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#and the orange/reds of flame would kind Blend In and leave him without a strong Accent
enderspawn · 1 year
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slides bizly 20 dollars make the tattoos blue flames Please
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𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 // {fred weasley x ofc} preview
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As soon as his gaze slid down from her slender shoulders to her neatly folded hands, he saw it.
Her hands, he mused, were small and delicate looking and usually when they were at rest when she sits, are folded neatly one atop of the other. Like bird wings.
Now, her hands were anything but resting. They were slightly fluttering.
As if something ruffled their feathers.
Summary: Fred starts to see through the cracks on the mask she wears and realizes that it wasn’t just a mask... but a full suit of armor as well.
Pairing: Fred Weasley x Seri Waldren (OFC)
**Additional Note**: Face claim for Seri is Lee Ji Eun as Jang Man Wol
Warnings: Almost none except for a bit of slightly one-sided angst with a hint of enemies to friends to lovers as well as an ofc (but PLEASE give this a chance before scrolling past!!! I really worked so hard to get everything in place here! 🥺)
His eyes are a deep hazel like his twin.
However, Seri thinks to herself, staring at his side profile as he faced the fireplace, the flames casting a warm glow over his features, that in this light at least, they held a hint of mahogany in them. With the way that the light was catching in his eyes, she can see that it brought out the dark red undertone in them. She gives him a once over—steady gaze tracing his features from his hair to his eyes.
Orange.
Red.
Brown.
Like the fallen leaves that drift with the autumn breeze.
And before she thinks better of it, she is pulled into a memory.
Like the forest floor at that time when the sun was setting and its dying rays peeked through the canopy to shade everything a warm copper and bronze—the earthy smell of dirt with a hint of petrichor from last week’s rainfall; laughter echoing through flying swirls of leaves, recently scattered from a pile.
Mug of hot cider, freshly made, warming you up inside and out. Its warmth spreading from your fingertips to your head as its heady aroma of apple and cinnamon wafts up to your nose and fills you.
Pairs of strong yet gentle arms holding you—comforting you. A melody, sweet and tender as the arms you’re held by, drifts into your ears and lulls you with its lullaby.
Soft wool tickling your cheek as you nestle yourself further into the warm embrace, letting the song carry you over into a peaceful slumber. Here, you are content.
You are safe.
You are not alone.
You are loved.
And just like that, she is consumed. The sudden onslaught of the memory hurtling towards her like a tornado of broken glass, pieces of what was once a precious and tender reminiscence, now in shatters. Jagged, sharp edges were simultaneously slashing, ripping, and embedding themselves into her heart; threatening to shred through every soft layer of tissue to raw and bloody scraps.
She nearly recoils from the emotions that was all at once churning and burning her from within, fighting to keep the tempest within her contained. If she does not get a hold of herself…  
She. Will. Fall. Apart.
Seri instantly turns away from Fred and lets her hair fall to the side of her face like a black curtain between them as she attempts to silently reign in her tumultuous emotions.
Her companion hears a barely suppressed, sharp intake of breath and turns his attention to her. He finds her face turned away, seemingly focusing on a spot just off to the side of the fireplace. Or at least he assumes she was staring at a spot. Her long black hair effectively blocking off his view of her face.
Her figure was stock still except for the slow and methodical breaths he can see her quietly forcing herself to take. She still held the same posture on the carpet as when he came by the fireplace to sit next to her. Back straight, legs tidily folded underneath to accommodate for the sleeping gown she was wearing underneath her silk robe, and hands resting on top of her lap.
That was where Fred found the slight difference in the way she was holding herself. As soon as his gaze slid down from her slender shoulders to her neatly folded hands, he saw it. 
Her hands, he mused, were small and delicate looking and usually when they were at rest when she sits, are folded neatly one atop of the other. Like bird wings.
Now, her hands were anything but resting. 
They were slightly fluttering.
As if something ruffled their feathers. 
One hand still lay on top of the other but the other hand beneath was tightly curled into a fist. Its tightened grip causing her hands to faintly tremble. He had an inkling that if the other hand on top was removed, he would see the white knuckles she was making as she dug her manicured nails into the palm of her hand.
It lasted for only a moment and it was gone as soon as he saw it. As if she could feel his gaze on her, she took in a last deep breath and slowly unfurled her hand back to how it was. But it only took that one passing moment for Fred to know... that something was wrong.
“You alright, princess?”, he let out in a soft voice, his tone laced with concern.
She felt it.
Yes, she could tell he was worried over her. And not just because she was a born empath. No. She didn’t need to rely on that part of her to know that. His voice was—so gentle and soothing. Yet, it held such an intriguing blend of both boldness and apprehension to it that it didn’t want to make her pin the person who was asking under a glare of disdain. Usually, with the kind of rumors and reputation that garnered around her, there were mostly only two types of people in her life who would ask about her well-being with feigned compassion: reporters and suitors from highborn pure-blood families like hers.
One wanted to use her to stamp their name on the cover page of every magazine and newspaper.
The other wanted her hand in marriage for her wealth and, out of their archaic and medieval beliefs, to secure the continuation of their family’s pure-blood lineage.             
But both were attracted to her by their uninhibited ambition.
Both wanted a piece of her to claim for themselves.
The empath part of her can sense an oily power-hungry leech like that from a mile away, eyes closed.
Although now, the empath in her was sensing something entirely different from the red head beside her.
There was concern, yes. But there was also sincerity… genuine sincerity for her and—
Oh.
There it was. Buried beneath a bundle of his nervousness and the abrupt need to reach out to her...
Kindness.
It was kindness…
 And no. It wasn’t the pitiful kind of kindness that would be offered to her with condolences every time her parents’ deaths were brought up in every one of her mandatory but rare social outings. This kindness that she was sensing from him was pure and so unrestrained that it took her aback. Maybe even perturbed her a bit.
She was sensing this from the young man. The very same young man, who, along with his twin, would set off pranks to soak up the chaos they ensued. Resulting disruptive inconvenience and bodily harm to others be damned. Unapologetic and destructive, the two laid waste with their antics on and off the school grounds. Fred Weasley, one of the loud, cocky, and rambunctious devil duo pranksters of Hogwarts…
Was sitting next to her worrying about her well-being.
And Morrigan knows, with the kind of tempestuous and vitriolic relationship that they started off with—almost a week after she transferred from Ilvermorny, she’d never thought that he’d show her, let alone be capable to have this side of him. Perhaps, it was a good thing that she was already sitting down because reconciling these two sides of him was leaving her a tad disoriented.
Despite that… she lets herself welcome the feeling. She lowers her defenses a bit, letting its tendrils wrap around her senses in a warm cocoon. His earnest need to ease her out of whatever unsettled her—so honest and guileless, centers her while it melts away and soothes any residual pain that the painful memory left in her heart.
So different.
A/N: *tenatively pokes her head into the fandom* hey there! 👋 I hoped you enjoyed this “little” preview of my upcoming fred weasley drabble! I’m a newly minted fan so I wasn’t sure how my fic would fare among you older and OG fans so I decided to just post a snippet of it and see how many of you would be interested in my little project. tbh I wasn’t that into the harry potter fandom for most of my life. I did ofc watched the films when I was younger and ended up with a Daniel Radcliffe crush tht lasted up until I became a Hiddlestoner.
But other than tht I didn’t really consider myself as a potterhead.... until one rerun marathon film series drew me back into its clutches and not only got me to start reading the books but also gave me a newfound appreciation and love for the Weasley twins (especially Fred 😉). the twins deserved a better ending than tht btw. heck. almost half of the characters were done dirty by the end of the series 👀
Anyway, I didn’t expect to fall so hard for the twins considering the massive crush my 9 year old self had w/ harry potter lol. those sneaky twins really have a way of worming themselves into your heart without you ever noticing it! Now, it’s been almost two months since watching the movies and I’m still overwhelmed with all the feels about those two 😩. so this fic/drabble was sort of a cathartic release of all my pent up emotions for them. tbh this just started off with me just wanting to describe the aesthetics Fred was giving me but well... all my feelings spilled out. oops 😬
the title is based on a great song that I stumbled on YouTube called “It Takes A Lot to Know a Man” by Damien Rice and I think it fits the dilemma of Fred and Seri finding out that there’s more than what the eye can see with each other. but that’s enough of my rambling for now 😅. If u made it all the way here, congratulations! And thank you for checking out my fic! I really do appreciate the time you spend reading this as well as any feedback you can give 🙏 (the more detailed the better!) Please reblog/like if you enjoyed this as well! I really appreciate it if you could share this with some of ur friends/mutuals it really makes all the sleepless nights working on this worth it!
Also let me know if there are any grammar errors too (bc I’m def sure there are some floating up there) I’m more of a fanfic reader than a writer so this was a BEAST to get out for me!
P.S. I’m also planning to have a self-insert/reader imagine version of this and any future drabbles of this series in the future since I know how some people feel about ocs 👀
Taglist: @firewhisky-kisses @yourssuccubus (who expressed great support in helping me write this! Thanks, u two ❤️ I hope it was worth the wait!
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lordofcrowns · 4 years
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DRUNKEN SAILOR  //  ARCHIVE LINK
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Despite the encroaching night, the docks were still bustling. Burly workers milled about, sailors and merchants alike going about the last of their business for the day, the latter hawking wares and seeking to crack open the coin purse of any passerby they could convince.
This far north, the leaves on the trees grew a medley of color ranging from rich indigo to bright cobalt blue, now dusted with a sugary coating of peach and amber sunset lighting. Speckled between the deep blues were flames of orange, brightly burning street lamps that marked the way up the cobblestone steps from the docks into town. Thick clouds hung over the shore, tinged the same colors as the sunset, save one heavy grey cloud that threatened rain. A watercolor painting, all reflected in the mirror of the sea.
On a cliff overlooking the scene was the local inn and tavern. Oil lanterns and tattered banners swayed in the wind, beckoning travelers and locals alike inside, out of the biting cold. On an icy northern night like this, few could resist the comforts of a warm hearth, strong drinks, and good company.
[ MUSIC // AMBIANCE // ARCHIVE LINK ]
Unsurprisingly. The tavern itself was seething with activity. After all, any who were willing to keep the peace were welcome here. Many even hung their weapon belts at the door - trusting the town guard to see to their safety. Red cherry wood was stained purple, drenched in the shade of the cool evening. The building was old - a big, open space with two floors and several hearths, built of stout timber and set upon a sturdy stone foundation. Rugs covered the stone floor, thick curtains kept the draft out, and soft furs were draped over furniture.
In the center of the main hall, down from the ceiling grew one of the local trees, a great spectacle of vibrant blue foliage and inky black branches - limbs that stretched down and had been tied and trained to hold the many, many lanterns flickering brilliant gold and crimson through old, smoke-stained glass, that together made a chandelier. A blend of different tongues, all overlapping and fighting to be heard over one another, caused a din that made it difficult for the innkeeper and her customer to hear themselves.
“Iyrngybet… what you’ve given me here is not even half of what you owe.”
“Aye… that is the right of it, lass.”
The burly Roegadyn man awkwardly rubbed the back of his head and avoided the eyes of the innkeeper. The woman was smaller than him practically by half, but her no-nonsense air had him shuffling his feet and pouting like a schoolboy being disciplined. She sighed at him with rather evident disappointment, but did not seem angry.
“Well… I have horses that need grooming and stalls that need cleaning.”
The Hyur woman hardly had the time to finish her sentence before the brawny man was wrapping his arms around her and picking her up in a tight bearhug. Luckily for her, the rafters in the ceiling were high, so she did not risk hitting her head despite the way he twirled her around.
“Oh, yer a gem, Maude! A right gem!”
“Yes, yes…” Maude did her best to sound exasperated, but the laughter in her voice was palpable. “Put me down, please.”
“O’course.”
He very gingerly set her down, and the freckled woman brushed her skirt free of the many wrinkles the unexpected hug had put in it.
“I will expect you bright and early tomorrow morning, sixth bell. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly!”
Maude, the innkeeper and tavern’s owner, felt a good deal older than her twenty and six summers. A hyur woman with a sharp wit but a kind heart, she opened the tavern and inn to any who would keep the peace, and who agreed to comply with the local guard who watched her door.
Her dress was a layering of mismatched petticoats, cream linen, and an old, many times mended hempen bodice, laced haphazardly with fraying jute cord. Her auburn brown hair was tied back in a long, loosely plaited braid that reached her hip in total length, wrapped about her temple and tying underneath her long hair was the one fine thing she owned - a vivid blue silk sash.
As the tavern’s sole proprietor and the only staff she could truly afford, Maude had her hands full filling and refilling drinks, fetching dried meat and loaves of bread, and assigning rooms to the sailors and travellers as they came and went.
She didn’t mind, though - she liked to be kept busy, and in her handful of years living here, she had grown to love the town, the tavern, and its people. The majority of her customers were regulars she knew by name, the other sailors she vaguely recognized when they passed through during certain months.
There was, however, one figure present this evening she did not recognize at all. He was mild-mannered, unobtrusive - he spoke to the guard before entering and even agreed to leave his sword belt at the door. And much to her delight he paid his coin without hesitation, excuse, or flimsy attempts at bartering. He was garbed in a dusty matte black coat, layered over a simple leather doublet and creamy, low-cut white shirt. Brass buttons had been worn down over time, seams stretched and quilted lapels scuffed from wear and tear. He had introduced himself as a sailor, and he had the look of one. He had thick brown hair and one piercing, gold eye, the left - the right was covered with a leather patch, a relatively common feature amongst sailors. His skin was tan, the corners of his eyes wrinkled, but only in a way that really showed when he smiled.
There was little unnatural or unusual about the Miqo’te, save perhaps a certain lazy grace with which he moved and carried himself. As the evening carried on, she found herself paying him more attention. There was a brooding expression on his face, an almost alarming focus that furrowed his brow and tightened his jaw, that with a suave charm was instantaneously covered once he felt eyes on him. It took him no time at all to warm up to the locals and join in with the drinking.
He held aloft a full tankard, by nature of his height towering over most of his newfound company. He had a gruff, guttural, but still somehow charming singing voice.
“Hey ho, to the bottle I go! To heal my heart and drown my woe. Rain may fall, and wind may blow, But there’ll still be many malms to go! Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain, And the river that runs from hill to plain. Better than rain or a rippling brook, Is a mug of beer that brings me luck!”
This unfamiliar sailor had enough of a boom behind his voice that it filled the room right up to the brim, but even it threatened to be drowned out by the laughter and chorus of voices that joined in alongside it to sing the familiar diddy. A beat rose up, a mix of boots stomping against the wood and fists slamming into tabletops. Maude was sure she had never seen the tavern so full, or so lively.
Iyrngybet was perhaps the loudest and rowdiest of all those drinking, though despite this he always handled himself well. He was the friendly, rambunctious sort - even without the drink. And much to Maude’s relief, he and this new stranger seemed to get on rather well. They were clapping each other on the back and toasting tankards together between verses. The last note of the stranger’s song faded out to thunderous applause and hollers. The Roegadyn wasted no time then in striking up a new rhythm and bellowing out the words to a new ditty. Another popular song, an age old warning about pirates and thieves, the ones that come for naughty children in the night.
“My mother said he listens  My father’s seen him walk  Stay in bed, asleep at home  Be spared the slaver’s lock.
 With whip he’ll bind your ankles  Blind your eyes with sash and cord  And if you cry out in the night  Alone he’ll take you aboard.
 The slaver snake, he waits  With coiled whip and black clad hand  Beware the viper's bite, my son  Fear Captain Stacy's brand!”
Iyrngybet drained the last of his tankard amidst many cheers, and resounding boos for the pirate in question that the song had referenced.
“Haven’t heard that one since I was a wee child, eh?” A patron said to her as she refilled their proffered glass.
“Indeed,” She replied. “I fear much to his dismay, dear Iyrngybet ages himself by nature of his song choice.”
Though her feet ached and she longed nothing more than to sit down and enjoy a moment’s quiet, Maude couldn’t help but smile and readied herself to pour another round of drinks. At the very least, this stranger and his charm with the crowd made for good beverage sales.
Still, his charm left her with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She brushed it off as the excitement of having a new face in town, for after all - it was a rather rare occasion.
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Down on the docks, five score sailors were disembarking an unmarked sloop, leaving behind the now pitch black sea and heading up the hill towards the wintery blue forest, and the tavern itself. They moved swiftly and silently, light footsteps barely seeming to touch the ground they tread upon. They wore matching colors of black and gold, and not a word was spoken between them. Hand signals were made, and packs began to peel away, moving through the town and into the woods. All the while, that grey cloud still lingering in the midnight sky grew darker and darker. A storm was imminent.
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“Hail to you, good ser. If you seek accommodations for the evening, I have beds for rent.”
The Miqo’te leaned gently from one side to another, fighting to keep himself even slightly upright, before simply nodding. Maude bowed her head and made every effort not to smile at his drunkenness, lest the stranger take offense.
“A room is five-hundred gil. Have you the coin to pay?”
Before she’d even fully finished her question, the Miqo’te had set down a small leather satchel of gil on the bar. Maude pulled the coin purse towards her, counting out what was owed to her swiftly and returning the excess, as well as the pouch, to their owner. She tucked the gil away in the safe kept beneath the counter before straightening up and tossing her scarf back over her shoulder.
“Right this way, then…” Maude used a small key she kept on her person to open a wide, flat drawer beneath her bar, within which were nestled many similarly shaped keys. She selected one and extended her arm.
“I will show you to your room.”
The man simply nodded, pushing himself back a pace from the bar before falling in behind her. He wobbled precariously now and then, after a time deigning to reach his right hand out to trace fingertips along the wall in an effort to steady himself. They ascended a flight of steps, walking at a leisurely pace around the upper level of the atrium of the tavern, where the Miqo’te had to transition to leaning against the wooden banister to keep himself upright. Maude walked slowly, leaving her guest ample room to catch up without rushing him, and meanwhile glanced down at the still drinking and dining patrons below. Laughter still bellowed upwards towards the rafters now and again, but a few - like the Miqo’te she now escorted - were content to begin finding their ways to their beds.
Along the balcony of the atrium they walked, to the far side of the brilliant chandelier and blossoming tree branches, and down a hallway that provided some small shelter from the loud volume of the guests, was the available room she’d chosen for him. She unlocked it and pushed the door open, stepping back and meaning to hand off his key to him. But when she turned around, she could only stifle a small chuckle. He had stopped perhaps five fulms behind her, and was now leaning with his elbow against the wall, head nestled into the crook of his arm. She cleared her throat, swallowing her laughter before addressing him.
“Ser...?”
Maude’s voice trailed off as she noticed he seemed to be very quietly humming yet another drunken ditty. His mumblings could hardly be considered lyrics, but she recognized the tune as one of the ones sung earlier in the night.
“My mother said he listens  My father’s seen him walk  Stay in bed, asleep at home  Be spared the slaver’s lock…”
She smiled to herself, thumbing over the key in her hands and simply hoping the man would find himself just enough to make it to the room he’d paid for. His voice replying to her snapped her out of thoughts.
“How old were you the first time you heard that song?”
“Hm? Why, I suppose I was just a girl when I-”
Maude glanced back up towards him, eyeing him curiously. For perhaps the first time the entire night, she stopped and truly looked at this sailor. She noted the cleverness present in his face. The odd, unsettlingly crooked smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, the dangerous alertness visible in the one, glittering eye she was permitted to see. The way his body wasn’t shaking or swaying at all anymore.
He had been deceiving her all night. This man was not drunk at all.
Now that she was up close to him, Maude couldn’t help but squint at the way she could swear his entire presence seemed to flicker. His thick brown hair seemed to catch the lantern light in bright flashes of turquoise blue, the dusty brass buttons of his coat giving way to brilliant gold.
The longer she studied him, the colder Maude felt. But he just smiled at her, slowly straightening up to his full height. Having regained control of her tongue enough to stop staring dumbfounded, she took a respectful step back, once more offering his room’s key to him. It took every ounce of strength and self control not to stutter or give away her discomfort. She didn’t know who she was dealing with, or why he would lie, but it made fear grip her cold. She knew to be careful.
“You make strange conversation, ser. I think bed rest would do you well. If you need anything else, you need only ask.”
“Or perhaps you are like me.” Though she attempted to change the subject, the Miqo'te overrode her. “Placing little stock in such fanciful tales.”
He spoke slowly and softly, but this did little to dissipate the Hyur’s nerves. She realized immediately that this man had her backed into a corner, and out of the line of sight of the other patrons for the moment.
“Pray, rest easy.”
His voice was like a purr. A quiet rumble deep in his chest. It was as if he’d read her mind, or perhaps he had seen her eyes flick momentarily over towards the hallway behind him.
“I do hope you will forgive my belated introduction.”
Something translucent like scales seemed to ripple and fall from his body as the glamour dissipated. Brown hair instead shone a seafoam teal, worn long save for the short buzz on either side of his temples. The dusty, worn-in coat was now shed for a clean, elegant looking black and gold uniform. There was not a single seam or wrinkle out of place. Polished gold at his shoulders emblazoned with a calligraphic “S” denoted his rank. His hands were covered with a pair of oily black gloves, and adorned with gold rings. One such hand went behind his back, the other in front of him, as he gifted the innkeeper a formal bow, still smiling.
“Captain Cyril Stacy, a pleasure to meet you.”
The Hyur caught her breath a moment, eyes tracing over the man now before her, unsure if they could even be called the same person. As was quite common among some Miqo’te, his breeding was written practically in ink along every sharp line of his face, in his imposing silhouette and broad shoulders. And, despite his casual, perhaps almost jovial demeanor and the superficial camaraderie among the tavern folk earlier in the night, his voice had the immistakible, careless authority of someone wholly accustomed to being obeyed.
She knew the name, she knew the song, she knew the stories. She knew exactly who this man claimed to be.
“Are you mad, or brilliant?” She whispered. “Drawing attention to yourself all evening like that, my good Captain…” She spat his title at him with contempt crisp against her teeth, a mixture of mockery and disbelief. “Among my patrons there is no shortage of bounty hunters. Adventurers who would be eager to claim the prize you proclaim yourself to be.”
Cyril merely chuckled quietly and shook his head.
“You think me more reckless than I am, love. Your patrons will hardly remember the evening.”
Confusion was plastered all over the innkeeper’s face until she took a few moments to listen carefully. It was quiet. The laughter, the chatter, it had all died down.
“What have you done?”
Worry boiled over into panic and Maude picked up her skirts, shuffling sheepishly a few steps aside from Cyril. When he made no move to stop her or block her path, she darted back towards the atrium. She grabbed the banister and leaned over worriedly, taking in the disturbingly quiet scene before her.
A lucky few had made it to the comfortable, fur-draped chairs that surrounded the crackling hearth. The others dozed at their tables, slumped over with heads resting atop folded arms or even one another. A few of the most unfortunate simply collapsed, sprawled out over the bearskin rugs or slumped down in a heap against the wall. It was as if they had been put under a spell, none of them so much as twitched or shuffled in their sleep.
Heavy, slow footsteps behind her alerted her of Cyril’s approach, followed closely by his still quiet voice. As he stalked up behind her, he pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sides of his neck clean of the rum he’d splashed on it to make him smell intoxicated.
“Rest assured, they are not harmed.”
These were her patrons, her people - when they came to her establishment they were in her charge. That this man had so easily weaseled his way in and drugged every drinker was a thought both terrifying and humiliating. Anger boiled in her blood, and without thinking she whirled around and pulled her hand back to strike the man in the face. In the middle of her motion she seemed to realize what she was doing was unwise, and in that split second of hesitation, Cyril reached up and grabbed her wrist before she had the chance to slap him. He still spoke softly, even as he threatened nonchalantly to crush her arm in his grip.
“You ought to be thanking me. I may very well have rescued your floundering business from the softness of your heart.”
Maude grimaced and attempted to tug her arm away, to no avail.
“I beg your pardon?”
In one fluid movement, Cyril spun her around - holding her arm behind her as he marched her back over towards the railing. He reached his arm about her and rested his free hand on the banister while he directed her attention to the dozing patrons.
“Look at the sorry lot of them. Drunkards and beggars. Doubtless, some wretched sod lies in a heap behind the building, threatening to drown in his own vomit. Those that can stand up leave the next morning without paying what they owe, to return again the following eve. Such people are worthless if left to their own devices.”
Maude’s bright eyes darted from one sleeping form to another - Iyrngybet, Damien, Eliza, Ihri'a, Bardi, Oshonne… She knew them by name! They were her townspeople, her friends, her family. And to hells with it if they couldn’t always pay in coin! They paid her back in other ways, helping her tend to the establishment. To her, that was more than enough.
“Rapacious man! Does your black heart beat only for coin? A man drowned in the drink is more honorable than you’ll ever be.”
“Oh, my darling. You wound me with such harsh words. I am not an evil man. You should know...”
As he spoke, his hand left the bannister, gloved fingers sliding up to caress and curl about Maude’s bare neck.
“I do this for you.”
Maude snarled and wrestled herself free of the Miqo’te, scrambling a few paces away from him and whipping around to face him. Again, he made no move to hold her in his grasp, nor to stop her from wriggling free. And even as she glared at him with fire in her eyes, she was well aware her efforts to free herself of his hold were only successful because he allowed them to be.
“Wh-what in the world? How dare you insinuate I would do business with your kind!”
“Abandoned by an unfaithful husband.” The pirate began. “A beloved sister, dead so young.” He took a step towards her as he spoke. “Aging and ailing parents, to whom you send every small amount of coin you can spare…”
Maude’s heart was racing. How much did this man know? So beside herself with shock was she, the innkeeper didn’t realize she’d been shuffling away from him until her back hit the wall. He brushed her hair back behind her shoulders, tracing his hand along her cheek to her chin and tilting her face up to look at him.
“And a kind heart. One far too soft for business. But you need not worry any longer. I will look after you.”
He smiled softly at Maude, keeping his one eye on her as he brought his other hand to his ear just long enough to tap the receiver of his linkpearl.
“Move in.”
There was a bright blue flash of light and almost instantaneously a resounding boom as what was surely lightning split the sky above the tavern. The door to the tavern flung back on its hinges, the guard that should have been watching it absent from his post, as uniformed sailors filed into the building. Maude yelped and shrunk back in surprise. Through the glass windows she could vaguely make out the silhouette of a massive airship, shrouded in a thick, unnatural fog that it seemed to use as a cover, teetering precariously close to the cliff.
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And at the sixth bell of the next morning, Iyrngybet - like so many others - was nowhere to be found.
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iwillwalk500miles · 4 years
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Canonization
read on ao3, jaune’s pov
Time has always been difficult for you. You lose yourself, to training, to people, to the books you read—you lose yourself. It’s easy, slipping into the mold that has been created for you. Kind, but careful not to seem too kind, strong, but careful not to seem too strong. It’s easy, slipping into that mold—those preconceptions of people that you don’t even know—a winning smile and long awkward sentences, nothing that can be traced back to the rage that burns so badly inside of you.
You deceive all these people, with your eye-catching armor and flame red hair, you deceive them so easily—but you can never seem to bring yourself to consider that you might be a liar.
You remember sitting in front of the fireplace when you were young, watching the flames lick at the wood in rapid and smooth flickers of red and orange and yellow. You remember thinking of the hearth, the goddess of homes and love and family, the goddess who was kind in the face of a cruel and endless existence.
So time is difficult for you, because—though others claim you are, claim that you will be—saintly is not something that will ever bestow itself upon you.
And that’s that.
Except, no—that isn’t that.
You’ve tried so, so hard to be the hero other’s expect, to control the blistering anger inside of you.
That’s why it’s so funny, you suppose, watching as you send the boy with sunshine yellow hair (the boy who screams for you and begs for you and loves you) out of the courtyard, through the sky. It’s funny that you lost track of the time when you pressed yourself against him, it’s funny—the idea that you have swapped spots with him. 
(It’s funny because Joan was the martyr—calm in the face of her demise, and Achilles was the fury—blistering hot and burning everything in his path before he was struck down.)
It’s funny, you think wistfully, so so funny that you’ve traded places with him. It’s so funny that you’d forgotten to tell him that you loved him.
(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 
The first time you tell him you love him, it is quiet and dark.
There was a story he used to whisper to you, your love, a story he painted about a great warrior who fought and died and spat in the face of the people who wronged him. He whispered, eyes bright and blue, about how people would see him—Achilles—and know that they were better off throwing down their weapons than pursuing him. He whispered to you about there was only one who he would die for, only one worth saving—Patrocles—one who was kind where he was not, one who would deceive the world if it meant that his love would save the ones who would die unnecessarily. And he tells of of another, not quite a villain, not quite a hero—a man who'd dared to love and stole away a woman he was never meant for. (Except she wasn't stolen, because she wasn't an object, she was a person who'd made a mistake and fallen in love with a man who was better off called boy.) He tells you of Paris.
(You wonder if you will ever meet a Paris.)
You listen, eyes wide—watching as he tells you this story, watching as his words scream of worship and fondness and a passion you knew lay dormant deep inside his chest. It’s different from you, different from your fire and the whispers of the faceless god in the hearth that had always seemed to care for you when your parents were busy. You long for a muted kind of glory and a desperate kind of love, the type only found in tales of endless tragedy, and he longs for the opposite—a life of faith and duty and breathless easy endearment. 
When he finishes telling his story, his face is kind, and it differs from all the men and boys you’ve met before.
You ask him, silently, if that is what he wants to be. (You don’t know what you would think if he said yes, what you would think if he revealed to you that he wanted Achilles, but you do know that you would do all in your power to give it to him. Only him.)
He looks at you for a moment, tilting his head so that strands of gold fall into blue (like they sky) eyes. He smiles, and tells you that the hero—the one who was angry, the one who was fierce and blistering and strong—reminded him of you.
(It shakes you to your core, the idea that he could see Achilles in you, the idea that he could look past the persona you’ve created for yourself and see the fiery whirlwind of gold and metal and bravery that smiles when he bleeds.)</p>
You don’t tell him that the other person—Patrocles—reminded you of him. But you do look upon him, look upon his eyes and know that you love him dearly, and you tell him so with a smile and a gentle hand on his cheek, and ask him if he believes in destiny.
He startles, shaken, then shrugs and mumbles that he doesn’t know.
And all is well.
(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.)
The second time you tell him you love him, you’re whispering words of the hearth.
You tell him of the lightning, of the ocean, of the world of shadows and you tell him of the heavens and the green life that surround them. Then, quietly, because the only time your goddess is worshiped is quietly—you tell him of the first child born to a cruel father and fierce mother, you tell him of all the siblings that came after her, you tell him that she is forgotten and she doesn't mind, you tell him that she loves all, even those who would not speak to her.
You tell him that you hate her.
You tell him that you wish she was fierce, that you wish she would walk with her siblings, back straight and chest out—that you wish she could bring herself to say no.
Then you tell him that you love her.
You tell him that she unbelievably soft in a word of unbelievable cruelty, you tell him that she was born to be sharp, that she was made for wars—but that she decided she’d really rather stay home. You tell him that in a war against parents and aunts and uncles, she fought crueler than any other of her siblings because she knew love, and she knew that her siblings—the heroes and the warriors and the queens—would need her, and she made sure that none of them could ever forget it.
Then you tell him of her nephew.
With eyes of flame and a thirst for blood, with war and with his unquenchable thirst for conflict. With his cruelty and his quick temper and aggressive words. You tell him of her nephew, and how despite all these things, she loved him.
You tell him of her entire family, tell him of the minor gods and the major titans, of the giants and the earth and the sky and the monsters and the people made of clay. 
You tell him everything about you without telling him anything about you.
Somehow he understands.
And all is well.
(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.) 
The third time you tell him you love him, he whispers to you about his sisters.
He tells you of his family, he tells you how they love him, and how he loves them. It makes it hard for you to listen, not because of anything bad, just because you’d never quite seen him like this before—openly passionate and loving, and it makes it hard to hear his words when your eyes are so focused on his face.
He whispers words of honor, whispers words of war and sacrifice and duty—and you love him, you love him so deeply. He tells you these things, and you can't bring yourself to say anything back, so you draw him close, and makes sure that even if he doesn’t believe in himself, you always will.
His nose pressed to your neck, his hair tickling your face—it makes you wonder. It makes you wonder of a life you long to have, one of glory and love—but not the fame you already have. You want real glory, the type that makes it so people will remember your name for generations to come, the type that would never fade, the type that would have teenagers speak your name in whispers as the sun sets, the type that doesn’t hinge on the fact that you’re good and avoiding hits, the type that doesn’t say that you’re “the untouchable girl.”
You don’t know anymore how anyone could look at you and not see Achilles.
And all is well.
(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.)
The fourth time you tell him you love him, the trees have shed their yellows and reds and oranges, and he is looking at you with stars in his eyes.
It’s hard, seeing him look at you like that—like he loves you, when it is so clear that he will never, that he wouldn’t dare to love his hero, his Achilles. The leaves have turned orange and yellow, the sight making it harder and harder to look upon him. It lives in your chest, that raging inferno, that love and hate and longing that destroys you so often when you look in his eyes and pretend you see love.
(It is love and it’s shrouded by his worship, but of course—you don’t know that.)
You laugh softly, brushing his hair from his face and snagging a yellow leaf from his hair. He blinks, looking affronted by the piece of the tree above you—and this only makes you laugh harder.
You grip another leaf, pluck it from the branch that hangs above you, and intermingle it with Jaune’s hair.
He screws up his nose, and asks why?
Because I love you. You want to say. Because I love you so much and it eats me on the inside.
You say it’s because it blends with his hair, because it’s him—because it’s Jaune—and it may as well be a love confession.
Something flashes in his eyes, and he asks if it’s because you love autumn.
You smile, small and sad, and say yes. You turn to look away from him, to look at something other than the young man you’ve become so enamored with, and silently ask him if he believes in destiny.
For the first time, he says nothing.
And all is well.
(Except it’s not, because you walk up that tower to die, and you are all the better for it.)
The fifth time you tell him you love him, it is quiet and dark.
He whispers to you, tells you a story about a hero (a child actually) who had stood unmoving in her beliefs, who had seen that she was to die—and moved forward anyway. He whispers her name—Joan—whispers how her hair wasn’t sunshine yellow, whispers how her eyes weren’t blue, whispers how she was just a girl, a girl who loved and hoped and prayed—he whispers to you these words, quiet and sad. He tells you that she belonged to a tragedy, that her death was entirely avoidable, that the people in power (the old men) around her had seen her and seen nothing but a tool. And he tells you that she didn’t mind, he tells you that she moved forward anyway, and that the common people around her had seen her and loved.
You tell him she reminds you of him. 
It startles him, startles him more than when he’d whispered to you about the other hero, shrouded in flame.
You think of Ozpin, of his maidens, and how you had cursed him in your mind only once, and asked him what you had to do. And you think of the way that old man had looked at you, that old man who’d seen more than you’d ever hope to, and asked you to join him in his eternity.
(You wonder if he sees you as a tool, wonders if he thinks that you are someone you’re not, and realize it’s a stupid question. Of course he thinks of you this way, he looks at you and sees Joan , not who you are, not Achilles.)
And so, because you treat every night that you love him like it’s your last, you grip his shoulders and lean into him, because for the first time in your life you’re not okay with being someone else’s mold, because you know that Ozpin has asked for your life, and you’d given it to him without prompting. You grip Jaune tight, even as he wraps his arms around you and asks what’s wrong, you grip him tight.
You ask him, shaking and shivering, if he believes in destiny.
For the first time, he says yes.
All is well.
(Except it’s not, because you had walked up that tower to die, and you are not a better person for it. Because you are rage, an inferno and uncontrolled, and you hate that someone had asked you to be something you weren’t and you hate that someone had asked you to be something you were. You love Jaune. And he knows now, that’s all there is to it.)
You think of him, of his lack in destiny and his lack of belief and his lack of an always—and for a moment you are with him again, clutching him tight moments after he’d told you about the girl who had been kissed by a saint and had been martyred by the people she’d sworn to protect.
You ask if she believes in destiny as your vision starts to fade. Your Paris smiles, saint like and victorious and almost sad, and says yes.
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azaleablueme · 5 years
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T for the minifics? i lovedddd sharing a drink
Aaahh! Thank you @the-shiftiest-swiftie!  Btw this was such a difficult but fun prompt! I so hope you like it!
T: An Obscure AU (prompts)
Tiny Hermione loved nature, everything from the lush green grass to the colours that bloomed during the spring, and the brilliant shades of orange and red during autumn. The small garden in front of their cottage was picture perfect, trimmed precisely by her father, seasonal flowers growing in manicured little bushes around the perimeter. 
However, if she had to choose, she loved the little kitchen garden at the back of their house more. Her mother grew an assortment of vegetables in neat, labelled patches. But that wasn’t all. Just where their property ended, the woods began. Her father tended the hedge that marked the boundary separating their perfect little house from the woods. What neither of her parents knew, however, was that beyond the hedge was the place Hermione loved best in the whole wide world. 
There was a small, mysterious little gap in the otherwise perfect bushes, small enough for a five-year-old to pass through. 
The forest was by far her favourite place in the entire world, not that she had seen much of it, but her heart knew that there couldn’t possibly be anyplace prettier. Here everything seemed to grow in a riot of colours and textures, branches and leaves, flowers and fruits, lush moss-covered roots of trees that grew so high that they practically hid away the summer sun. The birds sang, and crickets chipped, and when the wind rustled through the leaves, they played music.
Here lived her best friend.
He came out of nowhere, his brilliant orange hair flaming like the rising sun, eyes blue as a clear day sky, skin white as snow,  tiny golden, translucent wings fluttering furiously behind him. 
He was a naughty boy and the first time she saw him she hadn’t liked him in the least. They were both three at the time, and he was rolling happily on the beach of the little brook that ran through the forest, giggling all by himself. 
“You have dirt on your nose!” she had blurted out, shaking her head like her mother did. Mum always said one should keep themselves clean. He didn’t seem to know. The boy with the golden wings had rolled his eyes at her before he came fluttering towards her, jiggling and bobbing up and down like he was just learning to fly, still unsure of the direction his wings would carry him. Once he was close enough, he watched her curiously, circling her - and pulled her pigtails. It didn’t hurt, but she didn’t like it. 
Much later he had told her that he was just surprised; he had never seen anyone without wings before. 
For reasons her innocent little heart couldn’t fathom, Hermione kept the secret of his existence all to herself. But every lazy afternoon was spent in the woods with him. Strangely enough, her parents never seemed to miss or look for her. It suited her just fine. 
As they grew older, she brought him books but he wasn’t very fond of them. He did like when she read to him though, so they sat under a very old oak tree, and she read to him, stories of the faraway lands and books of magical tales. He laughed and said magic didn’t work the way it did in her books. She didn’t believe him so he showed her. A little blue flower popped amidst the grass as he blinked. She tried blinking too and when she was upset that it didn’t work, he taught her a game. She would choose the colour and they blinked together, little flowers popping all around them one by one, small bits of magic really, for his magic was still not strong enough. Gold and red flowers would bloom all around them and Hermione could pretend she had worked the magic. They would run around together amidst the blooms hand in hand, and it would be the best thing ever. He would learn, he promised, learn well until he could make flowers bloom all over the meadow beyond the hill, flowers in her favourite colours. He would learn to make the birds sing, the plants grow, make snow drift down lazily like she loved- he would learn it all for her.    
The days passed and they grew older, her hair reached her waist in curls like tendrils of the vines that hung down their favourite tree, his wings getting stronger, strong enough to bear the weight of two, flapping behind him majestically, all gold and bright with a peppering of small, red stars all over. In all these years, the space in the hedge grew too, accommodating her always and surprisingly, her father who always tended it with so much care never seemed to know. 
She always found him waiting for her, and when he sat on the rock by the brook, she thought he resembled the marble statues of the angels in Venice, pure and flawless. He told her about his world and she read to him about hers. Years passed, the bond grew stronger still- two souls from different worlds blended together in ways even Magic herself couldn’t explain.   
It was her nineteenth year, sometime after the summer had ended when she saw another just like him. 
She was pale too but not like him. Her hair all light and straight, reached down to her waist, her wings bright and purple. She came after him, fluttering gracefully, laughter ringing in the woods like tinkling bells, and though she was a sight to behold, Hermione realised she didn’t like her the least.
“Oh, Ronald!” the girl giggled, flying around them. Her words seemed to be made of musical notes. “She is not one of us.” The notes were shrill, the kind that hurt the ears but mesmerising still.  
Hermione clutched her book tighter, glancing quietly at him, pleading. “Does it matter?” she asked, the question directed at the one who stood, his enormous wings folded behind him. 
“You don’t belong in our world!” the girl sneered. The high notes were getting unbearable.
“She belongs in mine,” he replied, blue eyes locked firmly on Hermione’s. 
The girl laughed. “Oh, you foolish creature! You dream of him! You don’t belong with him, you never will!”
Hermione looked up, the moisture leaking out of her eyes, an indescribable fear mounting in her. 
“Come, leave her! We have to go!” the girl announced, grabbing Ron by the hand, her wings flapping furiously but failing to pull him away.
“Leave,” he told the girl.
“You can’t stay with her!” she screeched.
“I can if I want to,” he replied.
“You don’t belong here!” the girl screamed at Hermione. It was still a musical note, but nothing like music- it tore through the quiet murmur of the forest, causing the trees to sway fearfully. 
“GO!” he roared and unfurled his wings, wide and strong, and suddenly all the noises seemed to cease. The girl screeched, there was no music this time only agony, and left, yelling words in a language Hermione didn’t know. But the forest seemed to understand, and they were scared.
“Go if you must. I’ll wait for you here, till the end of time if I have to,” Hermione told him. He stretched his hand to touch her cheek, leaned in as if to finally touch his lips to hers. Years worth of longing, or it could have been lifetimes really, burned through her. What was this need, this yearning? And where would it take her? She did not belong in his world- he didn’t belong in hers.  
“She’ll tell them and they’ll know you are here. If I kiss you like I have craved for years now, I’ll leave a mark, a trace of my magic, on your skin and they’ll find you sooner,” he murmured, sighing, longing dripping from every word.
“What if I don’t care?” she asked fiercely.
“I do,”
“I can’t leave you!” she pleaded, tiptoeing to meet his height, craving the trace of his magic he could leave on her lips. 
“No,” he pleaded.
“What’s the worst they can do?” she cried.    
“Take your memories,” he replied, lips quivering, “You’d never know about me…”
“NO!” she screeched, pulling herself away and then crashing back on his chest. Please… “There’s got to be some other way!” she sobbed, cocooned in his wings.
“I don’t know,” he told her, holding her flush against himself, “but I’ll find out, I promise.”
She didn’t see him for years. The hedge no longer opened into a wood but a quiet neighbourhood everyone was convinced existed forever.
….
Ten years later, one bright summer day, as she was walking back to the small flat she owned, she saw a familiar tall figure standing by the lamp post. His hair shone like the rising sun, eyes seemed to have been painted by the clear blue sky, and his fair skin was dotted all over with freckles. 
He looked human but she knew better.
Hermione ran like she had never before, right into wide-open arms that were waiting for her. 
“Ron!” she sobbed, encased firmly in his embrace.
“Hermione,” he breathed into her hair.
“I thought I’d never find you!”
“I told you, I’ll come back no matter what it took,” he replied, pressing his lips to hers. 
They couldn’t take her away from him now, or trace her through his kiss. 
He missed his magic for a fleeting second for he had always hoped to carry her in his arms as he flew, but in the end, Ron knew he’d trade his wings for her all over again if he had to….   
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blaxicanjester-blog · 7 years
Text
From a Prince to a jester ( Jester’s Prologue)
Keep running, keep running, don’t let them catch you. Aaron demanded at himself, giving him the will to keep going. He couldn’t let himself get caught. They’d kill him.  He knew he’d never be allowed back in hell. He didn’t WANT to be there anyways. That’s why he attacked Lucifer. Now every damned soul in hell was after him.
Aaron ran down the path he was told. The blood red, stone cavern that he was sprinting through lead to a portal back to earth. Out there the demons would never find him. He did a sharp turn around a bend, being careful not to crash into the stalagmites piled at the side. As he turned he was met by a group of Lucifer's soldiers. He turned around and saw the shadows of the people he was running from. The ones in front of him started inching closer “ You thought you could get away with what you did, you traitorous bastard.” said one as they all snickered.
Aaron gritted his teeth as he conjured his mallet that stretched farther than his own 5’5 stature. The mallet was jet black, making Aaron’s coal colored skin seem like a lighter tone than what it really was. He wasn’t gonna go down without a fight. He teleported behind the small group and struck the ground with a powerful swing. The ground shattered, broken chunks of earth fallen to the magma pool below. Aaron darted forward, continuing on his escape while the obstacle slowed down his hunters. He teleported down the rest of the corridor in hopes to create distance, but some of them could do the same.
Out of nowhere a wall of fire rose in front of Aaron, stopping him in his tracks, he turned to see of the generals of Lucifer's army. He snickered as one hand was smoking from the conjure of the firewall while the other held a flaming blade. The man’s red skin almost blended in with the colors of the cavern. “ I got you now young prince. I don’t know why you’d do what you did but you’ll have to answer for your crimes.”
   “Let me pass Grenadeel, I DON’T wanna fight you” Aaron stated as he faced the general. The oversized mallet looking heavier than it really was.
   “Sorry prince...I have my orders. Please forgive me.” Grenadeel said before swinging his sword and sending a wave of flames. He glowed with a orange-red aura, his eyes shined with the same color.
   Aaron swung his mallet and created a gust of wind to blow the flames away. “ fine,” he said with a hurtful tone “ I warned you.” he looked up at the general, his eyes and aura also glowed, but was a royal purple color. He dashed at the attacker and then disappeared. Showing up above the man, mallet up and ready to swing down atop of Grenadeel. Grenadeel easily deflected with a raise of his sword. “ Young prince did you think THAT was gon-” Grenadeel began to say before receiving a blow to the face with a giant purple hand,  Aaron’s aura. Aaron sent more fists at the general, as he did so Grenadeel easily deflected with balls of fire, even shooting one at Aaron. With a swing of his mallet Aaron hit the ball of fire towards Grendeel, teleporting to the side and making his aura latched on to Grenadeel’s ankles.
Grenadeel was trapped, absorbing the blow of his own fireball. At that moment Aaron closed his eyes, and created 3 clones of himself, all made out of his own dark matter, a black liquid that phased and solidified into whatever Aaron wanted. The clones all had mallets with them as well. Aaron teleported right to Grenadeel, the clones doing exactly the same. He cranked his mallet back, making it bigger and sending even more of his own demonic power into it “forgive me” he said in a quiet whisper before delivering a furious swing at Grenadeel’s head. The end of the high ranking soldier created a blast of flames, hurdling Aaron and his clones to the walls and ending the clones as well. All that was left was a black and red orb and a sword. Aaron groaned before getting up and walking over to the orb, picking it up and absorbing it within himself.
He sighed and looked ahead, the wall of fire was gone. He paused until hearing voices from behind. There was no time to grief he sprinted off once again and after another turn he saw it, the portal. It was an grey oval with the image of a small town. He teleported up to it and turned around, looking back as if having second thoughts. “ Fuck this place.” he said coldly before stepping through and vanishing within.
Several months passed since Aaron’s escape, and not once had he consumed a soul, this caused him to grow weak and if he didn’t do something soon, he wouldn’t exist anymore. He sighed, as he sat in an abandoned house and went through his options “ I’d have to kill a hundred people to get back to a normal state. I could hunt for a monster...but that would be too much and I ain’t strong enough to do that.” he thought some more and sigh. Suddenly he thought of one more idea “possession” he said with a smile. He just had to stay in whatever body long enough to get back to health, and the younger the better.
It didn’t take long to find a host. A small boy in town. Although the mom was annoying, with her screams and wails with every twisted thing Aaron did, it wasn’t that bad. He wouldn't be there for long though. As Aaron floated around the boy’s room, everything in the room was now on the roof, things were shaking and markings of hell littered the wall. It seemed as though everything was going smoothly, he was healing up pretty fast and would be leaving soon. Until HE arrived.
“ hello I’m bishop Fredrick. I’m here about an exorcism.” there was a tall black man at the doorway that was talking to the mother of “tiny Tim”. His blank look was as if he didn't want to be there, like this was just another job. The mother let him in and pointed to the boy’s room that Aaron resided in. Aaron darted to the back of the room. This was it, if he gets exorcised he’ll be back in hell and will most likely be killed.
Frederick entered the room Aaron resided in and Aaron tried to play it cool. Most of the powers Aaron possessed weren’t attainable while he was possessing someone. Aaron threw a couple books and toys at the bishop which he dodged with ease. “ I ain’t here to dilly dally. I got things to do! So lets get this over with.” Fredrick flung three projectiles at Aaron, pinning the demon to the wall in the same pose Jesus was on the cross. Aaron winced as he looked to what the bishop threw, Spoons..dipped in holy water. The demon began to hiss while the bishop started reading the exorcism with no hesitation. Aaron couldn’t go down like this, Whoever this guy was he was too good for his job. The demon had to do something, “ Wait, Wait! Please don't do this, I only did this cause I was weak, I promise I’ll leave.” Aaron pleaded, seeing no way out, he was pretty healthy now.
“You’ll just be inside someone else soon, and I’LL have to come back and get you again” Fred said in annoyance. He groaned, continuing with the exorcism.
Aaron groaned like a small kid being told no for something. “ Come OOOOOONNNNNN!!! I’ll do ANYTHING!!! I just don’t want to go back there. I’ll be killed there too” he gritted his teeth as thing started darting across the room, a demon tantrum.
Fred stood there, pondering on this. He needed more people for his plan, and he only had a wizard. “ Alright, leave that body and you can work for me…..FOREVER!’ Fredrick snickered at the idea and awaited the demons reaction “ you can be my….jester” He chuckled, A small gleam in his eyes.
“WHAT!?!?” Aaron was taken back by this proposal. “ Why would someone of the CHURCH want a DEMON at their side. You’re crazy” Aaron was at an uproar at this idea. But he needed to stay on earth. But why would a bishop need a demon.
“ That or exorcism.” Fredrick said pointing to his bible. He was amused with this and was actually kind of glad he came to this today.
Aaron couldn’t help but pause, taking the situation in and wondering how serious this guy was. Worse case I just kill him later. He thought and shrugged, crossing his arms and looked away “fine” he said in a low displeased voice. He was displeased with this  and without saying anything he left the boy’s body, reappearing outside the house and waited for the bishop. When the bishop came out he simply started to walk off. Aaron stood there for a minute realizing he had to follow. “ soooo what's your name? Mine’s aar-” Aaron began to say before being cut off by a raise of  the young bishop’s hand.
“ You are to call me Fred. As for your name, I’m calling you jester. Since that’s what you are to me.” Fred nodded to this idea, confirming that this was good. Aaron just looked at him shocked, opening his mouth as to say something till he saw the book then stopped and glared.
“ Yeah whatever. I don’t give a fuck lets just go.” Aaron said as he started to walk ahead. Not knowing what was in store for him at the hands at this man. He seemed off, different. Aaron was confused as to why, worried of what was ahead of him, angry that this guy had the nerve to do this, and anxious to see what happens.
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