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saphirered · 3 years

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Fight For Dessert?

And here it finally is, part two to the last Essek x Eldritch Knight reader request.

A walk through the streets of Rosohna did you good but Essek was still refusing to let you go anywhere isolated with him without supervision besides his home or the Xhorhaus after the whole ordeal with the Volstruckers. The presence of the Aurora Watch brought him more comfort than it ever had done. Not for himself but the sense of security that you wouldn’t be alone if trouble found you.

The two of you walk or float perhaps a little bit closer than may be socially acceptable but neither of you seem aware or care enough. A guard of the Aurora Watch rushes over to you a little out of breath and gives a short bow to both you and Essek.

“What is it?” Essek asks in a tone befitting of the Shadowhand, demeanour changing to a more cold and distant one at the approach of the guard.

“A message for you Shadowhand. And one for the Knight.” The guard holds out two delicate envelopes stamped with a deep purple seal, names written in beautiful cursive. You take the one addressed to you with a confused look and can see a hint of annoyance from Essek.

“You may go now.” Essek dismisses the guard who keeps waiting.

“My apologies, Shadowhand. I was instructed to await your answers.” The guard looks to the envelopes. Essek takes his and opens it as well reading it. His expression does not change.

‘You have been graciously invited to attend a formal dinner in your honour at the estate of Den Thelyss tonight.’

“Essek?” You give him a glance allowing him to see the invitation. Essek shows you his invitation too. His has and additional note; ‘bring your friend’. You see Essek lift his chin with a deep sigh giving the guard a bit of a glare.

“Please tell my mother-“ Seeing where this is going you cut him off.

“-that we accept her gracious invitation, isn’t that right, Essek.” You would have stepped on his foot to shut him up if he weren’t floating. Essek gives you a surprised look as the guard nods, excuses himself and hurries off.

“Why would you…” Essek doesn’t finish the question.

“Because even I know you simply do not refuse an invite from nobility let alone a Denmother, your mother no less.” He can’t deny. You have a point.

So there you are, dressed in the fanciest clothes gold could buy in such a short period of time, courtesy of Jester and her impeccable taste. The fine silks in hues of purple, dark blues, black and silver made you stand out in the crowd for sure if it weren’t the design itself, like it was made for you. Many garments were tried on. None but this passed Jester’s approval. Luckily for you the outfit wasn’t so heavy or tight you couldn’t even lift your arms, or would feel like you were carrying both Fjord and Caduceus on your back. You had your full range of motion and a perfect fit.

Essek escorted you to the estate which is every bit as grand and impressive as you expected it to be. You’re a bit on edge and nervous. It’s not every day one gets such an invitation, let alone one by the family your ‘friend’ belongs to.

“You are calmer ahead of battle than you are attending dinner. I do not think I have ever seen you this on edge.” Essek couldn’t keep his observation to himself. It’s quite a funny one in his eyes. You’d be prepared to walk into a moorbounder nest no hesitation and no fear yet a social gathering is enough to nearly throw you off your feet and have you panic.

“Don’t laugh! Not all of us have spent our lives making friends with the leaders of nations.” He stops, you with him and turns to you.

“And yet I doubt that’s what unnerves you so.” He places his hands on your shoulders as you take a deep breath.

“What if she doesn’t like me? Or if she doesn’t approve your blatant admiration of me?” You manage to lighten the mood with your last question.

“If my mother didn’t approve of you she would never have invited both of us to dinner. As for my ‘blatant admiration of you’, as you put it, I think it is more than deserved after everything.” Essek looks around seeing no one but the guards in front of the estate and pulls you into his embrace.

“You’ll do perfectly. My mother will love you just as much as I.” He speaks as you return the hug. Pulling apart he offers his arm and the two of you make your way through the gates.

“You’re biased.” You whisper as the guards open the doors for the two of you.

“I am. So what?” You scoff at the wizard’s answer as you enter Essek’s childhood home.

Worked stone, stained glass windows and geometric designs make up the majority of the structure. It’s quite beautiful and comes close to what you expect a private palace might look like. Though, you didn’t expect any less from one of the most prominent and well respected Dens in the Dynasty. Your eyes wander taking in the beautiful art work displayed within the foyer alone. You can’t begin to imagine what the rest of the building looks like.

Walking down the stairs as the servants take your and Essek’s cloaks, is the Denmother herself in all her glory. You can see the family resemblance and are taken aback by the sheer presence the woman radiates. Sensing you panic as you resist the urge to gulp Essek pats your arm leading you forward.

You take a deep breath. For the first time you feel like the roles are reversed, Essek being your support and saviour when you’re in need instead of the other way around. He keeps you grounded. You squeeze his arm linked through yours in a quick thank you.

It’s no different from a battle. Except your sword has been exchanged for your wit and your words are your weapon and shield. The strategy remains. You can do this. You got this. The words echo in your head only to realise Essek whispered them. You nod. You got this.

Essek and you meet Deirta at the bottom of the stairs. You offer a brief bow in respect, returned with a bow of the head and a smile.

“Welcome. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. My son speaks very highly of you. I am Deirta Thelyss.” Deirta takes the lead, you and Essek following into the dining room.

A large table enough to fit half the court alone, houses only four chairs, one at the head, two on one side and a single one at the other. The table is set for four, plates, cutlery, beautiful glasses and everything. Leaning on one of the chairs is a handsome drow, dressed appropriately for the dinner bearing the vestiges of a Taskhand, or at least so you’ve been told. This drow, while elvish age might be more difficult to pinpoint seems to be a bit younger than Essek and shares similar features. A sibling perhaps? Essek doesn’t really talk about his family much.

Essek guides you along to the two chairs next to each other, one of which the other man is leaning on. The man raises to a more proper stature and bows to you.

“My, my, you must be my dear brother’s heroic saviour. Taskhand Verin Thelyss. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Verin pulls out the chair next to the one he was leaning on and offers it to you. You unlink your arm from Essek’s and take a seat thanking the Taskhand. Before Verin can, Essek takes the seat next to you at the right hand of the Denmother. Verin sends him a glare but Essek looks on innocently. Sibling rivalry? You’ll never let him hear the end if this goes on.

“Don’t look so glum, Verin. It doesn’t suit you.” You raise an eyebrow at Essek’s comment as Verin takes the seat opposite of his brother and Deirta takes hers.

“And pomposity suits you perfectly brother.” Verin raises his glass.

“Children. No bickering at my table. We have a guest.” Deirta smiles at you as servants fill your glasses and uncover the plates set out in front of you to reveal a delicious looking meal.

“Thank you for joining us tonight. I’m grateful you were able to accept my invitation on such short notice. When my son speaks about your exploits he tends to leave out the mortal danger of it all and I have to learn from others the details of the risk you put yourself at to keep him safe. You have my eternal gratitude.” Deirta places a hand over her heart.

“You talk about me?” You give Essek a look and can just see the tiniest of blushes creep on his face for just a second as he tries to repress it.

“Gushes on about you really, singing your praises. ‘Such an intelligence, a fast learner, strong and clever’. It never ends.” Essek glares at Verin as you lean into the arm of your chair giving him an ‘oh really’ look waiting for him to come up with some clever comment or witty remark in return to deflect from the fact he’s not been subtile about his affections towards you around his family.

“I only shared my conclusions based on the information and evidence provided to me first hand.”

“I believe that’s what us common folk would call ‘an opinion’, darling.” You laugh amused by the whole situation. You earned a snort from Verin with your comment. Deirta looks between the three of you before turning her attention back to you directly.

“I heard you had gotten rather seriously injured. I hope you’ve recovered well enough?” Deirta asks.

“I have thanks to my rather talented healer friends. Though if it were not for Essek’s quick response getting them, things may have played out very differently.” You praise the wizard next to you trying to put him a bit more at ease and give him something to return fire if he has to against his brother, letting him know you have his side still. Esseks gives you a thankful smile.

“So you’re recovered then?” Verin’s expression turns a bit more mischievous and you can see Deirta giving him a scolding look.

“I am according to my clerics, though I feel they held off on my release from bedrest and confinement to the house for several days. It’s good to be out and about again. I’ve missed it, even though the company has been good I definitely missed being allowed to swing a sword and throw a proper punch.” Verin’s smile grows.

“Since you’re good to fight again, how about you show me what you’re made off? How much of my brother’s opinions prove true?”

“Verin.” Both Essek and Deirta warn each for different reasons.

“Oh come on, I’m merely joking. Unless you’d take me up on the offer of course.” Verin gives you an innocent look you’ve seen so many times on Essek. Plausible deniability apparently runs in the family.

You lean your elbows on the table, clasping your hands together. Essek mutters an ‘oh no’ under his breath and takes a big gulp from his drink as you grin.

“You want a fight? I’ll give you a fight.” You wink.

“Verin need I remind you of your manners. We do not challenge guests to a fight over dinner.” Deirta scolds her son.

“It’s just a bit of fun, mother.” Verin complains and where he not presenting himself as a renowned official and the person he is, it might have sounded like the plea of a child being told no.

“I would not wish to overstep any boundaries and forgo all rules of social engagement. Nor do I wish to ruin a perfectly pleasant evening, Denmother. Perhaps another time, Verin?” You earn the Denmother’s approval as she says something to Verin in Undercommon you do not understand but by the tone of her voice alone and Verin’s response you can tell it’s probably not positive.

Essek sighs deeply next to you pinching the bridge of his nose as Deirta and Verin continue their argument.

“Oh for the love of… Can you two please cease this useless fight. I’d much rather see Verin being put in his place than listen to this endless argument one more second. Thank you.” The two of them slowly quiet down when Essek speaks up. Verin gets up from his chair.

“It’s settled then, we’re all in agreement.”

“We are not all in agreement but to cease this argument, very well. You have my permission.” Deirta concedes despite all better efforts.

“If you wish to take my son up on this fight you have my permission.”

Before you know it you’re outside in what you can assume is Den Thelyss’ private gardens. It’s simple and large enough of an open space to not break anything in the near vicinity should things get ugly. Both of you drop the heavier and unnecessary layers of your outfits. You’re pulled aside by Essek before you walk into the fighting ring.

“Not that I do not have full confidence you’ll win, but please do not get injured or I fear I might find my next cup of tea poisoned or my books desecrated.” Essek worries taking hold of your hands giving them a brief squeeze.

“I’ll do my best to protect your precious books and keep any attempts of poisoning at bay. Now please excuse me while I go kick your brother’s ass.” You pat his cheek as you step back and into the makeshift fighting ring. Verin offers you a sword but you don’t take it.

“I’ve brought my own.” You summon your trusty sword and earn a nod of approval from the drow.

“Nice trick.” The moment you’re ready Verin swings at you but you’ve lived this long thanks to your reflexes and step to the side with ease. You tap the blade of your sword against his to inch it out of your way as you go for a high strike giving Verin enough time to counter block.

This isn’t a fight to the death and you’re not deliberately trying to seriously injure your opponent so you both hold back but you do get a glimpse of the soldier within Verin and see where he gets his reputation from. It’s earned. The ‘dance’ between you and Verin continues until it gets more competitive and the both of you come to a nonverbal understanding to find out who’s going to be the clear winner here.

Verin summons his echo letting it come at you while putting some distance between you and him to give him the advantage. You’re quick to respond with a lightning lure. A satisfying grin visible as you pull Verin back within your range. You deflect a blow from the echo while kicking Verin’s wrist preventing his sword from striking you. Bringing your own sword around you cut the echo in half, turning it to wisps of shadow. You strike back with a hit directed at Verin. He dodges and comes around with a hit you use your blade to parry. Another echo comes in play but you pay it no mind having had enough of this back and forth. You grab the blade of Verin’s sword, not nearly tight enough to pierce your skin but just enough to hold it in place, drop your own sword and reach into your component pouch.

You speak the familiar words and release the gold dust you re-summon your sword back to your hand and point it at Verin’s chest. Verin tries to pull the sword from the air but is unable to move it.

“Do you concede?” Verin holds up his hands in surrender but you notice a glint in his eye. He quickly moves around the other side of the sword frozen in the air kicking at your leg. You toss your sword to the side, punch once to break his defence and another directly to the chest. Verin’s breath hitches and you kick his legs from under him. He groans, the air is knocked out of him as he lands on his back. You put your foot on his chest standing over him. He grabs it purely by instinct but loosens his grip quickly.

“Very well. I concede.” Verin speaks out of breath. You remove your foot and offer him a hand pulling him back to his feet. From the stairs you hear a slow clap. Both of you look over to see Deirta standing next to an amused Essek.

“Impressive. My son’s words have proven true. You have my approval.” The Denmother speaks rather indifferently but offers a smile no less before retreating back inside.

“Perhaps one day we might fight side by side. I look forward to seeing you around more often.” Verin slaps a hand on your shoulder before he wanders off to clean up. Essek joins you, the two of you left alone in the gardens outside the building.

“What just happened?” You ask confused about how you just gained the approval and respect of Verin and Deirta Thelyss.

“They saw exactly why you have my affection.” You bump into Essek’s shoulder in a ‘shut up’ and he offers you a genuine smile.

“I am that great, aren’t I?” You joke as the two of you begin making your way back inside. You’re still processing unsure of how to take and handle all of this. This was unexpected to say the least.

“And I’ve told you many times. I don’t plan to stop doing so either.” You give him a little side hug as you look around the abandoned remains of dinner being cleared off the table by the servants.

“Is this how fancy dinners always go?”

“Certainly not. Though, I can say watching my brother be put in his place certainly has been the highlight of my day, second to you showing off.” You both laugh as you’re ready to head back leaving the Thelyss estate behind you. Perhaps it’ll become a place you’ll visit more often. Though you’ll still always prefer the towers. And feeling some bruises form already, you have some books to protect from the wrath of a doodling tiefling.

#essek x reader #essek thelyss x reader #mighty nein x reader #critical role x reader #critrole x reader

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callboxkat · 3 years

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Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 1/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective, plus a few new scenes. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone. Please read the warnings!

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Warnings: food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 1764

Part 2

Ao3 Link

Writing Masterpost!

...

Roman bounded down the bustling street, waving to familiar passerby as he went. He knew he was easy to pick out and very recognizable, in his white knight’s uniform. Despite the early morning, many people were already up and about, setting up for the day, but the street lamps still glowed—a recent installation, they actually ran on electricity! Roman still didn’t quite understand how that worked, but he was proud to see his settlement prospering, and it was fascinating, how much light came from them, just from a few little wires and some glass. Perhaps there was some sort of enchantment involved.

“Good morning, Sir Roman,” a shopkeeper called.

Roman tabled his nerdy thoughts for the time being. He put on a bright smile and approached the shop, where a woman stood sweeping clear the welcome mat. “Good morning to you, Maryanne!”

The woman put aside the broom and dusted her hands off on her apron. “Would you like a pastry? The peaches just arrived from Mellow Valley, and they are simply delightful in a fruit tart.”

Roman hummed consideringly. “Oh, that’s very tempting, but I’m afraid I’m in a rush this morning!”

“Some other time, then. Perhaps you could even bring that handsome young man you’re always with.” She winked.

Roman really hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Of course—you know I love your treats.”

Roman was on his way to his shift guarding the outer wall, an imposing structure built of shining gray stone that protected the citizens of his home from the monsters that roamed the forest beyond. It was an important job, entrusted to the expertise of the knights, and one that Roman loved doing; but it wasn’t always the most exciting prospect. Their settlement, Old Haven, was one of the longest standing, enough so that most of the monsters had known since generations past to stay well away; and between the few times that things truly got exciting... they could be terribly dull.

But, before Roman went to his shift that morning, he had a stop to make, and this he was definitely looking forward to.

The apothecary was located just a couple of blocks from the main square, in a small, warmly colored cedar and stone building with windows filled with neatly arranged bundles of colorful herbs and evenly spaced rows of bottles of medicinal powders and potions. A hand-painted sign read, Please come in, in neat, white letters, in an only slightly decorative script.

Roman reached the shop just as the door opened, the bell overhead chiming. A customer stepped out, dressed in a dark robe with the hood up. At first glance, he seemed to be clothed entirely in black, but on closer inspection, his robe was actually a deep plum color. He clutched a bottle of pomegranate juice in one pale hand and a neatly sealed packet of herbs in the other. Dark bangs poked out from under the hood, but his face was cast in shadow. Roman frowned slightly noticing the dark, grayish veins in his hands as he stepped back to give the man room. He hurried past Roman and disappeared down the street. Roman stepped inside the apothecary once he was gone.

The apothecarist, Logan, stood behind a counter within the shop, wearing an elegant, navy colored coat and his usual pair of spectacles. He was pushing together a pile of coins on the counter. Copper and bronze coins only, Roman noticed. No silver.

“Got a lot of vampire clientele?” Roman asked, leaning (or perhaps posing) against one of the display cabinets.

Logan looked up, the warm lamplight making his deep blue irises glitter in a way that never failed to make Roman’s heart skip a beat. He glanced back down and finished tucking away the money. “Six,” he said honestly. “Seven, most likely, although she has not personally shared that information with me, and if she is, hers appears to be a mild case.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t approve?”

“Ah… they’re a little too similar to monsters, for my taste.”

“It is a monster-derived affliction, that is true, but with modern treatments, most of those afflicted with vampirism can lead nearly normal lives.”

Roman shrugged dismissingly, waving him off. He hadn’t come here to talk about vampires. “I know, I know. Anyway. How’s my favorite nerd this morning?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Logan sighed.

“You know you love it.”

Logan did not deny it, Roman noticed with a small smile. Instead, he adjusted a few already perfectly positioned potion bottles on the counter, before saying, “I am well, although rather busy.”

Roman glanced around the room, noticeably empty of customers. “Ah yes, this is a very busy time for your shop, I see.”

“A customer did depart only moments ago,” Logan pointed out. “Although, no, I was not referring to customers. I’m preparing for an outing.”

“An outing?” Roman was interested, now. “Finally taking a little vacation, are you? Good on you. Where are you going? And more importantly—can I come?”

Logan wanted to smile, Roman could tell. But he didn’t. The guy took himself too seriously. “Not that type of outing. I require materials to restock my shop.”

Roman sighed dramatically, making it a full body motion. So much for a vacation. And the hot springs in the hills of northern Old Haven were so nice this time of year. “So? Just put it on the list for the traders. Mellow Valley should have most of your things in season by now. Did you hear the peaches arrived? Maryanne, that baker on Lilac, promised me some of her delightful pastries. We could go get some, when I’m finished with my shift on the South Wall this morning.”

Logan shook his head “Mellow Valley won’t have everything I need; and besides, the costs are considerably lessened when the materials are personally collected.”

Roman furrowed his brow. “Collected where?”

“Outside.”

“You mean outside, like, as in the park, right?”

“In the woods,” Logan sighed, beginning to sound exasperated.

Roman opened his mouth, then closed it again. The woods. The veritable ocean of dense trees beyond the settlement’s walls, filled to the brim with monsters, held back from advancing only by the strength of the guard and broken only by the occasional human stronghold and the heavily protected trails that linked them. Generally, only knights and the traders they accompanied ever ventured beyond the walls—this was, in fact, why Roman had become a knight in the first place, to get to see some of the world that most only saw through pictures and stories. Citizens were allowed to leave—they weren’t prisoners—but it was very rare, and highly discouraged. Many who went unprepared—or even those who did—never returned; and sometimes even those who did return were not the same as when they left—like the vampires who apparently frequented this shop, or at least one or more of their ancestors. Vampirism could be tricky like that. Sometimes it cropped up randomly, somewhere down the line.

Logan had begun sorting through some of his supplies, acting for all the world as if he hadn’t just announced he had a death wish.

Roman shook off his distracted thoughts of vampirism and knightly missions, and focused on the most important thing: “Please tell me you aren’t planning to go out there alone.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Logan sighed. “I will have my dagger, and I will go no further into the woods than required.”

“Oookay, first of all, why am I just now hearing that you’ve been hanging out in the monster-filled woods by yourself?”

“I would hardly call it ‘hanging out’.”

“And second of all, you are absolutely not doing that.”

Logan gave him a dry look. “Yes, I am. My herbs will not pick themselves.”

“Get a garden like a normal person.”

“You know I have a quite extensive garden.” Logan paused, looked confused. He shook his head, going back to counting bundles of tiny black seeds. “Some of these herbs do not naturally grow within human settlements, let alone ours, and my attempts to recreate their preferred environment have in many cases proven thus far unsuccessful. Besides, I cannot ‘get a garden’ to form mineral deposits, several of which are required in even non-specialty potions.”

Roman still didn’t quite see why Logan wouldn’t be able to get all of this stuff using a trader. Knowing Logan, it was less about the money and more about needing to personally ensure that he received the correct materials. Surely, though, even the least-versed in medicinal resources could get him what he needed, if he described them well enough.

Also knowing Logan, though, he would not be dissuaded from going.

Roman pulled himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest and putting one hand on the protective-charm engraved hilt of his sword. “Alright, then, I am coming with you.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re coming to collect herbs? Can you even tell wormwood from hemlock?”

“I’m not going to find your nerd plants, I’m going to protect you.”

Logan scoffed quietly, clearly believing Roman’s very generous and heroic offer was unnecessary. But he sat down on his stool, finally, and looked at Roman without busying himself with his apothecarist duties. He glanced Roman up and down, apparently trying to decide how serious Roman was. “Alright, then, if you insist.”

“I do!” Roman nodded firmly. He relaxed his posture. “So, when are we going?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes?”

“I—” Roman groaned, looking up towards the wooden beams of the ceiling. “Fine. It’s a little short notice, but fine.” He worked his jaw, then mumbled, “I’ll need to cancel a couple days… maybe Sir Leo can cover? Hm.”

Logan tilted his head slightly, adjusting his spectacles and watching Roman’s dramatics. “I am not forcing you to come.”

You are, though. “Well, I am.”

“Alright.”

A beat passed in silence, Roman feeling triumphant, before Logan gave the knight a slightly amused look. “I thought you had a shift on the wall?”

“I—right. Yes.” Roman had gotten a little distracted. He took a couple of steps back. “So, you, me, tomorrow, woods. Great.” He turned towards the door, stopped, and turned around. “About those pastries?”

Logan hummed. “I can take a break two hours after noon, which is when your shift ends, if I remember correctly. I suppose I would accept one then.”

“They have fruit in them,” Roman encouraged. “That makes them healthy!”

“I do not believe that is entirely correct.”

Roman grinned and left the shop.

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isabilightwood · 3 years

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THE PROBLEM WITH AUTHORITY - CHAPTER 9

Or, Sacrifice Summon! Jiang Yanli is here to make things right, be the ultimate big sister (step 1: bring back her dead brother), and maybe steal the Peacock throne in the process

[AO3][1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8]

The trees shivered under an unnatural fog. Yet the sky above was clear, save for the eerie crimson light of the stars. Every gust of wind against the leaves was a howling moan, every rustle of the undergrowth a giant spider yao gathering itself to lunge. Jin Tianyu wanted to go home. He was going to be an accountant under the Chief Cultivator and help him change the world. Important things. Not like stupid night hunting.

He didn’t need night hunting experience to do math.

But his instructors disagreed. Even Madam Jin had shaken her head when he asked for an exemption, and explained that he needed to be able to defend himself. He’d already delayed too much by avoiding night hunting until he was eighteen, two years away from his coming of age. But what could he ever need to defend himself from in Koi Tower, save the cheek-pinching fingers of elderly relatives?

And if he had to go night hunting, why did it have to be with Fan Caining? If only their regular blademaster or even Madam Jin herself ran these things. Then he would feel safe and protected, and not like his class’ ostensible teacher, appointed to ensure the group made it back in one piece, would turn tail and flee should they run into anything more dangerous than a single ghost.

Which they would. Besides their target, a guai formed from a carpenter’s worktable that had become animated, killed its owner, and run off into the woods, there had been reports of multiple yao formed from clouded leopards in these woods.

Not to mention the giant spiders. Jin Tianyu had had one on the ceiling of his room last night, and his roommate had refused to take care of it for him, right before rolling over and going right to sleep! He’d been forced to suffer through chasing it away with a broom by himself, whimpering all the while. And that was without the massive growth spurt resentful energy gave them.

Fan Caining suddenly swept his sword through the undergrowth, clearing out an ordinary pack of rodents. As he did so, something growled in the woods up ahead.

“That should draw something out.” He informed the group, though they’d been taught in class that the best way to draw out a dangerous guai or yao was to choose a battleground by scouting during the day, and using a lure flag with a limited distance to reduce the risk of attracting anything else.

How a bunch of rodents would draw out a murderous worktable, Jin Tianyu did not know. But it might bring out those leopards!

The senior disciple had a build that seemed to be made of squares, which also described his personality. Flat and boring, with a few pointy spots that made him dangerous to cross. Jin Tianyu had learned that the hard way when he suggested they might, possibly want to scout beforehand, and Fan Caining hit him hard across the back with the flat of his sword. The bruise had yet to fade.

Sure enough, a leopard yao with glowing red eyes pounced on his slightly older cousin as they entered the next clearing. She shrieked and whacked at it with her sheathed sword while Jin Tianyu and everyone else gaped. Even Fan Caining.

As his tangjie managed to get her sword between herself and the leopard, Jin Tianyu shook off his shock and drew his sword. He held it in front of himself like a spear and charged, yelling. Sword pierced flesh with sickening squelch.

He’d screwed his eyes shut to avoid looking, he realized, and opened them. The leopard was dead alright, and his tangjie alive if covered in the leopard’s blood. But it seemed Fan Caining had recovered at the same time he did. Either Jin Tianyu stabbing its gut or it’s beheading could have done it in.

“Thanks.” Tangjie said, as she used his limp arm to pull herself up. “I was starting to think no one would step in.”

The dozen other junior disciples looked sheepish.

“Of course,” Fan Caining drew himself up prouder than any peacock in the Koi Tower gardens, though she hadn’t addressed him.

The groaning noise sounded again, this time cut off with a wail.

Fan Caining waved him and the other junior disciples ahead as though nothing was wrong. Jin Tianyu cursed his luck for the thousandth time.

It was one of the outer disciples who first stepped in a trap. They tried to take another step, and found themselves immobilized at the edge of the clearing. Tangjie took a step forward and found herself shot up into the branches of the tree above. “I can’t — my hands are stuck to the branch!” She called down, in a panic.

Several other disciples moved to help, but found themselves in the same situation. Jin Tianyu’s limbs felt heavy, and he stood there dumb and immobile.

The groaning noise came again, but cut off in a laugh that could only come from a person.

Lilting laughter that sounded like his worst nightmare echoed through the clearing. Looking around, Jin Tianyu spotted a man dressed in black and silver reclining casually on a tree branch. Beautiful, in the way of jagged glass, only sharper. Like he would not only cut anything that got too close, but shred it into thin, unidentifiable slivers.

If I was better at verse, I could be a poet, and leave cultivation behind forever. Jin Tianyu thought absently.

The man looked familiar somehow, like he might have crossed paths with Jin Tianyu in passing. Except that Jin Tianyu had never left Lanling City before.

Fog rolled into the clearing, but only below the tree line, leaving the man clear and untouched above.

Jin Tianyu coughed. No, not fog. Powder.

Fan Caining stood in the center of the clearing, his sword shaking as he pointed it up towards the man. “Xue Yang? But you’re supposed to be —”

“Dead?” Xue Yang’s teeth shone white, bared in a threat, not a smile. “Yes, you did try very hard to make that happen. Too bad for you, I’m too crazy to die. Lucky for me, none of your friends are here this time to save you. Only a few tasty little children.”

To his surprise, Fan Caining did not try to run. Instead, he jumped up into the trees. “I can take you on my own, you weak little maniac.”

Xue Yang only laughed as he attacked.

Xue Yang. Jin Tianyu knew why he recognized him now. That was the former disciple brought in by the former sect leader, cast out by the current Chief Cultivator. The murderer of the Chang Clan.

He’d called them tasty.

Screw Fan Caining. They needed to get out of there.

Jin Tianyu tried to give himself leverage to get to his cousin by pushing against a tree, and found himself entirely turned around, no longer in the clearing.

He turned, and the trees seemed to spin around him. They continued to spin no matter how long he tried to stand still, stumbling, until finally he hit something solid and rough. A tree. He slid down it. Seated, his vision felt a little clearer.

He soon wished it wasn’t.

Something dropped from the tree to dangle in above Jin Tianyu. He dared to peak, and immediately regretted it.

The slack, inverted features of Fan Caining stared back, his eyes bulging from his head, tongue swollen and hanging from blue-tinged lips.

Jin Tianyu screamed.

He woke to Tangjie slapping his cheeks. “Tianyu! Tianyu, wake up!”

“What… what happened?” Jin Tianyu said groggily, as his memory began to return. He sat up straight. “Xue Yang!”

“He left, but I think there was something in that fog. You inhale the most of it, but all of us breathed in a little.” She explained. “We need to hurry back to the inn. The rest of the group has Cai-qianbei’s body. Come on, we need to go.”

She slung his arm around her neck, but as he stood, the vertigo returned in full force.

Somehow, they made it back to the inn, but he didn’t remember it.

A young man rose from a table, then he was doubled and tripled and on again. He wore gray, with a boar on his shoulder. That meant Nie. Jin Tianyu remembered that.

“Did the lot of you run all the way back here like that?”

“What?” Jin Tianyu asked, and the next thing he knew, the Nie disciple was keeping him upright by the elbow, taking his weight from Tangjie so she could collapse in a chair.

Jin Tianyu stared up into the Nie disciple’s face, at the angles of his defined cheekbones and jaw, with just the right amount of softness. Very symmetrical. He could do math with that face.

Pretty. He thought.

“Thank you.” The Nie disciple flashed him a smile that made him want to faint all over again. “You’ve got corpse poisoning. Let’s get some congee in you, now.”

He was seated and a bowl of congee appeared in front of him out of nowhere, as though it had already been prepared. Even though it was evening, and he didn’t think enough time had passed to make it.

Jin Tianyu couldn’t be sure, though. He was too busy floating, the only thing anchoring him to his body the burning pain on his tongue.

That faded as he forced down more of the bowl, and he realized it was chili. He could see the flakes reddening his bowl. Tangjie, who loved chili, had scarfed it down with no problem. Jin Tianyu tried to put down the bowl.

“No, no, you have to eat the whole thing for it to work.” The Nie disciple —who was even prettier now that his head was clearer — shoved the bowl back into his hands. “That was corpse powder you were poisoned with. You’ll die.”

Jin Tianyu shoveled the rest into his mouth.

The Nie disciple was tall. Very tall, as was the case for every Nie he’d seen with the sole exception of their current sect leader, but surprisingly thin, like he didn’t spend all his spare time building up the muscles the Nie were well known for. The hair braided up into his guan was lopsided, like he’d done it up without looking in a mirror. But even under the influence of the corpse powder, Jin Tianyu had been correct. His face was perfectly symmetrical, without a single blemish or pore to be found. It would have looked unnatural, were his perfect face not so expressive. His brows arched and lips pursed sternly, but giving the impression that he was laughing.

“Now, would you mind telling me what happened?” His beautiful savior asked.

Speaking over each other, Jin Tianyu and the other disciples hurried to do so. But by the next morning, when they gathered to leave for Koi Tower, their savior was gone.

In Nie robes and a face that did not belong to him, Wei Wuxian did not receive a second glance until he first set foot in the Unclean realm. Once there, he constantly felt eyes boring into his back, but when he glanced over, he’d find disciples hard at work on their forms or their noses buried deep in texts. Which only went to prove their curiosity.

Even with Nie Huaisang for a sect leader, it wasn’t every day that a stranger was brought into the sect and handed a high-ranking position. But the Nie Sect had few elders, and those they had were aged and gray because with saber cultivation, it was the weak who survived the longest. It seemed the Nie elders were retired in truth, pursuing hobbies like needlework and whittling and nagging their grandchildren to eat more.

By the time Wei Wuxian arrived in the Unclean Realm, Nie Mingjue’s body had been hidden away, though not yet buried, for reasons known only to Nie Huaisang. No one said anything about that, either.

“And since I’m the weakest of the lot, I’ll live to be a hundred,” Nie Huaisang completed explaining his free reign to lead his sect however he chose, unparalleled by any other sect even a single generation past its founding as they approached the gates to the Unclean Realm.

Right before dropping a bomb on his head in the form of unwarranted and unwanted respectability. “My closest sect siblings know my motives if not my plans, so no one will oppose appointing you to the vacant position of fourth disciple.”

“What?” Wei Wuxian sputtered, tempted to check if Nie Huaisang was running a fever. “What happened to the last fourth disciple?”

Nie Huaisang snapped his fan closed, and opened it again, staring off into the distance.

Touchy subject. Understood. “Forget I asked.”

“Let’s just say Jin Guangyao owes the Nie Clan more than one life.” Nie Huaisang said, before dragging him through the gates and launching into a series of dramatic introductions that left his head spinning.

Apparently he was going by Nie Wang, courtesy Xiaomeng now.

Wei Wuxian had not been consulted on this. Walking around with everyone thinking his name was hope felt precisely in line with Nie Huaisang’s sense of humor.

True to form, Nie Huaisang did not deign to explain until he wanted something. Despite copious amounts of pleading, Wei Wuxian was forced to wait through a restless night of nightmares and a morning while his apparent new sect leader caught up on work to get his answers.

Finally, Nie Huaisang summoned him around lunch time. He was set up in a pavilion in the garden, with a mountain of paperwork. The garden had been designed by someone with an eye for showcasing Qinghe’s foliage. A lotus pond surrounded the pavilion, and though its cultivated beauty was no match for the wildness of Yunmeng’s lakes, the carefully selected flowers staggered through the surrounding paths were like hidden gems, each intended to stand on its own.

There were birds as well, goldfinches and many others kept there not by cages, but by the feeders full of seeds spread throughout.

“So,” Wei Wuxian said as he sprawled on a bench across the table from Nie Huaisang, who did not look up from his work to greet him. “I thought I was going to be a rogue cultivator. But apparently you had other ideas.”

“If you’re going to pull this off, the easiest way to wander around without notice is as one of my disciples. As a rogue cultivator, you might gather some recognition, get invited along to visit sects and so on. As one of mine, well, there are Nie disciples everywhere.” It was deeply disconcerting to watch Nie Huaisang take something seriously. And he was serious about that paperwork, not even looking up to speak. “They get bored of me, and travel.”

“They’re spies, aren’t they?”

He lifted his brush from a page with a flourish, and pinned it off to the side under a weight to dry, immediately moving onto the next one. “Are you saying I’m not irritating enough to make people need a break? I must have an ulterior motive? I’ll have to try harder.”

“Oh, you’re very irritating. They’re just extremely loyal.”

“After the Sunshot campaign and the losses we had during Dage’s decline, both to desertion and other causes. And then the prospect of me. Well, anyone who’s left is basically family.”

He gestured at Nie Xiaodan, at that moment crossing the bridge towards the pavilion.

Nie Xiaodan patted him on the head as she passed by. “Don’t forget to order lunch, Zongzhu.” She said, and returned to discussing a night hunt with her companion. It seemed she had come for that reminder only.

Nie Huaisang beamed.

“Fine, I’ll pretend to be your disciple.” Wei Wuxian wanted to pretend he’d been given a choice.

“Excellent! We can get you a saber easily enough.”

Uh. He had told him what Wen Qing said about his core, right? Wei Wuxian was often terrible at remembering tasks, but he distinctly recalled completing that one. “I’m banned from resentful energy, doctor’s orders.”

“Our smiths can make sabers without binding an animal spirit, you know. They do make other things.”

Wei Wuxian was summarily introduced to the blacksmiths, a married couple who looked him up and down intently and promptly got into an argument over the saber’s design. When he looked around for Nie Huaisang, the sneaky little spymaster was missing, because of course he was.

Attempts at interrupting failed to distract the couple from their debate over the pattern to be inscribed on the hilt, so Wei Wuxian settled against the wall to wait, and inadvertently took a nap.

He was prodded awake with the end of a (thankfully) unheated poker. “Infuse this with your energy,” The smith holding the poker growled, pointing towards a red-hot block of iron. Wei Wuxian did as requested, feeling only a slight protest from Xue Yang’s — his core.

Then, all he had to do was wait.

During the week it took for his new saber to be prepared, Wei Wuxian was not idle.

If he was going to imitate Xue Yang with no demonic cultivation and an extremely temperamental sword, Wei Wuxian needed tricks. Wen Qing had told him to invent something. But, Wei Wuxian thought, how better to create the illusion of evil tricks than to use something that actually existed.

He had drawn one idea from the stage. Why not the methods for a few more?

Within a day of verbalizing his plan, Wei Wuxian drowned under a sea of texts pulled from the shelves of the Nie library and from the private records of Qinghe’s theater and dance troops. Thanks to Nie Huaisang’s generous patronage, Wei Wuxian had been able to request manuals on the techniques in common between troops, rather than their family secrets. The tricks to raising and lowering a curtain on an improvised stage and to building a smoke bomb in a desired hue for a start.

The combination of practical optical illusions and talismans seemed particularly promising.

The smoke bombs were the easiest, simply a matter of mixing powders together in a casing and setting them on fire. Fun for him, but since he managed to irritate someone no matter where he set them off, Wei Wuxian moved on.

Combining his binding talisman and a sticking talisman, he stuck a disciple to the roof of the library.

(A volunteer, since it wasn’t as though Jiang Cheng was there. Or speaking to him.)

The force holding him in place was a standard talisman, nothing Wei Wuxian had invented, but the disciple struggled against it like he’d never learned how to counter it. Which he probably hadn’t, given how little thought most cultivators gave them beyond wards and the ubiquitous ones for keeping tea warm or sending brief messages.

Which was precisely why Wei Wuxian might just pull this off.

He thought about pulleys and spirit nets, and the next day, he inscribed the talismans within a pressure-triggered array, and sent himself flying upwards. Followed by a plethora of curious volunteers.

What had he expected, though? The Nie were a sect full of adrenaline junkies. Even the first disciple came around for a turn. After that, Wei Wuxian found himself with company and conversation at every meal.

Even so, he never forgot he was wearing a mask. Every night after a long day of study, the mask weighed heavy on his face, leaving him with a headache. He found it easier to ward his door, than keep it on while he slept. Then, and only then, was it safe to be himself.

Many of the most useful tricks required more practice, such as projecting sounds so they seemed to come from a different source. Wei Wuxian practiced each, over and over again, until he felt he had it. And then put on a demonstration.

When he could pull off a trick successfully in front of the little Nie Disciples, he knew he had managed it. If he still couldn’t fool Nie Huaisang, well, Huaisang was Huaisang.

He couldn’t be held to mortal standards.

That left one more problem, perhaps the most challenging.

Along with the skin mask, Xue Yang’s bag had contained: two changes of clothes, a small pouch of silver, a large coil of rope, and several heavy bags full of corpse powder.

Obviously, Wei Wuxian wasn’t actually going to use corpse powder on anyone. That could get messy fast, if anyone else was around, with no guarantee he’d be able to serve the antidote in time. Yet it seemed like corpse powder was a common part of Xue Yang’s modus operandi.

If he didn’t use it, would Jin Guangyao suspect something was off? There was no way of telling.

The problem niggled at the back of his mind all week long, whether he was becoming one with the library or getting caught in his own rope trap. But he got no closer to finding a solution.

Until finally, during breakfast on the day Wei Wuxian was to receive his saber, he sat staring into his congee, stirring it absently.

And had a brilliant idea.

Somehow, having a potential solution took the edge off his nerves, and he was able to hold Yuanzheng for the first time while only making a bit of a fool of himself. To his relief, it didn’t feel like Suibian, though the long, thin saber was also designed for agility rather than power.

Yuanzheng

did feel like a weapon he could use, not the dead, draining weight Suibian had become or the repulsion of Jiangzai. Like it might become an extension of his arm in time, with Suibian and Chenqing out of reach. Wei Wuxian teared up a little, as he went through a series of exercises for the first time in years, and did not pass out.

For the first time, his resurrection really felt like a second chance. The beginning of the long journey he’d named his saber for, with a slim chance that light in the distance was the end of the tunnel. With family and zhiji waiting on the other end.

He had better make it count.

From the privacy of his own room that night, he pulled out his Distance Speaking Stone, and called up Wen Qing. “Hey, disorienting powder can be cleared from the system with congee like corpse powder, right?”

With construction on watchtowers set to begin in several sects, there was little for Jiang Yanli to do on the project but wait. Yet she couldn’t remain idle with only her sect responsibilities and A-Ling to occupy her time. Not if she intended to make herself — or rather, Qin Su — a credible power in her own right, someone who had a chance of being believed when it came time to reveal Jin Guangyao’s crimes.

She needed a new project. Something Jin Guangyao had yet to present a plan for, something Qin Su would get all the credit for.

Word arrived that a Jin disciple had been murdered by Xue Yang, the juniors he had been escorting barely escaping with their lives. The pair of Jin cousins with the rare tea feud (under a temporary ceasefire in favor of vengeance against the Chief Cultivator for the allowance cut, so far consisting of attempts to convince the servants to put laxatives in his tea, which the servants would not do, out of a desire to remain among the living) fainted dead away at the news.

Jiang Yanli, already aware of this through her brother, attempted to look appropriately horrified.

Jin Guangyao paled, and for a moment, lost his composure. Ice in his eyes and steel in the set of his jaw, there and gone again in a blink. Mask back into place but still off balance, he cut off the junior disciples’ explanation of their rescue from corpse powder mid sentence. He immediately sent off three teams of disciples to track down Xue Yang and bring back his body.

“I thought Xiandu always heard all explanations to the end.” A messenger from Fengyang Hua whispered to a group consisting of the wards from Lieshan Du, Zhai Xia, and Mo Xuanyu’s ever-present suitors.

Not always, rumor would now say. Even Xiandu is afraid of something.

Even with fear in the air over the return of Xue Yang — for everyone had a horror story to tell of his time in Koi Tower, mostly to do with dismembered animals in places that were decidedly not the kitchen — Jiang Yanli found she had finally settled into her role.

One day, the paperwork ran out, and Jiang Yanli found herself with an afternoon free. A novel experience, since her return. It was a perfect opportunity to brainstorm her next step.

If only she could dredge up the barest hint of an idea. But her mind felt like a dried-up creek in a drought.

“I was thinking of going to the tailor in the city, Xiao-Heng is growing like a demon and needs more new clothes. Would you like to come with me?”

I bet we’re not thinking of anything because we’re trying too hard. Qin Su said.

As much as Jiang Yanli hated to admit it, she had a point. A-Xian always said that he had his best ideas the moment he stopped trying to force a solution. The difficulty lay in not thinking about it.

I have a solution for that. My beloved nephew is quite the attention hog.

“A-Ling’s robes have been looking rather short.” She said aloud.

Qi Juan beamed, and began tucking her son in his sling. He was soon to outgrow it, and had just reached the troublesome learning to crawl stage.

Kidnapping her son from his lessons was a thrill, though it was the work of a moment. The sour-faced calligraphy instructor dismissed A-Ling with visible relief, and the reminder that A-Ling was still expected to produce ten copies of poems at the next class. Without blotches of ink covering half the page, or brush strokes of uneven width.

A-Ling stuck out his tongue behind the instructor’s back, and ran to grab her hand, already chattering about how he wanted to bring back sticks of tanghulu for the entire class.

“My sweet, grumpy boy,” She ruffled his hair, and he scowled, attempting to push it back into place, but only displacing his top knot further. Just like his jiujiu.

The main streets of Lanling were cleaner than she remembered from six years ago. The shops lining the main street had all recently been given a fresh coat of paint, proprietors and customers alike looking healthier and more prosperous. Jin Guangyao had reformed the city’s taxes, on the basis that letting the common people keep more of their earnings now would bring the sect more profit in the long term. More than one person recognized her as Madam Jin, and called out a respectful greeting with a smile. At least on a surface level, his plan had begun to work.

There were fewer brothels now as well, reduced by half. The madams who had refused to start allowing their workers to pay off their contracts had been driven out of business or died in mysterious fires. (In some cases, but not all, the workers mysteriously escaped unscathed.) As A-Ling towed her along to a hawker with a tower of tanghulu, she passed an empty lot with the blackened foundations still visible. The buildings next to it were under repair, one of which seemed to have sustained considerable damage to the living quarters on the second floor.

As she looked around more closely, she saw an emaciated old man begging from the entrance of an alley, a woman in what had once been a set of fine performance robes soliciting passerby, and scruffy children lurking in dark corners.

Despite Jin Guangyao’s claims of working towards progress, there were still street children in Lanling.

Making a home for the orphans of Lanling had been a project dear to A-Xuan’s heart, in the last months of his life. Impending fatherhood had made him more perceptive in many ways, more so even than the changes he underwent during the Sunshot campaign. But when she was preganant, her husband had taken her by the arms and informed her with great distress that there are children in the streets, Yanli! Children!

Jiang Yanli had thought better late than never and helped him come up with a plan. She had her own reasons to take an interest in the care of orphans and poor children, after all.

Jin Guangshan had probably signed the funding out of the budget on an advisor’s word, not having been informed how his son and daughter-in-law were spending the clan’s funds in the first place.

Jin Guangyao would not have gotten rid of such a program, she thought, as she fished a coin so her son could get as sticky with sugar as his little heart desired.

Qin Su did not quite agree. No, he would have replaced it with something similar, that he could claim the credit for.

True. But he hadn’t — which meant there was room for Jiang Yanli to fill the gap.

After a moment of thought, she purchased a second stick, and handed it to Qi Juan.

“You looked like you could use it.” She told her.

Qi Juan bit down delicately on the candy-coated hawthorn, but couldn’t avoid the satisfying crunch. And laughed, as parts of the coating cracked, and fell from her lips. “All right. I haven’t had something like this since… before the Sunshot Campaign, probably. Certainly not since my family came up in the world and married me off. You look like you could use one too.”

“Do I?” Jiang Yanli had often thought that helping others feel better was its own reward.

It would make me feel better to taste something sweet. Qin Su said in a blatant attempt to get Jiang Yanli to treat herself. Sweet-sweet though, not hawthorn berries.

I think that stall might be selling lotus mooncakes.” Though the mid-autumn festival had already past, there was never a wrong time for a mooncake.

It was a mistake to mention heaven’s favorite root in front of Jin Ling. “Lotus!” He shouted. “Pleasepleaseplease mooncake mooncake!” And would not let up until she bought him one, in addition to three for herself.

“That’s more than enough sugar for one day, young man.” She informed him as she took a bite of her own mooncake, wrapping the others in a cloth for later.

A-Ling grinned toothily up at her, mooncake leaking lotus paste in one hand, half eaten tanghulu in the other, and the glint of sugar all over his cheeks.

Perhaps she should have insisted he wait until after their errand for his treats, but Jiang Yanli did not possess the earned resistance to his adorable whims of a mother who had gotten to see her child grow. Who could blame her, if she spoiled him a little? “Do you think the tailor will still let us in the shop?”

“It’s not so bad,” Qi Juan said, just as A-Ling smushed the rest of the mooncake in his hand, and shoved it in his face. She grimaced. “I’m certain Tailor Ke has seen worse.”

Indeed, Tailor Ke, a woman who knew her way around hanfu, if the way the one she was wearing flattered her extensive curves meant anything, did not blink an eye. “If you could wipe off the young master’s hands, please, Jin-furen?”

Jiang Yanli took the offered wet handkerchief, and wiped the stickiness off of a protesting A-Ling. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to damage any of your lovely merchandise.”

Sadly, the more vibrant fabrics could not be chosen for A-Ling, who would be consigned to golden peacocks and peonies on off-white for as long as he lived. As a married-in spouse, however, Jiang Yanli had more leeway with under robes. The pale pink of Laoling Qin tempered the gold, making it almost palatable.

Qi Juan freely admired a swatch of vivid green fabric, in precisely the right shade for her natal sect. A daring choice, if it was for her son. Perhaps a sign that Qi Juan would be receptive to opposing her husband.

Tailor Ke bustled around, assembling the appropriate silks in Jin colors for Jiang Yanli’s inspection herself.

“Have you been short handed lately?” She asked as ideas for how, exactly, she would go about outdoing Jin Guangyao in reform measures began to coalesce in her mind.

“Have I ever! There’s all this new demand for clothing and not enough suitable apprentices to go around! Everyone’s looking, not just me.” She dropped a stack of fabrics on the table with a grunt. “Jin-gongzi’s order will take priority, of course.”

She shook her head. Naturally an order from the sect leader’s wife would be prioritized, but there was no need. “Please put Bei-gongzi’s order ahead of mine. A-Ling can get a bit more use out of his robes, but Bei-gongzi won’t fit into his if he grows anymore. And only the peony for embroidery. If it’s any more elaborate, A-Ling will inevitably ruin the robes the first time he wears them.”

“Yes, Jin-furen.” Tailor Ke agreed. “It won’t take more than a week, all told. Kid’s clothes work up fast.”

“And wear out faster.” She sighed as A-Ling chose that moment to snag his sleeve on a nail. “What are you looking for, in an apprentice?”

Many craftspeople would have been hesitant to answer, but Tailor Ke was happy to babble on as she began to drape fabrics over A-Ling’s shoulders, critiquing and sorting them to find the least aesthetically terrible combinations. “Oh, someone who’s quick with their hands, with some basic sewing and embroidery skills. I don’t have time to teach basics, but the rest can come along in time. Someone to do the books for me would also be a dream. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, though fortunately I can still stitch a straight seam without looking.”

That seemed like simple enough requirements, easily fulfilled with a little education. Though orphans were pulled of the street from time to time, it was usually for menial positions they would lose the moment something went wrong. Or if they were very lucky, to take care of an old, childless widow. Re-instituting A-Xuan’s program and improving upon it — that could be a very real way to distinguish Qin Su in the eyes of not only the Jin Sect, but the cultivation world.

The children could not only learn skills to help find employment, but be tested for cultivation potential.

The sects were always complaining about how difficult it was to recruit new talent. Executed properly, Jiang Yanli could make Qin Su look not only kind-hearted, but clever, reputable, and forward thinking, with the best interests of the sect she had married into at heart.

Even if the actual Qin Su fantasized about burning down Koi Tower on a regular basis.

Hey.

What? It was true.

Qin Su huffed. A semi-regular basis, maybe. And I would never actually. I wouldn’t actually ruin the whole of Lanling’s economy or put the servants and juniors out of house and home.

My apologies then. She suppressed a laugh.

Would there really be enough apprenticeships to go around, though? Qin Su sent numbers bouncing around her mind as she attempted the mental math, but got lost without paper.

Perhaps not. But larger farms could use workers, manors could use servants, and affordable bookkeepers were always in short supply. It could, at least, give them a better start.

“Shenshen look! I’m all twirly!” A-Ling giggled as he spun, the silk draped over him spinning out and threatening to knock over the tailor’s basket of supplies. Jiang Yanli tried not to smile, knowing she would need to scold him later, and prepared to pay for the entire bolt.

“We should discuss the problem with your sword.” Wen Qing said one night through the softly glowing Distance Speaking Stone. A-Xian had popped in earlier, briefly, but he was busy following the second of the Jin disciples on Xue Yang’s list, learning the habits of the group they were part of before he could lead them into a trap.

Jiang Yanli stared into her evening tea. “Must we?”

“Wei Wuxian isn’t having trouble with his new saber. The problem must be that Chunsheng doesn’t fully recognize you as Qin Su.”

“I can’t just get rid of her sword.” That wasn’t done.

<We are not getting rid of Chunsheng.> Qin Su said from inside her paperman. She’d been bent over a copy of some of A-Xian’s notes, researching something she had yet to explain.

“You’re basically unprotected. What if something —” Wen Qing cut herself off, surprisingly panicked.

Replacing a sword would garner more attention than A-Xian had in refusing to carry Suibian around. Whether they would somehow determine the truth or spread rumors about a disastrous fallout with the Qin clan, everyone would know something was off.

Still, it was sweet of her to worry. “Any sword is more protection than I had in my last life, Wen Qing.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She sounded so forlorn that Jiang Yanli ached with the desire to fall into her arms and rub circles into her back until she slept, and even after. “But I worry.”

So did she, far too often. There was no end to worrying, it seemed. Not even after death. “Does A-Xian have any ideas about the talisman keeping you trapped?”

Wen Qing hesitated. “I haven’t let him look at it yet.”

“A-Qing!” A slip of the tongue, in her shock.

Wen Qing’s breath caught. “I’m not letting him put my life before his again. When we’re closer —”

“Last time you put his life before yours, he died anyways.” Jiang Yanli snapped. And sighed. “I’m sorry, that was unfair. It’s just — if you’re allowed to worry for me, I get to worry for you.”

“A little longer. Then I’ll speak to him.”

She could tell that was the best she was going to get. “If you don’t, I’ll tell him myself.”

Jiang Yanli was tired of watching the people she cared about tear themselves apart. She wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

Wen Qing let out a shaky, hiccupping laugh. “That seems fair.”

#the untamed #cq #wangxian #yanqing #qin su #the sacrifice summon! JYL fic #where the summoner (qin su) sticks around #this time featuring wwx traumatizing some teenagers #being subject to the whims of nhs #and jyl spending an afternoon with jin ling

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cobradoesmcyt · 4 years

Text

Infinite

POWER

Cub could feel the moment that the Power stone entered someone's hands, felt its power buzzing passively in the air.

He shakily sat down, hand twitching as it felt the power twirl around it. It longged to feel the power coursing through it once more, but he buried that deep down. As someone who’d once held the Stones, he knew the pull of their power, a power they’d just use against you if given the chance.

He hoped that whoever had the stone didn’t get anymore, or that anymore came to be. Because he feared Hermitcraft would never be the same if all six came to be.

Purple

When Grian had noticed that the Button had six colors he couldn’t help himself. He got a gauntlet specially made, made to be a mix between the one Iron Man used and the one Thanos used (shape of IM’s and style of Thanos’). He then used some Watcher magic to turn the concrete block into a purple stone, and he added a mild strength effect to it too.

You know, to make it more realistic!

TIME

When he felt the second stone, Time, if the subtle feeling of time stopping for a second or so was anything to go by. He really hoped it was someone else.

He hasn't yet figured out who has the Power stone, but he’ll figure it out eventually. And if he doesn't figure it out himself then he’ll just ask someone else. Easy as that!

Green

As soon as he got the green concrete block he did the same thing he did with the purple one. He blinked in surprise when he noticed that the air around him seemed to still, the heat still there but not trickling all over his skin like a hot breath like usual.

He looked down at where he’d just placed the green stone in, a feeling deep inside him telling him it was the stone that was doing this. So he focused in on it, silently asking it to turn time back to normal, and to his disbelief it did as it was told.

Surely it couldn’t actually be the Infinity stones, right?

...Right?

SPACE

By the time he felt the presence of the Space stone he knew it was Grian that had the Stones. He’d been trying to set up a meeting with the dirty blonde, but they’d both been so busy that it hadn’t been able to happen.

So he went to Scar, hoping that he could tell him the moment Grian became free.

The wizard agreed, but asked that he (Cub) come to his base and explain everything in person. Which Cub agreed to.

Blue

Grian had realized that the stones on his hands were more than just simple mineral crystals. Because no normal stone should open a portal to the nether at will, and most definitely not a frameless one.

When he discovered this new ability two clashing emotions filled him. On one hand he wanted nothing more than to rip the stones off and crush them under his foot before throwing them into the void. But on the other something pulled him to keep them, and to also use and master them. But most importantly it also whispered non verbal encouragements to get the last three, to finish the sextet of stones.

And he listened to the call of the Stones.

MIND

Cub didn’t know Grian had the Mind stone until he saw the other. It had just been a quick look, the two seeing each other when Grian had been flying by when Cub stood in a portal, but the new, glistening, yellow, stone was very prominently radiating power for the short moments Cub saw it. The stone had subtly used its power passively to make Cub look at it's current wielder, as if to say “do you see what you're missing now? Look at all you could have had, look at all of what you denied”.

It made him furious. Not at Grian, no, but with himself and the stones. If he’d been trying harder then there would be no way everything would turn to this, to the stones getting powerful enough to hide their presence from him. And if the stones had never even come into existence then things would be perfectly fine, and Grian wouldn’t be in danger of corruption.

Oh god, Grian was in danger of corruption.

Yellow

Grian sat giggling at the top of his base, the voice in his head telling him of all the pranks he once abandoned and then expelling how to make them work with their powers. He didn’t ask who “they” were, mind being too wrapped up and enthralled by the prospect of finally being able to do many of the pranks he once left behind.

He was doing exactly what the Stones wanted, he was letting them in.

SOUL /̸̧̧̳̮̑̂̀̃̈́̔̌̎̈́́̎͒̇ö̷͔͉̱̯̱̟̯͍̬͈̣͑͗̈́͋͋̎̊͘r̶̨̡̨̤̯̪̞̙̙̭̭̼̦͊̎͐̈́́ȁ̶͓͙̹̥̬̙̜̣́̎̀̆ͅn̴̢͇͔̜̦̟̱͇̼̬̻̫̪̜̊̒̊̊̏̍̇́͌̕̕͠g̴̡̡͉̗̪̘͓͖͓̞̝͊͌̓͆͠͝ͅë̶̢̨̠̝̲̤̹͔͇̗͔́͜

When Grian got the Soul stone everyone in the Nether, and Cub of course, felt it. It was like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over their soul, it was suffocating and chilling. But to Grian it felt like a warm breeze had gently blown around him, it was comforting and sweet, like coming home to a loved one's embrace.

But all it was all nothing more than the Stones reconnecting, their powers melding together and holding each other once again. ‘Just one more now, one more and we can have all the fun in the world’ The Stones whispered to Grian, caressing their powers around him, to enthrall him into them even more.

“Just one more.” He echoed, and as he watched his reflection in the glass of the green team lounge he could see dark vein like symbols crawling up to his face. And looking up he could see his eyes quickly flash the color of all the stones he already held, and looking even further up the barely visible sight of a crown like thing over his head made out of the five stones he already had, with an obvious missing spot for the last one.

Just one left until the gauntlet would be filled up.

REALITY

The button was red. The button was finally on red!

Grian gleefully bounced up the redstone build and pressed its stone button, smiling widely as the bar filled up once more before dispensing the red concrete block. As soon as the block hit his hands it turned into the red stone he’d been told of, the last one to the six piece puzzle on his hand. He held out his right hand before bringing the Reality stone to its resting place in the middle of the gauntlet.

As soon as the stone was in place he felt a power shock-wave make its way through his arm and up his body, almost like his veins were acting like cables to pump the Stones powers through his body.

‘Summon a mirror, wouldn’t you like to see yourself?’ Grian did want to see himself, so with quick instructions from the stones he summoned a mirror out of thin air. The face that met him was not the one from the start of the season. No, this face was lined with black veins that traveled down his body, his eyes changed color depending on from which angel he looked, and above his head now a full crown of only floating gems sat, all fully visible and pulsing with stored power. ‘Look at you Wielder, so powerful, so much more powerful than that Vex coward’

“Vex? Do you mean Cub or Scar?” Grian asked, eyes looking down at the stones as he let the mirror fade back into hot air. ‘Both, though Cub was the main man of the operation’ The stone hummed, though there was an underlying feeling of amusement to the words. ‘Tell me Wielder, how do you feel about showing him, and all the others, the power of us?’

“Let’s do it!” Grian grinned. And with just three little words the Grian of Hermitcraft was gone, instead replaced by Grian of the Stones. Same person, ones just free and the other trapped by the power of the Stones mind manipulation.

INFINITY

Xisuma was just about to ask someone to go get Grian, seeing as how the dirty blond was late for a server meeting, when said Hermit walked through. The admin was about to greet him joyfully, but he then noticed how Grian looked and he was instantly on edge, sword drawn and held at the ready. Many others could see that something was wrong too, and they were one step ahead of their admin.

Grian paid them little mind, crazed eyes instead focusing on Cub. “Cub! Just the man I was looking for!” Jevin stepped in front of Cub, sword held out protectively in front of them both. This made the builder chuckle darkly. “I’m afraid that won’t work, but A for a good attempt.”

His eyes then flashes blue before the pharaoh robed man was in front of him, in an instead Cub can easily see both the changes to his friends, and the final stone on the gauntlet. “No.”

Following his line of sight Grin grinned. “I’m afraid so.” He then held up the hand, making a show of flashing the stones in the others face. “Wonderful, right? I can’t see why ever denied something like this, Cub, it’s amazing! It feels like I hold the power of a hundred universes in my hand.”

“Grian, you have to get them off!” Scar cried, eyes wide as he finally noticed the stones over the builders head. “You can’t hold them!”

“Clearly I can!” Grian called, rolling his eyes at the wizard. “Plus, it’s not my fault you two were too cowardly to use them!”

Cub shook his head. “That’s not it! The stones are too powerful to be held by just one person alone, it’ll corrupt someone's mind!”

“Corrupt someone? Sure I got some new marks along with a crown, but how the hell is that me being corrupted?” Grian sneered, eyes flashing purple as he looked down at Cub.

Before anyone could answer him he shook his head. “No matter, whatever you’ll say nothing will change.” ‘Well said Wielder. Now, show them what we have!’

Cub, seeing Grian’s eyes flash to red and stay red, barely managed to avoid the solid stone that now was where he’d just been. Grian growled before swiping at the bearded man with a fist and purple eyes, it was blocked and the sword which blocked his attack cracked slightly under the power of the impact. In a ditch effort to halt any major movements from Grian, Cub swung his axe at the dirty blonds legs, which the shorter didn’t manage to dodge. So with a cry he stumbled back, but not before firing a stone spear at his attacker.

He was about to swing again, but an arrow, which was then followed by two more, hit him and made him back up. Looking up with a snarl he saw the Hermits, all fully geared up and ready for battle, approche.

“So this is how you want to play, huh? Fine let’s play.” Grian charged towards the group, and everytime he took a step one more of him apparead, until he reached them and over twenty of them surrounded the group.

Cub looked at the copies, trying to find the real one, when something touched his head. It took him a few seconds to realize it was Grian’s gauntlet that was touching him. He tried to whirl around and attack, but he was stopped by an unseen force.

“Now, now Cub-dear, no need for violence.” Grian cooed. Only, it wasn’t Grian, but instead the stones. “I’m just showing you what you missed out on so long ago.”

“Let him go.” Cub hissed, struggling in the stones mental grip. “Your beef is with me, not him! He’s innocent!”

“Not really. His past is as tainted as us, if not more!” The stones laughed, their grip on his hand tightening. “But that’s besides the point, he came to us, so we’re using that to our advantage. Pretty neat, huh?”

Cub caught Scar’s eyes, and subtly sent a silent message of “help” to him. After a nod answered him he focused back on his captor. “Neat is the last word I’d use, especially for this.” He glanced back over towards the fighting Hermits and noticed that Scar was not amongst them. And if the shifting of the earth under him he had a good feeling about it. “Now, please let me go.”

“Let you go? I’m afraid we can’t do thAAAAA!” The Stones screamed as a large plant slapped them away from Cub. Said Hermit brushed himself off before saying, “Should have let me go when I asked nicely.”

“You know, if I hadn’t stepped in you’d probably be a goner by now.” Scar commented as he walked up to his friends, keeping an eye on Stone-possessed-Grian.

Cub had no chance to retort before their opponent was standing once again. The stones growled loudly before charging at the two, just as he swiped at them, he disappeared. Neither knew what had happened until they checked their communicators.

Grian has been banned

Everyone looked to where Xisuma was standing, unshed tears in his eyes as he held his admin screens up with shaking hands. “I’m so sorry.” He cracked out, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“But you did!” Scar argued. “We could have gotten the stones off! We could have saved him! But now he’s left to rot with the Stones slowly taking him over more and more!”

Their argument was broken up by the sky turning a deep purple, and soon a familiar, yet also so not, laugh echoed around them. “How cute! You thought you could banish us! Well guess what, you can’t!”

“NO!” Cub growled, his eyes glowing blue for the first time in such a long time, the air crawling with yell. “I will not allow you six to take him away from us! From me!”

The stones cooed at him, forming back at where they stood mid charge. “Aww, has the little bear finally figured out his feelings? How cute.”

“I have. You know what else I’ve figured out?” He asked, eyes narrowed as he looked at the controlled form of Grian.

“What?” The dirty blond asked, eyebrow raised at the taller man.

A sharp smirk spread along Cub’s face as an evil glint entered his eyes. “You can’t sense invisible people.”

It took the stones one second to many to realize what he meant, and the gauntlet on their hand was soon destroyed by Scar’s magic. The wizard winced, seeing as destroying the gauntlet meant crushing the arm, which meant crushing Grian’s arm. Thankfully he knew that it would just be severely broken and with minimal scarring after it had fully healed.

As soon as the gauntlet no longer had a thing to keep a connection through to Grian they lost their control over him, and due to the big amount of magical energie used the dirty blond fell unconscious. Cub rushed to the smaller Hermits side as Scar got one shulker for each of the stones.

“You're safe now.” Cub whispered, hand caresing Grian’s soft hair gently. “The stones are gone.” Xisuma came up to him and asked to look at Grian to make sure he was okay and rid of the stones, which he was on both accounts, if you ignore the broken arm and all of that.

“But what about the markings? Shouldn’t they be gone?” Zedaph asked, seeing as he, along with all the other Hermits, were now gathered around their unconscious friend.

“It’s ancient magic.” Scar sighed, having put away the six stones safely. “They’ll fade like scars, but just like scar’s they’ll still be there.”

“Well who cares about a few markings?” Tango butted in, hands on his hips. “Marking or no markings, previously tried to attack us or nor, he’s still our friend! And we’ll help him as such!”

“I’m almost offended you think we wouldn’t help him.” Cleo said drilly. “Though I’m sure Cub over there will help him as more than that.” She added with a grin.

The pharaoh dressed man flushed, but didn’t deny her words. Which got him some teasing from the others, but they were mostly just happy and relieved that the stones no longer held a hold on their friend.

INFINITESIMAL

It was a long road of recovery for Grian, possession of any kind is never any fun, especially not when it involved hurting your friends. But with the help of everyone around him, Cub more so than others, he was doing okay. He was by no means good, god knows this was something that he’d never forget, but he was better. And as time went on, he was sure to get better and better until he was good again. And he’d do this with the support and help of those around him. Their Hermits after all, help and support is something they're all good at.

So yeah, Grian wasn’t good. But he was getting better, and that’s the important thing.

#hermitship #hermitshipping #grian #cubfan135 #grub #grian x cub #magical stones that talk are dangerous people #don't be like grian #don't trust them

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inforapound · 4 years

Text

With Our Eyes Shut Ch.2

A/N - I really wasn’t sure anyone would read a Sigefrid fic so to those who liked and commented on the first chapter, I really appreciate it. Chapter 1 Here.

Series Warnings - historical/series inaccuracies, mentions of abuse, mentions of pregnancy termination, angst, fluff.

Pairing - Sigefrid and OFC Chapters 2 of 4

“You do not speak much.”

Glancing away, her eyes shifted about the room but returned to his, clearly unsure of whether to respond.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, noticing the way her fingers still fiddled with her apron and the skirt of her dress. “Afraid of this?” he lifted his bladed arm.

Looking at it, she nodded yes.

“Wise,” he smiled showing his remarkably good teeth.

“I do speak,” her voice croaked, and she immediately cleared her throat. “But, here, it is better to be….” she hesitated.

“Mute?”

“Invisible.”

“I see,” he eyed her a moment longer, dissecting her meaning before taking a seat and motioning for her to join.

Moving to stand next to him, she unsurprisingly, chose the side with his good hand.

“Woman, start,” he nodded, his voice again gruff.

Reaching forward, she gathered the materials they had abandoned the first day. Pulling the one remaining copy of the alphabet forward, she pushed a quill towards him.

With a huff, he picked it up, fumbling with the thin feather and pressed it to the parchment. Her hands shot forward and grabbed his, stilling it before repositioning the feather in his large, weathered hand.

“Softly,” she uttered. “Do not press.”

Saying nothing, he watched her small hands pull away from his.

Humming, she indicated her approval as he drew the curved lines of the first letter. Once done, he scowled at his work and looked over to her.

“A,” she said, looking at him evenly.

“A,” he repeated, perking up at the fact she had not found an error.

“Ahh,” she sounded it out.

“What?” he made a face.

“This letter. That is the sound it makes. Ahh.”

“Why? I thought it was A. I am not making that sound.”

Shrugging, she looked back to the paper and pointed at the next symbol walking him through the same process.

Shooting his head back, he felt the silliest sense of pride, looking at the two markings that were more or less like hers.

It made him grin, “I am a fucking natural. Nooooo surprise,” he called out, tipping his head back and laughing.

She could not help but smile and his eyes caught it before returning his focus to the next few letters.

Perfectly still, she stood at his side and each time he completed another, he would look to her for adulation. Inwardly he rolled his eyes at himself, so easily bolstered by her praise.

“Sit down,” he said, still working the quill. “A warrior does not like to be stood over.”

Pulling out the chair, she settled in and he slouched back, taking it as a moment to rest.

“I do not understand how these things,” he nodded indicating the paper, “create language.”

She looked from him back to the paper, “It takes time, Lord. It is a skill...like any other. Each step a base for the next.”

She kept her gaze on the table, avoiding his eyes.

He sighed, opening and closing his hand as if it had been strained.

“This exhausts me. I feel the need to,” put my cock in something warm he thought but instead he said, “...drink.”

Sliding back his chair, he rose and headed to the door, glancing back as he opened it, “We will do this again.”

“Tomorrow, Lord?”

Chewing the skin on the inside of his lip, he paused, thinking, “No,” he shook his head, leaving without another word.

___

It was a week before she turned and nearly slammed into the enormous Waylen standing behind her, waiting to escort her to the meeting room. Following that lesson, she was summoned every few days but it quickly evolved into most afternoons.

The progress was slow and slowed further by his many questions and need to understand. And, although still skittish, she seemed to find some guarded sense of ease in his presence, set back, at times, by his outbursts of frustration.

She began to bring a jug of ale and bread and cheese or fruit, whatever she could take from the kitchen without attracting attention. As one of the two Lords of Beamfleot, Sigefrid could have anything but she, maintaining her word to keep their meetings private, moved in the shadows.

That afternoon, the session was much like any other, Sigefrid in the chair, uncomfortably working the quill with her seated next as he sounded out simple words. Still, regularly grunting and mumbling how moronic it all was.

“Now what?” He dropped the feather and looked at her.

“A moment please, Lord,” rising from her seat, she went to the shelf on the far side and filled a cup from a jug of wine. Bringing it to him, along with a plate of bread and dried meat with an apple on the side, she handed it over, motioning for him to drink.

“Are you trying to poison me,” he sniffed the cup. “Or, get me drunk?”

“Eat and drink first. The next part will feel silly and you anger easily when you have not eaten.”

Smiling, he emptied half the cup in one loud gulp, taking such a large bite from the apple, it collapsed into two. Smoothing his hand over his thick black beard, his smile simmered but his dark eyes continued to shine. It was quiet moments like these, looking at her pretty face that he felt he was coming to terms with his fondness of having her near.

“So the wine loosens the tongue and makes me a better pupil, eh?”

“Enough wine and people will do almost anything,” she smiled but quickly lowered her eyes.

“How did you end up a slave in Beamfleot?”

“I told you,” she replied in a soft voice, still looking down. “My mother and father were killed.”

“Yes, but after that?”

“I made my way through the woods, eventually found myself on that ridge just beyond the east wall. Stayed there for several days.”

“And then?” he pressed, tearing off a bite of the salted meat.

She settled back in the chair as if sensing the lesson was over.

“Two men out hunting stumbled upon me and one of them brought me home to his family. He had a wife and four children and I helped look after them and cook...did chores,” she shrugged.

“Did they mistreat you?” he emptied his cup and she sprung to her feet, retrieving the jug and filled it again.

“I am alive so...” she sat back down.

Dropping his chin, he eyed her, squinting, making it clear he was not buying her dismissiveness.

For a moment she said nothing but exhaled and answered. “He took liberties, Lord,” she looked down, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “After the first season with them...I found myself...in a sensitive way.”

At that, his own eyes faltered and he looked into his cup, saying nothing more.

Clearing her throat, she again pushed the hair away from her face.

“I drank poison I got from a healer... or a witch, I am not sure what she was. It took care of it and nearly me in the process, but some good did come from it,” she pressed her lips together. “He did not touch me after that...though...his wife became a danger.” She shrugged again. “I have forced myself to believe that it was not about me,” she looked up, surprising him by staring into his eyes, “and that I was just some faceless pound of flesh. On your own Lord, you learn all people prey on those who have no where to go.”

They sat for some time in silence, broken only by the distant sounds of wood being chopped and faint voices as people went about their day.

“You hate Saxon people?” he finally asked, his voice unusually quiet.

“I neither hate or care for them but I am reminded each day that they are not my people.”

“Do you speak of these meetings to the other slaves.”

“No, Lord,” her eyes widened. “Never. I speak to no one. I have only ever had words with you...and Lord Erik on that first day. Being from Frankia, there is no place for me among the slaves. I just do as I’m told.”

Closing his eyes, he could not help but imagine the horrors she must have endured, hoping that this man was one he had driven his sword through. It made his gut feel sour and he cleared his throat, shaking off the feeling. “Bloody Saxons, eh?”

Frowning, he gave her an awkward look, concealing the fact he felt strange; the irony of their lives and circumstances flaring in his mind.

He held out his cup. “Finish it,” he nodded. “It helps with more than loosening the tongue.”

Her face brightened a little and she reached out, taking the cup from his hand and tasting the wine.

“Do I still scare you?” he asked, speaking slowly, his voice deep and resonant.

Air rushed from her nose and she nearly laughed. “Of course,” she replied and he felt a twinge of disappointment.

“You need this too,” he held out his plate, noticing that her face had thinned over the weeks of their meetings. “Go on, I am not a generous man so...”

Reaching forward, she took a piece of the hard meat, taking a small bite.

“More?” he jerked his head toward the cup, topping it up from the jug, feeling rather content with the way that she smiled.

——

Her translation of the recent scroll had been correct; two powerful thrones were set to align. Kingdoms throughout England wanted to wish Alfred’s daughter and the lord of Mercia’s marriage well by sending gifts. The offerings were received at Winchester and were to be transported to Mercia via convoy, guarded by a handful of soldiers, exactly ten days before the ceremony.

The brothers had been there to intercept. Waiting on either side of the road with only four additional men. It had been effortless; the convoy blindsided. The Saxon men easily cut down and the brothers back in Beamfleot, much wealthier, all before the evening meal. The take was great; gold and silver, jewelry, some weapons, and books; those, of course, would be burned. As much as Sigefrid loved to fight, he saw the wisdom in this approach.

Slouching back in his chair at the head table, hand on a full horn, he stared out the open doors only partially listening to Erik and another man recount the day and laugh. Instead of chuckling along, his mind drifted to other lands, farther north and even overseas. Places she could speak the language that he had never even dreamt of conquering.

A figure flashed by in the late-day light, entering the dining room.

“If she picked a fight it looks like she lost,” Erik said, leaning closer to Sigefrid, jerking his head in the girl’s direction.

Having not caught a proper glimpse, Sigefrid turned and instantly saw what Erik was referring to. She was visibly upset and clutching her shoulder, her face flushed and her dress covered in muck from the hip down. Before even forming his next thought, he was up and crossing the room, grabbing her arm to stop her from entering the kitchen.

Staring down at her startled, tear-streaked face, he saw that the front of her was wet and the neck of her dress torn.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Breaking their eye contact, she shook her head, folding over her apron to cover the mess.

“I said,” he softened the intensity of his voice, “what happened? Did someone hurt you?” Again, his eyes scanned her muddy clothes, focusing on her defined collarbone exposed by the tear in the fabric.

Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she glanced up nervously, her eyes flitting passed him toward where he had been sitting.

As he was turning to follow her line of sight, a shrill voice interrupted.

“Where is that Frankish whore?” spat one of the older kitchen thralls. Rounding the corner, her eyes locked onto the girl but flashed wide at the sight of Sigefrid.

“What is going on?” This time he yelled. “I will not ask again!”

The haggard-looking woman shook her head as if disgusted, “Nothing you need to trouble yourself with, Lord, I will handle her. This stupid girl can’t even do a simple task. I’ve already been told she’s gone and tripped, smashed the whole lot of eggs.”

His eyes snapped back to the girl but she was looking down at her clasped hands.

“Get in here and stop bother’n Lord Sigefrid, you filth. I’m gonna beat your ass with...”

“That’s enough!” he barked at the woman making her washed-out eyes shoot even wider. “Shut your mouth and get in that kitchen,” he pointed with his blade.

The old woman turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner.

“Go clean up,” he said to the girl, stepping closer, irritated she would not look at him. “I want you working in the dining room only. Where I can see.”

They both stood still for a moment, his eyes again running over the rip in her dress, catching sight of red marks on her skin that were beginning to rise.

“Go,” he ordered, and she started off, racing out the main door in the direction of the barn slave quarters.

“Settling slave disputes now, brother?” Erik smiled as Sigefrid dropped heavily back into his chair, his eyes still set on the door.

“That girl is more trouble than she’s worth,” he muttered under his breath, taking a drink of mead.

“Four hundred pounds of gold and silver upstairs says otherwise,” Erik nudged his leg under the table.

While he had been away from his seat, Haesten joined and was now seated, drinking, droplets of ale running down his unruly beard.

The long tables began to fill for the evening meal and the volume of the room rose as word of the ambush and the rich spoils spread.

Sigefrid's eyes caught the movement of her dark hair as she rushed back in, barely visible behind the tall warriors. As she came into view, she glanced at him before rushing to collect a pitcher.

“Cleans up nice, that one,” Haesten’s husky voice oozed out, his smudged black eyes tracking her. “I like her big round tits. They have yet to be worked flat,” he laughed, taking another drink.

The meal was served by four thralls, including her. Platters of meat and bread, some root vegetables, and bowls of green apples were carried out for the fifty or so men eating in the first seating.

Unusually quiet, Sigefrid chewed meat from a leg of pheasant, his eyes scanning the packed room but always drifting back to her.

She moved between the rows, refilling cups of ale, seemingly avoiding his table altogether. Further, and more concerning he noticed how his men heckled her, some patting her bottom and others tugging on the skirt of her dress.

“Ah, you have noticed my blooming flower,” Haesten crooned.

“Huh?” Sigefrid looked over at him.

“She has escaped my clutches twice now. I found her bending over, collecting eggs from the coop; that plump round ass of hers high in the air. Hmm,” he hummed to himself, his eyes still following her. “No luck though, little thing squirmed out of my arms for a second time,” pausing he took a swig from his cup, “seeing her bent, I could not help but yank down my pants. Next time I will wait until I’m between her legs so she cannot out-run me,” he laughed.

Sigefrid’s hand slammed down so hard on the table, it jostled the plates and cups.

“You will go no where near her,” he spoke low and slow, dropping his chin as he stared at Haesten.

Without looking up from his plate, Erik spoke around a mouthful of bread, “She is our translator now. And...she is a good girl. Not to be handled roughly by the likes of you.”

Sigefrid’s face was tense, his eyes still burning out from under his dark brow.

“Does not seem that all the men are aware,” Haesten said, looking back over at her.

Also looking, Sigefrid saw one of his men, pull her down onto his lap, laughing, telling her not to be so shy.

Out of his seat, he stormed around the table, grabbing the girl’s arm for the second time that night, yanking her out of his man's grasp. The warrior looked up, utterly confused seeing Sigefrid’s gritted teeth and narrowed eyes.

”Lord,” he said in an apologetic tone, “I had not realized that you had taken her for yourself.”

“Well, I have!” he roared and the room fell silent. “No one touches this slave. No one,” he glared at all those staring back at him, “Until I am done with her,” he added, turning and leading her back to the table.

Sitting, he pulled her onto his lap, wrapping his arm around her waist, ignoring both his brother and Haesten. The young woman sat awkwardly, staring down at her hands, her long brown hair hanging loose, concealing the sides of her face.

Taking a leg of chicken from his plate, he held it up for her but she did not take it; just looked at it, nervously.

His arm tightened around her waist and pressed his lips against her hair.

“Eat,” he whispered. Straightening, he spoke again, this time loud enough for the others to hear. “I will not have your ass disappear.” Slowly she reached up and took the drumstick, bringing it to her mouth. “Once you are done go up to the meeting room and wait for me.”

——

It was not clear to him why he knocked instead of barging in but there he was, standing in the hall waiting for her to answer. Opening the door, she glanced up but quickly stepped aside clearing the way.

Once the door was closed behind, he faced her, standing close and shifting the bundle of fabric he held under one arm. His eyes settled on the two crudely stitched x’s that held the neck of her dress in place.

“These dresses were in a trunk in my room,” he held them out. “Likely the prior lady’s.”

Blinking with surprise she took them, the bundle enormous in her arms.

Shuffling his feet, he searched for his next words, confused by his cautiousness, and again irritated that she had been dragged into his life by his brother.

Studying her, he noticed how her hands fumbled nervously with the clothes and how she could not maintain his gaze. Likely bracing, he guessed, for some form of assault. But there was just something about her thick dark hair and brown eyes, the symmetry of her plush lips and round cheeks that made him unable to look away. He felt weakened somehow, and worse, could not tell if he liked or hated it.

Slowly, he reached forward, lifting her chin with his fingers; her round eyes meeting his.

Despite the flood of bewilderment, what he did know, undeniably, is that he never wanted her to hurt again. For the first time in his thirty-one years, he asked a slave, her, an intimate question; one that related to who she was in her world before he destroyed it. “Tell me,” he narrowed his eyes, “What is your name?”

Her small, reluctant voice answered, so faint he had to strain to hear.

“Genevieve.”

Next Chapter

@naaladareia @geekandbooknerd @oddsnendsfanfics @hecohansen31 @waiting4inspiration @ceridwenofwales @mdredwine @gearhead66 @ceridwenofwales @whenimaunicorn @laketaj24 @xbellaxcarolinax @medievalfangirl

#The Last Kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #sigefrid thurgilson #the last kingdom sigefrid #sigefrid and erik thurgilson #erik and sigefrid #sigefrid thurgilson the last kingdom #sigefrid in love #sigefrid and oc #sigefrid slow burn #sigefrid smut #the last kingdom smut #sigefrid

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vannahfanfics · 4 years

Text

Our Scars

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Characters: Takeshi Yamamoto, Kyoko Sasagawa

Hi, guys! I’ve been obsessed with Hitman Reborn! as of late, so I’ve decided to participate in Katekyo Hitman Reborn! RarePair Week (because we all know how much I love rarepairs). I’ve decided to start with the Day 2 prompt, “Scars”! Hope you all enjoy it :)

The pattering of the rain against Kyoko’s umbrella was soothing as she strolled along the wet sidewalk, her rainboots squeaking with every step. A plastic bag swung below her bent elbow, containing a selection of decadent cakes from her favorite bakery. She had delivered most of them to Tsuna and her friends, and now had only one last stop- Takeshi Yamamoto’s house. Kyoko still didn’t understand much of their world- the dangerous situations and such- but she understood well enough that she was invaluable to them as support. Kyoko could fill the role of supporter perfectly fine, and so here she was, delivering some treats as a reward for their hard work with… whatever they were doing in their spare time.

The iron latch shrieked in protest as she lifted it, and the wooden gate agreed with its partner, sounding an earthy groan. The rain was cascading something fierce now, throwing up splashes against the rubber material of her rain boots with every walloping raindrop. Ripples in the two-inch-deep water distorted the yard into a sea of green and brown and gray. Kyoko carefully picked her way over the slick stones that marked the path to Takeshi’s house. She cried out when the sole of her boot slipped over the smooth surface and caused her ankle to roll inward. Tears sprung to her eyes and a whine to her throat as the fiery pain rocketed up her leg. She remained there a while, hunched over with her hand buried down in the boot to rub tenderly at the screaming flesh, but she protectively held the bag of boxed cakes to her chest.

They had Yamamoto’s favorite today… I said I would hike through the weather, and I shall hike through this pain, too! Huffing in resolve, she straightened back up and limped up to the porch. She rapped loudly on the doorframe before opening the door, which was always unlocked, and announced her presence. She heard Takeshi’s father chime a greeting from within the bowels of the home. While she awaited his arrival, she stepped onto the welcome mat and removed her rainboots and folded up her umbrella, setting both neatly aside. The smiling man came round the corner and embraced her with a polite hug and kiss on the cheek. Kyoko had made many calls to Takeshi’s house, and she was regarded more as family than a guest at this point.

“My dear Kyoko! I sure hope you haven’t come tromping through this horrendous rain just to call on my boy,” the kind man scolded her as she rifled through the plastic bag.

“Not just him!” she laughed and procured a sweet confection, holding it out to him. His eyebrow raised above a twinkling eye, and a wide grin split his weathered features.

“You truly are an angel,” he tutted dramatically and took the box. He gestured loosely towards the back of the house, too absorbed with opening the container to be descriptive. “Takeshi is training in the dojo. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you,” he said with a pat to her head before strolling off to enjoy Kyoko’s generous gift.

She ignored the stinging pain in her ankle as she trekked through the house she now knew by memory. At the rear of the abode was a spacious room, where Takeshi often trained hard with the sword. She came to the door and found it closed.

“Yamamoto?” she called as she knocked lightly on the dojo’s sliding door. His grunts floated through the wood and cloth. So did the ring of the katana as he cleaved the air over and over in practiced, precise movements. Kyoko shifted her weight from foot to foot for a few seconds, but a wry smile soon began poking at her expression. He’s so in the zone he can’t hear me, she thought amusedly. “Yamamoto, I brought cake!” she called louder and opened the sliding door. “Yama- oh.” Her voice died in her throat, and she stopped opening the door halfway, too stunned by the visceral image of shirtless Takeshi in the middle of the dojo.

Sweat rolled over the rugged contours of his body, pooling in the waistband of the sweatpants that were slung loosely over his hips. His arm muscles flexed as he brought the katana down in a long arc, and Kyoko’s eyes sparkled with the light that refracted over its hyper-sharp edge. His black hair slicked to his forehead, and every few seconds, he would jerk his head to flick the dampened strands out of his eyes. His eyebrows were narrow slopes furrowing his brow in the most impressive display of raw concentration Kyoko had ever witnessed.

Kyoko liked Takeshi, a lot. How could she not? He was so friendly and easygoing. His smile lit up even the darkest room, and his laugh never failed to send joy bubbling up in her body. She liked him, sure, but she had never considered the fact that she may like him… But she sure considered it as she lingered in the threshold of the door, silent, watching him bring that sword down in empty air again and again. All words were lumps in her throat; thus, she could only gawk open-mouthed at him until he finally noticed her.

“Oh, hello, Kyoko!” he grinned jovially and swept a hand through his hair. The way the sweat-soaked strands parted beneath his fingertips made Kyoko’s mouth run painfully dry. Her eyes wanted to focus on every inch of him- his pectorals heaving as he panted, those crimped hairs still sticking together awkwardly from his hand parting them, his bright eyes and beaming smile- but that was horribly improper of her, so she looked at the floor instead. Shuffling her feet shyly, she retrieved the cake box and held it out. “Cake?” The evident elation in his voice made her heart flutter, although she could have brought him a neat rock, and he’d get just as excited about it.

She heard the click of the sword sliding into its sheath, followed by the patter of his bare feet over the wooden floor. A red haze drifted to her cheeks when his large hands enveloped her own for a brief moment as he retrieved the box. He whistled when he flipped it open, admiring the cake within. “It looks delicious! Thanks, Kyoko!”

“You’re welcome.” It was impolite not to look directly at him when she addressed him, so she forced her eyes upward. Her cheeks darkened incredibly as she did. Yamamoto has such a lovely smile… she thought dreamily. Cheerfully, he swiped a finger across the mountain of cake icing and then popped it in his mouth. He hummed appreciatively and popped the finger out. She wasn’t sure why, but the action made her body flush with heat, she tore her gaze away from his face. Her eyes landed on his arm, and she inhaled sharply. Yamamoto blinked in confusion, followed her intense gaze, and then smiled wanly.

“Oh… You’ve never seen them, have you?”

Thin white scars sliced through the tan skin of his arms. Some of them were many centimeters thick, indicative of a blade biting deep into the flesh. Possessed by some force, Kyoko allowed the bag of cakes to drop to the floor and reached out with both her hands to trace the crisscrossing marks. Takeshi watched her with lidded eyes, his irises swimming with a deep emotion for which she had not the name.

“So many,” she murmured under her breath. Her small, thin fingers tracked the map of healed wounds up to his thick bicep. Her eyes were wide when she looked to him again, expecting to find his smile sad or regretful. Instead, she saw the unmistakable glint of pride hiding within his curled lips. “I don’t… Didn’t they hurt?”

“Of course they did,” he laughed nonchalantly, as if a teenager bearing such marks were utterly typical. “But I don’t regret them. I earned them protecting my friends. I’ll gladly scar this entire body of mine if it means I can keep them safe.” As he stared at the pattern of thin white lines over his arm, Kyoko did not doubt that he was envisioning the faces of his dear comrades there. Kyoko couldn’t understand their world at all, even now, but she could appreciate Takeshi’s overwhelming desire to protect those closest to him.

Yet…

Her eyelashes were beaded with tears as she gripped his upper arm with two quivering hands. His fingernails bit into the flesh, pressing small crescent moons into his skin, but he did not complain. He only looked at her in bewilderment as she stood in front of him, shaking.

“Yamamoto, I… I would much rather you be careful,” she sniffed miserably. Her thumbs pressed into a half-an-inch thick bulge of scar tissue, making the skin around it glare white as the blood flooded out of the capillaries. “One day… It may be too bad a wound to heal.” She swallowed the thick lump that was beginning to form in her throat, but it just bobbed right back, making it laborious to breathe. The tears dripped from her lashes to splash down onto his arm. “I-I don’t know much about what it is you and Tsuna and everyone else do, but… I do see that it’s dangerous, and… I just want you to be safe. Please be safe, Yamamoto.”

His hand slid underneath her chin, soft fingers cradling her tear-stained cheeks. She offered no resistance as he tilted her head up. This time, his smile was sad, incredibly so.

“Ahhh, now this is no good. Kyoko is kind enough to bring me cake, and I’ve made her cry? How shameful of me,” he whined self-deprecatingly, with only the faintest hint of amusement. His thumb stroked over her cheek to catch the fresh rolling tears. His teasing tone tugged a small smile onto her lips, making him smile softly in answer. “Ah, that’s much better. Kyoko’s smile is the most beautiful in the world.” She laughed airily and flushed, hitting him lightly in the chest. He still dripped with sweat, so the slap was especially loud.

“You kid too much!”

“Kidding? Does that sound like me?” he joked, drawing another bubbly giggle out of her. His thumb continued to caress her cheek, though her tears had dried thanks to his comforting. His eyes searched her face eagerly, like he was committing it to memory. “No, I don’t joke. Not about this.”

“Yamamoto…” His name left her mouth in a whisper. His eyes ceased roaming her face to settle upon her lips. That rosy tint rose to her cheeks again, but she did nothing as his face encroached upon her own, save for purse her lips and close her eyes in preparation.

The kiss was soft and sweet. Kyoko inhaled deeply when his lips molded over hers, otherwise he would have stolen all the breath from her lungs. It didn’t last more than a few seconds, but Kyoko savored those few precious moments, savored the feeling of joy rushing from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. As Takeshi pulled away, she subconsciously chased him, desperate for just a few seconds longer. Her eyes fluttered open as a chuckle rumbled in his throat.

“Kyoko, you’re so cute!” he praised and patted her on the head. “It’s no wonder I adore you.” Kyoko’s entire face turned the color of a tomato.

“Y-Yamamoto! You can’t just say things like that!” she sputtered, slapping her hands to her cheeks and finding them unbearably hot.

“Takeshi!” he corrected with a wave of his hand. “I just kissed you, so please call me Takeshi!” She crouched down with a squeal, drowning in second-hand embarrassment with how casual and relaxed he was. Her bangs hung in her eyes as she hung her head, unable to look at him. She was so mortified that she couldn’t even focus on the burning pain in her ankle as she heaved all her weight upon her feet. Takeshi laughed lightheartedly like he always did, then crouched down to pat her head more. “Kyoko, Kyoko, don’t be embarrassed! It was a compliment!” She responded with a high-pitched whine. “Come on, let’s get out of here and eat some cake, yeah?” The plastic bag crinkled as he raised it, and when she finally pried her eyes open, she was staring at his baggy sweatpants. She looked up to find him offering a hand to her.

His fingers were rough and calloused. The wrapped tightly around her smaller ones, holding them tight as he eased her back into a standing position. She expected him to drop her hand after that, but he just kept right on holding it, swinging their arms between them as he headed through the door. “Ow, ow!” she yelped as the one step forward send brutalizing pain rocketing up her leg.

“Kyoko, what’s wrong?” He was on his knees immediately, taking her swollen foot in tender hands to inspect it. Both embarrassed and flattered, she nibbled on the skin of her knuckle.

“Well… I slipped and rolled my ankle in your yard.” He clucked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly.

“Clumsy Kyoko. What am I to do with you?” he sighed and straightened back up. In one sudden, swift movement, he had scooped her up off the floor. Kyoko squeaked and buried her pink face into the palm of her hands, beating on the thick muscle of his shoulders.

“Yama- Takeshi! No! Your father will see!”

“And? He’s been nagging at me to confess my feelings for a while. ‘Kyoko is such a nice girl! She would be so good for you! Better hurry up or someone will snatch her up!’” His mockery of his father’s tone, complete with waggling his finger, was too amusing for her to focus on the sheer mortification that she was a regular topic of conversation in the household. Her hands continued to shield her apple-red face as Takeshi escorted her down the hallway, but she did find the way she so perfectly muscles into his muscular arms quite nice. Her fingers twitched before curling around Takeshi’s the meat of those muscles, and she did not miss the smile that alit his face.

On that rainy day, Kyoko certainly didn’t think her cake delivery would turn out such a way, but unexpected happenings make life worth living, do they not? Smiling as Takeshi carried her through the house, she traced the complicated map of those scars again, nestling her head into the crook of his neck.

They all lived such dangerous lives, Takeshi and the others. It worried Kyoko sometimes, but at the end of every day, she would be there to support them through thick and thin. It was a taxing job, a job that left deep scars on her heart… but then again, earning scars for those you loved could be quite rewarding in the end too.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @khrrarepairweek @deliathedork

#khrrarepairweek2020 #khrrarepairweek #yamakyoko #yamamoto x kyoko #kyoko x yamamoto #takeshi yamamoto #kyoko sasagawa #sasagawa kyoko #yamamoto takeshi #khr #katekyo hitman reborn #katekyoshi hitman reborn #hitman reborn #khr fanfic #khr fanfiction

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yellowcanna · 5 years

Text

Two Sides, Same Coin

Summary: Since the beginning of Quirks, Yokohama has announced independence from Japan and closed itself from the rest of the world.

To this day and age, no one knows what lies within the city of Yokohama—or that was what the public was made to believe. In reality, Yokohama has long fallen into the control of the world's largest criminal organization known as the Port Mafia.

Follow Class 1-A as their principal organized a field trip to Yokohama! In their short trip there, they must change their perspectives and learn exactly what it means to be justice and what it means to be villains.

Rating: T

Genre: Crossover, hint of shounen-ai (boy love)

Pairing: Contains mild Soukoku (Dazai x Chuuya) and Shin Soukoku (Akutagawa x Atsushi)

Author: Canna / Yellow Canna

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CHAPTER 1

CITY OF MYSTERY

“WHAT?!” Present Mic all but screamed after reading the documents in his hands.

“This is crazy," Eraserhead said through gritted teeth as he turned to the principal sitting at the end of the meeting table. “I won’t allow it.”

“I agree.” Cementoss joined in as he flipped through the papers. “Many Pro Heroes and Villains have entered Yokohama only to never be heard of again.”

“And might I add, that place ruled by criminals.” Midnight stressed. It was clear she was against the idea as well.

“I understand your concerns.” Principal Nezu said calmly. "But I believe this will be a very valuable opportunity for the students. Justice and crime are two sides of a coin. Our students value justice over anything. As their principal, I am very proud of that. However, we cannot continue to teach them that the world only consists of black and white. Often times there will be a gray zone and they will be the ones to decide whether that gray is good or bad."

The white mouse jumped off his seat, strolling over to the window with his paws behind his back as he watched students doing tracks around the field.

"The appearance of the Hero Killer caused people's hearts to sway. Some of those hearts also belonged to the students. While they understood what the Hero Killer did was wrong, they were able to relate to his reasoning, which is incredibly dangerous. That's why I want them to experience Yokohama."

Principal Nezu turned back to the teachers. With a jump, he hopped onto Aizawa’s chair, then onto the long table. He turned to the projection screen projecting the image of Yokohama.

By the beautiful ocean, a giant dome could be seen, completely encasing over the land and separating the inside world from the outside. The dome reflected the bright blue sky like a mirror. It was impossible to see anything inside.

“Villain activities within Yokohama have been at zero since the history of Quirks began.” The principal looked around the teachers. None of them were surprised by this information. It was only natural. Even if none of them has been taught of Yokohama in school, they eventually learn this truth in their field of work.

After all, an entire city run by criminals…no Heroes could overlook something that big.

“I want them to witness the crime syndicate in Yokohama and let them decide. Are they justice, or are they evil? If they can hold strong to their beliefs, then nothing will be able to sway them in the future.”

“So this is a test?” Aizawa narrowed his eyes, obviously not keen on the idea. However, he can understand where the principal is coming from.

If not for the Hero Killer and his ideals, the League of Villains wouldn't be able to gain attention from around the world. People's hearts were swaying and criticism began to fall upon the Heroes. The League of Villains knew that. That was why they kidnapped Bakugo. They believed that with Bakugo’s personality he can become a powerful ally to the Villains. And by turning Bakugo into a villain, U.A will be under heavy attack by the public and society's view on Heroes will drop even further.

They were only fortunate that Bakugo has a strong sense of justice; otherwise, the League of Villain's plan would have worked. They cannot afford to raise future Heroes that may one day become villains.

“…All Might-san, you’ve been quiet from the beginning.” Ectoplasm said, looking across the table where All Might sat. All the other teachers turned to the former No.1 Hero, wanting to hear his input on this ludicrous idea.

All Might was frowning as he stared at the documents in his hand.

After a long time, he heaved out a small sigh.

“I have been to Yokohama.” He finally spoke, earning surprised looks from all the other teachers. “It fourteen years ago when I learned the truth behind Yokohama. I snuck into that city, aiming to bring down this organization. But what I saw wasn’t anything like I had expected.”

All Might folded his hand on the table, clenching his hands tightly together.

"Instead of being terrorized, the citizens there lived in peace without the fear of Villains. No, to be more precise, the concept of Villains does not exist in their minds. I thought I had gone unnoticed, but it turned out the second I stepped foot within that city, they already had eyes on me. The Port Mafia—that's what the crime syndicate is called—they are formidable opponents. I fought them head-on, but in the end, I was captured."

That caused some of the teachers to suck in a sharp breath. The No.1 hero—especially during his prime—was captured?

“You couldn’t win? Even against Quirkless people?” Present Mic gapped, unable to believe his ears.

It was no secret in the governments and Hero community that not only does Yokohama not have Villains, but the entire population within the city were also Quirkless. It was as if the city itself was absent when Quirks started appearing all over the world. The humans within that city retained the same body structure as their ancestors, having not undergone any form of evolution.

That was why the people of Yokohama were also referred to as Old Humans.

"It is Ability," Nezu answered for All Might. "This knowledge isn't known to many because words were to spread out, it will cause unease. Before the appearance of Quirks, the ability to change into animals, breathe underwater, control fire, telepathy…humans at the time labeled these as supernatural powers—something that exists only in imagination. Nevertheless, there is always a source of where imaginations come from, and that is Ability. Long before the appearance of Quirks, there were already humans possessing extraordinary powers. These people are called Ability users, and Yokohama is home to these people."

The teachers looked among themselves. Clearly, none of them knew of this.

“Principal Nezu.” Midnight said seriously. “What is the difference between Quirks and Ability?”

"Quirks are the evolutional stages of living beings." The white mouse replied. "Through time and generations, these powers grew to become part of us. Likewise, our bodies were born to support our Quirks. However, Abilities are different. These powers were not created through genes. Even I don't know what makes or causes a human to attain these powers. Abilities are simply weapons wield by their users. It's like being born with your arms as a knife compared to holding onto a knife. The former being Quirk and the latter being Ability.”

“Is there a difference between the two?” No.13 inquired.

“Using the knife as example,” Nezu pressed a button and the screen behind him changed, showing a drawing of a human male with his right forearm being a knife. “This would be Quirk. As you can see, the size of the knife must depend on the structure of the rest of the body in order for the male to maintain balance. As you can see, the bicep of his knife arm is much more muscular than his regular arm. In his overall body proportion, his right side is a bit wider than the left. This is to support the heavier weight of the metal. And this…”

The image switched again and everyone’s eyes widened at the drawing on the projector. The drawing was the same male drawing. Instead of his arm being a knife, it was a normal human arm. His body structure was perfectly even out compared to the first picture. What shocked them was the knife he was holding. In fact, that can’t be called a knife anymore. The size of the blade was at least four times bigger than the man’s body.

“This is Ability,” Nezu explained. “As you can see, Ability isn’t limited by the user’s physique, as that power is not part of them genetically. That’s why Abilities have far greater potentials compared to Quirks. But that power can also become deadly to the users themselves, as they too can be harmed by their own Abilities if not careful.”

“So if we take President Mic for example,” Snipe gestured to the blond who perked up at being named. “If his Quirk becomes an Ability, does that mean he can be harmed by his own voice?”

“Precisely!” The principal nodded.

Silence filled the meeting rooms as the teachers processed this information. From the principal’s explanation, these Abilities are powerful but come with a heavy cost. The stronger the Ability, the more dangerous for the users. If so, then compared to Quirks that are far more stable, Ability wouldn’t pose too much of a threat.

“However, you mustn’t underestimate them because of that. If anything, that is what makes Ability users even more dangerous.”

“How so?” Present Mic questioned.

"Because they do not fully rely on their Abilities in battle," Nezu replied seriously. "To be precise, it is because their Abilities are double-edged swords that they learn not to completely rely on it. Ability users are all masters in their own crafts. Because their bodies are not born to support their power, they must develop and train themselves to control their powers and what role they play in battle. While Yokohama has zero Villain activity, it does not mean that their world is safe. Contrary, their world is much more dangerous than ours. Just from experiences alone, Ability users that are the same age as our students have already by far surpassed them."

“When I went into Yokohama, I have seen many strange Abilities.” All Might took back hold of the conversation. “Some are similar to the Quirks we have, but there are also some I didn’t even know could exist. One of those Ability users that left quite an impression on me was a young lady. She was very young…around twelve or thirteen. She could summon a creature wielding a sword. She herself was very skilled in swordsmanship."

“That sounds like it’s similar to Tokoyami’s Quirk.” Present Mic pointed out.

“Yes, but despite Dark Shadow seemingly has a mind of its own, its actions still needed to be controlled by young Tokoyami. But that didn’t seem like the case with that Ability user I fought. Rather than calling them one, they acted more like two separate individuals. The young lady did not seem like she needed to command how that creature should attack. It’s as if that creature itself can think and act on its own on how it should proceed with its attacks. That young lady also did not rely on her creature to aid her in battle. It was like fighting two different opponents.”

“Was she how you were captured?” Midnight asked, extremely curious just how the No.1 Hero got himself caught.

All Might's hands clenched together tightly as he remembered his counter with the Port Mafia. "They have weapons that suppress Quirks." He said after a while. "They infuse it within their weapons, once you get hit or breath in the gas, you won't be able to use your quirks anymore."

“WHAT?!” That scream came from President Mic who momentarily forgot to control his voice.

After the rest of the teachers got over with the ringing in their ears, they immediately started a heated discussion.

“How’s that possible?”

“I’ve never heard of something like that!”

“How do you go against something like that?”

The teachers immediately began to discuss this new piece of information.

"If this information gets leaked, I can't begin to imagine the chaos it will cause," Cementoss said.

"Worst, if these weapons fall into the hands of Villains, it will be the end of Heroes." Snipe added.

“Indeed.” Nezu nodded. “If not for the appearance of Quirks, mankind could have evolved further than where we are now. That stands true for Yokohama. While the society crumbled after the appearance of Quirks, Yokohama continued to develop. They are fully prepared for any outside attacks, hence why no countries or government were able to control them.”

“Principal Nezu.” Midnight called as the white mouse turned to her. “May I ask how you are able to know all of this?”

“Simple! The same reason why I can plan this field trip!" Nezu beamed. "I had an old friend that got some connection with the boss of Port Mafia. They agreed to allow us into the city, under the condition that we do not meddle with their affairs!"

“I’m against this!” Vlad, who had been quiet for most of the meeting finally spoke up as he slapped the papers against the table. "And to begin with, this field trip only involves Class 1-A! What of Class 1-B?!”

That’s your problem? That was most of the teachers’ thought as they stared at the Blood Hero.

"It is not my intention to play favorites.” Nezu sighed. “Unfortunately, that is the condition the boss of Port Mafia gave me. Only Class 1-A and two teachers are allowed to enter Yokohama."

“Then all the more reason I can’t let my students go!” Aizawa was even more adamant than before now that he knew his class was specifically targeted.

“The Port Mafia isn’t like the Villains we are used to.” All Might clarified, hoping to calm his colleague. “If we follow their rules, they won’t harm the students.”

“We don’t know that for sure though.” Aizawa gritted out, obviously not convinced. “You said it yourself; they have weapons that can suppress Quirks. We are going into the enemy’s base without any protection or powers to fight back.”

“When I became a Hero, my greatest dream was to put an end to Villains.” All Might said as blue eyes locked onto Aizawa. "I worked all my life to achieve that, but Villains continue to exist and run free from the eyes of the law. It's ironic and shameful how it is those against the laws that were able to achieve it. I must admit, after my visit to Yokohama, my heart was swayed."

"Leave our city, watchdog. There is nothing for you to protect here."

The words of that day echoed in his head even today.

"Port Mafia can maintain their peace because they love their city. It's their territory, so they protect everything within from outside threats. They are not above using underhanded tactics or even murder those that oppose them. Even now I do not know how to judge them. However, I do know one thing. After I've witness Yokohama, I firmed my goal into becoming the Symbol of Peace. I do not approve of Port Mafia, but what I saw in that city—the faces of people smiling without any fear of being attacked by villains—that was my ideal. That is the world I wanted to bring into ours."

The teachers were silent as they stared at All Might. Despite All Might having lost his power, they all felt pressure falling over them just from listening to his speech. The teachers looked among themselves and saw the hesitation in each other's eyes.

Aizawa held All Might’s gaze for a long time before he heaved out a sigh of annoyance. Tired and dry eyes turned to the principal. “This friend of yours, can he vouch for the students’ safety?”

"Yes," Nezu assured him.

◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥◤◢◣◥

“EEEEEEEH?!”

The students screamed, some of them even jumping up from their seats as they stared at their homeroom teacher, All Might and the principal.

“Yokohama?!”

“That Yokohama?!”

“Seriously?!”

“I thought no one can go in there?!”

“Quiet down!” Aizawa ordered with his signature glare as the students all shut their mouths.

“As I was saying…” Principal Nezu continued from where he perched on Eraserhead’s shoulder. "In two weeks, we will be having a week's field trip to Yokohama!"

“Sensei!” Hagakure waved her arm (or uniform sleeve) frantically for attention.

“Yes?” Principal Nezu said.

“Why are we going to Yokohama?”

“Good question, but first, let’s start with what you know about Yokohama!” Nezu pointed a paw at the green-haired student. “Midoriya-kun!”

“Yes!” Midoriya shot out of his seat, standing as straight as a pole upon being called. "After the appearance of Quirks, Yokohama announced independence from Japan. Due to the chaos and panic brought by Quirks, the Japanese government wasn't able to send out enough people to control Yokohama. After they became independent, they used one year to create a barrier around the entire city to isolate them from the rest of the world."

“Correct!” Nezu clapped. Black beady eyes scan over the classroom. “Does anyone know any more things about Yokohama that they would like to add?”

That brought silence among the students because there were no more. What Midoriya gave was the textbook answer. In their history, that was as much as they can get out of Yokohama. Even now, there was never any news about that mysterious, isolated city.

“What we are about to tell you will be strictly confidential," Aizawa said as he held out a stack of paper. “These are agreement forms stating that you will not tell anyone of what you are going to hear. This can affect your future as Heroes. You have the right to choose not to sign, there are no consequences. Those who don't want to sign are required to leave the room. Naturally, that also means you will forfeit the trip to Yokohama."

No one left the room.

Despite not understanding anything, all the students signed the agreement form. Once Aizawa gathered the forms and checked through the signatures, he closed the light, locking the door in the process as Principal Nezu turned on the screen projector. On the wall, the image of a giant dome by the ocean was shown.

“This is the city of Yokohama.” Nezu introduced. "As Midoriya-kun had said, this city is encased in a barrier. It has been ever since the appearance of Quirks. No one knows what is within the city of Yokohama—that is what the public is made to believe."

Nezu closed the projector as Aizawa opened back the light.

“Sensei, are you saying…” Yaoyorozu gasped in disbelieve, catching on to what that last part meant.

“Indeed.” Nezu nodded. “This is knowledge only Heroes and government officials know about. In truth, Yokohama is a city where Quirks does not exist. Which means their society is made up of Quirkless human beings.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before the class reacted. Aizawa already had his hands over his ears as deafening screams of disbelieve shook the entire classroom.

“H-how’s that possible?!” Midoriya gasped, unable to believe there was an entire city of ordinary people.

"Yokohama isolated themselves after the appearance of Quirks," Aizawa explained. “No one knows what happened within the city that made it Quirkless. Scientists speculated that they were able to make a cure that prevented and even reverted the evolution of Quirks. No one knows how Quirks came to be. Some scientists speculated that it may be that air we breathe contains containing some sort of virus that altered our bodies, which may be why Yokohama created that barrier.”

“Right now, in Yokohama, human lives the life of how it was before the appearances of Quirks. With their bodies having never undergone through any form of evolutions, they are called Old Humans. And within that city of Old Humans, there are no Heroes or Villains.”

The students stared at their teachers, finding a bit hard to take in. After all, they’ve lived their life in a world where Villains always posed a threat to society. Every single day there would be Villain attacks being reported somewhere nearby. That was why they wanted to become Heroes.

To suddenly hear of a place without any Villains was just mind-blowing.

"Instead, they have something much more dangerous," Nezu said seriously. "Throughout history, the governments have sent many agents to investigate Yokohama, including Heroes. Villains that heard rumours of how there were no Heroes within Yokohama also ventured there. In all of our histories, a total of forty-eight agents went into that city. Only two agents stepped out of that city to bring out the information.”

The students paled at that frightening drop of number.

"Of twenty-five Heroes that snuck in, only a handful made it back out," Nezu said solemnly. “And all the Villains that entered that city were never to be heard of again.”

“W-why?” Mineta spluttered, shivering in his seat. “Is that place haunted?”

“It is because Yokohama, since even before the appearance of Quirk, has left the government’s control. That city is currently being governed by the world’s largest criminal syndicate known as the Port Mafia.”

The students were all completely stupefied by the news, not sure how to react. So all along, there was an entire city of criminals in Japan and they knew nothing of it?! Why didn’t the government do anything? Why didn’t the Heroes do anything?

The students were quick to voice out their worries.

"Everyone, I understand your concerns," Nezu said, trying to calm the students down. “As for why the pro Heroes and governments hadn’t done anything…it wasn’t because they haven’t. It’s that they can’t. As I have explained before, Quirks does not exist within Yokohama. But they have something more dangerous than Quirk.”

From there, the principal gave a thorough education on Abilities to the children. The more they hear, the paler their faces became. All childhood fantasies they used to have on the mysterious city shattered and replaced by the dark reality.

By the end of the principal's explanation, the entire class was drowned in deathly silence. The students were all lost in their thoughts as Nezu jumped onto the floor.

“The trip will not be mandatory. Your teacher will provide you with a form later for you and your parents to sign should you wish to attend.”

"Principal," Momo raised her hand. "You still haven't answered, why are we going to Yokohama?"

After all, why venture into the enemies' territory?

"You all grew up in a world where Villains are the norm." Principal Nezu said patiently. “Villain activity occurs on a daily bases. The Villains you grew up knowing are not Port Mafia. I want you to see for yourself, the different evils and justices there are in this world, and find the correct path. Think about what kind of world you want to create. That will be all from me!”

With that, the tiny mouse left the classroom, leaving the rest to the two teachers.

“B-but sensei, the principal just said it!” Mineta said frantically. “Only so little people can get out! What if we—”

“I do not know the situation behind those agents’ and Heroes’ deaths.” All Might finally replied. He didn’t sugarcoat or hide the fact that those people were inevitably dead. The Port Mafia wouldn’t keep outsiders within their city. If they are unable to leave, then there was only one fate waiting for them. “I’ve been into Yokohama in the past. We are only able to organize this trip because Principal Nezu knows someone with high status within Yokohama. The Port Mafia boss himself has agreed to allow you inside, as long as you agree to their terms.”

The students looked at him as if he had gone mad. Making a deal with Villains? That is absurd! But then again, this was All Might. Despite how nothing of that made any sense, no one was able to doubt All Might's word.

If All Might said it’s alright, then it’ll be alright.

The discussion ended just like that. All Might left and Aizawa resumed class as usual. But none of the students were able to focus. They were all thinking about that city. They will venture into the Villains’ lairs after all, how could any of them focus on their lessons?

The day felt longer than usual. After class ended, Midoriya was about to leave when Aizawa called him over, telling him that All Might wanted to see him.

He hurried down the hallway, arriving at the staff’s meeting room where All Might was waiting for him. The skeletal blond sat on the couch, in the middle of sipping a cup of tea when his successor entered.

“Young Midoriya.” He greeted as Midoriya gently closed the door behind him.

“All Might.” Midoriya greeted back as he took a seat opposite of All Might.

“The discussion this morning must be shocking.”

“Hm? Well…yeah.” Midoriya admitted, clenching his hands together.

“Young Midoriya. I won't force you, but I do hope you will attend this field trip."

“Why?” Midoriya couldn’t understand All Might or any of the teachers’ reasoning. They are going right into the enemy’s headquarter, not to battle, but to observe? And the only safety guarantees are ground rules laid by said enemies! It was all crazy!

“I know this is hard to accept, young Midoriya." All Might could relate to the boy's inner conflict. He had been there as well. Or rather, to a certain degree, he still found everything hard to accept. If there was one thing he learned in Yokohama, it was that their society consisted of only black and white. But Yokohama is different. Yokohama was a gray zone. The line between justice and crime doesn't exist within that city. That was why it was so important for these students to see and come to a decision with their own eyes.

“All Might, you said you’ve been to Yokohama. What’s it like?”

“…I’m afraid you’ll have to find out for yourself.” All Might replied. “If I tell you, then my opinions may affect yours. I want you to see that place with your own eyes and decide how you feel.”

“How I feel?” Midoriya’s brows furrowed as he tried to understand the meaning behind his Hero’s word.

“You’ll see.” That was the only thing All Might could say as he patted the young lad’s shoulder.

After Midoriya left, All Might lay back against the couch and slowly closed his eyes. Memories of that time were still fresh in his mind. The details were so unbelievable clear despite how many years had passed.

He wondered how that boy was doing now…

┏━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━┓

MAIN Next ▻

┗━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━┛

Author’s note:

I hope you've all enjoyed this story!

I have this story on my computer for a long, long time so I thought I should put out chapter 1 to see how well it's received! I love both My Hero Academia and Bungou Stray Dogs, so I hope it doesn't seem like I'm playing favourite to one side.

It's just power-wise, Bungou Stay Dogs characters are much stronger due to My Hero Academia having actual logic in their world hahaha. And then there's brain...to be honest, My Hero Academia is all about awesome fights and character growth. They settle things with their power instead of intelligence. Well, I mean, they go strategies and all that, but not enough compared to Bungou's actual high intelligence and mystery-solving capabilities. So when it comes to brainpower, they can't beat the characters in Bungou Stray dogs, even All for One who is the most manipulative one.

In My Hero Academia, the timeline of the story takes place after anime season 3.

Bungou Stray Dogs will not follow its original plotline. Aside from the characters keeping to their characters, I pretty much reshaped everything to fit in with My Hero Academia world and this story.

There will be lots of growth shown on the My Hero characters as they learn about justice and evil within Yokohama. There will also be a lot of comedy and fun interactions between the characters of both worlds.

As I've said before, this first chapter is just to see how well it's received because I don't know how many people enjoy crossovers like this. So please gimme a like if you wanna see more of this story!

♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡

If you have any questions or any lovely comments you wish to leave, you can leave it HERE. This is another website which I post my stories. You can comment below as I’ll be able to answer immediately as I rarely check my mail on Tumblr. Actually...to tell the truth...aside from posting, I don’t really know how to work Tumblr despite using it for so many years....

Anyways! I hope you’ve all had a lovely read!

#bungou stray dogs #my hero academia #bnha fanfiction #fanfiction crossover #soukoku #dazai x chuuya

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s-nebul0sa · 5 years

Text

Borrow the moonlight

Read it on AO3

Lena stares distantly out the window. Ice blooms on the glass, mirroring the weather outside. It’s been freezing for a while now but the ice flowers on the window are new. Something they have the power outage that happened only hours ago to thank for.

The castle is losing its heat. Even with the extra isolated walls and roof, double glassed windows and currently burning fire places, the air is cooling down at a rapid pace. And as night starts to descend over the isolated building, Lena starts to worry about surviving the night. Not exclusively because of the still steadily dropping temperature.

Hypothermia is a real threat, though. None of the bedrooms having fireplaces — the risk of smoke inhalation having been deemed too dangerous a long time before Lena started living here — and Lena herself isn’t very warm blooded, for a human.

Muffin, the fattest cat of the castle, plops down on Lena’s sock-clad feet. His body radiates a very welcome heat even though Lena knows the only reason he’s picked this spot to lie down is to leech her own warmth. A steady purring from the animal calms Lena’s anxiousness slightly. Muffin seems perfectly content and maybe rightfully so. They can all help each other keep warm. It isn’t the first power outage they have to endure, even if this is the coldest.

A warm blanket appears around Lena’s shoulders and she instinctively leans back into its heat.

“Come to the living room, babe, it’s a lot warmer there,” Kara suggests, pulling slightly on Lena’s shoulders in an attempt to get her to turn around. “I built a blanket fort for us there and most cats are already inside. It’s really warm.”

Lena relents and turns in Kara’s arms, pressing a quick grateful kiss to her lips. “I just worry.”

“I know. But all the doors are bolted shut. The windows are locked and there are still swords on the walls in case someone does break in, which won’t happen.” Kara reassuringly rubs Lena’s arm and lets her hand slide down so she can old Lena’s hand and drag her away from the window.

“Those are decorative swords,” Lena protests as she lets Kara guide her to the living room. Muffin meows grumpily at having to leave his warm spot but follows them anyway.

“You and I know that, but a trespasser won’t. Tadaa!” Kara steps aside when they reach the living room and reveals an intricate blanket fort inside. It’s built a safe distance away from the fire but close enough to be warmed by it.

A fond smile creeps up on Lena’s lips. Her wife is ridiculous. Ridiculously cute, too.

“Come on, Lena! Our kids are waiting for you. Don’t leave them longing and don’t stay out here catching a cold.” As if to prove Kara’s point, a chorus of meows sounds from inside the fort.

Lena laughs as Kara holds her hand over her head so she can enter the fort without hitting the roof and sending the whole thing crashing down.

“You know being cold doesn’t actually give you a cold—” Lena starts to say as she takes in the roomy inside of the construction. The floor is padded with mats and pillows, a small lantern placed in the middle to light up the space.

“I know, I know. Bacteria and viruses do,” Kara finishes with a slightly exasperated tone, having been told that fact time and again by both Lena and Alex.

Lena hums approvingly at having educated her wife on at least one thing. “It looks really good, dear. How long did you even spend building it?” It looks like it should’ve at least taken Kara the better part of the day with the extensiveness of it.

“I started when the power went out.” Kara makes herself comfortable on the floor, fluffing a pillow for her had as several cats jump on top of her as soon as she lies down. She happily greats each one and pets them as they paw her for a good space of Kara to use as their mattress.

Lena hesitantly lies down next to her, quickly smothered by cats too.

“Not on my face, Nala,” she softly scolds, pushing away a skinny black cat. Nala reluctantly gets up and moves to another warm spot, paws digging into Lena’s thigh before deciding to lie down there.

“Isn’t this nice?” Kara asks, turning her head to watch Lena.

“Mhmm.”

“Lena,” Kara berates her, not unkindly, “get out of your head, please. We’re perfectly safe here. Relax and enjoy the quiet.”

Kara reaches out her hand to hold onto Lena’s as they stare up at the colourful ceiling of the fort. The quiet isn’t exactly quiet. The fire crackles and pops occasionally and the purring of several cats fills the silence even further. It’s different from the normal sounds, the buzzing of electronics, music, typing, their own footsteps on the floor. Lena decides Kara is right and she should try to enjoy it.

After a while, Lena turns on her side to watch her wife, pressing her cheek into her shoulder. She can’t fully relax, something keeps nagging in the back of her mind making her feel on edge. Kara looks back at her, as if she can feel Lena’s staring. She wraps her arm around her and pulls her a little closer, forcing some disgruntled cats to relocate.

“See, it’s nice here, right?” Kara presses a kiss to the top of Lena’s head, hoping to help her let go of that last residual bit of anxiety.

“I guess,” Lena answers. Kara is right, it’s nice here but she can’t shake the feeling something is going to happen. They’re sitting ducks without electricity in such a huge building. She should’ve gotten them a hotel room as soon as the electricity went out instead of try and find out what was the cause.

“Just admit you love it. Lots better than last time, at least.”

The reminder of how they got through the last power outage in winter brings a small smile to Lena’s lips. It’d been so cold and they had trouble keeping the fire in the fireplaces going because Lena hadn’t thought to stock up on logs. She hadn’t expected the power to go out. Or the castle to get so cold when the central heating wasn’t on. Or for Kara to stay, for that matter.

Her biggest concern back then wasn’t her own safety but mostly that of her cats and Kara. She’d already grown fond of of the blonde, who was just an employee she was on friendly terms with back then. Kara helped with the cats and taking care of the huge property.

Kara had returned Lena’s worry and they ended up huddled close together beneath several layers of blankets, trying to keep warm by the barely existing fire, talking all night. Lena had refused to leave behind her cats and find a warmer place to spend the night. Kara had refused to leave Lena behind, having noticed how uncomfortable Lena was.

Lena is sure that night is what kickstarted her romantic feelings for Kara. It wasn’t long after that they started actually dating. She holds fond memories of the night. Neither of them slept and as they grew tired, their conversations grew weirder. Lena specifically remembers them talking to the cats and Kara running circles around the room to warm up and stay awake, jumping over obstacles as she went and nearly tripping several times.

“Certainly more comfortable and warmer, yes. But maybe you should run around some more. That was very entertaining.” Kara jokingly sticks her tongue out at Lena, getting repaid in kind. “And while you’re at it, you can double check the doors and windows again.”

“Babe, no one is getting in. Trust me. And if one of us is getting cold, I know a much more efficient and fun way to warm up.” Kara wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at Lena.

Lena gives Kara a friendly slap on her shoulder as she laughs at her, shaking her head in rejection. She isn’t relaxed enough to be able to enjoy sex right now. She wants to be able to hear all the sounds their home makes. Make sure they’re really alone. She can’t do that when they’re making all sort of noises themselves.

Also, there’s at least a dozen pairs of eyes staring at them and Lena doesn’t want to scare their cats.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Kara admonishes. “It’s a good idea. Two birds one stone Why are you so worried about people getting in anyway?”

Kara turns over and curls herself around Lena, offering some comfort and as a kind of promise. She won’t initiate anything Lena doesn’t want.

“When I was little, six, maybe seven, I heard noises downstairs so I went to wake up dad. He told me to get back in bed and went down to check out where the sounds came from. He said he’d keep us safe and that it was probably nothing. Maybe Lex getting some water. I knew that was a lie because Lex had a bathroom across from his bedroom so he wouldn’t go downstairs for water but I listened to my dad and went back to bed.

“I waited for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute. You know how time works differently as a kid, especially when you were waiting.” Kara nods, putting her hand over Lena’s to stop her nervous fidgeting with the buttons of her shirt. Instead, Lena starts fidgeting with Kara’s fingers. “When he came back, he told me to get in the closet and hide behind the clothes. He threw some of them off the hangers so I was hidden from view completely. He told me not come out until he came back. I don’t know how long I spent in there. After some time, a gunshot went off and I was so scared, I wet myself as I tried to quiet my crying because daddy had told me if I made a sound the bad man might find me.

“Eventually, he came back and got me out of the closet. He was fine. I was fine. I remember police being at our place but I didn’t pay them much attention, having attached myself to dad and refusing to let go. Well, until mother pried me off him and made me take a bath.

“I know it’s an irrational fear but I’m always scared that something like that will happen again, except now my dad isn’t here to protect me and my family. And maybe, now that I’m saying this allowed, I’m also afraid that same burglar will come back and want revenge. I guess the entire thing just left a much bigger impression on me than I realised.”

“I didn’t know,” Kara says apologetically, unsure whether she should really apologise for it happening or should offer her support and comfort.

“I never told anyone before. I guess I thought if I didn’t acknowledge it, it was like it never happened. But that’s not true, is it? It happened regardless of whether I talk about it or not.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Kara offers. “And I’m sorry for making fun of you bing scared of people breaking in. I shouldn’t have made those jokes.”

“You didn’t know,” Lena says calmly, resting her head close to Kara’s, foreheads nearly touching. “You can’t take things into account you don’t know about.”

“I was rude regardless. I should’ve stopped and thought for a moment. Everyone has a reason reason to do the things they do, or feel the things they feel.”

“I didn’t even know I had a reason until you asked me. It never really sounded significant when I tried to shove it to the back of my mind and not acknowledged it.”

“Thank you for trusting me with it and I promise, I will keep you safe if something ever does happen.” Kara presses a quick kiss to Lena’s nose, making Lena’s face scrunch up for a moment.

“And yourself. You keep yourself safe too. No reason keeping me safe if you’re not.”

Kara gives Lena an incredulous look but quickly agrees with Lena when she raises a single eyebrow at Kara.

“And myself.”

“Thank you.” Lena closes the distance between them and kisses Kara. A short and tender kiss before she presses back into Kara’s side. “I’m not completely defenceless either, you know. I can protect us too.”

Kara smiles lovingly at her wife. Of course she knows Lena is no damsel in distress but she also cannot help her inherent instinct to protect her family.

“We will keep each other safe,” she suggests instead. “Stronger together.”

“Stronger together,” Lena agrees before rolling over to lie on top of Kara, stomachs pressed together. “Want me to read you something now that we don’t have much else to do?”

Kara enthusiastically agrees. She loves it when Lena reads to her. She briefly slips out of the safety of their fort after tickling Lena’s side to get her off of her so she can get a book and some extra blankets.

Hours later, when Kara has fallen asleep, Lena thinks that maybe a power outage isn’t so bad. Kara’s arms are protectively wrapped around her and they’ll probably be safe. They’re definitely cozy and comfortable and if Lena forgets about her fears for a moment, it almost feels like a little vacation in their own home.

#lena luthor #supergirl #supercorp #kara danvers #kara x lena #karlena #fanfic #my writing #cryptid au #borrow the moonlight

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spooky-ghostwriter · 5 years

Text

Dressed to Kill - Chapter Fourteen

<– Previous Chapter

Next Chapter –>

It was hard to imagine for Tsukiko and Galen, but far outside the realm of plant monsters and magical clothing, there were still people living completely normal lives. Included among the majority of the population who had no idea that dryads were anything more than myth were Elizabeth Tanner and Takehiko Takenaka.

As was usual for a morning, Elizabeth looked over a newspaper with a steaming mug of coffee. Takehiko sat opposite her, polishing Shiba Kariki.

Elizabeth took a sip. Then she shook her head and pushed the mug away.

“Hotel coffee is the worst,” She decided.

“There was a Starbucks across the street,” Takehiko said. “We can stop there.”

Elizabeth stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Now that's clever.”

“Hm?”

“Think about it. The hotel and Starbucks could have a deal. Most hotels give their guests coffee for free. But if the coffee were terrible...” She jerked a condescending thumb towards her mug. “People would be more inclined to go to Starbucks. This way, the hotel makes sure people pay for something that's expected for free. And the Starbucks gets plenty of business from all the people in the hotel. It's a win-win.”

“I – I guess...”

“Well, I won't play their little game,” Elizabeth said, her voice full of determination. She grabbed the mug once more and drained as much as she could in one gulp.

“Okay!” She exhaled, newly refreshed. She spread the newspaper over the tiny table the hotel had allotted them. “Tsukiko has a show at 12:30. We should wait to talk to her until after the show, if possible.”

“Sounds good,” Takehiko agreed. “What should we do until then? I hear the Alesia Circus has lions that – ”

“Takehiko. We're not here to see lions.”

“Yes, but – ”

“We need to find Tsukiko's manager. That... Vercingetorix guy.” Elizabeth drank the last of her coffee, then made a face as she tried not to gag. “I'm betting the manager won't be out in the open, but if we can find Galen, I'm sure he'll take us to him.”

Takehiko sheathed Shiba Kariki. He reached under the table and withdrew the disguise that had allowed him to bring his katana into the hotel at all. A black, ruffled sheet slid over the decorative sheath of his sword. Combined with a fake metal tip glued to the end of the blade, what had once been unmistakably a katana now looked like a simple umbrella.

“Ready?” Elizabeth asked.

“Ready.”

The static of a walkie-talkie crackled.

“Vercingetorix here,” said the man holding it. “Come in, areas 1, 2 and 4.”

“Area 1 here, standing by.”

“Area 2, copy.”

“Area 4, copy.”

“We have a situation in Area 3,” said Vercingetorix.

The situation was a seven-foot-tall green woman. Her body was formed from thin vines, coiled tightly around each other. Shiny pointed leaves in groups of three jutted out of the plant at random. The vines lashed out, smashing a food stall to splinters.

“That was my favourite popcorn stand, you jackass!”

In charge of handling the situation was Tsukiko. She stepped between Vercingetorix and the vine-woman, brandishing the compound bow conjured from her tie.

“Please confirm that the other areas are clear,” Vercingetorix added calmly.

One by one, each voice on the walkie-talkie said some variation of “All clear.”

“Understood.” Vercingetorix allowed himself a small sigh of relief. “Make sure no guests come into area 3. Set up Stiletto's 1-o'-clock show in stage 2 instead...”

Vercingetorix sidestepped a whip-like lash of vines. What was once a hot dog stand was now a pile of rubble. “And inform the guests that some of the food stalls are undergoing maintenance.”

Tsukiko fired a handful of arrows. They flew perfectly into the dryad's torso, but the vines making up its body loosened in an instant, such that the arrows had nothing to stick into. They escaped the back of the dryad unimpeded, striking the ground a few feet behind. Tsukiko looked at her bow and frowned.

“Also, reschedule Tsukiko's 12:30 show to 12:45,” Vercingetorix said dully. “Finally, we'll need someone to bring the High Heals and Tank Top to area 3. Vercingetorix out.”

Vercingetorix put a hand on Tsukiko's shoulder. “We'll have the Tank Top in a few minutes. Just keep your distance until it arrives.”

“I can't stay too far away,” Tsukiko muttered. A wire slithered out of her bow tie and up her arm, then formed an arrow. “If its attention isn't on me, it could go after the guests.”

The creature swung an arm forward. The vines forming its hand flew, orbiting Tsukiko for a brief moment. Vercingetorix tightened his grip on her shoulder and pulled her away; the vines snapped together where her throat was a second previously.

“Keep your distance!” Vercingetorix ordered.

Now outside what they considered to be the dryad's range, he and Tsukiko circled the field. The dryad traced an opposite circle.

“There aren't any guests in this area,” Vercingetorix reiterated. “Just focus on killing it and getting out without injuries.”

“Hey! Mr. Vercingetorix!” A voice called.

“I stand corrected. There is one guest here,” Vercingetorix grumbled. He ran back, leaving Tsukiko alone with the creature.

Was that voice...? Tsukiko began a thought, but the dryad took a threatening stance; she pulled an arrow back.

Vercingetorix made his way to the perimeter of yellow tape, very clearly reading DO NOT CROSS. To his annoyance, two guests were on the wrong side of it. The man who had called his name was tall, Asian and mostly bald. Beside him stood a blonde, bespectacled woman. He felt he'd seen them somewhere before, but couldn't place -

“Mr. and Mrs. Tanner!” He realized suddenly.

“Mr. Takenaka, actually,” Elizabeth said, gesturing to her husband.

“Ah, of course,” said Vercingetorix. The three of them briefly shook hands. “I'm afraid Tsukiko is currently getting ready for her next show. I'll tell her that the two of you are here – after her show, I'm sure she'll be happy to see you.”

“That would be lovely,” said Elizabeth. “But first, we'd like to discuss something with you.”

“Ah, well...” Vercingetorix stammered. “This has been a very busy day, and unfortunately, I haven't the time.” He clasped his hands. “Please forgive my rudeness. If you come back in two days when we're packing up to leave to the next city, I'm sure I will be able to set aside a few minutes. Will that be acceptable?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Takehiko, holding his umbrella in front of his face. “We have very important matters to discuss.” He peeled away the false covering, revealing Shiba Kariki in its flower-engraved sheath. Vercingetorix eyed the sword with caution.

“Specifically, we want to talk about our daughter's safety,” Elizabeth concluded.

“Ah.” Vercingetorix said, a full octave higher than his normal speaking voice. He cleared his throat, returning his tone to normal. “I assure you, our performers take every safety precaution necessary. I understand your concerns, and the concerns of everyone who fears the worst for our performers, but Miss Tanner is in absolutely no danger during her shows.”

“During her shows,” Elizabeth repeated harshly. “That's the sort of eerily specific language I've heard from all too many liars in my business.”

“We know Tsukiko isn't in any danger during her shows,” Takehiko said, one hand climbing up to Shiba Kariki's handle. “We made sure that she and Galen made all of her tricks so safe that nothing could go wrong.”

“In twelve years of her doing magic tricks back home, the worst accident she ever had was a paper cut,” Elizabeth agreed.

“Then there is no cause for concern!” Vercingetorix said cheerfully. “Tsukiko is in full control of her shows, and Galen is still almost as involved as he was back then. The two of them – ”

“We're not talking about her shows, Mr. Vercingetorix!” Elizabeth snapped. “We're talking about what you've been pressuring her to take part in! All the dangers you've been forcing her into! The dangers that her stage magic couldn't have possibly prepared her for!”

Vercingetorix paled. They couldn't mean...

“Did you think no one would ever find out?” Takehiko demanded.

Vercingetorix grit his teeth. His crew had taken every precaution they could to clean up after dryad attacks. It was true that, in the past, he'd had situations where eye-witnesses had seen the dryads. In most cases, simply removing all evidence had been enough to avoid suspicion. Other times, he'd had to convince guests that they'd seen a secret attraction coming to the circus in the future. When all else failed, hush money worked wonders.

But the last time any citizen had any evidence of a dryad attack had been years ago. His mind raced, thinking of anything he might have missed.

They must have learned about the pumpkins from Tsukiko's Halloween show, He realized. Those pumpkins were unexpected. But still, we must have removed all the evidence. Even if they heard from someone about the dryad attacks, they couldn't have proof. I need to figure out what they know.

“I am not sure to what you are referring,” said Vercingetorix. “When she's not performing, Tsukiko spends most of her time with Galen, planning future shows.”

“You're not sure?” Elizabeth asked. “Well, let me show you something that might remind you.”

She ruffled through her coat pocket.

Impossible! Vercingetorix felt himself sweat. Physical evidence of a dryad attack?

Elizabeth withdrew a folded piece of paper.

A photo?

She unfolded it, then held it in front of Vercingetorix's face. As Vercingetorix feared, it was photographic evidence. In fact, it was a photo he recognized.

Vercingetorix had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief.

The photo depicted Tsukiko standing in front of a wooden target. Stiletto stood opposite her, throwing a knife. It was chosen for the website in an instant, being the only picture that had ever captured one of Stiletto's blades mid-flight.

“Tsukiko would never volunteer for something like this!” Takehiko cried.

“Now explain yourself!” Elizabeth ordered.

Vercingetorix cleared his throat. “I understand your concerns. The fact of the matter is that Tsukiko did volunteer to be Stiletto's target girl.”

“Liar!” Takehiko spat.

Elizabeth, however, stayed silent.

“This is something you'll have to discuss with Tsukiko herself,” said Vercingetorix. “I have never, nor will I ever, force anyone to be a target in one of Stiletto's shows. However, now that I'm aware of what you're talking about, I understand why you may have thought that this was my doing. In fact, when Stiletto first approached Tsukiko about the idea, Tsukiko refused and was adamant that she'd never do it.”

“Then why did she start?” Takehiko asked.

“As I said, you'll have to discuss the matter with Tsukiko herself. I cannot speak for her.” Vercingetorix spoke calmly, but his voice raised. It was full of conviction as he continued, “Having been Stiletto's target myself a few times, I can tell you with the utmost confidence that there is no danger in her act. If Tsukiko is willing to perform, I am not going to tell her not to. The only reason she has for doing what she does is that she feels perfectly safe in it. I promise you that.”

“What a load of crap,” Takehiko hissed. “Elizabeth, let's find Tsukiko and get her the hell out of here.” He began walking, aiming to move past Vercingetorix.

“Wait.”

Takehiko looked back at Elizabeth. “You don't honestly believe this guy, do you?”

“Why didn't you just tell us the picture was fake?” Elizabeth asked. “I honestly thought it was, at first. If you wanted us to believe that Tsukiko wasn't in any danger, then telling us the act was fake would have been the easiest way.”

“I would never dismiss Stiletto's skill in such a way,” Vercingetorix said adamantly. “The picture is one hundred percent real. The blades are one hundred percent real. And if Stiletto were to miss even once, someone would likely die. The act is safe because Stiletto's skill makes it safe.”

Elizabeth frowned, unsure of what to think.

“We'll still have to talk to Tsukiko,” she said. “But... thank you. I believe you.”

Takehiko shook his head.

“All right.” He said. With a sharp gaze towards Vercingetorix, he added, “But if Tsukiko says something's wrong, we'll be back.”

“Certainly,” said Vercingetorix. “Now please, enjoy the rest of your time at the Alesia Circus.”

Tsukiko's parents turned their backs to him, turning to leave.

For a moment, I truly believed they knew about the dryads, Vercingetorix thought. I suppose, as much faith as I have in Stiletto, I should have in those that clean up after battles. It is because of their hard work, skill and talent that no one but us knows the truth.

His thoughts were interrupted as Tsukiko fell from a several-foot flight, half-skidding and half-rolling through the dirt beside him. Her bow clattered to the ground. It only lasted for a moment before breaking apart into thin wires, which retracted towards Tsukiko's throat and formed a bow tie.

“Oww,” Tsukiko moaned, struggling to get back on her feet. “Vercy! Where's the damn Tank Top already? This thing's gonna kill me!”

Vercingetorix faltered.

“Oh,” said Tsukiko, only now noticing the people turning back to face Vercingetorix again. “Hi Mom. Hi Dad.”

Elizabeth and Takehiko stared in stunned silence.

Vercingetorix thought to himself about how he could explain what Tsukiko had just said. His thoughts were interrupted as he realized that Tsukiko's parents weren't staring at him, nor at Tsukiko, but behind them.

The dryad loomed overhead. It had a few metallic arrows sticking out of it, but the vines that made up its being writhed and flung them back onto the dirt. The beast roared; an eerie scream that conveyed nothing but rage and bloodlust.

The creature's arm unfurled; it swung a lash of vines towards Tsukiko. She prepared to dodge them, as she had done with other, similar attacks. Before she could, a strong weight collided into her. Her mother tackled her out of the way, the two of them rolling out of the attack's range.

Takehiko stood between the beast and his family. He threw Shiba Kariki's sheath aside; the newly-polished blade glimmered in the morning sun.

“Are you okay, Tsuki?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly.

“Yeah, but – ”

Tsukiko felt some warm liquid drip onto her stomach. She looked down; both her and Elizabeth's shirts were stained with an increasing amount of blood.

Tsukiko herself felt no pain in her stomach.

“Oh god...” Tsukiko gasped.

Elizabeth clutched her gut. The realization dawned on her slowly; that underneath her hand was not shirt nor skin, but exposed muscle and blood. She recoiled at the sight of her crimson hand. Her hand shook. Tsukiko watched in horror as her mother's eyes rolled back in their sockets; she passed out.

“Mom!” Tsukiko shrieked.

Takehiko turned his head to Tsukiko and Elizabeth. It was only for an instant, but the dryad took full advantage of his lapse in concentration. One of its arms unfurled, and the vines wrapped around him. Shiba Kariki fell out of the man's hands as the bonds tightened, trapping Takehiko against the dryad's body.

Another barrage of vines extended, grasping Elizabeth's arms and legs. Vercingetorix pulled Tsukiko to her feet, but it was too late for her mother.

In an instant, both of Tsukiko's parents were caught by the dryad; their bodies bound by the tentacle-like vines that made up its body. Elizabeth was still limp, her eyes closed. Blood continued to flow freely from the wound in her stomach. Takehiko, on the other hand, remained very much conscious; his eyes widened in terror.

The vines making up the dryad's face shifted. The way they constricted against themselves made the face more defined and more eerily human-like.

The mouth opened. This time, it was not to roar, but to speak.

“Give,” The dryad spoke, a voice unlike any human Tsukiko could imagine. “Give... bow tie... and... I release. Keep... bow tie... and I... kill.”

Tsukiko felt a shiver move down her body.

“Don't listen to it!” Vercingetorix cried.

Tsukiko stared back at her father's terrified eyes.

“You can't give it the Bow Tie!” Vercingetorix reiterated. “It's – ”

“Shut up!” Tsukiko snapped. “If it will let my parents go, then – ”

“Do you think it will keep its promise?!” Vercingetorix roared. “It's a plant. It has no concept of honour!”

“He's right!” Takehiko yelled.

Tsukiko whipped her head back towards her father in confusion.

“I don't know what this thing is, but it's just trying to make you get close to it!” Takehiko cried. “Run away, Tsuki!”

“Running isn't an option either,” Vercingetorix said quietly. “We need to keep it here. Once we have the Tank Top, we can fight properly – and save your parents.”

“I will... allow... ten... seconds,” said the dryad. The vines around Tsukiko's parents tightened.

“Nine...”

“Okay!” Tsukiko tore the Bow Tie off her neck and swung her arm forward. “You can have it!”

“Tsukiko!” Vercingetorix cried.

Tsukiko walked towards the dryad, stepping slowly.

“I can't keep this up, Vercingetorix,” Tsukiko said, tears forming in her eyes. “I know you need me to be a soldier. To not have any emotions. To be able to make any sacrifice. But I can't. I can't be that kind of person!”

By now, Tsukiko was within what she knew for sure was the dryad's range.

“I can't do whatever it takes to kill the enemy. I can't just sit here watching my parents suffer to wait for an opportunity!”

She held out her hand, the Bow Tie dangling from her fingers. The dryad released its grip on Elizabeth. It stretched out its vines, the tips of its greenery touching the Religalia for the first time.

“I'm not a soldier, Vercy.”

The dryad had an extremely human expression on its face – one of a finally-satisfied, long-standing greed. It was focused so intently on the Religalia in Tsukiko's hand.

So focused, in fact, that it didn't notice what Tsukiko's other hand held.

“I'm a stage magician.”

In one movement, Tsukiko dropped the Bow Tie from her left hand and swung Shiba Kariki with her right. The shining blade cleaved through the plant's vines; the Bow Tie and the green hand that had only just touched it fell to the ground.

Now with both hands on the katana's handle, Tsukiko readied another swing. The dryad barely had time to register Tsukiko's treachery. Tsukiko brought the sword through the dryad's head, slicing it what would have been ear to ear.

The vines relinquished their grip on Takehiko. He crawled to Elizabeth's side. Still, Tsukiko couldn't risk believing that the dryad had died so easily. She slashed again and again, each blow tearing through the vines like butter. At the beginning, her mouth had been clenched shut, but it opened as she let out a wordless cry of anger and stress. She kept slashing. The tears that had formed in her eyes during her distraction speech clouded her vision. She could barely see the dryad now, but she drove the blade into it again. She slashed and cut and stabbed, faster and faster, more and more frantically.

Takehiko, now standing behind her, put his hand on Tsukiko's shoulder.

“Tsuki. It's over.”

Tsukiko exhaled deeply. Then, the two of them looked once more towards Elizabeth's fallen form. Tsukiko felt her father's grip tighten on her shoulder.

“Vercingetorix!” a voice cried from afar – a stagehand. “We brought the Tank Top and the High Heals!”

“Bring the High Heals over here!” Vercingetorix ordered, waving his arm in the air as a signal. “And hurry!”

Slowly, the fog began to dissipate. Little by little, Elizabeth felt herself return from the dream-like state that trapped her. Eventually, she felt simply like she was asleep – and being asleep meant one could wake up.

Elizabeth's eyes opened sluggishly.

She didn't immediately recognize her location. She felt a soft bed beneath her; smaller, yet more comfortable than what the hotel had provided. The room around her felt small. Though it was hard to tell when she was lying down and still feeling groggy, it seemed that the ceiling was barely six feet from the floor.

There were no distinguishing characteristics among the plain white walls, but two familiar voices made it obvious where she must be.

“See, all I did was push the tip against the ground with my heel,” Tsukiko was saying. “That propped the sword up against my leg, and I hid it with my arm.”

“I still don't understand,” Takehiko replied. “But it sounds very impressive.”

Elizabeth pushed herself into a sitting position. The shuffling noise alerted Tsukiko and Takehiko. They turned in the folding chairs they were occupying, now facing Elizabeth.

“Mom! You're awake!”

“I'm awake...? What happened?” Elizabeth asked, clutching her forehead.

Tsukiko gave a glance to her father. The man looked to his wife and bit his lip, deep in thought.

“You...”

Takehiko paused.

“You just passed out suddenly,” He said. “One of Alesia's medics said there wasn't anything seriously wrong with you. It might have been something you ate or drank, or maybe you weren't getting enough air when we were in all those crowds earlier.”

“I'm getting old,” Elizabeth reinterpreted. “Tsukiko, don't get old.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Elizabeth did a double-take towards Tsukiko.

“What's that on your shirt?” She asked. She looked down at herself. Both of the Tanner women had stomachs stained a deep crimson. “Oh, it's on my shirt too!”

“Uh...” Tsukiko racked the part of her brain that she'd taught to be able to deceive hundreds of people at a moment's notice.

“It's juice,” Tsukiko decided.

“Oh no, I must have been drinking it when I passed out, right?” Elizabeth asked. “Staining my daughter's best performing outfit...” She snorted. “Some mother I am.”

Tsukiko stood up immediately, knocking her folding chair to the floor. Her mind replayed Elizabeth's action. She'd jumped in between Tsukiko herself and a dryad, with no Religalia nor katana to defend herself. In all honesty, Tsukiko wasn't sure if she'd needed the help to avoid the dryad's attack, but regardless, she couldn't stand to hear even joking self deprecation.

“Mom,” Tsukiko said. “You saved me from a monster. You're the best mother ever.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Okay, honey. I didn't hit my head that hard.”

“But – ”

“More importantly!” Elizabeth said suddenly. “We originally came here to talk about the danger you've been putting yourself in.”

“Wait, what? You know about that?”

“The knife show,” Takehiko said.

“Oh! Right! Of course that's what you meant.”

“Mr. Vercingetorix said you volunteered to be that woman's target girl,” said Elizabeth. “If he's been pressuring you to do something you're not comfortable with, we'll get you out of here. Contracts and paperwork be damned.”

“Yes,” said Takehiko. “We know that your magic shows don't put you in any danger. You and Galen are responsible enough to ensure that. But we've seen that now, you are putting yourself in situations where you could end up seriously hurt.”

Tsukiko was amused at how well her parents could turn two topics into a single conversation.

“If you can tell us that this is something you feel you need to do, then so be it,” Takehiko said. “But I want to be sure that you want to do it. Not that anyone's forcing you to. I want to know that you have your own personal reasons, whether your mother and I can understand them or not.”

Tsukiko gave a half-hearted smile. She knew how she'd describe her situation to her father. And, given Takehiko's reluctance to tell Elizabeth the truth about plant monsters, she felt she could have told her mother what she needed to hear as well.

How am I supposed to tell them both the right thing at the same time? She asked herself. Dad, you are not making this easy for me.

Then, she recalled her Halloween show. The feeling of wearing the Tank Top for the first time.

“This is something I want to do,” she said. “I studied magic to make people believe in the impossible. I want to give people something to let them escape real life, even just for a moment.”

Though Elizabeth didn't understand the importance, she noticed Tsukiko's gaze move down towards the red high-heeled shoes on her feet.

“Even knowing all the impossible things that I know, this circus is full of impossibilities,” Tsukiko said. “I can't understand how Stiletto throws knives so perfectly, or how Henry can sit on air.”

Or, she added mentally, how a pair of shoes can heal injuries.

“And it's because I don't understand that I want to be in the middle of it.”

“You want to learn how it's done?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not even that,” Tsukiko said. “It's better that I don't know.”

Elizabeth sighed.

“Sorry, Mom. I guess I can't explain it that well after all.”

“That's all right,” Elizabeth said. “Honestly, I didn't think I'd understand. Please, just stay safe.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Tsukiko said, her smile now full.

“Say, Tsukiko...” Takehiko looked around the walls of the trailer. “You look like you could use a bit of decoration in here.”

“Oh, yeah. I thought the same thing, but I don't know what to put up.”

Takehiko held his arm forward. In it, he held Shiba Kariki, hidden in its flower-engraved sheath.

“How about this?”

Elizabeth gaped. “You... you're serious?”

“What Mom said,” Tsukiko agreed. “How are you going to mow the lawn?”

“I'll think of something,” said Takehiko. “After talking to you today, I'm beginning to think it was a mistake to let you leave without Shiba. She'll protect you from whatever comes your way.”

“She? The sword's a girl?” Tsukiko asked her mother, who shrugged.

Takehiko, ignoring this, held the katana against the wall, over the window.

“Wouldn't it look great right here?”

“Maybe on the other side,” Tsukiko suggested. “That way, sunlight will shine right on the sheath and light up the flowers.”

“Ooh, good idea.”

“You'll want a small, simple wall mount,” Elizabeth suggested. “If you're friends with the knife thrower now, perhaps she can lend you something?”

“I'll ask her! Shiba Kariki is probably bigger than anything she throws – oh no, wait, she does have that battleaxe.”

The three of them spent some time discussing swords and decoration until finally, there was a knock at the door.

“Tsukiko,” Vercingetorix's voice called from outside. “You have twenty minutes before your show. Will you be able to perform today, or should I cancel the show?”

“Oh right!” Tsukiko cried. “Mom, you're feeling better, aren't you?”

“Of course, of course!” She said. “Go get ready for your show.”

For a moment, Tsukiko looked as though she was going to bolt through the door at full speed. Instead, she gave her parents a hug, and then bolted through the door at full speed.

Elizabeth and Takenaka exited their daughter's trailer, meeting Vercingetorix at the door.

“Tsukiko's shows sell out almost every time,” Vercingetorix said idly. “She and Galen bring a certain something to the circus that we didn't have before.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” said Elizabeth. “Thanks for giving her a place she fits in.”

“Oh, wait, no!” Takenaka yelled suddenly. “Her show starts in twenty minutes? And all her shows sell out...?”

Vercingetorix laughed. “Don't worry, I planned ahead.”

He held up a hand, two tickets held within it.

“Enjoy the show, Mr. Takehiko and Mrs. Tanner.”

#dressed to kill #original fiction #tsukiko

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thesong-spectre · 4 years

Text

Tales of Azden: Enslaved by a Sorcereress

ONE

Ashidavar Ruins, Somewhere in Cyrodil, 15th Day of the Evening Star

Azden Riseri valued what little light the orange flames of his torch made down the seemingly endless dark corridor. Usually a retched stench seeped into these kinds of places from damp corners and the moisture that outside air swept through cracks and holes in the walls. Naturally rats would squeak and scutter against the floors and spiders made homes near the delicious morsels. And at this point of his life Azden had seen so many skeletons that he could draw a perfectly detailed one from memory. But none of these things were present within the cramped spaces of Ashidavar Ruins. And that worried Azden beyond imagining.

As a self-proclaimed artifact hunter, Azden took great value and pride in knowing his stuff. In digging up the past so others can admire history in the present, in discovering the secrets of Tamriel’s greatest magi, or gripping onto the last remnants of the dwarves. But here, it was like the rooms were perfectly preserved all save for the eerie darkness. He could hear his own heartbeat, it bothered him.

The young Redguard turned the gaze of his unique violet eyes, the one’s he had since that magical incident, and directed it toward the faint white light of snow a few meters behind him that hinted at the entrance. He wanted to remember it one last time before he stepped deeper into the shadows. He ran a hand through his short but curly black hair and took a deep breath. 20 years of age, six feet tall, broad-shoulder and strong athletic figure, and yet these simple walls made him think at any moment this place would crush him and his puny mortal form. His special cloth weave jacket and black pants and boots no longer felt so protective, even though both had stopped a good arrow or two in their past.

The further he descended into darkness the weaker his torch got. But he sensed no chill in the air, nor moisture from the snowfall outside. Maybe the shadows tickled and grabbed at his light? Slowly pulling apart the beacon he held so close to himself, only caring to distance it enough to not burn his skin. Ashidivar ruins, ‘The living evils of the Black Mage’ That’s how the commoners described it. The informant’s story hadn’t been far off from that. He hadn’t had much time to read into this Black Mage, but apparently some long time ago, how time was usually written, a Breton adept in a strange necromancy had founded a haven for himself. More of a temple where he and his acolytes and worshippers had lived, terrorizing locals for years. Kidnapping people and bringing them into his haven to do experiments and what not, dark things, evil things. No one knew for sure because no one had ever stepped involuntarily in and made it back out. The place was sure built more like a prison than a temple. Deep underground rooms lined equally along an endless corridor…

For his own sanity, Azden prayed the corridor had an end. For his own safety, he gripped a spear tight in his right hand in case the gods didn’t answer. No creature had come within a mile of the broken stone arches on the hilltop outside, the doorway had not a vine intertwined in iron grates. The life outside must’ve known about the death within, Azden started to think it would’ve been better to heed the warnings. His eyes almost shot open when a new light appeared a not far walk ahead, a soft purple glow. The darkness of the corridor slowly spread thin and finally fell to the torchlight once more. Azden increased the pace of his steps, yearning to be away from the possible horrors of the accursed darkness.

A chamber. One for arcane and occult practices of some sort, filled with dusty destroyed tomes and broken remains of many researcher’s tools. One’s Azden had never seen anything like before. But the stunning item, the thing he came to receive, his reward for braveness or stupidity, he always which one later, sat on the floor in the room. A tablet of some strange metal, shiny like cleaned steel but fine feeling and looking like a silk, whatever it was didn’t come from this plane. Multiple symbols were engraved onto it, letting out the soft glow that reminded him of the color in his eyes, a discomforting thought. Any time he discovered something with strong magic presence he felt hesitant to take it. The tablet must have been the length of a nightstand and the width of a table, yet it weighed nothing and felt natural to hold. He stared at it, maybe a bit too long. It barely fit in his backpack, but it fit.

Azden walked back toward the entrance, not bothering to take anymore items with him. Quick and efficient this time around. Some placed shouldn’t be poked around in. Though maybe it was the relief that he could leave task free, but for a moment the darkness of that same corridor felt inviting. Nice even, and the subjects of his work within it. The king would pay for his treach—

Wait, what was he thinking about!? Azden gulped and shook his head, the darkness held weight once more. He would bring this curse to that Imperial buyer and he would be rid of it soon. Enjoying a cold drink, warm meal, and soft bed at the closest inn before nightfall, yeah.

At least, that was the plan.

Dead Man’s Drink, Cyrodil, 15th day of the Evening Star

The sorcereress’ patience grew thin with every wavering moment that she had to seduce the drunken fool that gave answers with half-sense to them. It would have been much easier to read his mind and then blast him away with a firebolt. But the unwanted attention would ruin all of the delicacies put into her elaborate plans. She sighed to herself and gave a seductive and manipulating look that boasted the beauty of the Dunmer, or any of the elven races in which they were blessed to have. Her hands to her chin in an innocent girl façade with her arms purposefully placed to squeeze the size of her breasts a bit further out of her wine-strewn tunic than usual, she pretended to be wooed by the Imperial that stank of ale breath and cheese. Ugh. Just remember what you’re doing this for, what’s on the line.

“I would love to hear more about how you saved a town from goblins once Kornir, but I must ask you another question,” The sorceress implied. She was young, even in Dunmer lifespan, for humans’ years she would be about 24, which looked more of 18 to many folks who weren’t an elf. And she used the youth of her body and voice to her advantage.

“Please do,” He half slurred the words.

“This Redguard, this, Azden, will he be returning here?”

“Why of course, I am paying him for the job after all. Though to be honest I may cut his pay a bit, it’s taking much longer than I thought.” Kornir took a swig of ale from his tankard.

“So, he should have been back by now?”

“I think so. Tell me uh, Sylvia was it? Why’s a pretty thang like you so interested in dusty ruins anyway?” He asked with a tad of suspicion. No amount of seduction in the world could get between an Imperial and their coin.

She almost cast a spell at him for disrespecting her with such an insulting title as ‘thang.’ Though she forced an innocent smile and replied, “Sylviana Lietgrei. And it’s just family business you could say. And I think males who involve themselves with such dangerous work are attractive.” The last word almost rolled off of her tongue and into Kornir’s heart. She even touched his hand for a moment as a distracting tease. In truth, the sorceress took pride and joy in being able to bend men to her will so easily, a fun part of the already rewarding job of being a sorceress for the Lietgrei bloodline.

“Well you’re more than welcome to stick around and see how the rest of my job goes, Sylviana.”

It didn’t sound right when he said her name, most people could not pronounce the intricacies of elven tongues. It seemed she had more waiting to do. At least she would have it soon. And an even better thought, she could be out of this dump soon.

Yes, the delicacies of her plan were all coming together. By next night she would be back at her home, Myrwatch, within the deeps of Skyrim, being praised and rewarded for her work. Gaining power. Yes. This day would be a good one.

A forest too thick, somewhere in Cyrodil, the 15th of the Evening Star

Searing hot pain, that’s what it was. Azden had experienced many wounds in his dangerous but amazing life as a self-proclaimed artifact hunter, and had the scars on his young muscled body to prove it. But nothing compared to the still bleeding gash across his chest from the ethereal looking blade of, whatever the hell those things chasing him were! And in the cold and snow of all environments.

He had been five minutes out of the ruins with the tablet in his hands because it made an odd humming sound. He heard something, like air warping and suddenly a skeletal faced but heavy armored creature stood above him, some sword of purple flames found its way against his bare skin. It hurt more now than it did those moments ago. His spear found its way through the creature’s chest, slaying it into an ash pile of magic residue. But four more warps later and he ran for his life.

Gods the pain.

What kind of sensation was this? Two potions of healing he downed now, and the pain intensified as he attempted to cure it. But survival had been a skill he held high since childhood, since he was an orphan in the unforgiving place of Hammerfell, he would not give up.

His feet gave him distance fast. Their lack of feet took them to him faster.

“They don’t give up,” He muttered and stopped to breath. He could not outrun them that much was clear. But the pain across his chest was fuel to his fire, he could distract them. Na illusion would be needed, a shaping of reality. Not many illusionists could pull of such amazing and tiring tricks such as shaping of the world itself instead of a single mind. Luckily for Azden, he had the best teacher.

Using what Magicka he could, he bended the nearby thickets and trees to look that of an impenetrable vine wall of sorts. A mile in each direction, which would be impossible in the geography of the woods. But that’s the point.

He stopped to look at what was real, seeing the four horrors become still and angered. One let out a blood-curdling scream, but they truly fell for it. Adonis forgot about all his physical limitations and pushed on into a sprint away from his now stumped pursuers. They wouldn’t be stumped for long, he just needed to get out of the area by then.

After a little while he found himself back at Dead Man’s drink, the inn placed in the middle of nowhere as far as Cyrodil civilization went. Not many people were around except for the common traveler or two. When he stepped inside the building it was more or less the same with the number of customers. Most of everyone slept from drink or had been too intoxicated to acre about his sudden entrance. Most except for the Imperial and…a Dunmer? An exceptionally beautiful one at that, but most elves were when compared to the other races in the room.

Adonis’s healing potions had taken some effect, the bleeding wound now a partially sealed one. Still open enough to catch a nasty cold though. The pain never decreased in intensity, the opposite actually, the more it healed, the more it hurt. Dark and Deep, Adonis thought the swore. He took a seat at the table with his contractor and the gorgeous woman and took a moment to breathe.

“By the gods man, what happened to you!? And what took you so long?” Kornir asked in surprise.

“Your tablet summoned some visitors. I escaped them, and honestly I don’t know if they gave up chase or not.” Azden’s voice was soft-spoken and silvery, even in a stressful time. The Dunmer on his right fell shocked by the pleasantness of his voice, he had a special accent. Like one of someone who spoke many languages and therefore developed a beautifully conflicted tone.

“Visitors? What kind of visitors?”

“Ghastly I would say.” Azden looked to the woman on his right. “I’m Azden Riseri by the way.” He greeted assuming she had business with the Imperial as well.

He intrigued her for some reason she could not explain. She forgot to greet herself, truly.

“Listen, Kornir, this tablet, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think you should be buying this sort of thing.”

Kornir slammed his tankard on the table. “Hey, I’m already docking your pay for how late you’ve been. Don’t try to smoot talk me into giving you more coin by pretending you’re doing me some favor!” He complained.

“W-what? N-no I don’t care about the coin! Look, the things chasing me are connected to this tablet somehow. It’s dangerous,” Azden attempted to warn the drunken fool.

“Just show mt eh damn thing.”

Azden sighed, but did just that. Placing the behemoth of runes on strange material on the table. Kornir raised a brow at the glowing symbols. Sylviana stared mesmerized at it. Finally, what she came for sat right in front of her. She didn’t want to waste anymore time in this foul place.

“Now, let’s talk about pri—”

A gust of flames threw both Kornir and Azden off balance and watching Sylviana. “Actually, I’ll be taking it for free. And if anyone argues I will burn them to a crisp.”

“Hey, what’s going on over there, don’t make me call the guards!” The innkeeper shouted. A lightning bolt striking a bottle next to his hand shut him up.

“Damnit! I should’ve known not to trust a pretty face!’ Kornir cursed aloud.

“Listen, you don’t know how dangerous that tablet is. If you take it, you’ll get hurt, surely!” Azden pleaded to her.

“I’ll let that insult to my power pass this once because you are cute, but do it again and I’ll have to hurt you.”

Azden blushed at her sudden compliment and threat, it was quite confusing. Kornir was cursing himself to death, but staying quiet enough to not become a charred corpse or pile of ash. Azden saw the woman gaze at him, as if she contemplated something. She made her mind up.

“You, Azden Riseri, put the tablet back in your bag. Slowly, try anything and I’ll kill you,” she demanded. He did as she asked, but could not tell where this all was headed. “Now, I will be taking the tablet, and you with me.”

“What! Why!?” Azden and Kornir asked in perfect unison.

“Because I said I will. I need no more explaining than that. Unless you’d rather die?” She asked him.

“It’ll take more than some spell to slay me,” he grunted almost.

She laughed. “Naïve and cute, this should be fun. Not by my spell Redguard. No, no, no. That mark across your chest. Let me guess. It hurts oh so much, the more you make an attempt to bind it.” Her voice had a victorious tone.

“H-how did you know that?” A stunned expression ran across his face.

Sylviana had smooth dark-purple skin, curves in all the right places, especially her juicy and attractive thighs, hips, and chest, long flowing milky white hair like spider-silk, and sharp yet elegant crimson eyes. Azden hated how much her form messed with his heart as she stepped closer to him. Her index finger traced his wound, bringing a wince from him that caused her to smile.

“Because I know a lot of things Azden Riseri. Things you could only dream of learning as you delve in dirty and blood-filled dungeons all day long. I, Sylviana Lietgrei, daughter of Morigsi Lietgrei, am a powerful and intelligent being. And you will learn to fear me in the upcoming days,” She softly whispered into his ear. The tickling sensation of her breath being what Azden dared felt pleasant had she not been threatening his life. To think that those soft and plump lips had been so close to his skin…

NO! What am I thinking!?

“So, as I said I will be taking you with me.”

“What makes you think I’ll come with you?”

She laughed again. A harsh thing to do to someone in a time like that. A tease that he had no power or control. That he had no chance. It scared him as much as those dark hallways of Ashidavar had. “Because even if you had a choice, I’m the only person you know, this I’m sure of, that can save your life from your wound and now, your new and powerful foe.”

That last word put him on edge. What foe did he make grabbing that tome? What exactly did he pull himself into? Azden could not argue with those words, so he spoke no more.

Before more could be said the door kicked open. Someone screamed and fell as a corpse into the room. An ethereal blade in their chest. No way. They found where he was. Two of the, things, floated into the room, more of flew with incredible speed. Azden reached for his spear, but Sylviana had put fire near his face, a warning to what would happen if her grabbed it. Two lightning bolts, more like one that jumped, quickly dispatched of the two creatures.

“Come with me or piss me off and make me drag you. Trust me, it’s healthier for you to obey me.” Sylviana waited for his response.

Azden glanced at Kornir and the corpse on the floor. With a sigh he left his spear on the ground and followed the Dunmer. She led them out to her beautiful black horse and got on its saddle, then waited for Azden. The same woman who threatened his life had been the same one who said she could save it. What was really going on? He got on with her and they rode out. For a moment he thought himself an idiot for nor fighting her. But then turned to see twenty of the creatures descending upon the small inn. Everyone would be slaughtered. And this Sylviana probably could care less.

Sylviana had rode all night to keep distance from the Scourge beasts. Simple yet effective creations. Killed as easy as a bandit, but able to clear out a town of commoners. This Dark Mage must have been quite the person to employ the common use of such mocked creatures. The seductive, powerful, strong, and capable sorceress chuckled in victory. She had the tome and the cutest guy she had ever seen too all to herself. And the most interesting guy as well. Violet eyes in a human, that was new. She loved that detail about him. Azden had been quiet the entire night, part of the creature’s blade magic was energy sapping, he could probably barely stay awake. The fact that he did stay awake all night showed how little he trusted her. He didn’t have too, he just had to obey.

She stopped the horse on the road for a while just to stretch her legs, but also to do more mischievous things. Azden sat facing the treeline, just staying awake and alive. Thinking about the odd events that happened to him in such little time. The life of a self-proclaimed artifact hunter proved daily to be a challenging and interesting one, but he loved it. Like anything in life, it came with pros and cons. He wasn’t sure what to label this part of the job. Vexing?

“Azden, get off the horse and face me,” Sylviana stated in that demanding tone.

Too tired to argue or feel anyway about it, he did just that. The cut on his chest still searing with pain. Sylviana held long strands of silk in her hands with a grin that spoke danger to Azden.

“I’m going to bind your hands and feet, then gag you. You are going to let me.”

“What! NO! WHY?!” He argued, now more awake than he had been.

“Because I said so. And if that is not enough for you, though it should be, the only way I’ll save your life is if you agree to this. It is the only way I can trust you won’t attack me or run.”

“I shall not be bound and made defenseless.”

“Then I will force you to be.” A grin crept across her face. A firebolt formed in her hands. Azden warded it away.

“So, the boy knows a spell or two. How cute.” But for a moment he disappeared. Invisibility spell? Really, what does he take me for, some fool? She walked around the close trees for a minute. A smile on her face. “I can hear your breathing. That wound must be getting unbearable. I could help you with that. If you obey me.”

“I’m not your slave,” He responded, appearing behind her.

“You will be, after you owe me your life,” she giggled.

So that was her plan. That’s why she brought him along, to make him as slave. Azden walked behind a tree. She followed to see nothing. And come to think of it the forest itself looked odd, wasn’t that tree on the other side…

Suddenly, a hand came for her head in an attempt to knock her unconscious, only being saved by exceptional hearing that allowed her to hear the swishing of the air. Azden’s hand missed and hit her shoulder instead, it didn’t feel good. She didn’t look happy.

“Clever illusionist!” She summoned an arm and hand of some odd energy and grabbed Azden by the throat with it, lifting him off the ground.

His lack of air made the chest pain even worse somehow. That iron grip around his throat. Azden kicked and thrashed but could not break free from this spell.

“You are going to regret that. I am going to give you one last chance. You push tour luck Azden Riseri. Defy me again and experience pain much beyond that of your chest wound, a slow agonizing death. I could play with you, take the air from your lungs, then give it back. Over and over til I tire of the game. You don’t know true power yet or fear. I could treat you well and be kind, but you must learn to be like the lowly creature you are and obey me!” She almost shouted in anger now. She hadn’t meant to get like this. She was losing control.

Azden could not reply. Only feel his lungs begin to burn with the lack of oxygen. Only be at the mercy of this cruel and wicked person. She dropped him, he gasped for precious air as he slowly massaged his own throat to make sure it hadn’t been crushed.

Sylviana put a hand on her hip and waited for something. Life or death.

Azden glared for a few moments. But too weak to fight, he put out his wrists so she could easily access them. “Kierna moertu makta thir nena,” He spoke in a different tongue.

Sylviana tilted her head. “You speak the language of my people?”

He hadn’t notice. An old habit from being with his best friend. “Yes.” This tone of his voice sounded cold, calculating, dangerous and sharp. Sylviana was taken aback by it. Maybe it was needed to bind him.

“Well you are right. You don’t have a choice.”

Myrwatch, Swamps of Hjaalmarch, 16th of the Evening Star

Azden did not talk or fight the entire trip. Even as they crossed into the freezing lands of Skyrim and its holds, as they went through woods, mountains, and swamps, he could not fight. He felt weak. He tried to stay awake, but just like his wound, the more he fought exhaustion, the more it overcame him. The more he tried to fight her, the more powerful she seemed to be. The more he ignored the tome, the more it loomed in his dreams and thoughts. Was he truly doomed to a destiny of loss and submission? Or was this just another rough patch in the road. ‘The obstacle is the path’ Virezi used to say. ‘What you throw into a fire is fuel for the fire’

Well some paths aren’t meant to be taken, and water sure as hell ain’t fuel for a fire.

The thought didn’t help as snow fell from all directions. Is Skyrim always some frozen hellscape of bandits, war, and Dragons!? He hadn’t seen one yet, but hopefully such creatures don’t actually exist. Or at least come close. But with his recent luck, becoming dragon food would probably be a better fate.

Myrwatch she kept saying. Talking to the man who could not talk back, Myrwatch this and that. Her lovely home, her lovely mother. Her show-off sister. Seemed Sylviana didn’t care for her sibling. Maybe that would help later on? Nah, probably not. The horse stopped again. The small vibration pushed pain onto his chest. He grunted.

“You must be tired, and hungry, and thirsty. You poor thing,” the Dunmer teased. Azden just let the words pass through his head, no point in giving her more satisfaction of his struggling reaction. He was beyond tired; he hadn’t eaten in a day or drank anything. And with the gag around his mouth he could not capture a couple snowflakes for refreshment. All the while she had made sure to give herself proper nourishment the days ride. She pulled him off the horse, he did not struggle. Azden had not been completely broken or even bent. But as a survivalist he knew to save energy where he could. No point of being prideful if you can’t live to feel pride.

She pulled her waterskin from the saddle of the horse and a small pack that had fresh juicy berries and fruits, Grapes and plums. She ate one and drank a bit of water, making sure Azden saw every bit of it as she licked juice from her plump lips.

“Tell you what Azden Riseri, you have not given me trouble for a day now. I think you deserve at least this much.”

A glimmer of hope filled his still vibrant violet eyes. She teased to reach for his gag, then stopped.

“But you still never paid for that little stunt you pulled earlier. You are a big strong man; you could have seriously hurt my arm you know?” She chuckled. His eyes never left the waterskin or fruits. “If I take this gag off, you must beg me exactly as I tell you to for this. Ok?”

He barely nodded, but the embarrassment did fill his thoughts.

She removed the gag and saw the emotionless yet tired expression of his face. What she imagined most philosophers looked like all the time. “Now, repeat after me. Oh, great Sylviana, my soon to be savior and master, please allow me a taste of your food.”

He cringed at the sentence, but his belly would hurt more than his pride if he hadn’t gotten any food in this frozen place. “Oh, great Sylviana, my soon to be savior and…master, please allow me a, uhm!” He was interrupted when she shoved a grape in his mouth. A sudden lewd look on her face, she was enjoying this, a lot. She gave him a few grapes, then an entire plum. He hungered for more, but would not put himself in more trouble to complain about it.

“Now, for the water.”

“Really? Must I do it for both?”

She began to recoil the water away. He sighed.

“Repeat. Oh, mistress Sylviana,” she began with a smirk, “please fill my stomach with the life liquid in your possession.”

Maybe he could quickly swallow some snow off the ground? Better than giving her that kind of sentence. He couldn’t do it. Say such a thing. How could she make him?

“Well, I’m waiting.”

“I-I”

“I-I-I” She mocked his stutter. “I don’t remember it starting with I.”

He swallowed any emotion he felt. Turning into that calm and collected him he usually was, except those times he hadn’t been in anything like this. “Oh…mistress Sylviana.”

She put a finger to his mouth. “Again.”

“Oh… mistress Sylviana”

“Louder.”

“OH—”

“Just the M-word.”

“Mistress.”

“Louder!” She exclaimed with glee as if this was a new discovery. She loved to hear him call her that. A bit too much, or maybe not enough.

“Mistress Sylviana!” He shouted what he could manage.

“One last time!” She clapped

“MISTRESS SYLVIANA!” That time had been of many things. Frustration, anger, sadness, but also a bit of relief. Ultimately, catharsis.

“Yes, yes! I love it so!” She knelt in front of him and let him drink of the waterskin. She let him have the entirety of what remained for being such a submissive boy. His face blushed, hers did more. Azden felt the coolness of the life liquid enter his being. He would never take it for granted again. He felt odd, yet…a little bit turned on at once. He hoped this would be the only and last time he felt such a confusing emotion.

When he drank it all she smiled at him. He had to face away; he could he look at her after such an embarrassing moment!? Sylviana lightly took his chin and made him face her. She gazed inro those violet eyes that she wanted to belong to her forever. Then her lips pressed against his. Azden felt shock, pleasure, and comfort. He felt comfort from his captor. Huh. They were so soft and inviting, the nicest thing he felt in a while. He hated to admit it, but his flesh yearned to kiss her more, to feel her lips again. She giggled.

Slowly Azden’s eyes began to close. Exhaustion finally won. The last thing he saw as a smiling beauty, and a dangerous devil as he passed out in the snow. All in all, it seemed his future and destiny would revolve around this woman somehow. Maybe, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing?

#Skyrim #elder scrolls #fanfic #freewritting #story #writing #dark elves #dark elf #dunmer #romance #fantasy #magical

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skylain · 7 years

Photo

This image right here perfectly sums up what I love about gaming, and why it’s such an incredible and immersive experience, if done well.

This is Arx Fatalis, the first game created by Arkane Studios (Dark Messiah, Dishonored, Prey 2017), formerly Looking Glass Studios. These guys knew how to make an incredible immersive sim, even back in the early days of such concepts, when only a handful existed. Arx Fatalis was a spiritual successor to the Ultima Underworld series (created by the legendary Warren Spector, of Deus Ex fame), and was released in 2002.

Arx allows the player to tell and craft their own story through its large and intricate world, playing out much like a dungeon crawling DnD experience, but in the first person with realtime combat. Not quite as elegant as Dark Messiah, but far more honed that something like Morrowind. You begin in a goblin prison with no idea who you are, or what your purpose is. You eventually break out, and begin on a quest to reach the city of Arx.

The game offers an incredible amount of freedom, especially for its time. And with such freedom, comes consequences for your actions, and it is here that my story unfolds, and begins to lead us towards this image you see above.

After fighting my way through the goblin kingdom and reaching the highest level of the underground network created within the lore, I come across a guard fortress, and a local tavern. Naturally, I stop by the tavern, taking care to pet the dog outside, and share some of my provisions with him; cooked ribs! He appreciated it greatly, and followed me into the bar. I began making my way around, chatting with patrons, discovering a door that was barred to me unless I spoke a certain password, and good times. I also came across a goblin that I sprung from prison a little while earlier. He was a decent chap, albeit drunk. He didn’t believe in the current goblin ways of sacrificing humans to Akbaa, and was imprisoned for it. He clearly had no love for what his kind had turned into, and gladly signed some false papers for me in repayment for his earlier freedom. I was now free to move about the goblin kingdom undisturbed. I thanked him, and went to the bar. The barmaid seemed more interested in my coin than me, fair enough. I slipped behind the bar to see what I could find, and had struck the motherload.

At that time, my provisions were fairly meager, and enemies tough; I needed all I could get. Cheese, bread, meat, vegetables, and wine overflowed from the bar and its storerooms. Thinking I could get away with such actions, I began to ransack all I could see. At first, I was met with no issue, so I kept at it. When I was nearly halfway through, the barmaid began to scream at me to stop at once, and put my stolen items back. I mocked her, ignored her warnings, and kept at it. But she and the rest of the patrons had had enough. I was a thief, and had to be dealt with. She screamed in fear, and all of the men present (including my goblin friend!) drew their blades, and came right for me in my cramped position behind the bar. Knowing there was no other way to handle this, I slew the barmiad that stood in my path, cutting her head clean off, as I burst into the bar area proper, and began to attempt to defend myself. However, I was surrounded by at least 4 opponents, and there was no way I could handle myself in such a state. We traded blows a bit, before I realized that he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. I ran back out into the surrounding cavern, with my assailants in close pursuit. Eventually, I made it far enough away from them to where they gave up the chase. I was bleeding and close to death - how did it come to this? I had no desire for violence, yet I was given no choice by their swift and cruel judgement. I had to act, there was no other decision to be made. It was kill, or be killed.

I indulged in my bevy of stolen provisions, and was able to nurse my health back up considerably, before re-approaching my attackers, who had returned to the tavern. Along the way, I came across my former goblin friend, who had gotten lost in the tunnels. Upon seeing me, his blade drew once more. But he was silenced. I entered the bar, prepared to engage in combat. My first target, and greatest concern, was a nearby traveler who had a peculiar dagger, seemingly riddled with gemstones. I engaged him first, carefully kiting and dancing around his blows, before bringing him to his knees, grabbing his blade, and using it to finish off the remaining patrons with a fair bit of ease. As I looted their bodies for anything of us, I felt a searing and stabbing pain into my ribs...a man had hidden himself away, and waiting for the opportune moment to strike and catch me off guard...he had done well. I engaged him in combat as well, but he was quick and deadly, and I was deeply wounded. Thinking of what may perhaps help, I quaffed many jugs of wine, this greatly helped my health and pain resistance, but my vision began to black in and out as we fought, only allowing me to see half the fight, forcing me to carefully time my approaches and kites, to ensure I would not miss the needed moments to dodge potentially lethal blows. He met his end as I finished him off in an alcohol-induced stupor.

Filled with regret, I patted the poor doggie that was forced to watch all of this, and left the bloody tavern, and this whole mess, behind. I approached the guards’ fortress, which seemed to have been recently attacked my something very powerful, all of the men there were dead, save for one. However, he was on its precipice, and in his dying wish, requested that I tell the king of what had happened here, of the massive and powerful beasts that had torn this fortress asunder, and that aid was needed. I could not go through the normal way however, as the tunnel from the fortress to the kingdom of Arx proper had been caved in by a recent earthquake...I’d have to pass through the goblin kingdom once more to reach Arx, and the king. I was given more false papers to complement my already existing documents. I was now a fully licensed gem trader, free to move about the goblin kingdom as I pleased.

After descending once more into its filth and slogging through spider infested tunnels, tangling with poisonous arachnids and hungry rat beasts, I finally had arrived at Arx, a friendly town, in which I could rest, recuperate, resupply, and meet with the king. As the gates opened up to me from the mouth of the tunnel, I was met by two guards, standing in the courtyard. They seemed friendly...until they caught sight of me; after which, they drew their blades, and charged me. Somehow, word of my massacre at the tavern had reached Arx, though through which means I do not know, as, between the fortress and the tavern, there were no survivors, and the way I went was the only way to reach Arx, and nobody but I had gone through there. Yet here I was, being greeted by blades and shouts for my head, instead of kindness and warmth. There was nothing I could do or say to explain that what had happened was an accident, that I meant no ill will or harm. It meant nothing to them and their cold steel. I slogged through dangerous passages, nearly buried alive, for their sake, and this is how they greet me, someone who wishes to save their kingdom from a greater threat? With armed guards, and citizens attacking me with unbridled rage for daring to set foot in their city?

They want a murderer? Fine. I’ll give them a murderer.

I will cleanse Arx of all human life, for it has given me no quarter, no kindness, no shelter. I have been shown no mercy, and I, in turn, shall have none for them, their weapons, their families, their riches, or their lives. They shall see what happens when you push a man to his breaking point. I spilled the blood of these two guards onto the courtyard bricks, taking their armor and blades for myself, for they were better than the meager rags that clung to my skin, and the blacksmith hammer I had been using to defend myself from the spiders. Some citizens came darting out into the town in fear...their cries were silenced by my hungry sword. Bodies ransacked, keys looted, homes robbed. Every man, woman, and child that came my way met a gruesome end. I showed no kindness, no hesitation. I slew each and every guard that came my way, carefully kiting them into duels of hesitation and moment precise maneuvers. I broke into the blacksmith’s shop, tore through his chests, and found a much more suitable set of armor and blades to fit my killing spree.

One by one, they all feel to my blade. I took the priest’s life on his holy altar, before the sight of a nearby nun...before she met her end. Every house, every building, every door, forced open. I robbed the bank, grocery stores, jewelry stores, alchemists, any place that had anything of value, now belonged to me. As I was finishing my round of the town, I saw the last two beings left alive...one more pitiful guard, and a small girl, hiding behind him. He charged me, and we began to duel. I worked my way around to his flank, but instead of attacking him...I went for the child. I slew her in a single blow, removing her head. The guard pressed his attack with rage and aggression, this left him open for easy strikes. In a matter of a few blows, he was finished.

I began a last walkthrough of Arx, to ensure it had indeed been fully cleansed, before entering the castle proper. I was mistaken, however. There were two beings left alive. An old man, and his dog. He did not attack me on sight, unlike every other being had prior...the merciless dead, who, through their lack of treating me as a human being, led to the destruction of my humanity. But this man was different, he spoke of ancient lore and far off rumors of great mages and demons. He was sitting down by the river, fishing. It seemed he’d had a decent day, his bucket contained a few fresh fish...fresh fish that my bloodstained self needed. I began to take a few, he demanded I stop...but of course, there was no halt to this. As I took the last one, his dog ran up to me and began to bite me, engaging me in combat once more. I didn’t want to kill this dog if I didn’t need to, it was a kind animal and beast. The man rushed me with his fists...which I promptly removed for him, as he gurgled out his last breaths as he bled to death and drowned in the water we fought in. His dog would not give up though, pursuing me relentlessly in hopes to avenge his fallen master. Instead, I allowed him to join him. It was with great sorrow and guilt that I did this, for it was not something that I wanted to do...but I was left with no choice.

But at that point, all life had been removed from this capitol city...it was time to enter the palace, and meet the king.

I was immediately set upon by the king’s guards, knowing full well of my approach. We fought through various hallways, chambers, and rooms. They refused to allow me to take their lord’s life, but their wishes were of no importance to me, they met the same fate as the rest of the town. I burst into the king’s throne room, and was met with two final bodyguards. The king watched as I tangled with them, and left their broken carcasses upon his floor.

The time had come. Now, in this vast hall, my body covered with the blood of the innocent, decaying corpses around us, myself and Lord Lunshire were face to face. In the span of a few short hours, I had brought his kingdom to its knees, forced him to watch, wait, and contemplate his actions, and he progressively sent more and more men into the meat grinder. How many lives would he be willing to sacrifice to save his own? All of them, clearly, for now it was only me and him - and his minstrel, who continued to play a calming tune on his lute. If this was to be the end, then we would enjoy good music in our last moments here.

Lunshire rose from his throne, drew his unique and dangerous blade, and without a word, approached me, and we began to duel. The throne room was our arena, as we circled, kited, dodged, parried, blocked, and moved in and out of each other’s ranges, all hoping to take advantage of openings in the defense of the other. As the battle wore on, steel upon steel, and blade into flesh, the minstrel continued to play on, play on. If Arx was to fall, then it would fall to beautiful, simple music.

Lunshire began to grow more desperate as the fight dragged on, taking risky stabs without much power behind them...either because he hoped for speed and to catch me off guard, or because he was growing weak and weary from the fight. Either way, he was leaving himself wide open....openings I was more than willing to exploit. More and more blood spattered from his body and onto the walls and floor, his swings and strikes becoming more and more pitiful as the duel was clearly nearing its close...as was the minstrel’s lute performance. As the final notes were strummed, I drove my blade deep into Lunshire’s chest, out through his back, and slashed through. As he dropped to his knees, discarding his blade, he made not a sound as he accepted his silent forever fate, as his lifeless body crashed to the ground, and the minstrel’s tune reached its final conclusion.

Lord Lunshire, King of Arx, was dead. And I was the one who had claimed his life. The whole of Arx, this dead city, now belonged to me. I was now Lord Am Shaegar, King of Arx. King of the dead, king of blood, decay, and rot. I had no subjects, no men who owed their loyalty to me, save for the maggots feasting on the corpses of my countless victims. As I approached my throne, I detoured to the minstrel...what to do with him? I considered...I wanted to cleanse this entire kingdom...but...he had not attacked me. And that was the silent rule I had made to myself...only those who showed me hostility would meet my blade...yet here this man stood. No aggression, perhaps a hint of fear...but it was hidden behind a very blank, voidal expression. Perhaps watching his beloved king die was too much for him...regardless, I decided I may as well put him out of his misery as well, what was one final life to add to the total, whether it deserved to be there or not? I raised my blade, prepared to finish off the last of life in all of Arx...and chose to stay my blow. He had done nothing to deserve this wrath, and had indeed played an epic instrumental ballad for the final duel, accenting its dramatic final moments with sheer beauty. Perhaps he did deserve a chance, a chance that the entire kingdom had failed to show me.

I let him live, and requested he play a tune for me, to soothe my nerves. As he struck up and began to play, I approached Lunshire’s body, looted it for all of his wealth, keys, jewelry, and any other goods I could get my hands on. I threw the blade I used to slay him down next to him, on the other side of the corpse from his own, as well as his coveted and sacred ring, now just trash on the floor. I approached the throne, turned around, and placed myself upon it, sticky, filthy, and covered in blood, mud, sweat, and tears. Arx was my kingdom now, my bloody, dead kingdom, as screams of the dead wail and echo in its vast and empty halls, and I will be damned if anyone shall attempt to take it from me.

Your move, Akbaa.

Now, the reason why all of this is so important, both to gaming in general, and Arx Fatalis itself...is because this was all organic, driven by my decisions and actions, in conjunction with their consequences. The game is NOT theoretically supposed to play out like this. Canonically, you’re supposed to arrive in Arx and find it friendly, as its assumed that the accidental tavern massacre did not occur. You’re meant to browse, peruse, trade, and meet with the king. Gain quests, get to know the world and its denizens, and be about your way on your next step to defeating Akbaa. That said, while that’s the way it’s theoretically meant to be played, Arkane allows you to play any way you want, even if that means absolute genocide. This organic gameplay and storytelling, allowing you to go so far as to slay the king and lord of the entire realm, truly allows you absolute freedom in how you want to tell your own story - even Skyrim doesn’t allow for such things, important NPCs will merely go “unconscious”. But here, every life can be taken, and every choice must be accepted and adhered to. I had intended to experience Arx Fatalis in the “normal” way, I had certainly not intended to slay an entire kingdom, but because my actions had consequences, I had to live with them, and embrace my new role as a murderer and eventual kingslayer.

And the fact that this freedom of choice and approach truly allows for such an approach without punishment or otherwise, truly shows what an excellent game Arx Fatalis is. Again, this came out in 2002! Games even today are struggling with this. Arx Fatalis doesn’t cater to you or your choices. Slay everyone? They’re dead, and they’ll stay that way. Them, their personalities, quests, anything about them that made them unique? It died with them, the only things to remember them by are their corpses and goods you can loot from their homes or businesses. The game will not make a “compensation” for this, what happened has happened, said people are dead, and you must accept that. You can and will still complete the game and main quest regardless. However, all those that you’ve slain will not factor into it.

This experience was entirely organic, unscripted, and unique to me and my actions, and it felt incredibly rewarding and empowering to not be strung along, and to be forced to make tough decisions, and live and play by a role because of mistakes I had made. Slaying Lunshire did not bring me satisfaction, merely an understanding that I had finished what I had evolved into a beast built to do, and my rampage was at a silent end, with only a minstrel left to play his bloody king the tunes of a now dead age.

And if that isn’t a hell of an example of an interactive narrative experience, then I don’t know what is. Sound fun? Go grab yourself a copy! Arx Fatalis is free through Arx Liberatis. Just go grab an ISO of the original game (ahoy) or demo (for you legal folk), install it, install the Arx Liberatis mod which’ll use those resources to build itself, and then you’re good to go through Arx Liberatis, which is a far superior way to play the game. You can remove or keep the original Fatalis files, up to you. The Liberatis source port doesn’t need them anymore.

I hope you enjoyed reading and drinking in my tale, and will give Arx Fatalis a try for yourself. It’s a bit of a wonky game, but it’s absolutely incredible, and I highly recommend it.

And with that, I bid you all a goodnight. Thank you!

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littlewritingrabbit · 7 years

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Lams, 15 or 22. I couldn't decide. Was in the mood for angst. Thanks! :)

I hope this is enough angst for you? I figured if there are too many miles between them, Laurens must be in France, so this is supposed to take place the night before That Incident when Laurens drew his sword on King Louis (which may or may not be true… but for the purposes of ficlet, yes it is.) I’m also not sure at what point the key and the kite thing happened with Benny Frank, but the opportunity for that insult was too good to pass up. XD Also- apologies again for the formatting, this was another Word document… Enjoy!

Prompt: “Things you said with too many miles between us.”

There was, undoubtedly, going to be another dinner party tonight. It was as if Benjamin Franklin could not help himself, whenever there were no other parties he seemed compelled, as if by some force of nature, to create one himself.

John Laurens was not in favour. It was one thing to have to wait for days on the fickle whims of a pair of monarchs younger than himself, when his was clearly the most pressing proposition in court, but quite another that he had to do so whilst fending off Franklin’s insistence that the best thing about the court at Versailles was the ladies. He had already declined an offer for Franklin to introduce him to a ‘lovely Mademoiselle du Borjuois’ and, on one occasion, walked into his own apartments to find someone by the name of Nina Labrie seated coyly on his windowseat ‘avec une message de Monsieur Franklin.’ The message had been so trivial it hardly needed a messenger to send it, but she still insisted on retaining her seat and discussing the Continental soldiers’ uniforms until dinner. She seemed surprised to learn that they weren’t all in blue and gold and some even lacked proper boots. He had felt a headache coming on.

Benjamin Franklin was… unusual. It was Laurens’s opinion that whatever had happened between Franklin, the key, and the kite had damaged more than it had discovered. The older diplomat took baths without any water, wore a hat that looked like a dead beaver, and made such rude jokes in the company of the court ladies that it was a miracle he was allowed to stay. But somehow, everyone seemed to enjoy having him around.

This enthusiasm seemed to be spared for John. At first he had been a curiosity, encouraged to dress in uniform, to tell stories of ‘la révolution’ and to be interrogated by ladies with ships in their hair and men with swords as thin as needles at their sides about a land they considered idealist and rustic. For them, war was the fashion of the age, and death not a thing to be missed out on, especially if it came theatrically, heroically, and to someone else. When they discovered that he told the truth as truth, with all the mud and screams that accompanied and none of the Glory they seemed to think a tangible currency, they feigned interest, then pretended that they had heard him at all, and then went off to pretend other things for other people.

And so Laurens took walks. He perused the library. He made small conversation about theatre and music and tried to mimic the polite, masked expression he had seen Alexander make for his superiors time and time again. But, having been raised being bowed to, or at least being able to be the first to offer a handshake in any conversation, acting never really came naturally to John Laurens.

He raised his chin from the balcony rail to inspect the stars. They were all still in order, making their way over Versailles like lights on the ripples of a smooth black sea. Teach me how to be orderly, he thought, how to always know what to do next. Teach me to travel without always pining for what I’ve left behind. Alexander Hamilton was far too many miles away.

One could line up all the hugs they had ever shared and it still would not be enough to span the dividing ocean. Before he had joined the Continental army John had nearly forgotten how nice it was just to be near someone, and be perfectly wrapped up in their affections. Now, once he had remembered, he was on another continent, and so companionless he wanted to forsake his mission and these marble halls to fly back to his lumpy bunk with Alexander curled up next to him.

This funny little Juliet-balcony felt too small, the glittery trappings of his room too claustrophobic, and all of a sudden Laurens needed to be outside. The party could wait. He made it up the stairs and was already knocking on the door to Thomas Paine’s room before he fully realized what was happening. It took Paine rather a long time to answer. Finally, wrapped in a banyan and with slightly windblown hair, he emerged.

“Laurens?”

John nodded, “Good evening. I was just wondering if I might… I mean… I’m not feeling altogether well. I wondered if I might use your window in order to-”

“Say no more,” opening the door wider, the pamphleteer revealed a spacious room, just as glittering and glamourous as John’s own, but with a book perched like a bird on every available flat surface. “You do look a bit pale,” Paine muttered, “Is it your shoulder again?”

“Not so much,” John let himself be led to the window, which Paine pushed open upon a fairly steep expanse of roof observing the gardens. He hopped onto the sill, then the roof, and slid down a few tiles before reclining against the slope. Laurens did the same.

“A fine night, is it not?” Paine asked.

“I’m sure it is,” John felt like an observer. He’d left his heart in America, after all.

“Though not, it seems, for dinner parties.” Paine raised an eyebrow, and then smiled. “Not to worry, I’m not attending either. There are only so many times a man can hear ‘yes, but is General Washington as tall as they say, monsieur,’ before a little rest is needed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”

“Just a little homesick, I suppose.” Paine needn’t know that ‘home’ wasn’t America per se, it was Alexander.

“Even for the war?”

“My friends are in the war.”

“Mm, mine too,” Paine leaned his head back against the tiles. “But you must remember that we are here in order to bring them aid, and that is no less helpful than what we could do at home.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” John muttered. “It doesn’t feel right to be a curiosity here when I should be fighting at home.”

Thomas Paine breathed a small laugh. “It need not be dangerous to be helpful.” He paused. “I write pamphlets,” he said, “And that is hardly dangerous at all unless I cut my finger on the edge of a paper or someone shouts ‘it’s that dunce who wrote Common Sense’ in the street. One of the greater dangers in my entire career was that iceberg we were nearly acquainted with on our journey here! But that does not mean that my addition, in my own way, to the revolution has been in vain. It has just been different.” He sighed, “Part of me wonders whether you put yourself in danger solely for your country, or also for your own reasons.”

John bit his lip. There were many reasons he went into danger. Yes, for his country, but also to prove his own honour, and because he felt guilty… not going into danger. He wasn’t sure how that made sense. Everything had always been given to him, his whole life. If he did not make any sacrifices, or try to live up to all that had been given to him, how was he any better than the men he was fighting against, who thought they could subjugate his country simply because they were lords?

Alexander would say that was foolish. He had had to live through his own fair share of being told to stay out of danger and use his wits instead. But Alexander was not here and everything was confused without him.

“I… I don’t know,” said Laurens. “I wish Hamilton were here.”

Paine nodded. “True. He always knows what to say. But that’s why Washington needs him in America. We all play our parts, Laurens.”

“So you’re saying I ought to go to the party?”

“Not at all! I’m saying that you ought to get a decent night of rest, and then approach His Highness again with your proposition. Something must get him to listen, and I feel it will be you.”

John sat up, and then laid a hand on his sword. If he must be dramatic, he would, for even if America lost the war he would be drawing his sword against the French anyways as a British subject once again. He would make them listen.

Looking up at the stars once more, perhaps hoping for a lesson in foresight, he bid Paine goodnight and returned to his room. Not to worry Alexander, I’ll be home soon.

#History AND Writing #Time for a ficlet!

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poorquentyn · 7 years

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Men’s Lives Have Meaning, Part 5: The Hour of Ghosts

Series so far here

“There’s a tipping point in every tragedy where inevitability locks the exit doors on free will and you know that after this, there is no turning back.”

-- @racefortheironthrone

Hello everyone. My name is Emmett, and I could have been imagined, designed, constructed, and sold as a consumer for the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy. I had just turned twelve when the first one came out at the end of 2001, I’d read the books that summer, and the infusion of swelling Hollywood orchestras and Peter Jackson’s beloved action schlock was perfectly calibrated to take my love for the material and shoot it into the stratosphere. I still look back on those movies with love...mostly. There are moments, especially in Return of the King, where the tone tips overboard:

youtube

On one level, that’s what we want our heroes to say, right? We’re up against the odds, we might not be rewarded for our efforts, but let’s do it anyway; that’s the lesson a lot of great genre fiction is meant to leave us with, in one form or another. The problem with that clip is the knowing wink, the sly acknowledgement that after they’ve escaped so many other hair-raising disasters, this is just another day at work. I get the joke, but it would make more sense for (say) a Bond or Indy movie, where it really is just another day at work and part of the enjoyment comes from how what’s over-the-top for us is normal for them. In the context of LOTR, it’s tonally off, because this is not supposed to feel episodic. It’s supposed to feel climactic, like our heroes are genuinely in danger as everything comes to a head, and that’s marred when you expose the plot armor so blatantly. If this is just another day, why are we supposed to be invested in their risk?

Of course, Peter Jackson didn’t invent that problem. It’s a storytelling problem. And that is why GRRM created Quentyn Martell. It’s why he tries to tame a dragon and why he fails: to reclaim the stakes and re-sensitize us to the risk. It’s not just that he dies, it’s how and why he dies. What does it mean to not have plot armor? What does it say about quest narratives that they can collapse so completely and yet the quester clings to tropes as if they’ll save him? How are we to live if Story fails as an organizing principle? “The Spurned Suitor” brings these questions to the forefront, right before “The Dragontamer” sets it all on fire. It’s the most reflective and dialogue-heavy of Quent’s chapters, the most thematically explicit; it’s the one that cuts through the hellish imagery dominating this storyline right to what it all means. In genre terms, where previous Quent chapters soaked the fantasy tropes in blood-red horror, this chapter has a distinctly noirish feel to it, in terms of both imagery and theme.

“The Merchant’s Man” introduced Quent reeling from his friends’ deaths; “The Windblown” caught up with him in the wake of the Sack of Astapor. In both chapters, as I said in the essays in question, GRRM’s focus is less the traumatic event itself than the psychological impact on Quent--both are about how one processes these existential challenges to the hero’s journey, and why one would keep going in the face of them. “The Spurned Suitor” pulls the same trick, but with a twist. In this case, the pre-chapter trauma that shapes the chapter isn’t an obstacle to the quest. It’s the outright failure of it. Quent reached the beautiful princess, proved himself willing (though not exactly eager) to transform from a frog back into a prince...but she said no.

To be clear, chapter title aside, the horror here is not getting rejected by a pretty girl. (Like I said last time, Dany doesn’t reject Quent in favor of the dark dashing Daario and his lust for open war, but in favor of the dishwater-dull Hizdahr and the peace he ostensibly brings; as she tells herself upon agreeing to marry the latter, she’s trying to act on behalf of her people.) The horror here is getting rejected after losing your friends and killing screaming teenagers along the way; the horror is selling your soul to live a life you didn’t want to live, only to find you’re not even going to get that. The horror is that it wasn’t worth it. It all meant nothing. Story is a lie. Of course, if that’s all there was to Quent’s story, it would be tired and boring. What grounds it emotionally is that laserlike focus on the aftermath of that revelation, as it hits home harder with each step of the descent. What do you do when your easy narrative falls apart and you’re left with no good options?

In “The Merchant’s Man” and “The Windblown,” Quent’s reaction to this trauma and disillusionment was to repress what he’d gone through and done, soldiering on with the Windblown repeatedly intervening (as if sent by some sinister observing God-Author) to allow him to do so. Now that he’s faced with the failure of his quest, all the kid wants to do is to go home, but he can’t bring himself to face the shame of failure and (even more so) his survivor’s guilt...

“We should be heeding Selmy. When Barristan the Bold tells you to run, a wise man laces up his boots. We should find a ship for Volantis whilst the port is still open.”

Just the mention turned Ser Archibald’s cheeks green. “No more ships. I’d sooner hop back to Volantis on one foot.”

Volantis, Quentyn thought. Then Lys, then home. Back the way I came, empty-handed. Three brave men dead, for what?

It would be sweet to see the Greenblood again, to visit Sunspear and the Water Gardens and breathe the clean sweet mountain air of Yronwood in place of the hot, wet, filthy humors of Slaver’s Bay. His father would speak no word of rebuke, Quentyn knew, but the disappointment would be there in his eyes. His sister would be scornful, the Sand Snakes would mock him with smiles sharp as swords, and Lord Yronwood, his second father, who had sent his own son along to keep him safe…

“I will not keep you here,” Quentyn told his friends. “My father laid this task on me, not you. Go home, if that is what you want. By whatever means you like. I am staying.”

...and so instead, he reaches out to the Windblown in the hopes that they’ll once again keep his quest going, even as their actions and attitudes continue to undercut the ostensibly righteous and hopeful nature of said quest. We see that right from the beginning of Quent’s penultimate POV chapter:

The hour of ghosts was almost upon them when Ser Gerris Drinkwater returned to the pyramid to report that he had found Beans, Books, and Old Bill Bone in one of Meereen’s less savory cellars, drinking yellow wine and watching naked slaves kill one another with bare hands and filed teeth.

This fighting pit, an unofficial but not-so-secret alternative to Daznak’s, is a glimpse of the Meereen outside the rarified domain of the Masters. The black market sprang up as the sanctioned one shut down, and that the Windblown are taking part reminds us of the sellswords’ own analogous role in The System, straddling the line between a standard part of Essosi military coalitions and a wild card constantly in the position to upset the applecart.

That backdrop provides the thematic and emotional context for the decision Quent makes in this chapter. The hour of ghosts, indeed; the shadow city of alleys and cellars into which Team Quentyn descends in “The Spurned Suitor” is haunted, not only by those already dead but also by the deaths to come. As has been the case throughout Quent’s storyline, his personal struggles dovetail with (and are influenced by) the big picture of the Meereenese Knot. Just as Dany’s refusal obliterated the remnants of the “tale to tell our grandchildren” veneer, leading to Quent betting his life on a wild roll of the dice, so has her departure at Daznak’s shattered the pretense of peace, leading to the whole pot boiling over as ADWD comes to a close. Indeed, I’d argue that Quent’s quest and Hizdahr’s peace are analogous. They sound good on the surface, appealing to values we instinctively support, but quickly prove rotten underneath the gild, enabling the worst actors in the Meereenese Knot instead of righteous causes, before they both finally come crashing down at the same place and time in the Kingbreaker/Dragontamer two-sided setpiece. It’s all approaching the tipping point, personally and politically.

But as I said, what makes Quent’s chapters more than glum grim deconstruction is the extent to which the characters are aware of this tipping point, that the story is falling apart around them, and that’s made explicit in “The Spurned Suitor.” On their way to their fateful meeting with the Tattered Prince, Quent and Drink argue about the former’s plans, and IMO it’s one of the most important and profound passages in the series. Let’s break it down.

“ ‘The dragon has three heads,’ she said to me. ‘My marriage need not be the end of all your hopes,’ she said. ‘I know why you are here. For fire and blood.’ I have Targaryen blood in me, you know that. I can trace my lineage back —”

“Fuck your lineage,” said Gerris. “The dragons won’t care about your blood, except maybe how it tastes. You cannot tame a dragon with a history lesson. They’re monsters, not maesters. Quent, is this truly what you want to do?”

“This is what I have to do. For Dorne. For my father. For Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry.”

“They’re dead,” said Gerris. “They won’t care.”

“All dead,” Quentyn agreed. “For what? To bring me here, so I might wed the dragon queen. A grand adventure, Cletus called it. Demon roads and stormy seas, and at the end of it the most beautiful woman in the world. A tale to tell our grandchildren. But Cletus will never father a child, unless he left a bastard in the belly of that tavern wench he liked. Will will never have his wedding. Their deaths should have some meaning.”

Gerris pointed to where a corpse slumped against a brick wall, attended by a cloud of glistening green flies. “Did his death have meaning?”

Quentyn looked at the body with distaste. “He died of the flux. Stay well away from him.” The pale mare was inside the city walls. Small wonder that the streets seemed so empty. “The Unsullied will send a corpse cart for him.”

“No doubt. But that was not my question. Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths. I loved Will and Cletus too, but this will not bring them back to us. This is a mistake, Quent. You cannot trust in sellswords.”

“They are men like any other men. They want gold, glory, power. That’s all I am trusting in.” That, and my own destiny. I am a prince of Dorne, and the blood of dragons is in my veins.

We see here that Quent’s sunk cost fallacy has completely taken over his decision-making process. Because his quest has already gotten people killed, it must continue, or in his mind, they died for nothing. This is, of course, extremely relatable. We’ve all made decisions like this, albeit usually on a much smaller scale. No one likes to admit failure, everyone wants to attach some meaning to their losses, and we’re meant to understand why Quent is so helplessly mired in panicked desperation. I can fix this, I will fix this, oh gods please I have to fix this...

GRRM makes this decision easy to empathize with in order to sucker punch us with the larger revelation: the basic mechanics of the genre are designed to create precisely such a sunk cost fallacy. You are supposed to lose companions--that raises the stakes, heightens our emotional involvement, and challenges the protagonist both externally (how do I logistically complete the quest without that companion?) and internally (how do I soldier on in the face of that loss?) You are supposed to have a low point where you question everything that’s led you to this moment. You are supposed to take an enormous risk. You are supposed to, literally or metaphorically, tame a dragon.

In Quent’s case, however, we’re dealing with a Last Hero who never finds the Children of the Forest--or perhaps, a Last Hero whom the Children pitilessly watch die. As such, when looking at his arc as a whole, those losses and low points don’t serve to allow our hero to prove himself and us to revel in victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Instead, they are warning signs that our hero ignores. Quentyn’s story interrogates reader assumptions about quest narratives: why do we embrace such a narrative? What are we overlooking when we do so? What if the quest in question rips those assumptions limb from limb and leaves them to bleed out on the deck of the Meadowlark, in the ashes of Astapor, in that hellish pit beneath the Great Pyramid?

As far as what all this looks like to Quent himself, it’s made clear that what he’s relying on to save his quest (and his soul) isn’t anything intrinsic to his actions. He’s not counting on courage or ingenuity. He’s not even counting, first and foremost, on the Windblown. He’s counting on the story itself to save him, the elements of his narrative that would seem to demand he succeed: his princely heritage, his lost companions, the fact that he’s taking a big foolish romantic risk.

But as I said a few essays back, the story is in fact out to kill Quentyn Martell, and so Drink does what good friends have to do sometimes: tell you that you’re spouting BS. “Fuck your lineage” is GRRM speaking through Drink, launching a deconstructive nuke at the idea that your bloodline is what makes you The Hero. That holds true with the *actual* heroes as well, of course--one of the major themes of Jon’s story is that everything he’s learned and struggled with is what makes him a worthy savior figure, not R+L=J in and of itself. But it’s different with Quent because he doesn’t have a grand destiny, earned or otherwise. As such, he’s left alone in an existentialist void, trying to create meaning out of what’s befallen his quest.

And just as I wrote my series on Davos’s ADWD arc in order to talk about his letter to Marya, I wrote this series in order to talk about Drink’s response to Quent’s desperate plea to the gods that “their deaths should have some meaning.” This is a bold statement, I know, but: “Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths” is the closest we’ve gotten to an overarching thesis statement for ASOIAF. It reaches all the way back to the first book, to Ned (who, like Quent, turns out to not be the protagonist after all) and his shocking demise. So many readers have interpreted that moment, as well as the Red Wedding two books later, as being indicative of nihilism on GRRM’s part. Everything is chaos, honor gets you killed and is therefore worthless, “power is power.” But this is not so. Ned’s legacy is not his death, it is his life. The children determined to find each other again because Dad taught them to stick together and be brave, the vassals who have set out to rescue and restore those children in his name, the memory both in-universe and IRL of a decent man who treated his servants like human beings worth listening to and who was determined to protect the young and innocent...all of this is the meaning of Ned Stark, not that he ended up as a head on a spike. By the same token, the meaning of Tywin Lannister isn’t that he died on the can. It’s why he died on the can, and that is because he lived a terrible life. His legacy is his family tearing itself apart, his hoped-for Lannister regime falling to pieces across Westeros, and his oh-so-symbolic reeking corpse. One of these men, for all his mistakes, found and spread a worthy meaning in his brief time on Terros, and the other, for all his triumphs, did not. We are all mortal; all of us, “from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat,” are ultimately helpless before the abyss that Quent leaps into in his final chapter. No one (not even Euron, try as he might) can change that. What matters, what makes us who are, what means something, is how we live our lives knowing that in the end, the house always wins.

“Men’s lives have meaning, not their deaths” is also the first arrow in my quiver when it comes to defending the worth of the new characters and storylines in the Feastdance. Why should we care about the Martells or the “Griffs” if they’re just showing up now and will probably die before endgame? Because moving the plot along to book seven is not actually what makes a story meaningful. Lives lived make stories meaningful:

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had. I rose too high, loved too hard, dared too much. I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell.

And of course, Drink’s powerful words are GRRM’s message to us about how to think about Quent. Do not think that he meant nothing because he failed and died or because he was never going to be the protagonist, the author is saying. What matters is his life, the POV we have experienced and come to understand. He lived, he tried, he died. It is for us to remember him. I only wish he had heeded the lesson Drink was trying to teach him, before it was far too late.

Only with that why firmly established does GRRM move onto the what, knowing that the former will lend resonance to the latter. The plot of “The Spurned Suitor” concerns Quent turning in desperation to the Tattered Prince and his Windblown for help taming one of Dany’s captive children, despite having betrayed them. As the city simmers and seethes around them, the princes meet in secret.

The sun had sunk below the city wall by the time they found the purple lotus, painted on the weathered wooden door of a low brick hovel squatting amidst a row of similar hovels in the shadow of the great yellow-and-green pyramid of Rhazdar. Quentyn knocked twice, as instructed. A gruff voice answered through the door, growling something unintelligible in the mongrel tongue of Slaver’s Bay, an ugly blend of Old Ghiscari and High Valyrian. The prince answered in the same tongue. “Freedom.”

The door opened. Gerris entered first, for caution’s sake, with Quentyn close behind him and the big man bringing up the rear. Within, the air was hazy with bluish smoke, whose sweet smell could not quite cover up the deeper stinks of piss and sour wine and rotting meat. The space was much larger than it had seemed from without, stretching off to right and left into the adjoining hovels. What had appeared to be a dozen structures from the street turned into one long hall inside.

At this hour the house was less than half full. A few of the patrons favored the Dornishmen with looks bored or hostile or curious. The rest were crowded around the pit at the far end of the room, where a pair of naked men were slashing at each other with knives whilst the watchers cheered them on.

Quentyn saw no sign of the men they had come to meet. Then a door he had not seen before swung open, and an old woman emerged, a shriveled thing in a dark red tokar fringed with tiny golden skulls. Her skin was white as mare’s milk, her hair so thin that he could see the scalp beneath.

“Dorne,” she said, “I be Zahrina. Purple Lotus. Go down here, you find them.” She held the door and gestured them through.

Team Quent is going underground and behind the curtain in “The Spurned Suitor.” In terms of the big picture, we’re seeing a Meereen that Dany never even glimpsed from atop the pyramid. On a more intimate scale, this imagery reflects the scales falling from Quent’s eyes about how the world works. He never thought his quest would involve cutting ethically murky deals in back-alley parlors (again, it’s suddenly a noir story), but if he wants to keep going for his fallen friends’ sake, it’s the only avenue he has left. It’s worth noting here how Quent contrasts with his fellow Questers for Dany. Where Quent wonders why Dany would ever choose him “among all the princes of the world,” Aegon has never even considered that she would reject him, because he was raised in a Perfect Prince bubble while Quent was told out of nowhere to Go West East, Young Man at age 18. Tyrion, too, wanders the shifting political sands of Essos in the wake of Dany’s crusade, but at this point in his storyline, he finds it hard to care about most of it, so his bitter detached cynicism makes for another illuminating contrast with Quent’s grief and desperation. And Victarion...well, as I’ve argued before, his story is the black comedy to Quent’s tragedy. Vic’s doom is presented as a huge joke on him by his puppetmasters: Euron, Moqorro, and George R.R. Martin. There’s no tragedy there because Vic keeps rejecting the possibility for growth or change. He’s there to be laughed at, by us as well as the monkeys. But with Quent, there really was a worthy life he could’ve lived (as I’ll get into next time). It’s just not this one, this one-way ride into fiery oblivion, escorted and enabled by the Satan of Slaver’s Bay and his motley crew. Speaking of which:

An undercellar. It was a long way down, and so dark that Quentyn had to feel his way to keep from slipping. Near the bottom Ser Archibald pulled his dagger.

They emerged in a brick vault thrice the size of the winesink above. Huge wooden vats lined the walls as far as the prince could see. A red lantern hung on a hook just inside the door, and a greasy black candle flickered on an overturned barrel serving as a table. That was the only light.

Caggo Corpsekiller was pacing by the wine vats, his black arakh hanging at his hip. Pretty Meris stood cradling a crossbow, her eyes as cold and dead as two grey stones. Denzo D’han barred the door once the Dornishmen were inside, then took up a position in front of it, arms crossed against his chest.

One too many, Quentyn thought.

The Tattered Prince himself was seated at the table, nursing a cup of wine. In the yellow candlelight his silver-grey hair seemed almost golden, though the pouches underneath his eyes were etched as large as saddlebags. He wore a brown wool traveler’s cloak, with silvery chain mail glimmering underneath. Did that betoken treachery or simple prudence? An old sellsword is a cautious sellsword. Quentyn approached his table. “My lord. You look different without your cloak.”

“My ragged raiment?” The Pentoshi gave a shrug. “A poor thing…yet those tatters fill my foes with fear, and on the battlefield the sight of my rags blowing in the wind emboldens my men more than any banner. And if I want to move unseen, I need only slip it off to become plain and unremarkable.” He gestured at the bench across from him. “Sit. I understand you are a prince. Would that I had known. Will you drink? Zahrina offers food as well. Her bread is stale and her stew is unspeakable. Grease and salt, with a morsel or two of meat. Dog, she says, but I think rat is more likely. It will not kill you, though. I have found that it is only when the food is tempting that one must beware. Poisoners invariably choose the choicest dishes.”

“You brought three men,” Ser Gerris pointed out, with an edge in his voice. “We agreed on two apiece.”

“Meris is no man. Meris, sweet, undo your shirt, show him.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Quentyn. If the talk he had heard was true, beneath that shirt Pretty Meris had only the scars left by the men who’d cut her breasts off. “Meris is a woman, I agree. You’ve still twisted the terms.”

“Tattered and twisty, what a rogue I am. Three to two is not much of an advantage, it must be admitted, but it counts for something. In this world, a man must learn to seize whatever gifts the gods chose to send him. That was a lesson I learned at some cost. I offer it to you as a sign of my good faith.”

We’ve got a literal descent matching the emotional/thematic one, to make a foolish risky deal that will end up claiming our protagonist body and soul, with someone who’s lying and spinning right off the bat, his deceptively simple appearance hiding a cruel sardonic heart...so yeah, like I said, the Tattered Prince is the devil of the Meereenese Knot, the tempter-corrupter figure luring Quent into hell. “Tattered and twisty, what a rogue I am” is precisely the sort of way Satan and characters similar to him talk; they lie to you, and then they make fun of you for believing them. After all, Quent, you only got into Meereen in the first place because of the Tattered Prince’s deceitfulness...and because of your own.

The Pentoshi gave a shrug. “One thing I am certain of. Someone will have need of our swords.”

“I have need of those swords. Dorne will hire you.”

The Tattered Prince glanced at Pretty Meris. “He does not lack for gall, this Frog. Must I remind him? My dear prince, the last contract we signed you used to wipe your pretty pink bottom.”

“I will double whatever the Yunkishmen are paying you.”

“And pay in gold upon the signing of our contract, yes?”

“I will pay you part when we reach Volantis, the rest when I am back in Sunspear. We brought gold with us when we set sail, but it would have been hard to conceal once we joined the company, so we gave it over to the banks. I can show you papers.”

“Ah. Papers. But we will be paid double.”

“Twice as many papers,” said Pretty Meris.

“The rest you’ll have in Dorne,” Quentyn insisted. “My father is a man of honor. If I put my seal to an agreement, he will fulfill its terms. You have my word on that.”

The Tattered Prince finished his wine, turned the cup over, and set it down between them. “So. Let me see if I understand. A proven liar and oathbreaker wishes to contract with us and pay in promises. And for what services? I wonder. Are my Windblown to smash the Yunkai’i and sack the Yellow City? Defeat a Dothraki khalasar in the field? Escort you home to your father? Or will you be content if we deliver Queen Daenerys to your bed wet and willing? Tell me true, Prince Frog. What would you have of me and mine?”

You’ve been lying this whole way, to the world and yourself. What’s one more piece of wood on that fire? Again, though, it’s precisely that sunk-cost fallacy, the panicked certainty that it’s too late to turn back, that gets Quent killed. In so much of genre fiction, that “I started this, I have to finish it” drive is celebrated, even cast as the thing that makes you the hero. Here, it is revealed as a sad self-delusion that only serves to throw another body on the pile of the dead. Quent needs so badly to make his friends’ sacrifice worth it that he’s willing to sell out an *entire city* (namely, Pentos) to make it happen. The cynical world-weary Windblown are here to cut through that fragile narrative, telling Quent that neither he nor his story is special:

“I ask your pardon for our deception. The only ships sailing for Slaver’s Bay were those that had been hired to bring you to the wars.”

The Tattered Prince gave a shrug. “Every turncloak has his tale. You are not the first to swear me your swords, take my coin, and run. All of them have reasons. ‘My little son is sick,’ or ‘My wife is putting horns on me,’ or ‘The other men all make me suck their cocks.’ Such a charming boy, the last, but I did not excuse his desertion. Another fellow told me our food was so wretched that he had to flee before it made him sick, so I had his foot cut off, roasted it up, and fed it to him. Then I made him our camp cook. Our meals improved markedly, and when his contract was fulfilled he signed another. You, though…several of my best are locked up in the queen’s dungeons thanks to that lying tongue of yours, and I doubt that you can even cook.”

“I am a prince of Dorne,” said Quentyn. “I had a duty to my father and my people. There was a secret marriage pact.”

“So I heard. And when the silver queen saw your scrap of parchment she fell into your arms, yes?”

“No,” said Pretty Meris.

“No? Oh, I recall. Your bride flew off on a dragon. Well, when she returns, do be sure to invite us to your nuptials. The men of the company would love to drink to your happiness, and I do love a Westerosi wedding. The bedding part especially, only…oh, wait…” He turned to Denzo D’han. “Denzo, I thought you told me that the dragon queen had married some Ghiscari.”

“A Meereenese nobleman. Rich.”

The Tattered Prince turned back to Quentyn. “Could that be true? Surely not. What of your marriage pact?”

“She laughed at him,” said Pretty Meris.

Daenerys never laughed. The rest of Meereen might see him as an amusing curiosity, like the exiled Summer Islander King Robert used to keep at King’s Landing, but the queen had always spoken to him gently. “We came too late,” said Quentyn.

Interesting to note that Quent is pulling an UnKiss here, convincing himself that Dany did not laugh upon him revealing his identity and mission, when in truth, she did. That just goes to show how thoroughly he’s backed himself into a corner. “We came too late,” and so again, we have a Quent chapter ending with the Windblown enabling our hero’s descent. Of course, Quent is responsible for this decision--he came to them, not the other way around. I’m not trying to strip him of agency, as that would be a much less engaging story. But what I’m interested in here is how the failure of the quest, the shattering of the ideal, has led to Quent making this terrible decision. Here’s where GRRM’s existentialist-romantic take on the genre comes into play: Quent was taught to uphold and believe in certain norms because an ordered universe will reward him for it, not because following the rules is the right thing to do in itself. As such, when Quent’s quest proves over and over again that there is no inherent order to the universe, and as such no automatic reward, Quent loses all moorings; he doesn’t have that Davos/Brienne “no chance and no choice” ethos to keep him going in the face of the abyss.

And that’s why he makes a deal with the devil: it seems like his best option.

“I need you to help me steal a dragon.”

Caggo Corpsekiller chuckled. Pretty Meris curled her lip in a half-smile. Denzo D’han whistled.

The Tattered Prince only leaned back on his stool and said, “Double does not pay for dragons, princeling. Even a frog should know that much. Dragons come dear. And men who pay in promises should have at least the sense to promise more.”

“If you want me to triple—”

“What I want,” said the Tattered Prince, “is Pentos.”

And as always, making a deal with the devil lands our protagonist in fiery torment, condemned by his own folly. After Quent’s death, Barristan takes responsibility for delivering Pentos to Tatters, and come TWOW, I think Dany will fulfill the bargain after confronting Illyrio RE Aegon. Because a deal with the devil can’t be undone--it just transfers from person to person.

Indeed, it’s tonally appropriate that Quent’s quest climaxes not with him becoming the hero, but with him letting the devil back into paradise. One thing I noticed in this reread is how closely the form of “The Spurned Suitor” matches that of “The Dragontamer.” In both chapters, Quent trembles on the edge of the Void, wondering am I really going to go through with this, decides that he is, and this descent is promptly made literal. In his third chapter, he descends to the cellar to face the Tattered Prince and his cronies, sealing the doom that unfolds in his fourth chapter, in which he descends into the dank dark hell beneath the Great Pyramid to face Rhaegal and Viserion. One inextricably leads to the other; symbolically, the Tattered Prince is the dragonfire, the epitome of how Quent trying to “fix” his own story only serves to keep revealing how it cannot be fixed. This is your life, Quentyn Martell. You are not the hero. And just as with my second favorite character in ASOIAF, Stannis Baratheon, this revelation will be rendered in fire and blood.

#quentyn martell #quentyn in adwd #gerris drinkwater #the tattered prince #asoiaf meta #the windblown #meereen #a dance with dragons

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amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes · 7 years

Text

Royal Fit

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing for His Royal Highness, Ezekiel. My prompt is J-Jerry and I hope you enjoy :)

Word Count: 3,491

Warnings: None. Light language, little smooch. OC being totally dramatic (I love it)

Tags: @ezekiels-tigers @genevievedarcygranger

“Danni, you really should sit down and think this through.” his voice cut through your concentration and temporarily halted you from your task. Packing as fast as you could, clothes seemingly flew about the room as you tried to aim them at duffel bag on your bed. Luckily your room was small with only a bed and a desk with a chair so there weren’t any obstacles in your way. Well, except for the large man blocking your doorway.

“I’ve thought about this enough. I can’t stay here Jerry. I can’t it.” you spoke softly, trying not to unleash your anger at the gentle giant. Jerry had been like a big brother to you ever since he and Richard found you unconscious in a field. They brought you back to their home base, The Kingdom, and nursed you back to health. While Richard was nice enough despite being very mistrusting of you at first, it was Jerry who went out of his way to make you feel truly welcomed.

“Danni, please.” he plead, his voice starting to inflate and you knew he was about to start whining. “You can’t just go. Just packing up and leaving without an audience with the King is not allowed. It’s high treason-“ You spun around to stepped up to the man who was beginning to test your patience. You stood in his face, your face distorted in anger. Even though he was larger than you, he appeared to shrink under your dangerous glare.

“Treason?!” you shrieked. “I don’t give a good goddamn about that!” you threw your hands in the air dramatically for emphasis. “It’s because he’s all hung up on that bitch!” you spat the word out like its very existence was sour. Jerry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Please, listen. They were found, just like you. Morgan and Carol-” but you cut him off as soon as he spoke her name.

“Carol…” you mocked. “Sure, it’s all about dear, precious, innocent Carol.” you sneered, turning your attention back to the heap of clothes unceremoniously thrown on your bed. You huffed as you went about stuffing them in the duffel bag. Jerry sighed heavily behind you and you prayed he’d drop the subject and leave you alone. It was hard to admit aloud to him but the real reason for your anger was jealousy. Ezekiel had grown on you, even with his highly unorthodox behavior. At first it was off putting but after a while, you welcomed his unusual tactics and had grown to admire the man. For a while, he seemed to return your admiration but ever since Carol had come, you were seemingly thrown to the wayside. Your feelings were hurt but your pride would never allow you to admit it out loud. As you were cramming the last few articles in the bag, Jerry sighed exasperatedly and slammed his fist against your door frame. The sound startled you and you turned to face him with genuine surprise.

“Fine. You wanna go? Go. You leave me no choice.” he warned, the threatening edge in his voice shocked you as you didn’t think he had a dangerous bone in his body. You narrowed your eyes in warning; one you knew you couldn’t really bring to fruition with him and you hoped he wouldn’t call your bluff. His eyes darkened as he left the room and confusion overtook you. What was he planning? Blowing off his possible empty threat, you put the last articles of clothes and toiletries in the bag and slung it over your shoulder. Its weight causing you to sway backward a little.

Peaking out of the doorway, you surveyed the halls to make sure your path was clear. The last thing you wanted was another confrontation. Jerry had actually exhausted you and it felt as though your energy had been drained. The silence in the hallway was your indication that the coast was clear and you booked it for the door. The hallway was suspiciously empty despite there being hundreds of people in the community. A false sense of accomplishment surged through you and you took a deep breath, unaware that you had been holding it in. You opened the door to exit outside and came face to face with the Kingdoms guards. Jerry and Ezekiel stood right in the middle of their armed comrades, both wearing equally deep scowls on their faces. Richard had his gun aimed directly at your head while Stephanie had her gun fixed at your chest.

Red. That’s all you could see. The steady pounding of your heart thumped so loud that it was the only sound you could hear. You ground your teeth in frustration, the grating sound in competition with the thump thump thump of your heart. You couldn’t believe this. “He ratted me out?!” You thought as you shot icy glares at Jerry who returned your gaze with as much valor. After a few tense moments, Ezekiel stepped forward and pointed at you with his cane/sword.

“You dare defy the orders of an officer of my court?” he questioned, eyes wild. Your eyes flickered to Ezekiel at his declaration. You took the time to examine him. His light brown eyes set deep in his face appeared to shine as his salt and pepper beard and mustache perfectly framed his rich brown skin. His dreads, matching the color of his beard, draped lazily on either side of his shoulders. He was dressed in a simple black shirt that fit him well and showcased the muscles in his arms with long tan cargo pants that again flaunted even stronger muscles in his legs. A single, multi-colored feather tucked neatly into his hair above his ear was the topping to really bring out his eccentricness. If the setting were different, you’d be grinning like an idiot while staring at him lost in your infatuation. But this was not the time and place for you to be swept away by your crush.

Your anger began to boil over and you had to fight to keep your mouth closed. Seeing him face-to-face only steeled your resolve and you balled your fists. Richard shook his head at you in warning as his black chest plate armor moved slightly with the movement, his eyes flickering between his gun and you. You glared at him now, your teeth still grinding together. Of course you were angry but you weren’t stupid. Surrounded by a good six twitchy-fingered people in full armor and loaded weapons wasn’t the way you wanted to go. Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from Richard to Ezekiel who took a cautious step closer to you.

“What say you of your offenses? Do you deny or admit your guilt?” Ezekiel questioned, his voice strained from irritation. Sucking your teeth, you weighed your options. Deep down, you knew you’d be caught. You expected it, honestly. Maybe even a part of you wanted it. Would your departure affect him any or would he continue as normal? What was the outcome you were hoping for? Him to come running out to you, drop to his knees to beg you to stay and pledge his love for you? “Should have known better.” you thought bitterly as your eyes swept out the makeshift firing squad in front of you. Closing your eyes, you hiked the bag higher on your shoulder and braced yourself for the pending explosion.

“My offenses? Are you kidding me? I don’t have time for this.” you spoke as calmly as you could however the edge in your voice was present. Richard let out a very audible tsk and Stephanie shifted from one foot to the other. Everyone was coordinated in long sleeve black shirts, black chest guards and blue jeans. They’d actually looked pretty bad ass but at the moment, you didn’t want their guns pointed at you. Jerry didn’t have his gun drawn but instead had his battle ax poised in his hands, the weapon gigantic and all around medieval looking. It wasn’t pointed at you but his grip on the handle was tight. He continued to glare at you although it had softened a bit and you wondered if he even knew how odd he looked being the only one without a gun in his hands. Ezekiel stepped forward again, now within arm’s reach of you.

“You dare to defy-” Ezekiel started, his voice low but you raised your hand to cut him off.

“I’d love to sit here and play pretend but I need you all to get the hell outta my way.” you spoke while waving a hand absently, trying to sound nonchalant. A chorus of gasps was your reply and if not for the tenseness the situation presented, you actually would have laughed at their cartoonish expressions. All of their eyes went wide simultaneously and they looked back and forth between you and each other with inconceivable distress. Everyone’s look was pretty much the same save for Ezekiel. His face was unreadable and flat, brown eyes staring past you at nothing in particular. You had hoped for a rise out of him but no such luck. Your words seemed to have hit an off switch and your briefly wondered if you broke him. After a few more glances were exchanged between the guards, they turned their full attention to their stagnant leader. You shifted from one foot to the other as a twinge of guilt hit you. You wanted to hurt him, not shatter him. Sucking your teeth in resignation you reached out to place your hand on his forearm. The touch seeming to jar him from his trace, his eyes snapped back to you as he reached out and grabbed your wrist that was on him and suddenly he was moving forward while pulling you behind him.

“What the hell?! Let me go!” you yelled as you tried to jerk yourself out of his grip. His hold tightened as he opened to door to the living quarters and practically dragged you down the halls where you had just come from. As you made your way into the hall that held your room, you attempted to dig your feet into the floor hoping for any type resistance that you could use to help free yourself but the wood floors were no help as you slid over its polished finish. Once in front of your door, Ezekiel flung your door open and threw you inside before walking in and slamming the door behind him. The force of being tossed along with the weight of the duffel bag still on your shoulder threw your balance off and you stumbled onto the floor nearly missing hitting your head on the bed frame but your leg would not be so fortunate. The duffel bag had fallen off your arm and now lay at your feet and for a brief second, you stared at it as if it betrayed you by not somehow stabilizing you. You looked past the bag to see Ezekiel standing a few feet in front of your door with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet apart in a defensive stance. You struggled to stand, a sharp pain shooting through your leg. Groaning in frustration, you sat on the edge of your bed and rubbed your injured thigh that had probably hit against the bed frame or the table leg of the desk, you really weren’t sure.

“You didn’t have to manhandle me, you know. A simple ‘follow me’ would have worked wonders.” you spoke while shifting carefully to look up at him, sarcasm dripping from your words. You received no reply as Ezekiel’s eyes narrowed and every bit of him seemed to be wound tight like a coil. You studied his face for a retort but none came. You frowned at the silence and sucked your teeth again as you turned your attention to the now throbbing pain radiating from your thigh and down to your knee. His eyes studied you as you began to rub your leg from knee to thigh, the pain causing you to wince. As you tended to your leg, Ezekiel moved to stand in front of you and resume his stance. You held your breath in anticipation but after about a minute, nothing happened. He just stood there looking down at you, his gaze unreadable. You exhaled in annoyance and looked up at him.

“What? What are you looking at? HUH?” your voice elevating in frustration. “Are you gonna send me to the gallows? Have me beheaded? Or are you gonna put me in one of those big bull things-”

“Cut the shit Danni. Really.” Ezekiel calmly cutting you off. His voice was monotone and stern, lacking his normal regal jargon. Gaping at him in disbelief, you were completely taken aback. He didn’t break character often and when he did, you knew it was serious. Nervously swallowing the lump that formed in your throat, you looked up him as you fought to keep your face unreadable but regret was already flooding your mind.

“What was that little show about? Tell the truth and don’t bullshit me either. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.” he spoke again, his brows furrowed. Breaking eye contact with him, you began to fidget with your fingers. If he knew your little fit had come from an irrational moment of jealousy, how would he react? Rolling your eyes you met his gaze again and you bit your lower lip before speaking.

“Why did you pick Carol over me?” your question sounding more like an accusation. Ezekiel furrowed his brow deeper and tilted his head as if he didn’t understand the question. Internally you were beating yourself for losing your temper as you began to nervously twitch while waiting for his answer.

“I don’t understand what you mean. Pick her?” he asked slowly as if talking to a child. You grind your teeth in frustration.

“I’ve been here longer than she has but you’ve been catering to her like she’s your…” you trailed off as another lump formed in your throat. You swallowed hard, cursing yourself for getting emotional over something so trivial. You shook your head in defeat before you made a bigger fool of yourself. “Nevermind. Just forget it.”

“Danni,” Ezekiel spoke, his voice softer now. He moved to sit next to you on the bed and you shifted away from him. “I’m not gonna drop this especially with that show you put on. You have problems with Carol or something?” You could feel his eyes on you and you did everything in your power to fight the tears that were threatening to fall. Damn emotions. You shook your head again and as you went to scoot away from him on the bed, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders to keep you in place.

“I don’t have problems with her.” you admitted softly, still avoiding eye contact. You were sure that if you looked at him, you’d start sobbing and effectively embarrass yourself. Well embarrass yourself more. Your hand subconsciously began to rub your injured knee, the pain flaring. Ezekiel brought his other hand to rest on top of the hand you were rubbing your knee with and he moved his hand along with yours in an attempt to sooth the pain.

“Talk to me. Something is wrong and I wanna help.” Continuing to rub your knee, he didn’t look up as he continued to match your movements on your knee. The added pressure from his hand was welcoming and the pain had begun to subside. His arm pulled you closer to him and you surrendered as the last bit of the fighting spirit you had left fled.

“Do you like me? Not as a friend?” you blurted finally. His hand stilled on yours and you instantly regretted asking. It felt as if someone had punched you in the stomach and the air had left your lungs. You were about to stutter an apology and play it off to preserve what was left of your pride before Ezekiel’s laugh filled the room startling you. If the silence had hurt, his laughter was the final nail in the coffin. Offended and ego bruised possibly beyond repair, you nodded to yourself and attempted to stand up, using the edge of the bed as a crutch. Your knee ached in protest and you smiled bitterly as you thought about pathic you’d look limping away.

“No. No you don’t. Sit down.” he had caught your hand in his and had started to pull you back down towards the bed. Not having the strength to protest, you allowed yourself to be dragged down on the bed and you sat in the same spot you were in. Turning to face you fully now, Ezekiel smiled coyly at you. “I get it now. You’re the jealous type. For the record, nothing is going on between me and Carol. Sorry if I gave that impression. And I’m sorry for hurting you.” he reached out and resumed rubbing your knee. A pang of dread hit you and suppressed the urge to ask what he was sorry for: throwing you or him not realizing your feelings sooner. Afraid of his answer, you remained quite. You had already made enough of a fool of yourself, no more was needed or you’d really have to leave the community.

“Hey.” Ezekiel called softly, his hand settling back on top of yours. He allowed his thumb to run gently across your fingers and down to your knuckles. “I am sorry. Maybe,” he stopped and chuckled lightly. “Maybe we can start over. How about it?” he asked tilting his head to watch your expression. Rolling your eyes, you looked up him with a small smile. Throwing his arms around you, he pulled you in for a tight hug. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you rested your forehead on his shoulder. Taking the opportunity, Ezekiel placed a light kiss to the top of your head.

“You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re angry. Just saying.” you broke the hug to look at him before you both burst out laughing. Shaking your head, you attempted to break the hug but Ezekiel’s grip on you tightened. “You’re cute when you’re happy, you know that? Happy, mad, sad.” he continued. You looked at him suspiciously before rolling your eyes causing him to laugh again. “I’m serious, Danni. Everything about you is cute. Your eyes,” he placed a light kiss on each of your eyelids. “Your nose.” he listed before pecking you on the nose. You scrunched up your nose and smiled, the gesture gentle and sweet. “And how can we forget about those lips?” moving down to your lips, he paused as if asking for your permission. You smiled shyly and moved forward to press your lips against his lightly. As you were about to pull away, his hand moved to the back of your neck and held you in place. Deepening the kiss, he pulled you closer to him and rested his other hand on your injured leg. You moaned despite yourself and when you mutually broke the kiss, you both were breathless. As you both were about to lean in for another kiss, a light knock at the door disrupted you and seconds after pulling away from each other, the door opened slightly. Jerry poked his head in the door and looked around the room warily.

“Is everything ok, Your Highness?” he questioned, eyeing your close proximity. Ezekiel clenched his jaw in annoyance and you smiled to yourself at the scene.

“Yes Jerry, we’re fine.” he addressed the man. Pleased with the answer, Jerry nodded but remained at the door. Ezekiel narrowed his eyes at the man and cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?” he asked shortly. Jerry tapped the door handle lightly before continuing.

“It’s just that it’s time to feed Shiva and she won’t eat from anyone but you.” Jerry explained. Grunting as he stood, Ezekiel turned to run his hand over the top of your head before leaning down to plant a kiss on your cheek. From his position, you saw Jerry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Let’s go Jerry. Duty waits for no man.” Ezekiel exclaimed falling back into his kingly role. “Fair maiden, will you visit me tonight?” he turned bowing to you.

“Yes, My King. I’ll be there.” you responded, suppressing a laugh. With a wink, Ezekiel headed for the door and Jerry moved aside so the man could pass. Rolling your eyes for the umpteenth time, you allowed yourself to fall back onto the bed. You turned your head to see Jerry still standing there watching you. Sticking your tongue out to him, you offered him a shrug as he shook his head at you.

“He has no idea what he’s in for.” he laughed before closing the door behind him as he exited your room.

#ezekielabc #king ezekiel #the walking dead #twd

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