000 kudos to the anon that made a plot suggestion that i had already written lmao-- as always let me know what u think! things are heating up....

word count: just under 4k

synopsis: You return to regular training for the first time in a month. Azriel asks a favor from Rhys and finds you in a less than stellar condition when he returns to camp

CHAPTER FOUR :: FRIENDS

Velaris is a sight for sore eyes.

After nearly a month of endless white scenery, of the blinding glint of the sun against snow, paired with endless pine, the sight of a city is a reprieve in itself.

And because it’s Velaris — because it’s home — something else settles within Azriel.

A hackle that always stays on high alert finally lies down. The constant agitation of his shadows falls into a calming hush. He breathes easier.

He's back with his family and can be here to keep them safe if need be. He's back to the closest semblance of comfort he's ever known.

Where do you find comfort?

Azriel blinks a little, taken aback at the abruptness of the thought.

The lone shelter in the mountains, spaced out from the circle of buildings, every bit representing your isolation from the people of the camp — that was your home.

Where you resided and took solace from the world in, the place you felt safest. But... it's no place of comfort. It's a crutch. A necessary support. Somehow, Azriel has no doubt that if you could survive out in the snow, burrowed amidst the elements, you would, if only to have one less thing to maintain.

You've never even seen a city before, he thinks. All you know is the mountains.

Suddenly, eyes cast across the breathtaking beauty of Velaris, the hum of the Sidra carving its way through his beloved home, the buzz of people on the streets, Azriel recalls the very time he lay eyes on it himself.

It never stops being breathtaking. That much is true, but then again, there was no comparison to the first time.

The warm feeling that had grown in his chest. The way something he hadn't known ever existed within him had unfurled, like a flower blooming in the sun. Something Azriel now knows to be hope.

He hadn't known a place this beautiful could exist.

Wouldn't have been able to dream it up when all he had known for so, so long was darkness and shadow.

Even in the time after the cage, all there was to see was the white of winter and the cold bite of the harsh mountains. He learned how blood looked melting into the snow, how to sleep with one eye open, and all the different shades of cruelty.

Azriel remembers being unable to comprehend the sight, the stumble in his heart at the indisputable proof before him. That despite what had been drilled into him by his father, his brothers, by every Illyrian warrior who punched down on bastards, there was a place where peace reigned above all.

People who lived in harmony. Where Art and music are considered a treasure alongside other skills, each equally important. And Azriel belonged there, as much as any of them.

It had been one thing to walk through the city, to marvel at every cobblestone, at the trims lining each and every window, to have people regard him with such a polite and casual manner — not a second glance at his wings or his hands.

It had been something else entirely to fly over it as night fell.

Mountain ridges illuminated by his most constant friend, the rising moon, watching the moonlight spill over the dark red rock of the mountain and paint it ever softer. Sweet ocean air and the very perfume of the city intertwined within the current as he soared above it, mighty wings beating.

Azriel could remember that first day and night in Velaris vividly, like an unforgettable dream. How easy it had been to fall in love with it, to let its arms unfurl and to allow himself to make a home within them.

Looking out across it now, as Faelights begin to twinkle and blink to life as the night creeps in, all Azriel can think of is how much he wants that for you.

To bring you here. To have both of you fly above the city and wander down the streets aimlessly, to show you that there were places far kinder in this world than all you had known before.

He yearns for you to have the same dawning realisation he did—that so much more existed outside of those gods forsaken mountains.

Azriel knows you're a very guarded male. You have more than enough reasons to be. He's already pushed a thousand boundaries you have and each time you let him into your sanctuary in the mountains is a sign of enormous trust.

Maybe for that reason, Azriel wants to be the first to extend that kindness to you.

A twinge in his chest sings a different, golden answer.

Azriel ignores it and steals one more look out at his home, swallowing down how all logic seems to be pointing to the same thing, time and time again.

He finds the High Lord in his study, papers stacked high on his desk that have only grown higher in Azriel's absence. His dark hair is tousled in a way that means he's been running his hand through it too much.

Azriel lifts the shadows from beneath his feet as he enters, letting the other hear the sound of his soft footsteps. Rhys looks up at the new arrival. Despite his tired appearance, it does nothing to dim the grin that overtakes his lips at the sight of his brother.

"My, my, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

Azriel grins back, stepping forward Rhys pushes back from his desk and stands. His usual wings have been hidden away through his magic and Azriel notices their absence when he pulls him into a brief hug. Rhys lingers close, his violet eyes raking over his friend.

"Not bad to see you either."

"You flatter me." Rhys purrs, his voice all buttery and smooth. "You've got new eyebags. Overworking yourself as usual, are we Az?"

"I presume you make such lovely comments about Feyre too?"

"And risk her wrath?" Rhys smiles, eyes glittering at the mention of his mate. "Never."

Azriel rolls his eyes, letting his obvious endearment at his brother's happiness show. They truly are a perfect pair.

He crosses his arms across his broad chest tightly, if only to hide the fleeting flicker of wanting the spools tight in his chest. A ribbon of envy, woven between his ribs.

If Rhys notices, he doesn't comment. Instead, he says, "Usually, you're itching to escape the mountains but not this time I see."

He pauses, eyeing up the Shadowsinger to see what response it'll give. Azriel yields no comment back. Expecting this, Rhys smiles.

"Either way, you'll be happy to hear that Cassian has returned from his time off and is ready to resume his usual duties."

Azriel stills at the words.

He knew that Cassian would at one point return to his usual positions and that Azriel himself, would return to his spymaster post. But it's come sooner than expected. Perhaps, time with you has been passing far quicker than Azriel thought.

"I found the cause of the rumours."

"Yes, I assumed you had," Rhys says, wandering back around the deck to slump into his chair. He leans one arm against the armrest, his knuckles against his temple.

"I also assumed that you spent all that time dealing with it. Much of a problem?"

Azriel considers his words carefully. The trust he's managed to garner with you is fragile, though he knows his friend would not severe it or interfere if he asked.

Another part of him knows it's unusual behavior of him, to offer his skills so willingly to a stranger. But, well, you're not exactly a stranger anymore.

"There's a male.” Azriel begins, choosing his words carefully. “A bastard, the one causing all the stir-ups. He feeds the other bastards when he can. It's what had Lord Mylind kicking a fuss."

Rhys curses lightly at the realisation of just which camp they are dealing with.

"He's learning to make healing tonics," Azriel continues, noting how Rhys' head straightens up a fraction. Interested. "In hopes of slipping them to freshly clipped females. To see if it can reverse the damage."

Rhys sits back in his chair completely, his hand brushing over his mouth in deep contemplation. For a moment, he says nothing.

"I suppose I don't need to ask if there's been any female training then."

Azriel feels himself glower instinctively, his wings hiking up an inch higher without meaning to. He thinks of Lord Mylind and the conversation he had on the first day in their camp. The sheer display of male arrogance, snarling, and threatening violence outright.

"No.”

Rhys curses again, his eyes crushing closed. He seems to filter through a pained reaction, his face contorting until it lands on a tired resignation.

“The camp of Exordor made very good on a bargain struck during a very hard time.” Rhys grits the words out.

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at the mention of the deal that had turned sour. A cold ripple of night shudders through the room.

No amount of soldiers supplied during the war had been worth the suffering that camp Exodor alone produced— or continues to produce if the whispers that came out of there held an inkling of truth.

It’s a rotten place, tucked deep in the mountains, and some of the worst brutes Rhys has ever had the displeasure of meeting were born in the bowels of that place.

“It doesn’t lift for another 50 years." Rhys sighs, his voice wavering with a hint of shame. "I can’t touch them without slaughtering them all— innocent or not.”

Azriel didn’t say anything for a moment. This information is not new. He watches as Rhys digests his silence, leaning back in his chair as the wheels spin in his head, dizzyingly fast.

For the second time, Rhys' brows jump.

“You’re helping him.”

Not a question.

Azriel nods.

"You don't want Cassian to take back over."

"No," Azriel murmurs. "Not yet. The male is... He's guarded. Isolated. It has taken time to earn his trust. I believe in what he wants to do and I believe he has what it takes to achieve it.”

He thinks of the quiet evenings within your shelter, your patience as you taught Azriel what you could — how you took every piece of information from him on the chin, not one complaint of ever tiring. He thinks of the heaving in his chest, the tug on his heart.

"I ask that you let me see this out." Azriel finishes, his shoulders rolling back as he stands tall. Let Rhys understand how this had become more than just a mission to him; it’s a personal calling, one he must answer, one that he needs to see out to the end.

Rhys surveys him intensely, unblinking for a moment. Then something devious crosses his face, catching in a smile.

"That's not the only thing you want to ask me, is it?"

Azriel looks to the ground, suddenly bashful. This would be entirely too revealing of the closeness he felt, to ask this, to offer this. He asks anyway.

"I wish, with your permission, to take Heartstriker." Azriel's voice rumbles lowly. He forces his eyes back up, meeting Rhys' strong gaze. "To gift to him."

Something dips into Rhys' smile, threatening a smirk and for that reason alone, Azriel feels his ears tinge hotly. His face remains calm, however, giving nothing away.

"Heartstriker? As a gift?" Rhys repeats, with a sly smile. "Pray tell Brother, when's the wedding? Since when have you ever been known for gift giving, let alone something as dear to you, such as a sword? I might just have to meet this bastard."

Azriel’s ears only get hotter, betraying him. He prays it doesn't show on his face, though he's sure the increased swirlings of his shadows give him away. And Rhys’ infallible ability to read his flustering each and every time.

"Is that permission?"

Rhys, seemingly realising he won't be getting any juicy details, quits tormenting his brother with a flourish of his hand. He leans back in his chair relaxed, a softness creeping into his expression.

"It's been yours to take all these years, Az." Rhys finally lands on. "You did earn it, after all."

—

The shelter looks bigger without him here.

Betrayingly, it’s the first thought you have when the door swings open, letting you into your nest of safety. You heave in a breath that rattles loudly and it gets swept up in the foul whistle of the Mother's Kiss.

On your side, your blood-soaked hand clutches your abdomen tightly. Pain spiderwebs up your body, fraying every nerve with a burning agony.

Every step feels loud and clumsy.

You cough as softly as you can, yet still feel the warmth of blood on your lips. The familiar metallic tang overwhelms your mouth.

You must be dripping blood behind you, dragging a slushy mess of crimson snow in on your boots. Fuck, what are you doing again? Your head throbs. They must've knocked your head hard this time if you're losing focus this quickly.

The Mother's Kiss howls fiercely, a reminder of the cruelty outside your little haven.

Right. You remember you need to close the door— and you shove the deadbolt closed along with it. If your ribs were aching a little less, you would reach up and do up the second deadbolt too, at the top of the door. You try to anyway.

Your arm gets mid-way up before you freeze, pain lashing every nerve in your midriff, enough to make you wince loudly. The bindings on your chest aren't helping. For a moment, dark spots dance before vision as you quickly tuck your arm back down, moving too quick.

Fuck. Fuck. One deadbolt will have to do.

It feels as if the whole world lurches when you take your next step, blurring like thick taffy for a split second. You stumble towards your bed and realise as you sink onto your knees on the edge of it, you need to dress your wounds.

Another bloody cough. Has your nose stopped bleeding yet? It's impossible to tell between each and every other ache.

What were you doing again?

Without meaning to, you begin to slump over, nearly lying down in your bed.

Dressings! That's right, you need to make sure the wound on your side isn't still bleeding, need to make sure it's clean when it finally begins to clot, need to...

Need to... what did you need to do?

That's right— you need to sleep.

Your head crumples against the pillow like a dead-weight as you collapse against it, exhausted. As your consciousness wanes, you cough again, a splatter of red spraying your pillow.

Not good, you think absentmindedly. Eyes slipping shut, you miss the familiar figure out the window, approaching through the storm.

—

You're wincing before you even realise you're awake.

Crackling. Logs spitting out little snaps fill the air, the quiet roar of a hearty fire; the first things you hear when you come too, far too slowly for your own liking. Your left ears hum loudly in discomfort— no doubt a result of one of the harsh hooks you had caught in the face earlier today.

Next, you smell something... clean?

Your tongue comes out gingerly, licking your cracked lips and you realise quite suddenly, there's an absence of blood on them. The thought slams into you at the same time you realise; you hadn't been able to stay awake for long enough to even light a fire.

Panic reaches through your ribs and grips your heart, tight, and you sit up without thinking.

Pain follows you closely like a lazy afterthought that slams into you, soaking into your body meanly and making you regret moving so fast. Your head swims heavily, throbbing dully.

A pained noise threatens to leave your lips and you force it down. Then force your head up, eyes blinking rapidly, trying to assess the threat, trying to do something.

Panic squeezes your heart painfully again when your hazy vision clears just enough to reveal the shape of a body before you— your blood chilling in your veins as you realise there's somebody else in here with you.

The whimper you held back before slips out before you can help it, your body squirming backward without thought. Your breaths comes out in sharp pants, bursts of pain accompanying each one, and right as you hit the wall, your vision focuses.

Your lungs empty in relief.

It's Azriel before you, on his knees, his scarred hands are held out in front of him.

They aren't touching you, just hovering, his palms up to indicate he means no harm. His wings are tucked back, hunched down to be smaller than usual, and all around him, his shadows whirl about animatedly.

There's an expression on his face you've never seen before.

"—on't move," He's saying, his low voice finally registering in your ringing ears. His hazel eyes are fixed on your face, darting about quickly. "You'll re-open your wounds."

He's talking about your wounds but for some gods forsaken reason, all you can think is how surprised you are that he came back.

The thought loops endlessly, like a holy mantra —he came back, he came back, he came back— and you realise that you were both terrified and also sure that he wouldn't be coming back at all.

That somehow, somewhere along his trip back to his home, he would have realised you weren't anything worth coming back for.

"Azriel?" You wheeze.

Just to check—you have to check.

Maybe he's a mirage. He certainly would be the kindest mirage you can think of.

You think you see something soften on his face, his wings dropping an inch lower behind him. His hands are still held out before you, still waiting. He's endlessly patient. His shadows seem to slow a bit, less frenzied.

"Yeah," He murmurs gently in response. His hazel eyes burn as they take in the sight of you again. "They got you pretty messed up. huh?”

You're sitting on your bed still, you realise. Blinking slow, you take an inhale, trying to put together how he got here— your eyes fly to the door. It's locked, this time with both deadbolts secured.

Azriel follows your gaze, turning his head slightly. "They're a good precaution. Don't be dissuaded that the spymaster of this court managed to get past them."

You wheeze again, some delirious laugh that gets cut off when pain splinters through your side. You groan lowly, unable to hold it in and your hand creeps slowly to paw at your side.

Faintly, you can feel the scrape of bandages on your skin, covering the wound, and sigh in relief. It makes your diaphragm sink down, the bindings around your chest shifting and that sends a frantic bolt of alarm through you once more.

“You—” The word scratches out your throat and you cough weakly. Every instinct starts to light back up, hackles rising— there has never been someone else around when you're too weak to defend yourself. It takes a moment with eyes closed and measured breaths to lean into your trust. You trust him, you know you do.

“You... patched me up?”

The question comes out wary and pointed despite your efforts. Though that might just be the gravel in your throat from having your face beaten in.

You don’t know how to covertly ask if he saw— if, that when he pushed your bloody shirt up to nurse the slash in your side, he noticed the gauze around your ribs.

It's an alien and terrifying thought, Azriel finding out. A worry deep in the marrow of your bones warbles in response, a thousand hairs standing up on end at the possibility.

How a revelation of that magnitude could sever the first trust you've had in years.

How it could lose... the first friend you've ever truly had.

A string of nausea tugs in your throat, bile threatening, and you have to swallow it down with the crippling fear that's been thrust into your system.

This is how it goes. The intrinsic balance of the world —to be gifted closeness and friendship, is to submit to the possibility of losing it.

Back against the wall, it settles into you very starkly, a thought sharp and clear; you do not want to lose him in any way.

Some part of you thinks he must see you as some kind of starving mutt, growing far too attached to the first hand that feeds it. But looking at him now, his shadowed face and kind expression, the depth of his eyes... you're convinced he sees something more to you.

And you want him to, desperately.

In a way you can't comprehend, can't begin to understand— how can you be so tied to someone you've known for so little? How can it hurt so much to be parted from him when you're barely friends? When he doesn't even know who you truly are.

Perhaps, you think, this is what all friends are like. You wouldn't know, you haven't had any before.

Azriel nods mutely, a strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He seems to be considering his words carefully and you take the moment to steal a few deep breaths.

When he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard. "I understand that might be... crossing a line. But—" A waver in his voice. "— but I could smell the blood from out in the storm."

There's something left unsaid in his sentence, his tone clipped. Whatever it is, you're far too tired to discern it. Your body, overwhelmed with tension, abruptly loosens as the perceived threat of danger seeps away. It drains you, a sudden wave of tiredness cresting upon you— because you know, undoubtedly, you're safe now.

Not quite meaning to but unable to stop yourself, you sink down and fall limply against your bed. Your wing curls over you defensively, a blanket and shield all in one.

Azriel's hands finally lower, resting gently atop his thick thighs. His shadows dim their chaotic activity, almost lazy with how they whirl about his neck and shoulders. You wonder absentmindedly what they feel like against his skin.

Looking back at his face, you find his eyes haven't broken their watchful gaze on you— intense enough to stir up an unfamiliar warmth within your chest. You avoid it and his eyes, your tired eyes catch sight of something behind him.

"You brought...?" You can't quite finish your sentence, a vicious shiver wracking your frame, making you curl up closer. Tiredness chases it, the threat of sleep looming closer and closer.

Your eyes close without meaning. In the darkness, Azriel's voice swims before you, muted and far away.

"You have to get better before I can give it to you." His voice has dropped to a whisper. It makes your lips twitch in an attempt of a smile. It's funny, hearing a legendary Illyrian warrior like him whispering.

"Okay," You might say back— though you're not sure if it sounds like a word at all.

It doesn't matter. You're already asleep.

—

tags <3

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee @viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13 @bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa @fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

#azriel #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #acotar fanfiction #whom the shadows sing for #whom the shadows sing for (and the thief’s echoing hymn)#OKURRRR #LETS GO #I HAVE TO LEAVE FOR WORK IN 10 MINS SO IM JUST POSTING #if theres things wrong with it.... well ill deal w that later #enjoy! <3

196 notes · View notes

tlotrgifs · 1 year

Photo

A red sun rises, blood has been spilled this night.

#tolkienedit #lotredit #the lord of the rings #ttedit #tt #two towers #our gifs #elise #i hate my gifs #ugh #i'm too lazy to make something better

732 notes · View notes

yandere-romanticaa · 2 years

Text

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨.

❝ The sun is rising, the screams have gone. Too many have fallen, few still stand tall. Is this the ending of what we've begun? Will we remember what we've done wrong? ❞

Based off the song "The Howling" by Within Temptation.

yandere! xiao x yaksha! reader.

❤️ Art credit: - motiommmm on Twitter.

❤️ Note: Xiao is a character that I've always been fond of and after the quest we had in 2.7, this song just reminded me so much of him. It was tough choosing a lyric because literally any could fit. Find the lyrics or listen to the song, you'll understand what I mean.

⚠️: character death.

"If you die, I'll die too (y/n)."

How long has it been since he said that? How many battles have been fought since that fateful day, how many of your comrades were you forced to see die right before your own two eyes? The task of being a yaksha was not an easy one but you were always proud of yourself for being able to hold out for so long.

Pride. That's one of the few things that kept you going.

You could feel the darkness coming for you at the dead of night, when the world was resting you were at war with yourself, you could hardly sleep a wink let alone do something else.

That's why Xiao made such an effort to be there for you.

You were young and in love when you first met him. Fast as the wind and handsome like a prince, it was love at first sight for you when it came to Xiao. Your brothers and sisters constantly teased the two of you and would always throw flowers at you, proclaiming that you were meant to be together. Xiao never made any comments but he never pushed you away either. Seeing you dance in the shimmering meadows freely beneath the moonlight was therapeutic to him. Sometimes he would even join you, his face stoic as ever but he moved like water and danced his heart out with you. His soft grip on your waist still lingered in your memory, the warmth and love of his darling gaze is what gave your life meaning.

Which is why this current predicament was so impossible to handle.

Laughter was replaced by screams, love wilted away into despair. Xiao was still in love with you but over the years as he continued to kill he would lose himself more and more. He would come back shaky and bloody, promising to make the world a safer place for you, whether you wanted it or not. His karmic debt was swallowing him from the inside out and it was getting to you as well. One evening, he proclaimed that he was going to protect you until the day he dies.

Never had he imagined that day would be now.

Sorrowful tears blurred your vision as you held your sword tightly against its hilt, the blade itself being deeply thrust into Xiao's firm chest. Scarlet red droplets fell to the ground, the sound of the thunderstorm and the rain masked your wallows of agony. Betrayal and hurt were written all over his face as he tried to grab your weapon, but his grip was too weak. His jade spear was on the ground, long forgotten by its master as he breathed in deeply. He lost the ability to speak as blood started to fill his mouth and spill onto you. Without warning he suddenly fell to the ground, his knees on your feet as you held him tightly against your chest, his own hands soon enough found their home on your body. You couldn't even look at him, not when the pain was so great. Xiao refused to go down without a fight however and with the miniscule amount of strength he had left he managed to steal a kiss from your bruised and bloody lips, for the final time. You could see the life being drained from his beautiful golden eyes as his grip got weaker and weaker. He was silently pleading you to look at him, please look at him, do not leave him all alone.

Looking up towards the gray sky the last thing he was ever going to see was you, his little glimmer of light.

Xiao had lived for ages and had many regrets but the one that he can never forgive is how much he had hurt you.

It's okay though, you reasoned with yourself. Even as he was bleeding to death on the ground you could still see what he was trying to tell you even if he could not use words anymore. Grabbing a small knife that was in your pocket you pressed it against your own neck with an iron tight grip. You were going to go to the same place that Xiao was going towards any second now.

If reincarnation really existed, you prayed that the two of you could be reborn in a kinder world.

A sharp pain engulfed you, you could not breathe anymore.

The world was now pitch black.

#yandere #yancore #yanderecore #yandere x reader #yandere aesthetic #yandere imagines #yandere x you #genshin impact #xiao genshin impact #genshin xiao #genshin impact xiao #yandere xiao #xiao #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines

630 notes · View notes

thetomorrowshow · 11 months

Text

cold, empty, lonely

have a short little fic about death and disconnection :)

cw: canonical character death, description of dead body

He finds her body on the side of the hill, crumpled upon itself, red hair dulled against the cold, yellow grass.

Bdubs doesn't touch her, at first. He just watches, waits for some kind of movement.

In the weak light of the moon, the chill wind that blows almost makes it look like her chest is slowly rising and falling. Her hair flicks up a bit, blown like the grass around, and her clothes shift a little, and if Bdubs squints his eyes almost shut and stares at one spot long enough, he could swear that she was just sleeping.

They aren't actually breathing, though. And when he opens his eyes wide, lashes not blurring his vision, he can see again the red that shines against her grey shirt.

They had brought him her armor. It was cheap stuff, iron, held together by whatever leftover straps she'd been able to scrounge up after her good set of armor had been claimed as loot by the Red Army. They hadn't wanted the new set, and had brought it, bloodstained, as proof of their conquest.

Bdubs had pleaded with them for what felt like hours for the location of her body.

He needn't have. He could have looked out a back window and seen it, if he hadn't been so distracted with everything going on.

Their body lies just above the little river that feeds into the Crastle's moat. The river has begun to freeze at the edges, little broken-off sheets of ice forming from the rocky shore, frost touching the red-spattered stones and pebbles. And their body is just beyond that, where the stones and grey dirt turn to dying grass and bare shrubs as the slope climbs upward into a squat hill, alone in the darkness of the night.

He stands there, at a distance, watching their body for probably ten minutes.

Her body looks so lonely.

Cold. Empty.

Lonely.

Bdubs sighs (his breath puffs out in a mist before him—winter really is coming, isn't it?) before crossing the distance between them, crouching down beside the body.

Their flower crown—the one that Bdubs had collected the flowers for—has come apart, a crushed halo of daisies, partially obscured by their hair, a petal weaved in here and there.

Her hair is long, tangled, spilling out around her head like the rays from the sun, curling around her throat and caught under her body.

With a gentle touch, Bdubs brushes their hair away from their grey lips, where some strands have stuck.

Her cheeks are almost colorless, the few stubborn freckles faded. Their lashes are long, soft, forehead unwrinkled and face expressionless.

There's no twist of her mouth, no scrunch of their eyes, no desperation in their brows to denounce pain. There's nothing else, either, though—no peaceful relaxation, no joyful grin, no angry glower.

She's simply blank. It's as if she never lived, never felt.

Her face is cold. Empty. Lonely.

There's still sticky blood on her shirt, her chest slick with it, the ground stained. A lucky stab, straight to the heart. A cleaving of lifeless flesh, right through their chest, somehow missing the bone frame that once held the body together.

Bdubs pulls her shirt a little bit, rearranging it to cover the ugly, open wound. He's not quite sure why he does it. He'll just bury her, anyways.

But he does. He touches the shirt, stiff and sticky with blood, and tugs it over the wound. He pulls more of her hair away, where it's become plastered to her body with blood. He arranges her body so that it isn't half curled on its side, but fully on its back.

They look almost as they always did. Just missing everything that made her alive.

She wasn't supposed to die first. It was always supposed to be him, everyone knew it. Not her.

They probably worked so well together because of how reasonable she was. Bdubs doesn't like being reasonable, likes to kill first and ask questions later—or, if he feels like it, let them sell him a coffin first and ask questions later. She preferred to observe, keep track of enemies and allies, sneak around quietly behind the scenes and make chaos of her own kind.

Which is why Bdubs should have died first. He's so publicly provocative of the Reds, so eager to spill blood.

If anything, she was fairly peaceful. Not genuinely, but she always chose to take a step back from conflict and find a way to profit from it.

It was their Red blood that got to them, Bdubs thinks idly. They hadn't been Red for long enough to let the bloodlust acclimate, and had just gone on the hunt rather than let it simmer.

And now they're dead.

He needs to bury the body. Preferably now, when it's night yet and the battles haven't resumed.

He doesn't wait any longer.

He gets to work, picking up the shovel that he'd brought with him and stabbing it into the earth. Again. Again. Again.

The rough wood of the handle pokes into his palms, but he doesn't stop. The pain reminds him that he needs to keep going.

Every so often he pauses, wipes the sweat off his forehead, looks over at the body.

Then he keeps shoveling.

The world has lightened by the time he finishes, bathing the hill in grey. Bdubs shakes some clumps of dirt off his shovel, whacking it against the ground a couple of times.

Without further ado, he hops out of the shabby hole he's dug and tosses the shovel to the side. He gets on his knees, back creaking, and looks down at his hands.

He should wash them before he touches her, probably. Dirt is packed into every crease of his palm, his nails torn and muddy, grit between his fingers. A couple of splinters sticking out of his skin here and there.

Not that there's any point to washing them. Dirt goes to dirt and whatnot.

So, gently, Bdubs gathers up the body in his arms. He slowly turns, scooting a little on his knees, until he's facing the shallow grave.

Bdubs sets the body down, carefully, supporting the neck so their head doesn't loll. He moves their arms over their body, one limp hand placed over the other.

They wouldn't have liked this. They didn't like being touched.

He doesn't touch her any more, then.

Bdubs grasps the first handful of dirt, holds his closed fist over the grave. A couple of grains of dirt spill out, running down her shirt.

He holds it there, for longer than he should. Long enough that his arm grows weary. Long enough that somewhere, a bird starts chirping its wake-up call.

He needs to let go.

Probably, the worst part of all this is that he's doing it alone, he thinks absently. It's always been the two of them.

And there are others who could be here. Other friends. Other allies. Enemies, even. He shouldn't be alone in this. He shouldn't have to bury her alone.

It still looks like her.

He drops the dirt. It lands on her face, on her grey lips, on her bloodless cheeks.

Then he picks his shovel back up and gets to work, heaving load after load of dirt back into the grave.

And when Bdubs returns in the windy morning, the impromptu occupants that he'd left in the Crastle the previous night are all gone. It's just him, in a small castle that used to belong to two.

And Bdubs is cold.

Empty.

Lonely.

#3rd life smp #mcyt #bdubs #bdoubleo100 #zombiecleo #mcyt fanfic #idk short little bdubs cleo fic #mas writes #i have another 3rd life fic in the works #i am still on hiatus btw #oasis is posting this lol but i did indeed write this #oasis say something here:#ooh I get a chance to speak #hi guyyys :DDD #okay back to mas now 🥰#ummm ok 3rd life fic next trust au fic and more esh au are in the schedule!#oh you can interpret this as /p or /r if you want idc #lmk what you think!#love you guys

59 notes · View notes

i-fondued · 1 year

Text

Ghost | Sinners in Secret - Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three - The Prime Mover Ritual Incident Pairing: Cardinal Copia x Reader/Sister of Sin x Papa “Terzo” Emeritus III Rating: Explicit Warnings: Plot, smut, etc. See AO3 for full list of tags! A/N: I AM ALIVE AHAHA, it had been a long week. I am so so SO sorry I couldn't get this out any sooner, hopefully this is worth the wait. Next chapter won't be posted till the friday after this coming friday just to give myself some extra time and buffer because working two jobs and not getting home till almost 11pm 4 nights a week is really cramping my style.

As always, this chapter is has been reviewed by my beta, @lurancyvenom whom I love!

Full Chapter List - HERE AO3 Link - HERE

Traditionally, I was told, the Prime Mover ritual was held as the sun rose so the large monastery chapel was bathed in blood red morning light.

It had been decided that trying to organize the ritual while also waiting until I had been cleared by the healers was not going to happen, thus the ceremony and ritual had been moved from early morning to dusk. Instead of the rising sun greeting me as I rose above the ranks of Siblings and Clergymen, I was to be greeted by the twilight and bright moonlight. It was going to be a cloudless night was what Sister Imperator told me as she and the other Sisters arrived to dress me for my second to last, yet most important ritual.

“How are you feeling, Sister?” Imperator coaxed, hand resting gently on my bare shoulder as I was allowed to soak in the heat of the bath that had been drawn for me while I tried to calm my slowly frazzling nerves.

“Physically? Fine. Emotionally? Anxious,” I shrugged sheepishly, a small smile on my lips. “This feels like the biggest moment of my life and I’m worried I’m going to screw it up…”

“I wouldn’t worry, Cardinal Copia and Papa will be there with you, and I know you’ve practiced and drilled with Secondo for your parts.” She smiled, a warm motherly look on her face for a moment before she fought to put it away. “You’ve come into this role more than I had ever expected or ever dreamed of. You’ve blown my expectations out of the water. I’m proud to know you’ve come into your own since joining us at the Abbey.”

“T-Thank you, Sister Imperator,” I stuttered, voice thick with tears as I took her outstretched hand and squeezed it firmly. “It means a lot to me that you and everyone here had welcomed me all those years ago, I don’t think I’d ever have been this happy with a normal life…whatever normal is anyways…”

We laughed at ourselves as we wiped at the tears threatening to spill. We were two women from very different walks of life, but here we were together in Rome only hours away from myself becoming the closest thing we in the Clergy had to royalty. If anyone had told me what my life had in store for me when I took the habit, I would have laughed at them until I cried tears of disbelief.

“Come, Sorella. Let us get you ready.” One of the sisters came over to the bath, holding her hand out to me to help me from the sunken tub.

“Of course, thank you,” I smiled as another Sister helped wrap a towel around me and only paused slightly as her eyes floated over the large golden scar.

I felt my cheeks heat up before she apologized under her breath and continued to help dry me off, making a point to not let her eyes drift over my chest again. The two Sisters worked together, just like every ritual before this, buffing me with various abrasive cloths, and massaging my body with both fragrance and ritual oils. I could tell they were both mumbling something in Latin as they worked, but what they were chanting I couldn’t decipher. Once all of the various oils and creams laid out on the countertop were fully rubbed in, both women helped me into an enormous silk robe and tied the belt snugly around my waist.

“Time to eat something, Sister. You will need your strength for this long night,” one Sibling said, bowing to me as they led me from my bathroom to a table by the fireplace.

I looked around my bedroom, half hoping to see either Copia or Terzo, but they had long since been kicked out while I was getting ready. Only Swiss was here, sitting in the wingback chairs with our lunch on the table near him. Imperator was in the other corner of the room with two other Sisters who were rushing to set up the many, many, many layers of fabric that would eventually be helped onto my frame. My eyes widened a fraction and panic nipped at my heels as I thought about just how heavy the final garment would be. Behind the three women, on top of a dresser by the window were the layers of veils and several crowns and hairpins that would be added in the end.

“Sunshine, stop freaking out. I can feel it in my balls,” Swiss laughed, teasing me knowing it would pull my attention away from the anticipation of the evening.

“Gross, Swiss…I didn’t need to know that,” I laughed, the silk of my robe swishing against the ground as I walked over and sat down with him.

My mouth was watering as I saw the spread in front of me; a plate of chicken, roasted vegetables, and yellow rice. I tried to not inhale it, but before I could help myself I was already halfway done with the meal as Swiss chatted with me about the day and how my lovers were waiting for me.

“They both are anxious about seeing you, but they are also having to go through formal preparation.”

“Preparations?” I asked, staring at him quizzically.

“What? Did you think only you have to get greased up and wear about a hundred layers and pounds of fabric?” He laughed and I flicked a roasted tomato at him.

“You are feisty today, did you sleep too much?”

“I slept like a baby, thank you very much.”

We chatted and laughed, a part of me so relieved that there wasn’t any tension between Swiss and I. Especially with everything that had happened because of Veritas. Once I managed to eat everything on my plate, sip on the glass of water that had been left for me, and relax a little again, I found Sister Imperator coming over to collect me.

“It’s just about time, my dear. Are you ready?”

“Let’s do this.”

…

I felt like a Russian princess as I stood in front of the three mirrors set up to be able to see my gown from every angle. It had taken the better part of an hour to get me dressed and ready, that didn’t even include my various veils and crowns that had yet to be put on.

They started with a simple linen chemise that settled off my shoulders, then helped me into stockings that were tied tightly at the knee so they wouldn’t slip down and a pair of simple leather flats. Next was a Victorian style corset, cinching my waist in small but giving me support for the next few layers of the heavy gown. Over that was a thin linen petticoat and then a bustle cage to support the skirts and smooth out the bustle and train of the dress.

Two of the Sisters helped me guide the underskirt over my head. Made of white silk taffeta, it had a strip of buttons from the skirt up into a strip that would eventually be fixed to my bodice. On either side of the buttons was the most extravagant gold embroidery, all hand stitched and meticulously mirrored on either side. Among the swirling patterns of vines and leaves were many symbols for fertility, good fortune, and piety; all were worked along with the grucifix and crest of the Emeritus family that were sewn by hand into the silk.

The overdress, which was open like a robe, was part skirt and part bodice. It took all four of the Sisters to help me into this outfit. The open skirt was put into place first by hook and eye closures at my cinched waist, then the bodice was slipped over my arms and I watched as the four women worked together to settle the heavy velvet fabric of the overskirt and attach the strip of buttons up the front closure. The bodice had a low neckline, sweeping across my bust, and settled right on the very edge of my shoulders; the edge just barely visible was a soft ruffle of lace. It also had long open, hanging sleeves that reminded me of the style that elves wore in fantasy movies.

Mimicking the design of the two skirts, the bodice was split with a white section down the middle to match the underskirt, with both the gold embroidery and strip of buttons. The red section copied the look of the overskirt with gold piping along the faux edge and even more of the intricate embroidery. The red velvet overdress had a long sweeping train, and all along the edges of the skirts were more golden stitches. In the center of the train was my own personal monogram seal that came with my ascension. Completely absorbed in taking in my reflection, a hand gently settling on my bare shoulder startled me.

“We leave in five minutes, Your Eminence,” one of the Sisters spoke softly behind me as I stood, completely absorbed and overwhelmed by how I was dressed.

“Y-Yes, thank you Sister,” I stuttered, looking back at my make-up as the other Siblings gathered to help put on the final layers of veils before our departure.

They had kept my hair mostly simple due to the coming veils and headdresses, a low and windswept bun at the nape of my neck, but my makeup was what stood out the most. My skin was dewy, my lips soft and pink. It was my eyes that had been done up dramatically. The Sisters had made my eyes look both bright and sultry with rouge eyeshadow; trailing from my eyes and down my cheeks were droplets of golden ichor, several large teardrops hanging in suspension on my cheeks. Leaning in slightly to check my reflection I smiled softly as I could see Swiss in the reflection of the mirror, leaning against the wall casually.

“You’ll be fine, Sunshine,” he chuckled, winking through the silver of his mask. I gave him a slight nod and couldn’t help the heavy sigh that slipped from my lips.

“I know, I know,” I laughed as I turned to him, the soft sound of layers of satin and velvet swishing as I turned back and forth towards him. “What do you think? I clean up nice, right?”

“You look like a princess.” He chuckled, he was also dressed in full finery. “A Princess of surprisingly not Italian origin, considering where we are…”

“They tried to get me to wear another antique dress from the renaissance and I fought with Sister Imperator until we agreed on a reproduction gown. I much prefer the grandeur of the Romanovs myself…” I rolled my eyes but smiled at Swiss as the Sisters came back in with Imperator right behind them.

“Time for the finishing touches, Sister,” Imperator smiled brightly, gesturing to the veils waiting for me on the bed. “Sister Maja will carry the final veil, as that will be put in place during your ritual. Sister Ester will carry the headdress, and Sister Lenora will carry your final dress. Everything else we’ll need to place now.”

The first veil was a white lace that came to just barely brush against my bare upper arms, the thin gossamer material light enough to flutter as the Sisters milled about me while they pinned it in place. The second one was slightly shorter and was made in the same style but in gold threads. Both were pinned to just barely dust against my forehead and over that was the heaviest of the items I was expected to wear. Draped over my head slowly, as to not pull the light lace veils out of place, was a heavy veil made of royal blue silk.

The edge was scalloped and piped with gold along with the same matching golden embroidery everything else I was wearing was covered in. The hem stopped just shy of dusting the floor and flowed outward with the skirts of my dress. It was enormous and I already felt weighed down by both the veil and the heavy velvet dress, however the final step was to add a gold, diamond encrusted diadem in the style of a saintly halo to hold everything in place.

Imperator clapped, gaining everyone's attention from fawning over my dress before we followed each other out of the room. “Alright, we're going to be cutting it close. Let’s go ladies.”

I couldn’t help but find it wasteful to go through all this effort for things that would be removed in the end. It was part of the ceremony of this transformation, of leaving my secular world behind in a haze of incense and ritual for my mortal form to ascend to another higher being.

Or at least that was what Secondo said the ritual was about.

As Swiss took my arm, guiding me out of the Papal suites and down dusky hallways towards the massive Monastery chapel, I felt my anxiety really creep up. The hallways were almost completely empty, most people having already made their way inside the space as we lined up and waited for our cue to enter. I could hear the sound of the organ playing and my palms began to sweat.

“Sunshine…?” Swiss whispered to me, concern obvious in his voice. “Do you need me to help you make a break for it? I think I can carry you even with the forty pounds of fabric you’re wearing.”

“No, I’m okay,” I laughed. “I can do this.” I smiled warmly, though I know I didn’t reach my eyes. “I can, right?”

“You are our Prime Mover, Lucifer sent you himself to not only shepard us but to become the Mama to our Papa and the Cardinal. If there is anyone who could do it, it would be you.”

“Thank you, Swiss.”

Without another word, the large wooden doors opened and the procession started. I watched as the Sisters headed towards the altar, the chapel already full and people standing against the walls to get even just a glimpse of this momentous moment in my own life, let alone theirs. Vaguely I registered music and a chorus singing, but I was too busy looking at the altar to notice even the fine decoration adorning the space. Swiss was the only thing keeping me grounded as we made our way slowly to the altar, and I took in the sight of Terzo and Copia in their finery.

Terzo was dressed in his purple lined chasuble, however over that was a long black cape, clipped with gold chains over his heart, with purple accents and gold embroidery. He also wore a stole, draped around his neck and adorned with the same golden filigree motif as my own dress. The skirts of the cape trailed behind him slightly as he walked up to the altar, his arms raised and his head bowed in my direction, a small smirk barely contained. On his head he wore his normal Papal mitre, long black strips trailing down his back, and black leather gloves with golden nail tips. Terzo’s Papal paints were done so sharply I know it had taken him twice as long as normal. When he winked at me I bit my bottom lip and let my eyes drift away from him to the other man with him.

Copia was standing slightly to the side, but he looked no less spectacular than Terzo. The Cardinal was wearing his choir dress, the highest of formal robes in our organization, in his signature deep red color. However, instead of the stiff wool cassocks I was so used to seeing him in, he was wearing one made of the finest silk. He too had a small train coming from the floor length silk cassock, over which he wore a white alb with a wide lace trim. A red capelet was worn over that, the hem just barely dusting against the crook of his elbows as his hands were pressed together with a grucifix dangling between them.

Instead of his biretta, he wore a red galero. It was a wide brimmed hat with tassels hanging down from either side. His makeup was done as always, not a spot smudged or line wobbled, he looked ethereal and almost otherworldly in the shadow of his enormous brim. I felt myself drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, like a sinner to the darkness. But when I thought I had been transfixed beyond anything, he met my eyes and I watched him swallow hard, stumbling slightly over the prayer he was whispering like a secret.

I felt my heart in my throat knowing that this moment was what we three had been waiting for. I smiled at both of them, unable to hold back my joy any longer, as Swiss helped me up the stairs of the first level of the altar in my heavy dress. I held his arm as I settled to kneel on the pillow waiting for me on the floor, looking up at Terzo who was staring at me like I was the only woman in the entire world. His eyes were filled with a swirling of so many emotions it made me dizzy; my heart thrumming away in my chest as I held my hands together tightly in prayer with the grucifix dangling between my fingers. This was to be the longest of the rituals by far, at least till the binding ritual the next day, and a part of me was worried about kneeling for as long as I had to.

“Welcome, my flock, to this momentous occasion,” Terzo’s voice boomed out over the chapel, and suddenly the space was so quiet I could hear my heavy anxious breathing. It hadn’t even dawn on me when the music and choir had stopped. “It is today of all feast days that we are gathered to watch one of our own rise above to a higher calling.”

He moved from behind the altar as he spoke, coming to stand directly in front of me on the next altar level. He reached out and I felt his hand cup my cheek. I let him tilt my head up to look right at him. Terzo was backlit by the setting sunlight filtering in from the stained glass windows. He looked like sin itself, a wry smirk on his face as I gasped slightly and felt my cheeks flush at the heat in his eyes.

“Sorella has been chosen, she has been sent by Lucifero himself, to ascend. She is to become il Primo Motore, the Prime Mover. No higher honor is offered to another than to become the paramour of an Emeritus, to continue our flock in our celebration and dedication to follow the teachings of our Dark Savior.”

Terzo’s voice was hypnotic, his mismatched eyes were locked with mine, curiously drawing me in like a frantic cry of pleasure in the dead of night. His hand on my cheek was warm even through the leather of the gloves, and when he pulled away I had to fight my instinct to follow his touch with a barely audible whimper.

“But this is not just about Sorella becoming the vessel for the seeds of the next Papa, no? This rituale to bind the followers of Papa to his most arduous and steadfast confidante. For who would Papa be without he beloved, hm?” Terzo’s eyes were so filled with heat and, dare I say, love that my face felt like it was engulfed in flames. I was panting faintly, attempting not to squirm as he refused to look away from me as he spoke.

“Join me in the first of our readings, si?”

As Terzo spoke, reading a passage from our dark texts, I continued with my eyes downcast as I was supposed to be showcasing my piety and service to Lucifer. I mumbled the Dark Lord’s Prayer under my breath, my eyes trying to focus on my trembling hands as we made slow progression towards the next part of the ritual that I’d be expected to participate in. As Terzo’s reading came to a close he came to stand in front of me again, hand resting gently on top of my veiled head.

“You are doing wonderfully, amore,” he whispered as the chapel was let into song by the choir, a slow sultry song of thanks for blessing our flock with a Prime Mover to guide and shepard the Siblings as a mother figure. “Cardinale and I are so proud of you…”

“Thanks, Terzo,” I whispered back, biting my bottom lip and trying to not crack a smile.

“Benedici questa Sorella, portala nel tuo amorevole abbraccio e mostrale la via delle tenebre…” Bless this Sorella, bring her into your loving embrace and show her the way of the darkness… Terzo called out, his own head bent in prayer. It felt silly to ask for protection from Lucifer all things considered over the last few weeks. “Consentile di seguire le orme di Lilith, lascia che diventi tutt'uno con il peccato originale e si elevi per essere degna della tua devozione.” Allow her to follow in Lilith's footsteps, let her become one with original sin and rise to be worthy of your devotion.

I could see Copia out of the corner of my eye, as he moved to bring over the next steps of the ritual for Terzo. He was carrying a chalice, filled with a deep red wine, and a plate with the unholy sacrament. Copia’s eyes locked on mine and he smiled softly, winking when Terzo turned to take the plate from him.

Ti amo, he mouthed and I smiled up at him before mouthing the words back to him. When Terzo spoke, my attention was drawn back to him, looking up with a warmth in my chest I felt I hadn’t felt in weeks.

“I offer this body and blood, the symbols of our Unholy Father, to you Sorella. Will you partake?”

“I shall, willingly,” I responded, opening my mouth and sliding my tongue out slightly, my hands still pressed together and clutching the grucifix between them.

I could see the way the position and image had already started to affect Terzo, who had to clear his throat as he pressed the wafer to my tongue slightly more aggressively than necessary. After looking up at him through my lashes, I felt him hold the goblet to my mouth and tilted the wine into my parted lips. My mind instantly flooded back to the time that Terzo spit the wine in my mouth and I had to fight to keep myself from squirming; though I was sure his smirking face was because he noticed the blush on my cheeks.

Terzo moved away from me then, placing both the plate and chalice back on the altar as I stayed kneeling. Copia stood just to the side, repeating a hymn under his breath as he watched me before remembering that he too had a part to play in this. Jumping slightly as Terzo cleared his throat, he shuffled forward and grabbed the small plate of apple slices. He walked up to me, heat in his eyes clear as he looked down at me. With his free hand Copia mirrored Terzo’s earlier move and reached out to cup my cheek. I couldn’t help but nuzzle against him as well, a content look on my face. Copia smiled before he cleared his throat before speaking.

“Like the first Prime Mover many generations ago, I offer you this apple as a symbol of man’s original fall from grace. Will you accept this knowledge, Sorella?” he asked, voice smooth and sultry as he subtly ran the pad of his leather gloved thumb against my bottom lip. It took me a minute to register that I needed to respond to him.

“I shall, hungrily,” I spoke, voice thick with desire as I watched Copia pick up a slice and press the tip against my lips. His eyes practically begging for entrance as I let him slip the slice between my parted lips.

His eyes were locked on my mouth as I chewed the offered slice and looked up with large, doe-like eyes before he bowed his head to me and took a few steps back. Terzo was there again, as he was to lead the ritual, and smiled at us both.

“Who offers this woman up to her fall from the pinnacle?” he asked. We all knew I had no family in the church to speak of, so we went with the next logical answer. Swiss took the steps up to his spot next to me quickly and I could see him from the corner of my eye.

“I shall offer the lamb to the wolf,” Swiss replied, bowing down to one knee. “Let her serve the Dark One’s will, from the pinnacle to the pit.”

“From the pinnacle to the pit,” was the response from the congregation behind me and I couldn’t help but blush slightly.

“Then you must help this woman shed her earthly confines in favor of her robes fit for her station.”

That was the cue. Suddenly the Sisters from earlier in the day were there and helping me to my feet, Swiss holding out his hand to help me as I stood. What I didn’t know until this moment, I’m sure something Imperator left out conveniently, was that I was not to be moved to the back alcove to change and emerge like a broadway quick-change. No. I was to be stripped where I was standing and it didn’t occur to me till I saw the Siblings bringing over my dress.

“Tricky bitch…” I mumbled as Swiss fought to hold back the laughter I heard him struggling with under his mask as the ritual mass carried on around us.

Both Terzo and, surprisingly, Copia were leading the congregation in a lovely angelic hymn. I could hear Terzo’s voice, clear as a bell, but it was Copia that shocked me enough to make me pause. I hadn’t heard him sing like this before, at least not loud enough to really notice how beautiful his voice was. I felt Swiss tug on the diadem on my head to get my attention and I focused back on the task at hand.

The Sisters helped take off the diadem and veils, and had begun to unbutton the heavy velvet of the bodice before I had even taken a breath. Before I knew it I was standing in nothing but the thin linen chemise that had been my base layer, even the corset was gone. As the hymn came to a close, Terzo began to speak again.

“Lucifer, we beseech you. Protect this woman, your vessel on this plane, as she prepares to ascend to a higher cause.”

The linen material was pulled over my head and I was momentarily nude before the Sisters began to dress me in my official formal Prime Mover robes. I had helped design the garment myself, and after finally seeing them put together I realized that, subconsciously, I had designed the same thing I’d worn in my shared dream with Copia. The black, high neckline and skin tight dress fit like a glove. Even the golden cutout where the grucifix sat over my cleavage was included.

Next was my belt, embroidered with Prime Mover and my seal at the bottom. Much like the previous dress I had on, there was more gold embroidery along the hem and in the center of the small train was the grucifix again. All of the embroidery was accented by shining and shimmering beads and stonework. Quickly black leather gloves were slipped onto my hands, they had golden nails on the fingertips as a nod to Terzo’s own pair. After the dress was finished being buttoned up the back, Swiss helped me kneel again before moving to stand a few steps below me.

“Almighty below, I bestow this woman with my life blood as she will bring forth the blood of my blood; thus the continuation of the line of Emeritus begins anew.” Terzo’s voice was clear, echoing in the marble walls of the abbey as he raised his hand high and sliced his palm.

I watched while mumbling along with the prayers around me, transfixed as he let several drops of blood into the open clay pot of black grease paints sitting on the altar. Speaking in Italian, Terzo offered prayers to Lucifer as he mixed the blood with the cream.

“Tuere eam, dux eius, eam fortis.” Protect her, guide her, make her strong.

”Pro hoc offero sanguinem meum in sacrificium.” For this I offer my blood as a sacrifice.

Terzo came to stand in front of me again, holding the pot of grease paints in on hand and a brush in the other. Copia came over and took the pot from him and nodded solemnly at him as Terzo cupped my chin and tilted my head in the direction he needed.

“Trust me, Amore?” He asked, a devilish smile on his face and I couldn’t help but smile right back at him.

“Always.”

“Then close your eyes, eh?”

I held back my laughter, closing my eyes and attempting to keep very still as Terzo began to chant in Latin again. I felt the brush, with paints slightly cool, sliding across my skin as Terzo worked quickly and smoothly. His hands had memorized this after so many years, though he was only working with black for the purpose of this ritual.

After a few minutes, he pulled away and I peaked an eye open to see him holding out a mirror for me.

“What do you think, hm?” He whispered, suddenly looking shy. “Cardinale and I worked together to come up with the design.”

My cheekbones had been hollowed out with the paints, much like Terzo’s paints though my edges had been brought to my hair line. My eyes had been hollowed out, making my eyes shine brightly, between the black spots. My upper lip had been painted much like Copia and there was two small swipes made to the bridge of my nose as well. I looked up at Terzo, suddenly my throat was thick and full of emotion as he smiled brightly.

“Let these paints be a sign to all who see you, Sorella, that you are now and forever more a part of the Emeritus clan.”

“Hallowed be thy name.” was the response from the crowd behind me.

“Does the clergy sanction this ascension?” Terzo turned to ask Copia and I had to hold back a gasp at the intense look in Copia’s eyes as he kept his gaze locked on mine.

“We, the Clergy, are in full support of this decision.”

The sisters who’d helped me the last week, bathed and dressed me like I was their own, and finally had carried down my veil and headdress were now standing with Copia and Terzo. They both had their heads bowed in my direction as they handed the items to both of them in perfect sync. Copia took hold of the veil I’d be expected to wear for semi-formal and above events, with the exception of any events taking place around ‘worldly’ folks.

It was a long circular shape, though it did have quite a long train. It was made with black fine netting and all along the edge was more matching golden lace. The veil was a drop-veil style, cathedral length and settled far past the train for the dress. The Sisters helped bring the veil up behind me as it settled neatly against my dress and the floor. Copia slowly flicked and fluttered the gossamer fabric over my head, the front covered my face entirely and draped down to my elbows.

Copia placed his hand on top of my head, causing me to look down at his feet and my slightly trembling hands. He spoke softly under his breath, but I could still hear him.

“Lucifero, grazie per aver portato questa donna nelle nostre vite. Non so dove sarei senza di lei.” Lucifer, thank you for bringing this woman into our lives. I don't know where I would be without her. I could hear the heavy emotion in Copia’s voice, causing tears to threaten to ruin my makeup.

Before I could do anything to bring him comfort, the weight of Copia’s hand was gone and I looked up only to see him take a few steps back and allow Terzo to step in front of me. In his hands he held the symbol of my station. My halo style crown, it looked more like a piece of saintly artwork than a crown. Made of a large golden circle; it was made to look like I had a saint’s halo, like all the paintings and frescoes all over the monastery halls, and was covered in filagree and gemstones. I felt like my neck was going to get a cramp just from the short time I would have this on my head.

Terzo perched the heavy diedem on the crown of my head, the sisters with him working quickly to pin it to my head in four places to make sure I’d be able to move and not knock it loose. As he placed it, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. I looked at him with a curious expression but he just smiled warmly and cupped my cheeks through the veil.

“You have done so, so well, Tesoro…” He whispered and I fought the giggle that wanted to spill from my lips.

“Thank you.” I smiled and I watched as he winked at me before begrudgingly pulling away.

Terzo took a few steps back and threw his arms wide.

“Rise, Prime Mover.” He called out, only the sound of the organ accompanying him. “Rise and gaze upon your flock.”

Both Terzo and Copia offered me a hand, graciously I took them as I stood up and turned to look at the large chapel behind us. I felt my heart hammering in my chest as I took in the sight around me. Everyone in the chapel, including the Emeritus family and the ghouls, was kneeling before me. A thrill at the idea of power, of the control I was given in this position, slithered up my spine. Deep down, I knew I would never ever abuse my powers I’d been given but the idea that all of these people would do as I said or even commanded made me momentarily drunk with power.

I turned back around to peek at my boys and I gasped quietly. Both were kneeling, their heads bowed, as they spoke the final prayers in latin. When they looked back up with me, practically synchronized in their movements, I was momentarily shocked at the heat and lust in their eyes.

Terzo was the first to stand, offering Copia a hand to join him. When they were both standing again Terzo stepped forward and took my hand, having me turn again to face the crowd.

“All hail Prime Mover Elizabeth Lucia Emeritus, the First of her name.”

I will never forget for as long as I live the sound of the thunderous applause and resounding ‘Long may she reign.’

#ghost #the band ghost #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #terzo x reader #copia x reader #copia x reader x terzo #cardinal copia #papa emeritus lll #papa terzo #sinners in secret chapters #my writing

94 notes · View notes

alondisstorm · 6 months

Text

"a red sun rises. blood has been spilled this night."

rest in peace nat and tony. you will forever be missed.

#marvel #marvel mcu #mcu #avengers endgame #natasha romanoff #tony stark

15 notes · View notes

sednonamoris · 2 years

Text

i’m at one with the silence (i found peace in your violence)

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: You and Azriel share a moment before the sun rises on yet another battle in the War

Warnings: Brief descriptions of death and decay, loss of hope, wartime

Word count: 592

—

There are few moments a war camp can truly be called quiet, but this is one of them. Songs have been sung, meals shared, weapons honed, and once-bright fires are burnt down to embers. Even the crickets sing their song softly in these grey twilight hours before the dawn.

The dying light of the fire just outside your tent is hardly enough to read the maps spilling over your lap, but by now you have the troop movements long memorized. Secure the high ground. Feint towards the left flank. Send a squad of Illyrians to smash the right. Get to their general. Put his head on a pike and watch the lines break. Shadows dance over where the enemy camp is marked. You swear they start moving through the progression of tomorrow’s battle, even as you inch the parchment closer to the fire’s light to dispel them.

“It’s a solid plan,” a voice says softly.

“Shit,” you clutch your papers to your chest. “I’ll never live to see it work if you keep scaring me like that.”

Azriel emerges from the darkness with that faintly amused expression he seems to save just for psychologically tormenting you. His dark hair is unkempt, for him, and even in the low light you can see the dark circles under his eyes. He’s probably been skipping meals again, too. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Says the kettle to the pot,” you quip. He rolls his eyes.

It’s a rare moment when either of you manages to slip away from the High Lord anymore, but when you do you almost always find each other. This war has been brutal. Demanding. Costly. His position as spymaster and yours as a favored battle strategist have left little time for anything else. You can count on one hand the number of nights you’ve slept more than just a few restless hours, and your last meal yesterday was a hard hunk of stale bread. Azriel is just as bad - worse, even - but neither of you stops fussing. A tentative friendship forged in firelight and stolen moments.

It’s… nice. Normal, despite everything else. And putting someone before yourself is always easier than justifying a pause for a meal or a nap or even just a small break when so many lives are on the line. Human and faerie blood alike water the battlefields every day, seeping into the ground and growing carrion for the crows in Death’s cruel perversion of a garden.

“I still find it hard to sleep on the eve of battle.” Azriel’s admission is a hushed thing. Just for you and the shadows.

He extends a scarred hand and you take it without hesitation, maps left in disarray beside the smoky remains of your fire. You don’t let go until he leads you to the edge of camp, where the sun will be rising soon over the plain so many soldiers will die upon.

“Do you think it will ever get easier?” you ask. You’re not sure if you mean the sleeping or the killing or the hopelessness that chokes you amidst endless, meaningless slaughter for a goal that slips further and further away.

“I’m not sure.” Both of you stare pointedly at the horizon, too scared to face one another in these fragile predawn moments, but you know he understands. All of it. “Will you watch?”

You don’t answer right away.

The sky is slow to wake as the two of you stand, looking, but already streaks of blood-red sun paint the morning with deadly promise.

“I always watch.”

#acotar #acotar x reader #azriel x reader #azriel x you #shadowsinger #fran writes

151 notes · View notes

alder-saan · 8 months

Text

A red sun rises, blood has been spilled this night

A picture I took this morning in the vineyard.

#Lotr #Let's go to mordor #My uncle gave me a ring #What shall I do?

17 notes · View notes

ferromagnetiic · 4 months

Text

𝟑 - 𝟓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒:

literally every hue of red

obsidian

golden-bronze

steel-silver

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

faded whiffs of cheap deodorant mingled with sweat at the end of a busy afternoon. distinct, masculine musk and warmed skin from being outside in the summer sun, beating down on him. the shared tang of the ocean’s headwind.

the nervousness lingering in the back of your nose, during moments of sharpened instincts; staining your tongue with something foul. like trepidation. he smells like oncoming threat. he smells like the anxiety you experience when you know danger is approaching, like something bad is about to occur, though you're uncertain of what that entails. he smells like clammy palms and a quickened heartbeat and a distrust that never quite dissipates.

metallic notes: spilled blood and laborious metalwork. the dryness of dusty tools in need of a polish, accompanied by the overwhelming bite of motor oil. an engine that's been running for too long, been functioning too hard, and is now emitting fumes.

the booze he's been drinking. rum on the rocks, or a frothy beer. stale fruit. shrouded in miasma while glasses clink in celebration as his men exchange a round of hearty toasts. an occasional cigarette when he steps outside for a smoke break. cheap thrills and long nights.

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍:

his signature coat: an exotic plume of feathers, heavier than it looks and impossible to ignore, racing like a sea of soft fire down his back.

gaudy-printed pants which some would consider an eyesore for being so needlessly dramatic.

crimson hair, spiked each morning with copious amounts of hair gel.

a sizeable collection of expensive jewelry: bangles, cuffs, rings; stolen and never once bought.

bold lipstick in dark shades and kohl eyeliner painted on a face that would otherwise be too bare without.

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒:

a pair of tinted goggles from an old friend dear to him, still.

the harsh, jagged edges of a false alloy arm: a paradox in both loss and gain. of something clearly solid yet missing.

a welding torch carelessly abandoned on the ground next to the incomplete body of an unfinished project.

a well-used electric guitar resting atop an amp.

imposing mechanical animals seeming to contain life of their own, rattling and hissing with complicated motions.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄:

the brutal collision of a fist; knowing precisely where to land to make his opponent reel.

the brawl-promised warning of a sneer poorly disguised as a wry smile.

the fluid movement of a tongue, thick with an accent belonging to an almost-dead language.

the absentminded wiping of grease-smears on an old rag.

bellowing laughter; gruff, satisfied rumbling lodged within a throat.

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒:

“the scream of thunderbolts overhead; a country that has lost its privileges to quiet skies. the deafening patter of raindrops crashing onto tin roofs. there’s a presence in the junkyard hidden amongst the piles of scrap. sparks that are unpleasant to touch. a thousand flesh-eating sea kings swarming the coast, keeping you at bay. fingertips smudged with pencil lead from designing blueprints, so many of which are torn. your first successful invention, and short-lived moments of joy. pride swells in your chest.”

"a storehouse of restless discomfort and emotion. static stammering beyond your rabid snarling, the rushing of blood giving rise to the fine hairs on the back of your neck, disobedient and unlistening. a tense jaw that’s starting to go sore from gritted molars. everything about you is so loud. they won't part from you, uninjured. they'll speak of spite as though they'll understand it half as well as you do."

“being too good at these war-games. at collecting broken teeth and lacerations on your knees. a narrowed set of copper eyes — alight with animosity, dangerous and unnerving. it should hurt each time they knock you down; yet you don't quite feel it anymore. no love for the frail. you're about as angry as a bruise can get."

"your pull, magnetized on the outside, commands the creaking of the earth’s core. all iron folds to your will. you have little interest in playing god; despite what they say. you don't believe in transcendence, only perspective. so you continue to climb, tireless: a sentient contraption of mismatched parts continuously breaking down in the pursuit of strength. you’re an unburied artefact, terror on hooves. a rampaging minotaur lost inside the remnants of a once-great civilization. the wild shrillness of your best friend’s laughter, reeking in sacrifice and hardship, makes your residual limb flare up in turn. the pressure upon your shoulders remains heavier than any monstrous prosthetic you wield. you’ll protect everyone who’s counting on you: you’ve no other choice. you glint in spite of the rust."

"you were a boy once, turned man too early. you cling to survival like a hungry dogchild, thinking he can feast on raw bones alone, hurting yourself on every splinter. your stomach pierced; you, swearing you're never going to die. this is what it means to be the underdog. this is what it means to have the mettle not to recoil when you were made to stand in the living room of fear. you dread nothing and no one."

tagged by: @gumpistol (thank you, love you lala) tagging: @raidpink, @goddslayerr, @ryusokcn, @meowgiciann, @sozokami (ahmya or any of your op muses!), @melodysian (for uta my best girl, ofc), @primamirage, @ravarui (if you've already done this for shanks, do it for tony!), @akagamiko, @code01746, @chronocide (katakuri), @chillin-at-partys-bar (benn beckman), @seaoftales (mihawk), @wiinchgreen, @waraxarcana, @ncfertari, @swoonji

#【 ⚙ ˊˎ | IN THE WRONG KIND OF CASINO ; SPINNING OUT ON MY ONLY TENNER | dash games. 】#// thank you for tagging me this was such a good meme/dash game!!!#// it's very cool being able to see everyone else fill this in. it's a good insight into how everyone sees their muse(s).#// sorry i am very late to getting this posted!

9 notes · View notes

gwynbleiddyn · 7 months

Text

dyn x astarion | bg3 | slow life

dyn contends with the onset of a full moon, one slow morning in camp. astarion is intrigued by his unusual offer.

a little drabble set some way into act 3, with spoilers for Astarion's personal quest conclusion.

[dyn // elven ranger, lycan, true neutral alignment, he/him]

The morning is slow. Slow light. Slow breaths. The fluttering of foredawn is a gentle thing, imperceptible. Slow, like Astarion's heartbeat beneath his hand. Irregular and discordant, like a piano being tuned, but one that will never find its steady notes.

Dyn listens to its struggle, while his own hammer-heart punches through the stillness. His skin burns hot, already thrumming with the restless nature of his lycan blood - a glance skywards reveals the pale shadow of a near-full moon, ebbing away as sun rises. Not quite. But soon.

He grimaces, the ache beginning to set in where his bones feel wrong and his muscles twist in anticipation of a shape that doesn't belong entirely to him. He would have to divert them out of Baldur's Gate for a day or so, away from unsuspecting civilians, or worse: unexpected prey.

Unlike Astarion's carefully orchestrated hunts, Dyn's instincts are harder to reason with.

His thoughts are stolen away by a yawn, exhaustion still lingering on the edges of his sun-sore eyes, and he finds his eyes sliding shut again as he turns and shifts into a more comfortable position, no longer tangled up with Astarion's cold limbs.

"Tired, darling?"

Dyn's ears twitch at the voice, familiar now in a way that feels near-inextricable from the constant, whispering hunger in his mind. Less a companion to it, and more a comfortable reminder that he is not the only one who suffers the feeling.

He hums a belated response, burying his face into Astarion's cool skin until he hears a contented sigh spill from above him, and his lips tug with a grin.

It widens as Astarion's arms clutch onto him in turn, cold and nimble, fingers digging into hot skin.

"Tired. Hot. Uncomfortable." Dyn lists his problems as they settle on the surface of his mind, dredged up by Astarion's question.

"Well, that's no good," Astarion murmurs. There's a few soft beats of silence, accompanied by the hollow call of a not-quite heartbeat by Dyn's ear as he rest his cheek in the crook of Astarion's neck. He almost drifts into a pleasant state of dozing as Astarion idly fidgets with a lock of his red hair. Then, "Can I help?"

Dyn swallows. He's gotten good at asking, lately. Things have... settled, somewhat, since they left Cazador as a bloody pulp in his sacrificial pit. There's a clarity in Astarion's own bloody gaze now, one that persists, where before, Dyn had seen the mire of doubt and fear cloud his intention more than he'd like to recall.

He wishes to say yes. That Astarion can help. To allow him the satisfaction, the quiet sense of joy that Dyn has so often harboured whenever Astarion had let him in.

"Not today," Dyn answers, sullenly. "Full moon's looming. My body knows, my mind is catching up. Could get a little hairy in camp if we don't pick up outside the walls for a night."

"Ah. I see." Astarion continues his gentle fidgeting, fingers drifting now to scratch idly at the base of Dyn's neck. He hums in appreciation, the sensation strangely soothing in the midst of his growing discomfort. "Then perhaps the two of us can abscond for the evening? I'm sure the others will miss us terribly, but... needs must."

Dyn chuckles drily, the sound heavy with the grit of tiredness.

"Mm. You want to hunt with me?" He lifts his head, curiosity piqued.

The question hadn't been raised before now - never needed to be, given how easy it had been for both of them to slip away from camps in the wild, unnoticed, separate, and in search of their quarry. Now, the city has eyes and ears in every corner, and detours feel more trouble than they're worth with Gortash's tin men rattling along every route out of the Gate.

But perhaps it needn't be so covert. They could slip out together, hand in deliberately monstrous hand, instead of desperate animals darting through the shadows for a glimpse of something that would satiate their hunger. The thought pleases Dyn, his smile curving something wicked as he looms over Astarion, still hungry.

Astarion, meanwhile, looks up at him with rapt attention, eyes alight. "Hunt together? Why, that's... novel. Can we?"

Dyn shrugs. "Who's stopping us? I don't.. ah, what's the word... I don't consume my prey, exactly. Once I render them completely devoid of life and torn into several pieces, I mean. Plenty of blood to go around."

"Aren't you romantic?" Astarion's eyes narrow under the bow of a smile, gleeful, intrigued. "So, you do all the maiming and killing while I sit back and reap the rewards from my luxurious stroll in the woods, hm? Is that what you're suggesting?"

Dyn snorts. "Don't try and say you enjoy running after pigs. I've seen you."

Brow furrowing, Astarion sniffs indignantly. "Letting you have all the fun sounds awful."

There's enough of a break in Astarion's tone and the subtle quirk of his lip that allows Dyn to read his bare-faced lie with ease.

"Tonight, then. It's a date."

Astarion hums, pretending to debate the idea some more as he lifts a hand to Dyn's cheek, fingers trailing over his skin. He stops at Dyn's lips, and their eyes meet - Dyn's in silent question, Astarion's in impish delight - as a thumb suddenly pushes Dyn's upper lip back, revealing a long and pointed canine.

"Wha're you doin'--"

"Just seeing if the hunter has the means to keep up, heh," Astarion giggles, quiet and delighted, "Well, aren't those lovely and sharp? Yes. Beautiful."

Dyn opens his mouth to bite down playfully, and Astarion snatches his hand back to cradle Dyn's jaw instead, laughing. Dyn watches him, enjoying the sight fully - the mess of his hair from turning in the night, the deep crimson of his eyes embraced by laughter lines, the freedom that spills from him in the wake of his chains being shattered.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Dyn tells him, as though it were written scripture. A fact inked into the fundament of Faerun. Astarion blinks up at him, a moment or two slipping by in gentle surprise before he speaks again.

"That's my line."

Dyn rumbles out a laugh, cut short only by Astarion forcefully pulling him down into a kiss to stop his gloating, and Dyn doesn't argue any further.

#unedited stream of consciousness lets go #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 oc #tag: nyarmamaitar #i need a dyn x astarion ship tag i dont have one yet #x: coincide #it's their playlist name i'll abide with it for now #anyway i have lots of brainrot about vamp/werewolves

8 notes · View notes

through-pierre-lenses · 2 years

Text

"A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night." - Legolas

35mm Redscale lomography

59 notes · View notes

hazelnut-u-out · 1 year

Text

Ring of Fire - 3

THIS HAS BEEN MY FAVORITE CHAPTER TO WRITE SO FAR.

cw for lots of blood and violence...

( chapter 1 ; chapter 2 )

Synopsis:

Will Birdperson be okay after the pair's confrontation with a Federation officer, or will there be two casualties heavy over the desert tonight?

How can Rick explain his actions after taking away his friend's only chance at finding the group responsible for massacring his people?

-2337 words

------

Blood drenched the both of them.

Wings- powerful and expansive- smeared blood along Rick’s face as the bottom edge of the appendages rested along his forearms, his hands a wiry cage beneath his counterpart’s biceps.

It wasn’t exactly the best way to lay low, either. Music hushed and Warekins turned their necks at unnatural angles beneath their hoods as the men passed- their unsettling four-eyed stares wide and crackling with curiosity.

Rick simply dragged his companion along the desert floor, ignoring the haunting murmurings that trailed along their heels.

Red dust skittered in thin blankets around them, sparkling pink in the dimming rays of the sun, and eventually cooling to a muted dance of lavender. As the grueling star settled itself behind the mountains, he was able to haul BP up by his shoulders onto one of their equore at the edge of town.

Rick was anxious.

Not in the way he had been earlier- at being surrounded by the essence of his friend; at the prospect of dying himself. He was anxious now, because he knew there was a possibility that Birdperson could die and he could…

Live.

The ride back to their camp was eerily quiet- an occasional rattling breath or pained moan from the body slumped onto his own back the only sound daring to pierce through the fog of fading music. Rick could feel himself caving in, slipping one hand at an awkward angle in behind his back to rest against BP’s chest.

The steady rhythm of his heart against Rick’s hand was the only thing that kept his mind clear enough to ride as he led the other willowy creature behind them.

Finally, they neared that smokey aura of withering embers, and Rick knew he didn’t have much time before the Federation officers caught wind of their sighting.

Quickly. He had to move quickly.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears- hot and burdensome- as he lugged Birdperson unceremoniously from the back of the equore; his dark hat falling to the ground.

Rick was shaking, and he wasn’t sure how he did it- or why.

He knew nothing mattered.

He knew the man beneath him didn’t matter.

But… He did.

That was just the fucking problem, wasn’t it? Why he was here?

He yanked each of their bandannas down to cradle their necks.

The night was solid and all-encompassing as it swallowed him, and Rick tried to ignore the chill of his partner’s skin beneath his unsteady touch as he ripped his counterpart’s clothes off- little grunts and sighs of agony lulling BP’s head to one side, sputtering out over the sand. Rick attempted fruitlessly to discern where the blood was coming from.

God.

God, there was so much of it.

Everywhere.

Coating everything.

All of the times Rick had imagined Birdperson bubbling over and spilling onto him had never been quite as grotesque as this.

Never so scary and foreign.

Never swathed in such dread.

Rick’s calloused fingers scratched over every inch of Birdperson’s torso- balmy and smothering- but he found no injury.

He ran his hands along the soft plume lining the other man’s wings. Pinching, probing, prodding. Now stained crimson.

Rick couldn’t feel anything but the burning in his throat. Bile threatened to rise up out of him, but he tamped it down. His nose smoldered with every effort to inhale, and he bit his lip so hard he could taste the metallic twang of his own blood coating his encumbrance of a tongue.

Rick almost didn’t notice when BP’s eyes fluttered open, flashing with dismayed recognition.

“Rick?” the other man croaked feebly, his voice trembling but stern.

The relief that flooded over Rick was nearly palpable- tangible in a way that he could’ve sworn he could reach out and touch- as it propped up the thick coating of night air around them, giving him room to gasp.

“Pers,” Rick said, tears of temporary respite stinging his eyes. “I—I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

His voice was begging, caressing the man below him more than he had just been a moment before. He placed one tarnished hand flat on his friend’s chest, but something dark flickered over Birdperson’s features. Rick flinched.

“Why?” BP snarled, his head lunging upward with a surprising amount of strength.

The shock sent Rick toppling back a bit, his hat falling to the ground to rest near its ebony complement.

Catching himself on his palms, Rick tried to push himself back up, reaching out towards a now-rising Birdperson.

The more lean of the two settled onto his knees as his friend loomed overhead.

It was dark, now.

Too dark.

“D—Don’t!” Rick cried weakly, something dry and caustic running faint cuts down the center of his throat. He splayed trembling hands onto Birdperson’s knees, the warmth of the other man’s skin seeping into his blood-soaked palms, and looked up at him through pleading lashes. “You’ll make it worse. Le—Let me fix this-“

The stare he met was bitter and cold- the moonlight only illuminating enough of his ally’s face to show the pointed blades of rage that roiled beneath his marble exterior.

He looked wan and sickly, blood streaking and splattering every part of him- some of it now dried and cakey.

The air was poignant with an eerie glistening sickness as Birdperson’s gruff voice cut Rick short.

“You can never fix this.”

Rick blinked- tears of something the very antithesis of relief now threatening to claw past his reserve. He couldn’t figure out where this sudden ferocity had come from within a man he’d just dragged back here.

He gripped BP’s knees tighter. If he could only…

“No. I—I know, but—“

Birdperson kicked Rick off of him, disgust twisting his features as he stepped backwards. His hands were up, and the look in his eye was like…

Like he didn’t even know the man knelt before him.

Rick fell forward in a minute eclipse of sand.

“No, you don’t.” There was nothing kind- no warm inflection- behind his best friend’s words, and Rick forced himself to stand, smoothing his wild mess of hair shakily. “You don’t know. You’ll never know. He was the only way I could—“

Birdperson’s voice wavered, and Rick buried the heels of his boots into the dirt to keep himself from extending a touch to comfort him.

An audible swallow.

BP continued.

“The only way I could— I could find them… The only way I could get justice for my people!” His voice was quiet at first, but slowly built into a serrated roar.

Rick bit back another flinch, balling fists at his sides.

“I know-“ he tried in a muted gurgle, but his partner was quick to snap back.

“STOP SAYING THAT!” BP boomed, his voice a crackling missile flying overhead. This time, Rick flinched. “You don’t know. You’re… You’re a liar.” He stalked forward slowly, not unlike Rick had seen him do just hours earlier towards the Gromflomite, and Rick fought the urge to cower in his presence. One wing- where the injury must have been-hung limply at Birdperson’s side as it morosed along the earth. “You said you had no one. You have a daughter.”

His friend’s tone was now dark and sinister, snaking its way through the night air like the wind commandeers which direction the seeds fall in the spring.

Only this pushed Rick back.

Rick’s breath caught in his throat.

“Y—You don’t understand,” Rick beseeched, searching for any sign of recognition on his companion’s face. There was none. “It’s not like th—“

The impact of Birdperson’s fist with Rick’s jaw reeled his head to the left, his narrow mess of limbs following him in a clumsy-like blunder.

Rick fell forward slightly, hissing through his teeth and only receiving a moment to bring his fingers to his lips. They pulled away a glistening trail of spit-sullied scarlet, and he’d barely looked up again- his heart caving in on itself- as the second blow threw him back.

This one twisted his nose at an unnatural angle, blood seeping down his face, and he couldn’t even find it in him to fight.

Falling to his knees, he cried out- only to be met with the compact force of his friend’s rough leather boot.

A kiss between lover and friend.

In another life, he would have done it willingly- gently- as an act of tender devotion, but here and now, it was all Rick could do to not keel over and wash his feet with his hair as blows rained down upon him.

He wasn’t sure how long he let his friend land blow after blow to his contorted frame- how many minutes, or hours, or years he must have spent writhing in the dust and debris- but, finally… it stopped.

Rick sucked in a tortuous breath- his ribs aching- and fumbled for the cause of the sudden interlude.

Why his friend had stopped.

He’d deserved it.

Looking up through swollen eyes, he saw the contents of his wallet had scattered along the ground.

Dozens of polaroid photos littered the floor of the campsite, and Rick nearly jumped out of his skin, wincing and grabbing his ribs, as he attempted to shakily collect them.

There were photos of Birdperson sleeping in the orange cast of firelight, aliens milling about in hoards, colorful rays of starlight, twists of neon space time, but not-

Panic overtook him.

If he’d— If he’d lost it—

Then he noticed what BP studied:

A polaroid photo perched between the bloodied knuckles of his left glove as he crouched low to the ground, a few paces from Rick’s heaving desperation.

Rick’s heart sank.

The pause before either of them spoke was deep and thick- concentrated.

Finally, Rick broke the silence. His voice shook, and the tears that cascaded down his battered cheeks were nothing more than salt in his wounds.

“I… I had a daughter…” he choked, reaching out and snatching the photo back. He shoved it into his wallet, half expecting another jab or kick, but…

Nothing.

“How did…” his friend whispered softly, not moving or daring to meet Rick’s gaze. “Did they take her, too?”

“No.” Rick said flatly, his tongue too burdensome of a thing to bother chastising. “The- uhhh… The guy who— who killed them… He’s not… I couldn’t find him if I tried.”

“How did he know?”

“I dunno.” Rick shrugged earnestly. “I’m the most wanted man in the galaxy, s—so… I guess it was only a matter of time before the, uhh… before the Feds found out.”

It had been long enough that Rick could dismiss the fears of Federation agents trailing them as a frantic thought blossomed from his panic.

He crawled a few paces towards his friend, placing one hand on his shoulder. It mirrored their position earlier- behind the crates; before this shitshow- perfectly.

Only now they were broken.

Maybe they already had been.

“Can I?” Rick begged faintly, and Birdperson gave a tight nod.

Rick worked quickly, stumbling over to his bag at the edge of camp and retrieving a first-aid kit.

How foolish of him to leave the healing rays on the pocket ship.

His hands were anything but stoic as he mended what he could of the hole in his friend’s wing. Both of the men cried silently, and neither of them spoke.

Rick’s heart ricocheted each time his hand brushed the bare sides of Birdperson’s corded abdomen- soft against the bristle of his touch- and he chastised himself for not being able to shake the thought of closing the distance between them in an embrace.

Instead, when he was done and BP’s wing was bandaged, he settled for placing his shaking hand over the other man’s where it lay pliant and weak in the dirt.

To his surprise, Birdperson didn’t shrink back; or flinch; or punch him again. He flipped his hand over and… squeezed.

A hard, grounding grip.

Suddenly, the air didn’t seem so heavy anymore, and the men leaned back- as if in some unspoken flurry of intimate connection- and lay on the ground together, side by side.

They both perused the stars above them, hand in hand, and Rick wondered how many of those stars were just tricks of the light. How many of them were dead; eons away.

In a lot of ways, maybe both men had flickered out ages ago, too. Maybe they’d gone supernova long before now- just recently dying out here.

Their persistence finally dithering in that gradual drought that ate all rivers.

Even as all of that waned, Rick couldn’t help but think that something flowed within them now. If not between the men and their pasts, perhaps between the men and their futures.

Between one another- and Rick believed that tide pulled Birdperson, too.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt… human,” Rick said, indicating what he meant by giving the hand within his own a brief compression.

“I’m not human,” BP laughed mutely. “I don’t think that has anything to do with it.” He returned the squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” Rick let out in a husky mewl.

“I know. We won’t give up.” Birdperson’s tone was sorrowful but genuine. Another breath passed before he shook off the words, welcoming new ones. “Do you like it out here? On the run?”

Rick thought for a moment.

“I don’t think about me,” he settled on. “Don’t think anyone does.”

“Who said I don’t?” The whisper was anything but silent, and Rick’s heart cleaved itself back to life beneath his raw rib cage.

They lay there for a while, Rick almost nodding off, until Birdperson extended a finger towards the sky.

“A shooting star,” he breathed, a lazy smile stretched over his face. “Beautiful, don’t you think?”

It was, but the starlight Rick sought when he agreed wasn’t in the sky above them- but in the pair of eyes next to him.

He was mangled and bloody and broken, but so was Rick. “…Yeah, man… Breathtaking.”

------

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #birdperson #birdrick #my fic #ring of fire

46 notes · View notes

neutrnstar · 1 year

Text

whenever i see a red sun i stare at it and say "a red sun rises, blood has been spilled this night" like legolas and i feel so badass and mysterious but i probably just look like some random nerd

#lotr #the lord of the rings #legolas #a red sun rises #lotr quotes #i often randomly quote lotr its so fun #idc what other people think of me #i am cringe but i am free

22 notes · View notes

linasofia · 1 year

Text

Love Never Dies

Part 3

Fandom: The Man from Rome

Relationship: Father Lorenzo Quart x OC Palmira

Summary: After returning to his hometown, Father Quart comes face to face with his past. His life, as well as the choices he made as a young man, are turned upside down and he is once again forced to make life-changing decisions. But at what cost?

Words: 2,6K

Warnings: Angst. 18+

A/N: This is the third part of this fic. You can read the previous parts here.

The midday sun shines through the large stained glass window and its rays paint the stone floor and the old pews with its colorful light. Candles still burn as a reminder of this morning’s service, and between the pews, Father Quart discovers a cotton napkin and a soother. A tired smile forms on his lips; one of his youngest parishioners must have dropped a beloved item. He picks it up and puts it on the pew in case the loss is discovered and the owner returns with a stressed parent. Then he sinks down next to it and, with a sigh, rubs his forehead. Sleep would not come easily to him, and he spent most of the dark hours pacing between his computer and the kitchen window. The view from his window was enchanting last night when the sudden change in temperature made mist float over the grass, and in the warm light from the old lamp posts it looked spectacular. The church is empty now, and for the first time in years, he hopes it will stay that way for a while. He needs to think, and with a constant stream of parishioners seeking his company and advice, it is hard. Hiding in his office is not an option, so he will gratefully take this moment to be alone with his thoughts.

The sudden sound of hurried footsteps pulls Father Quart from his comfortable bubble, and he lets out a small sigh. So much for that moment of peace and quiet. The footsteps come closer; the sound tells him that it is most likely a woman, but then the person slows down as if hesitating to approach him. When he rises and turns to greet the visitor, his heart skips a beat. Palmira. She looks up at him with a soft smile on her sensual lips, but an insecure look flickers in her expressive eyes. Her beautiful red locks spill over her shoulders and create an astonishing contrast against her black coat. The fabric is thick and warm, but it cannot hide her feminine shape, and Father Quart struggles to tear his eyes from her. Deep inside, he knows that he is not allowed to look at her the way he does, for more reasons than one, but she caught him with his guard down, and now his pride pays the price. When he forces himself to regain control over his actions, he smiles back at her.

”Hi,” she whispers. He answers with his voice lowered, unsure of why since they are the only persons in the church at this moment. Still, it feels forbidden, as if his mind is exposed and the walls around him are listening to every longing beating of his heart.

”How have you been?” Her voice betrays the same insecurity as her beautiful emerald eyes.

Father Quart gives her the same polite answer as he always uses during service, then steers their faltering conversation to focus on her. Her voice grows a little steadier, and he motions for her to take a seat. She glides gracefully down on the pew, and he joins her, keeping a respectful distance between them. Ever since she got married her visits to church have been reserved for the big events only. She is no longer a regular, and Father Quart silently wonders what made her step over the threshold on this day. Suddenly, he realizes that she looks very tired—worn out even—as if she has been struggling for a long time. With his mother’s illness following him like an unwelcome shadow, the blood turns cold in his veins.

”Palmira,” he says as calmly as he can. ”Is something bothering you? Have you come for spiritual advice?”

The look on her face tells him that he is right. She sighs. ”How do you know?”

”I meet people with different challenges in their life every day. When you do this long enough, you learn to look for signs. I do not like saying it, but I sense you are not only here to catch up.” He smiles gently. “How can I help?”

”Actually, I am here to see both the priest and my…friend. Are we still friends, Lorenzo?” Her eyes are shiny when she gives him a sad smile. ”I am sorry, I mean Father.”

”Palmira,” he says softly, unable to ignore how right it feels to say her name. ”I will always think fondly of you, and we are most certainly friends, even if we no longer walk with heavy school bags on our shoulders.” He hopes his smile is as reassuring as he wants it to be.

”Thank you. I am glad you feel this way. Forgive me for saying this, but sometimes I miss the old days. Life was more simple then, relationships were easier. I was young and naive and you were so… you.” A faint blush graces her cheekbones, and she bends her head and looks at her clasped hands while a deep sigh escapes her. A cold arrow reaches Father Quart’s heart when he senses he has found the reason for her visit, and frustration builds under his skin.

”Is that why you are here? Your relationship—I mean, your… marriage.” He tries not to push her, but the words just slip out and hang in the air between them, trembling like dry leaves in the wind. Pictures of Palmira on her wedding day flash before his eyes, making it harder to breathe. It could have been you. The thought he spent almost a decade trying to forget crashes in his mind, and he forces himself not to let it show on his face. He was the one who walked away all those years ago and chose another life, not her.

Palmira lets out a dry laugh, then meets his gaze. ”There is no marriage. Not anymore.”

Father Quart glances down at her hand, only to see her slender fingers without any jewelry. The skin on her finger is evenly tanned, and no mark of a ring can be seen—visual evidence that it was not recently she took it off for good. His heart fills with both joy and sorrow.

”I am sorry.” He hears himself say, but shocked by his own strong feeling, he knows his words are not entirely true. She looks at him with an unfamiliar expression in her eyes.

”Me too.”

”Do you want to tell me what happened?” The priest’s calling to do good guides him to the right questions and soon Palmira unwraps her story.

”Filippo wanted a big family. He loves children, as I do, and he often talked about how they could take over the family business he inherited from his father.” Palmira’s voice trembles a little and she swallows. ”But sadly that was not meant to happen for us. We tried for many years, even until the bitter end. I wanted it so much but eventually we lost the joy and it was more a matter of securing his line than creating a life out of love.” She sighs deeply and continues. ”He blamed me, even if we never got it confirmed. Adoption was out of the question for him and when the love died completely, there was nothing left to hold us together. We went our separate ways over six months ago.”

Palmira’s gaze holds him in a grip he cannot escape even if he wanted to. ”I am angry. Lost. I buried myself in work from the day he moved out and I lost a large number of friends parallel to the divorce process. I feel that I wasted so many of my best years on him and now I just want to live again.” A shadow of a smile graces her lips. ”I was hoping you could help me find a way to let go of the anger.”

Father Quart sits quietly for a moment and processes her words. He has heard of many cruelties and betrayals between spouses during his years, but this time it feels more personal. Nobody deserves to be treated like that and the thought of Palmira suffering makes his blood boil in an unusual way. He studies her as she keeps talking and to his delight she seems genuinely grateful for his company. Their conversation lasts until they are interrupted by a small group of people walking through the doors, breaking their moment of trust. Palmira stands and when Father Quart does the same, she places her hand on his forearm and squeezes it gently. Without hesitation he covers her hand with his much larger palm.

”Thank you, Father,” she says, and then, like she just thought of something amusing, she giggles softly. ”It feels so weird to say that. I know what I see,” she waves her hand towards his figure, ”but to me you are first and foremost my friend, Lorenzo. I hope that does not offend you.”

”I do not think you can offend me, even if you tried. And please remember, I am here if you need me.”

She nods and despite the tired look on her face, her eyes glitter with a warm light he did not see before. When her back disappears out of sight he pulls his forearm to his nose and inhales deeply. A faint trace of her lingers on his sleeve, but it is enough to make his head spin. His ability to pick up even the smallest scent has always both amazed and puzzled him, but now, as he takes another deep breath, he is only grateful.

The streets are silent, even if it is not dark, when Father Quart walks to his mother’s house, and the howling wind is even more merciless than the previous evening. Maybe autumn will be conquered early this year; when he stepped out on the street this morning, the wind pulled the colorful leaves from their branches and smoke seeped from his nose with every breath.

His mother’s bedroom makes up for the cold weather, and with extra logs in her cocklestove, the temperature is well above average indoor climate. Father Quart rests in the armchair next to her bed and listens to his mother’s soft snoring. In his lap rests the old and dusty folder. It feels heavier today, as if someone has added something to it, but he cannot be sure. Their conversation lasted much shorter this time, due to her current status, but she gave him the folder and told him he could read for himself. If he wanted, he was welcome to stay while she rested and something in his heart told him that it might be a good idea.

He takes a deep breath and opens the folder. A point of no return. The seal with the strange looking mark does not make his fingers tingle this time, and he is almost relieved. His mother told him that the folder contained information about his father, and since Father Quart is now an adult he could decide for himself what to do with this information.

First he finds documentation of his birth. The papers are in perfect condition, assumingly well looked after, and even if they clearly were written on a typewriter, they feel more genuine than modern bleached printer papers. A few old photos he has never seen before follow. He recognizes his mother with very large glasses and an infant dressed in a yellow bodysuit on her arm. He looks closer. It must be himself as a very young boy. When he comes to think of it, he cannot recall ever seeing any other photos from this period in his life. He puts the photos on the nightstand, eager to ask his mother when she wakes up. A few more official papers, then suddenly, a very detailed pencil drawing of a man. Father Quart stares at the picture. For a second, he wonders who drew his portrait but then he sees the difference in the shape of the face and hair. His heart threatens to hammer its way out of his chest. It can only be one man. Riccardo. His father.

Underneath the drawing is an envelope. It is sealed but since his mother specifically said he could read it all, he gently tears it open. It is full of notes, documents, copies of what seem to be excerpts from old books and symbols he does not recognize and understands even less. He picks up one of the many papers with what he recognizes is his mother’s handwriting and starts to read.

Time ceases to exist as he plows through the large amount of papers. Darkness falls over the area, and just as the street lamps and buildings illuminate the city for its inhabitants, Father Quart switches on a small lamp so he can continue reading. Hours pass and what first seemed like a confused and delusional research slowly transforms to a mother’s desperate attempt to find answers to something so dark that one cannot read about in the regular city library. Statement after statement, from all remote corners of the world, speak of the same thing: bloodthirsty creatures, disguised as good looking men, or sometimes beautiful women, taking victims after they have lured them, then leaving their victims bleeding. Most often from the neck, but some reports claim the perpetrator aimed for the large veins on the victims wrists. Father Quart starts to shiver when he reads, and without even noticing he repeatedly licks his dry lips. As he continues, it becomes clear that the wound itself is critical for the outcome of the attack. Some victims bleed to death, others make it. He pauses and thinks of his own mother and the scar she showed him the evening before. Had she been lucky, or spared? Had his father known about the pregnancy even if she had not told him? It was a possibility that she lied about that detail the previous day, but Father Quart found it more likely that she spoke the truth. At least the truth she knew.

It is after midnight when he finally can tear himself from the papers. He needs to stretch both his body and mind so he walks out in the kitchen where the air is filled with the characteristic smell of soap. His mother’s cleaning help has recently washed the old wooden planks, and it smells fresh and homely. Father Quart drinks a large glass of water and puts the empty glass back on the counter. His heart is racing, and he tries desperately to hold on to what he knows. The floor sways under his feet, and he returns to the armchair worried he might fall. He must have made more noise than he thought because his mother opens her eyes as he sits down. He glances at the paper on top of the folder. The one with big angry letters on it: IT’S THE DEVIL’S WORK.

”How long have you known?” He is not mad at her but his voice sounds more forced than he intended.

”I started looking for answers over forty years ago. The last time I saw your father he had a cruel look in his eyes when he spoke of you. I still remember his words: ”one day when he is old enough, he will find me. It is in his blood.” She shivers. “At first I thought he talked about the usual biological connection between father and son, but after I started to learn more, I realized that he could have meant that he passed on something else.” She smiles softly. ”Seeing you and knowing what a good person you are makes me confident that I worried without reason. You bring light to your parishioners and this community, not darkness and destruction.”

Father Quart smiles back at his mother, who then turns her attention to the photos on the nightstand. If she had looked closer, she would have seen that his smile never reached his eyes.

💙 If you like my writing, please consider spreading the love and reblogging.💙

Taglist and others who might be interested: @lathalea @legolasbadass @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @enchantzz @fizzyxcustard @middleearthpixie @xxbyimm @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @kibleedibleedoo @mariannetora @haly-reads @sunnysidesidra @rachel1959 @knitastically @jaskierthelover @quiall321 @medusas-hairband @fulltimecrazy @s0ftd3m0n @emrfangirl @glimmering-darling-dolly @immortal-dreams

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed.

#richard armitage #father quart #father quart fanfiction #father quart fanfic #father quart x oc #the man from rome #la piel del tambor #the seville communion #fanfic #fanfiction

47 notes · View notes