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agent-cupcake · 3 years

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Leucoium - Sylvain Jose Gautier x Reader

Hey hello this is my half of the trade with @lightmyfireemblem and I know I’m late but what can I say? I’m terrible :3c This is utterly despicable, okay? Fifteen thousand words of mushy gush Sylvain Jose Gautier romancing. Some angst. Nothing weird this time. She wanted something specific with a winter ball and reader’s feelings, but I got carried away with doing set-up so everything would make sense. Forgive me.

It was springtime when you met him, the time of bloom and blossom in the town of Garreg Mach. You hid from your classmates and teachers alike among the flowers in the greenhouse, such an oddity after a lifetime in Faerghus. Less odd was the way you chased isolation in the fragrant sanctuary. A disagreeable, antisocial child. The youngest of three, a potential playing card in your parent’s deck of the social sphere. Nothing more. Even though you were only just teetering on the tremulous line between girl and woman, you’d long submitted yourself to the natural rule of your family’s cold definition. There was contentment in such a fate, comfort in playing hide and seek with life.

Until you were found.

“Hey there, beautiful,” Sylvain —a classmate and Faerghus lord you knew really only in passing— greeted you, pulling you away from your book. He stood among the flowers in the filtered green of sunshine drifting in through the glass, his hair and uniform stylishly messy and expression open and friendly. “I was looking for you. Not that you made it particularly easy.”

You looked up at the tall man from your book, confused and unsettled by being approached. If you weren’t the only one around, you probably would have told yourself he was talking to someone else as just cause to ignore the greeting. As it was, you couldn’t think of any real response. The level of familiarity he used to address you was jarring, uncomfortable. But even as an awkward moment passed of your confused staring, Sylvain didn’t falter. He was all confidence and smiles and bright, bright red. The kind of red that the goddess painted the leaves and berries of dangerous plants to ward people off, the kind that was best left to be admired from afar but never touched. And you were used to that type of spectatorship, to living behind a veil of reality where you could stay out of sight and out of mind.

Even so.

“Find me?” you asked after clearing your throat.

“The professor asked,” he said. “Y’know, if you keep skipping class, you could get in trouble.”

Although you had a variety of reasons why you hadn’t gone to classes that day, you doubted that they’d hold firm to any amount of questioning. It was childish of you. Unseemly.

With a sigh, you got to your feet. Strangely, Sylvain offered his hand. To you, the gesture registered as something like a threat. Not because it posed any danger, but because you understood what it meant and what was expected of you and the polite thoughtfulness of the offer. Rather than try and deal with any of that, you avoided it altogether, acting like you didn’t notice. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be bothered.

“Of course, I’d be more than willing to speak up on your behalf,” Sylvain told you, his voice hurried as if to ease your mind. “Me? I can take that kind of thing, but it doesn’t seem right to punish a delicate girl like you for losing track of time.”

You frowned up at him, holding your book tight against your chest and uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot as you considered him. Beautiful, he said. Delicate. Was this normal? How were you supposed to respond to things like that? The two of you were practically strangers, nevermind the glaring class difference. Although, it was not just class that separated the two of you. There was some social, deeply personal gap between people like you and him that couldn’t be defined by status or money or title, something that couldn’t be bridged. Couldn’t he tell?

Awkward, you shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Sylvain frowned. “Right… So, uh, do you like flowers?”

“I do,” you answered. Trying to ease the conversation into a slightly more comfortable place, you slowly added, “You don’t see much of them in Faerghus. Not like this, anyway.”

Even though your comment was simple, it seemed to energize Sylvain right back into a smile. “Right? It was kind of shocking. To be honest, I didn’t even know so many types of flowers could be grown,” he said.

You nodded, giving a faint hum of agreement.

“No matter how beautiful they are, though,” Sylvain said, not discouraged by your lack of response, “they pale in comparison to your beauty.” He paused before adding, “What do you think? If you and I were flowers, would we have a budding romance?”

It shouldn’t have worked. It was a terrible, terrible line. But it kind of did.

If it weren’t for your crippling lack of social prowess, you might have fallen for it. But instead, you ducked your head and cleared your throat and asked where the professor wanted to see you because you knew what you were and had no idea how to respond to such things. In so many ways, you were as fresh as the snow white lambs only just making their way into the world, as vacant as the breezy spring winds that danced over the surface of rippling water. Not because of your innocence, but because of your lack of experience. The difference between those two things was the value of either in a girl like you.

Did he know that? Did he see that?

Sylvain certainly backed off after that awkward first meeting, letting you run off with the disquieting sensation of eyes on your back.

But still, he returned. You had been hiding in the Knight’s Hall, making up on the homework you’d missed in class. Sylvain approached you with an apology for making you uncomfortable, which was unexpected and baffling. A few days later in the library, he sat down and struck up a discussion on literature. After that came an invitation to dinner which you declined. And then an invitation to tea which you accepted. After a certain point, you understood who he was and his rather damning reputation. Not that you really cared. Who were you to care? To judge? The gap between the two of you was impossible, but he acted like it didn’t exist. And you liked that.

Sylvain was your first friend. You wondered if he knew that, too.

Spring bled into the warmer season and, despite your glaring lack of social skills and suspicions that he was merely humoring you, the odd dynamic continued onward.

Summer’s end was wet and tempestuous. Congested hot stormclouds brewed above and pressed thick tension down onto the dreary frightened group marching their somber return to Garreg Mach from Conand Tower. The rain had stopped for a spell, mud squelching beneath your boots and the sound of demonic screeching echoed in the silence among your fellow students. Shadows encircled Sylvain’s red-rimmed eyes, his face pale despite the tan he’d managed to cultivate over the sunny season. He told you about the cruelty of a brother driven to barbarity by his jealous rage. He told you he shouldn’t care. He told you it was fine.

But dusk fell, inviting a forceful deluge, and Sylvain told you what hate felt like, what it was to cough up blood and loathing and wish to see yourself destroyed under its crushing weight. Beneath the pounding, pulsing, palpitating hypnosis of the rain, Sylvain told you about pain, and fear, and the destruction he’d inherited through his blood. He forced the words out through gritted teeth as if that alone could contain the simmering, seething disgust and scorn he held for the world that cultivated men like Miklan and men like him. You listened, just about the only thing you knew yourself to be good at.

By the time the rain stopped and the sun rose, Sylvain was shrugging the previous night away with a smile and apologizing for his behavior. He acted unbothered and laughed like everything was fine but the sound was too forceful and within the next two weeks he dated and broke up with no less than eleven girls. Something made sense to you after that, an understanding you’d never had for another person. You weren’t a spectator to him. With him.

Autumn drifted into Garreg Mach with the spun gold of harvest and scent of tanned hides from the hunt. Rotting leaves crunched beneath your feet, death and decay inviting the unraveling disaster that seemed to never end.

In a rare moment of quiet, Sylvain asked about your family. The casual curiosity stole your breath, made your eyes widen like a deer who’d been spotted by the hunt. It was, you knew, a pathetic story. Anticlimactic, pointless. But you told him. In the isolated cover of the library, you leaned your chin into the crook of your folded arm and stared with glassy eyes at the books stacked up in front of you and told Sylvain that you knew your parents didn’t care for you like they did your sisters, that sending you off to the Academy was a way to give you pedigree you’d never get from your own merits. You told him about inadequacy, and what it was to not be enough, and the way that words could be ground deep into the marrow of your bones until you stopped being a person and accepted an identity given to you by others because it was too difficult to try being anyone else. Sylvain put his hand over yours and told you that they were wrong about you, his lovely dark eyes filled with the compassion so many accused him of lacking. He looked at you like that and told you that he understood. And you believed him.

As surely as the sun would rise in the morning and the seasons would change, Sylvain became a habit of yours. The odd hours he’d help you study, the afternoons drinking tea together, the crystalline moments of having your life saved time and time again because you always found yourself in the bloody fray of the front lines, nearly suicidal in the surge of destruction. But Sylvain never called you helpless, or useless, or weak, or childish, or disagreeable and you knew the gap could never be bridged, but you liked the warmth of being near him, even if it was nothing more than fragmented charity.

“Why?” you asked once. It was cold and your breath misted in front of your dry lips.

Sylvain shrugged casually. “I dunno. I guess you’re just easy to be around.”

And that made you laugh. Honestly laugh. Because nobody had ever said that, you doubted anybody had ever thought that. You, disagreeable and antisocial and unable to hold a conversation or eye contact. Not you. But he sounded so genuine, so casual, like it was the truth. Somehow, it was the truth.

“What about you?” Sylvain asked. “Why do you like me?”

You looked at him and wondered. He was a strange man to be sure. Cruel. Cold-hearted in ways that should have made him unlikable. Flirtatious in ways that made you decidedly uncomfortable. Womanizing. Dispassionate about many things you’d been taught to place importance on. But that wasn’t it. Not by half. Nor was it that he was handsome, or smooth talking, or because he had a title or Crest. Those things —like the mountains or the moon or his red, red hair— just were. No. You stared him down and considered that question because you knew there was something that went deeper than any of that. Why did you like him? Because he had been kind to you. Because for some reason you couldn’t explain, he tried. Because, despite everything, he seemed to care. To understand.

You shrugged. “I guess you’re just easy to be around.”

Winter in Garreg Mach was, despite the tragedy, filled with excitement for the White Heron Ball. You were a poor dancer but nobody had really expected you to participate anyway.

So you avoided the cheerful party in favor of the chilly winter night, watching snowflakes drift down in careless little clusters. They were big and wet, but not oppressive or unkind. It was too warm in Central Fódlan for them to stick just yet.

“I thought you might be out here. Not too keen on parties?” Sylvain asked, the question playfully knowing. It didn’t surprise you that he’d somehow be able to find you. He had an uncanny ability for that. You nodded in response. Not put off by your lack of verbal response, Sylvain took the spot beside you to watch the snow slowly drift down from the velvety dark void of the sky into the calming halo of light. “Guess that’s not surprising…. Anyway, assuming you don’t mind my company, I’d love to stay here for a bit. I need to lay low for a little while.”

“Why?” you asked.

“The girl I’ve been going out with saw me dancing with another girl and made a big scene,” he said, frowning. “She accused me of cheating on her.”

“Were you?” you asked, giving him a sideways glance.

Sylvain shrugged. “Well, yeah, but I didn’t think we were serious enough for her to freak out on me like that.” He let those words settle before his expression changed, a mischievous smile forming on his face. “Anyway, enough of that. As long as we’re here, it’d be very remiss of me to pass up on the chance to ask the cutest girl in Garreg Mach to do me the pleasure of a dance.”

You met his eyes. It was too dark to see their steady sepia color, but the far off lights allowed you to see the way he looked at you. What would it feel like for him to hold you, his hand in yours, the other on your back? Twirling around in synchronized steps, close enough for you to smell him, to feel his warmth. You looked away.

“No, thank you.”

“And the chances of me changing that answer to a yes…?”

“Very low,” you responded with a resolute nod. “There’s not any music.”

“That’s fine, we’d be guided by the sweet melody of love,” he said. You didn’t reply. “That was a joke. C’mon, it’s just you and me here. Even if you’re terrible, nobody else will see.”

It was presumptuous of him to say that you would be terrible, but he wasn’t wrong. Nobody had ever accused you of grace. You thought about tripping and stumbling, messing up the rhythm, embarrassing yourself completely in front of Sylvain. The idea made your face hot, your stomach dropping and shoulders curling inwards. “No.”

Sylvain sighed. “Is it because of what I told you about the girls from earlier?”

“No,” you said, confused by the question.

“‘Cause I know how it probably looks, but I swear that it’s completely different from you... I guess I say that a lot, too,” Sylvain paused, frowning like he wasn’t sure how to continue that line of thought.

You weren’t sure if the idea of being “different” was a good or bad thing. Was it because he didn’t view you as a girl? Or because you were just friends? That was a good thing, wasn’t it? It made your heart ache a bit. It made you wish, just for a second, that you were better at dancing. Then you wouldn’t be an afterthought sought out when his other options were removed. Even if you were just one of the cycling girls he spun around, you would spend those moments in his arms being an object of desire. Fleeting affection, temporary happiness. Moments, as lovely and short-lived as the dainty snowflakes illuminated by the light. You wondered if that was what he wanted, truly.

“Does it make you happy?” you asked after a moment. “The girls, I mean. Dating, dancing. It seems like it causes quite a few problems for you.”

Sylvain looked at you with something like surprise at the seemingly random question, his stare becoming harder than before as he considered something. Finally, he shrugged, forcing a casual air. “It’s fun, I guess,” he said, his voice tight in a defensive way. “Why? You’re not about to start lecturing me, are you?”

“No,” you told him.

“Okay,” he said, his disbelief clear.

“I wouldn’t ever lecture you for what you choose to do,” you told him softly, regretting having brought it up at all. “You’re your own person… You deserve to take responsibility for your own happiness.”

“Oh, well… Thanks, I guess,” Sylvain said awkwardly, a beat too late. The silence crinkled like dry paper between you. “Um, anyway, you know what would make me very happy?”

“What?” you asked, glad for the change of subject.

“A dance with the cutest girl I know,” Sylvain said, shooting you a winning smile.

Cute. That was a word he used a lot. You weren’t sure anybody else had ever accused you of such a thing.

“Maybe another time,” you said, staring down at the paving stones, uncomfortably flattered. And you didn’t mean it and you were pretty sure Sylvain knew that, but he laughed and stretched his arms behind his head and didn’t ask about what you’d said or why you’d said it, letting the moment be.

And then the world shattered beneath the monastery.

It was the bleakest, coldest, darkest part of winter when Dimitri lost it. Edelgard marched her armies on Garreg Mach through the frosted freezing air. War consumed everything you had thought to be stable, shaking apart the walls around you. When you returned, home was not quite the home you’d known before leaving. Like you didn’t quite fit anymore.

Seasons turned as stubbornly as ever. Years passed, day by day, moon by moon. As the third daughter to an earl in Gautier territory, you stuck around during those years of war, your habit continuing to grow during the occasional visit to your far more powerful and important friend. He didn’t have much time for you, and that was fine. It was what you were, a pale shadow hiding in the places so nobody would mistake you for something more. And that was fine. You taught yourself strategy and politics and occasionally allowed yourself to pretend to amount to more.

It was winter, winter again, when the war campaign rallying behind Dimitri and Professor Byleth returned in earnest, ice beneath your feet and chills gripping your skin beneath your armor, numbing your fingers and toes. It was winter and you and Sylvain were brothers in arms, and that was fine. You liked fighting at his side, you liked sitting in the dining hall and listening to your friends talk from a chair in the corner and pretending that this was your life, that you could have this always. Even on the edge of death and despair. Even then.

It was springtime when Sylvain confessed, the few final days right on the edge of summer. Out of the snow and miserable bluster of winter warfare spring had emerged, the chill air warmed by a dahlia sun filtered through a gauzy haze of lingering wet mist. Five years had passed since Sylvain waltzed into the greenhouse, five cyclical, cynical seasons of horror and destruction. But to everything a season, and the rebirth was coming. A new world emerging like chicks from their egg, flowers from seeds.

The two of you sat in the garden near the dining hall, enjoying the changing weather over tea. You wondered how much had really changed, considering the way you felt compelled to avoid Sylvain’s dark eyes, constantly shifting in your chair. More and more you’d become aware of a certain type of tension between the two of you, an awkwardness you didn’t know what to call or how to handle. It was different from the friendship you’d fostered, but not quite. It made your stomach twist into knots, jumping with the pitter-pattering wing-beats of butterflies.

It had really begun after Dimitri’s coronation. Considering the circumstances, the party hadn’t been anything special, but there had been a feast. And some drinking. And even a bit of dancing. Sylvain had kissed you and told yourself that it didn’t mean anything because he kissed a lot of girls and he was drunk, nevermind that he had neither been with another girl that night nor had his voice been altered by the telltale slur of intoxication. But what other reason could you think of to explain it away? After all, he couldn’t mean anything like that. Not when it came to you.

Even so.

“Y’know…” Sylvain told you, uncharacteristically awkward. “The wars gonna end soon.”

“That’s true,” you said, keeping your eyes distracted by watching the wind dance among the grass and shake the tree’s leaves into a shimmery wonder.

“And I hope that, by now, you know that I… uh…” Sylvain trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. “Well, you know.”

“Know what?” you asked, put off by his shift in tone. “Is something wrong?”

Sylvain’s eyes widened and he scratched the back of his head, a nervous movement you’d noticed a few times. Not quite like now, though. Not with the way his cheeks were slightly pink and his body tense and eyes flicking away from yours. Usually, it was you who avoided eye contact.

“No! Of course not. What would be wrong?” he asked. “I was just wondering… Do you have any plans? For after the war, I mean. Or, I guess what I’m trying to ask is if you’re, y’know, seeing anyone?”

“I’m seeing you,” you offered after a beat. You knew what he was asking, but not why he’d ask. That made you nervous, your heart thumping unhelpfully.

“What?” Sylvain asked, his eyes wide. A second later, that expression of shock composed itself in understanding. “Oh, you mean… Right. That’s… not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Sylvain frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in something like frustration. “You’re difficult to read, you know that?”

“So are you,” you said under your breath, staring down at the toe of your shoe. Alliance merchants had come to Garreg Mach with all sorts of finery and wares, but you’d never gotten out of the habit of living in the hand-me-downs of your older sisters. These shoes had been nice when they were purchased by now they were old and worn and not quite yours, your feet not the ones to have broken them in.

You looked up at Sylvain, folding your hands carefully in front of you. “Obviously I’m not seeing anyone.” You hoped there was nothing bitter in your voice, that he wouldn’t pick up the ache you felt in saying it aloud. “What about you?”

“Nope, I’m completely single,” Sylvain said a little too quickly. A moment later, his shoulders deflated. “Actually, it’s kinda funny, I haven’t had much luck with girls recently... But that’s not what I wanted to talk about! See, I was just thinking. I mean, I wanted to tell you that I… I think this thing between you and me is… It’s good. I like it. I-I like you.”

You’d never gotten the trick to responding to such things. Praise, flirtations, whatever he meant by them, it seemed to always catch you off guard. Especially now, especially like this. Avoidance or honesty, you had to pick one. Eventually, you decided to go the way of honesty. “I feel the same,” you said slowly, hesitantly.

Sylvain smiled a big, goofy smile like he won something, looking at you like you were worth looking at. Like you were beautiful. He called you beautiful a lot, but it was just a word. A word without meaning, lots of things were beautiful without meaning. Flowers, snow, fire, all of them could make a person’s heart ache with their beauty, yet they could never last long enough for the word to stick. That look in Sylvain’s eyes, though, that was different. It made you feel differently, almost enough to convince you that it meant something, that you meant something.

“You told me a while ago that I deserved to take responsibility for my own happiness,” Sylvain said. “At the time, I thought that you meant that it was okay that I was doing the things I was doing. Chasing girls, being a good-for-nothing, just accepting that one day I’d be married off for my Crest. But that’s not what you meant, was it?” It took a second, but eventually, you remembered that conversation. So long ago now that it felt like another lifetime. In a way it was. Another life, another season. Undeterred by your lack of answer, Sylvain continued. “You’re pretty wise, you know that? Even if you say that you’re not.” He sighed, running his palms over his thighs nervously. “Anyway, I think you were right. And I’d like to do that. To decide for myself how to be happy, to decide for myself who makes me happy. And I realized... that it’s you. So… Uh… I don’t expect you to answer right away, but that’s how I feel. I just needed to get that off my chest.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You realized from a third person point of view that were you just sitting there, looking at him with a wide eyed, open mouthed look of shock and it was definitely not very attractive but you felt like you couldn’t move, like your brain had shorted out.

“Me?” you finally asked.

“Well, yeah,” Sylvain said, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t see anyone else around.”

Me? You wanted to repeat that question, ask it a million times until his answer made sense because it didn’t, not when he was talking about himself and happiness and what he wanted. Not you.

Looking at Sylvain, all you could see was the same attractive nobleman who came searching for you in the greenhouse with a grin and questionable intentions and a bad pick-up line, all you could see was the immeasurable chasm that existed between the two of you. Not status, not wealth, not title. Just you and Sylvain, the core of what you were and what you amounted to.

The longer your silence stretched on, the more concerned Sylvain’s expression became. It was a cute look. He always pretended to play it cool, like he didn’t actually care that much, especially when it came to girls. But he did. “Hey, are you okay?” he began to get up to come towards you, but you jumped to your feet, swaying unsteadily.

“I need to, uh, think. About this,” you said, the words coming out stiff and as stilted as you felt. Sylvain sat back, frowning. When he looked like that, you wanted to say yes, to agree, to throw yourself into his arms and beg him to smile at you like he had so many times before. You couldn’t tell if that desire was selfish or hopeful or idealistic.

“Yeah, I figured you would. That’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. Then, just as quickly, “Thank you. Goodbye.”

Sylvain said something more, but you didn’t hear it. You weren’t running away from him. Fast walking, maybe, the worn soles of your old shoes hitting the paving stones at a rapid pace. Why? You wondered that with every step. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to.

But you did.

It was only when you were secluded in the safety of the greenhouse that you realized how much of a fool you’d made of yourself. You realized something else, too. You realized why you hadn’t done what you wished you had and thrown yourself into his arms, informed by an angry little whisper that sounded an awful lot like the family who had cast you out to Garreg Mach to keep you out of sight for a time. Hiding in the muggy nook between exotic flowers, you knew yourself to be the disagreeable and unlikable girl you’d always been. You had told Sylvain once that he deserved to be responsible for his own happiness, but that didn’t mean you. Not awkward, strange, and occasionally even unlikable you. You were many things, but you weren’t a good tempered lady who could help him in his duties as Margrave Gautier, not someone worth loving. Not someone who could give him what he needed to be happy.

It was springtime, and the world was blooming.

It was beautiful, it really was.

In one of the last lingering days of late summer, you sought him out. The day had been long, longer than any other. But now it was over. For some strange reason, you couldn’t help but feel some regret for that fact. Edelgard was dead, her fallen body marking the end of an era, the tragically human final act of an age of titans and gods. A new age had begun. Looking half a fleeting ember, the victorious sun laid between heaven and earth, casting its last radiant gaze across a place on the cusp of change. Tomorrow, it would rise over a different world, bringing with it a new dawn.

The won city Enbarr was torn and ragged from the battle, heartache at every corner. There was a hollow, spectral feeling to the destruction. People had been evacuated from places like these, places where the damage was the worst. It was a ghost town now. Marching back through the complicated network of streets that had served as a battleground only hours prior wasn’t exactly what you wanted to be doing. Not really. You had already done many difficult things today, taken many lives. This wouldn’t be the most difficult, not by a long shot, but it weighed heavily on your shoulders. Your final task. After this, you could rest.

You found Sylvain in the wild, crackling air of dusk’s saturated flare at the edge of the famed Enbarr canal, blanketed in the golden honey light of sunset. Late summer in Embarr was overripe and damp, swollen with the saltwater dew from being so near the sea. The humidity was worse here, at the lip of the waterway. Congested condensation and a cloying, musty scent clung to your scalp, beading up on the skin beneath your clothes.

Sylvain sat with one foot dangling over the edge, the other knee bent to make an armrest. He had an uncapped flask in hand. Inches away from the toe of his boot, the water rippled and distorted with his reflection. Sylvain looked every bit the hero he was with that handsome, contemplative expression as he looked to the horizon. You sat beside him without asking, staring up at the approaching night sky and letting out a big breath you’d been holding for what felt like hours. Days. Months. Years, five of them in total. It was a very big breath.

“Hey gorgeous,” Sylvain said.

Your head tipped back to give him a sideways glance. Smiling, of course he was smiling at you. The summer had darkened his skin a shade or two, his cheeks and nose tinged pink from the burning, radiant sun. It should have looked off with the bright red of his hair, but on him, it just worked. His teeth were white against the tan, but you saw something beyond the attractive expression. The slope of his shoulders and furrowed brow, the cloudy distraction behind his umber eyes. Not to mention the alcohol you could smell on his breath. Sylvain had paid the price for heroism. You all had. Enemies, allies, friends —rivers could run with the amount of blood that had been spilled. Who had he been thinking of? Edelgard? Hubert? Dorothea? Sylvain and the lovely songstress had been close, all those years and years ago.

But maybe it wasn’t her, maybe it wasn’t the searing gash of fresh tragedy that drove him here. Maybe he drank to ease the ache of old wounds, a pain that most had forgotten by now. Miklan had been a black hearted and cruel man, but he was Sylvain’s brother, and he had been the first to die.

“Hi,” you said, meeting his smile with a small attempt at one of your own. There were times to point out his charming charades, to ask what it was that he had been thinking about, but not now.

“What brings you here?” Sylvain asked. There was a subtext there. A surprise. You hardly ever approached him, always waiting and hoping for him to come to you first. Uncertain, awkward, too frightened of rejection should you make your desires known. This was, in a way, almost like an echo of your disastrous first introduction.

“You.”

Sylvain blinked. “Oh? It must be my lucky day.”

Lucky day? You wondered about that, a tumultuous gust of emotion swirling in your stomach. The victory had been absolute. No large losses, none of your friends had died today. Yes, that was lucky. The people of Enbarr had readily accepted Dimitri as their ruler. Also lucky.

You looked away from Sylvain, towards the sky. The sun was quickly disappearing. So quick, taking the spun sugar clouds and tangy sweet hues of sunset along with it. It moved despite all your wishes, prompting the future onward without mercy.

“You look pretty cute when you’re lost in thought like that,” Sylvain said. “But shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

You blinked, snapping out of your thoughts. “What about you?”

“I am.” He held up the flask with a lopsided smile. “Want some? It’s good, I snagged it from the Imperial storehouse.”

You eyed it for a second before giving in. Dimitri would have yelled at the two of you. Well, no, he’d have frowned in disapproval. Ingrid would have yelled. But you took a swig of the spiced liquor and decided that it was fine. Faerghus had a lot of alcohol, but it hardly ever tasted good. This was good. It left a searing trail down your throat and into your stomach, twisting your thoughts up into a properly warm buzz. You took another drink.

“The war is over now,” you eventually said, handing back the flask. “But it’s not really over, is it?”

Sylvain hesitated before answering, the rushing water beneath your dangling feet filling the silent space. Stars were revealing themselves now, chasing away the day for once and for all. “It’ll take time to make things right again, but the worst is over. Probably.” He paused and you could feel him looking at you, his stare intent. “Why?”

“You said before that you care about me,” you said, unable to meet his eye while remembering that afternoon and all of the embarrassment that had come of it. “Do you, uh, do you remember?” “How could I not?” Sylvain asked. “Gotta be honest, it’s been a while since a girl ran away from me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, frowning. “I was… Overwhelmed.” To say in the least. Just thinking about his confession made your cheeks blaze and stomach churn.

“It’s okay. You get this adorable expression when you’re embarrassed,” Sylvain said. He was grinning, you could hear it in his voice.

Rather than panic by trying to figure out a retort to being called adorable under these circumstances, you thought about what it had felt like to kiss him all those moons ago. You measured the honesty behind the words of his confession and thought about the pain he hid so well from the world in a gnarled, terrible place in his heart. You thought about the secrets you’d exchanged and the many times he’d saved your life. You thought about the terrible person he occasionally indulged in being, and the wonderful man who existed despite that. You thought about Sylvain and the words came to you like the sweet nectar drawn from the dainty honeysuckle bloom. You wondered if you could really deserve it and the words came to you softly, emerging harsh and low, pulled out from your lips like poison from a wound.

“I really care about you, Sylvain,” you told him stiffly.

“Really? That’s good!” he said, grinning. When you didn’t answer, his posture wilted. “That is good, isn’t it?”

“Dimitri asked me to stay in Enbarr to smooth out the transition into a unified Fódlan.”

“And you said….”

“Yes.”

Sylvain let out a breath that was almost a humorless laugh, his lips turned up in a half-smile that didn’t at all meet his dark eyes. You felt your heart break, just a tiny bit. The easiest thing to do, just a few words, yet one of the heaviest tasks you’d performed all day.

“So… That’s it?” he asked.

You loved him. You had for a while. Loved him in all the different forms the feeling could manifest, you knew that with an oppressive weight of fact. A vicious whisper in your mind insisted that he couldn’t love you, that it was all a beautiful little lie. Pity, even. But maybe it was all fake and manufactured and the feelings he spoke of were meaningless because you were just that easy, awkward and strange and never quite fitting in, you made a perfect target for someone like him to swoop in and seduce and you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. But it felt nice and you couldn’t find yourself to care, or to blame him even if that was the case. Because it was nice. And warm. And lovely.

Besides, if it was true, if he was honest, then this was for the best anyway. He deserved better than what you could offer.

The sun was gone, the wild darkness of summer nights enveloping the two of you in an intimate cloak, a world of your own.

“Would it really be very hard?” you asked, staring up at the stars to avoid his eyes. “After all, I’m…”

No, you didn’t finish that thought. Not aloud. But you thought it —I’m me, and you’re you.

That was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? Sylvain wasn’t perfect, far from it, but he was far more than he thought of himself. He was strong and smart and caring and strangely considerate in ways people didn’t expect. He was the seductive dark heat of late summer nights, the cloying musky death and decay of autumn leaves beneath a crimson sun, and the destructive crackling blaze of a winter fire. To that, you were the cold shadow cast by a meek spring sun, a dotting of yellow headed weeds among a garden of gorgeous flowers.

And one day he’d realize he’d made a mistake. Was it worse to imagine having your heart broken by his honest and sharp tongue when that day came, or to be kept around out of his sense of duty or guilt? If you could believe that Sylvain cared for you now, that only meant that it would hurt both of you that much more later. The sour, disagreeable third child. Of all the things the seasons had changed, you’d never shed yourself of that title.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sylvain asked. His expression was wounded, an edge of defeat in his voice. Your shoulders tensed up, a knot forming in your throat. “You don’t believe me, do you. That’s… Well, I probably deserve that.” He sighed, a stressed sound. “Fine, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you that I’m serious this time, that I mean it. I’ll-”

“I do believe you,” you told him, cutting off whatever he was about to say. The water was dark, it’s inky surface winking with the faint hint of shimmering reflected light as it rushed past. You stared at it, trying to keep yourself under control. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“The right thing?” he asked flatly.

“I don’t want you to wake up and realize that you only cared for me because of the emotions of war, or because I’m convenient. I-I don’t want to be your mistake,” you said, practically glaring at the canal to remain steady. “I want you to be happy, and I… I don’t think that I can do that.”

“You already do,” Sylvain said.

That shocked you into meeting his gaze again, unable to find the words to respond. In the dark, the color of his eyes was lost. But his intensity was heavy and warm and as intoxicating as the liquor and you were drawn to it like nothing else in the world because the way he made you feel when he looked at you like that was incomparable. But you were just you. Awkward, strange, uncertain. Even unpleasant in so many ways. How could you truly believe you deserved to be looked at like that? Like you mattered.

“You’ll come back to Faerghus, won’t you?” Sylvain asked. “After you’re done here, I mean. His Majesty can’t ask you to stay in Enbarr forever, right?” Dimitri most certainly could ask that of you, although you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you wanted to return to Faerghus, Dimitri wouldn’t force you to stay. Sylvain didn’t seem to care about your answer, he likely knew it just as well as you did. “Right, so when things have calmed down here, you’ll come home,” Sylvain said, like that settled something.

Home. What did he think of as your home? The miserable cold estate of your father in Gautier territory? That no more sounded like home than Enbarr did. Perhaps you could continue work as an ambassador, or perhaps you would stay in the former Empire. Perhaps that would be better for everyone. Out of sight, out of-

“You will come back, won’t you?” Sylvain asked when you didn’t respond, his voice softer.

“Yes,” you said, unable to deny him that.

“Promise me something, then,” Sylvain said. “When you come back to Faerghus, you’ll give me a serious shot at proving to you how much I truly care about you.”

Your stomach turned over unhappily, nervously. What were you meant to feel about that request? Hope? Happiness? Guilt? Trepidation? In a way, you felt all of them at once, the sensation almost as overwhelming as the humidity. Once again, you wanted to say yes. You wanted to throw yourself into his arms and accept what would come of it.

The water rushed, bugs buzzing in the distance. You said nothing.

“C’mon, you wouldn’t wanna break my heart, would you?” Sylvain asked, his smile just about the only distinct thing you could make out in the dark.

“When I return...” you said slowly, considering it. What were the chances of that, you wondered? By the time you returned, the strange and faraway future, Sylvain would be Margrave Gautier. You couldn’t imagine him staying alone for long, not really. So it was a nice promise, pretty words, but no meaning. Just like beautiful, lovely, pretty, cute. Meaningless, without consequence. Another lovely thing to hold in your heart even when he’d forgotten all about you, a piece of treasure clutched in a dead man’s hand at the bottom of the ocean. “I promise.”

“Heh, you really know how to make a guy work for it,” Sylvain said, grinning like he’d won something. But it was just a casual, silly promise, nothing more. Even so. “It’s a promise, then.” He lifted the flask like a toast and took a hearty drink before passing it to you. It was almost like a kiss, your lips touching his by proxy. An innocent kiss, then, tasting of honeyed liquor and heat in your head and chest and head. A toast to a future you didn’t believe would come to pass. But you wished for it. You really did.

Autumn came later than it did in the north. Beginning with rippling waves of golden wheat and changing leaves, the infectious scent of fall harvest and drying earth greeted you each time you left the city. Not to be outdone, the vibrant infection of dying things and decaying earth crept into the streets of Enbarr, a velvety cloak fog sneaking into the streets. Fall hit Enbarr without the intense bite it had for Faerghus, which you couldn’t help but appreciate considering the amount of traveling your new position required of you.

It was difficult, you were hardly a politician, but you made it work. This was good. You needed to become strong. In a way, it was like setting a goal. You told yourself all the time that you could never be worthy of the promise Sylvain had made to you on that summer night, all the while working to become a woman who was. Strong. Beautiful. Self assured. Oh, you tried.

Sylvain wrote, occasionally. He told you that negotiations with Sreng were difficult. The leader of the country rightly had little trust for a place and people that had brutally annexed half of their land and only recently emerged from a terrible war. Oddly, being the victors made the position even more precarious, especially with the militantly nationalistic values the Chruch of Seiros had instilled within Fódlan for so long. Certain countries were willing to make alliances out of the fear, but others doubled down because of their worries that Fódlan could so easily ruin them.

Sylvain made no acknowledgment of romance or your promise, but there was something. The scent of his cologne that found its way into every envelope. The casual, loopy lattice of his handwriting. And the way he signed each letter, words you kept locked up tight in your heart. With love, Sylvain Jose Gautier. Forever yours, Sylvain Jose Gautier. Affectionately, Sylvain Jose Gautier.

You scorned yourself for the hope you felt. But you couldn’t quite kill it, either. /

Winter in the former Empire was as mild as the fall, all things considered. You didn’t even see snow until you ventured up into the former Arundel territory. Sylvain wrote less often. He must have been frightfully busy. Not to mention the difficulty of getting the post in or out of the snow-thick Faerghus. You tried not to take it personally.

Sylvain said, the weather there is probably nicer than here, it feels like I’m always cold these days. Cold and busy. Sylvain said, of course, it would be better if I could bask in the warmth of your smile. Sylvain said, Dimitri has decided to pick up the tradition of winter celebrations in Fhirdiad, any chance you’ll be there? Signed, Your devoted and freezing, Sylvain Jose Gautier.

You told him that you couldn’t. The nobles in the Empire were ready to crack at any moment, even a few weeks away would surely shatter the whole thing. Maybe next year.

Maybe. The word tasted like hope when you said it and you tried to keep your expectations in check.

Winter became spring became summer. Sylvain hardly ever wrote throughout the changing seasons, but neither did you. Too busy, too distracted, too forgetful, too frightened of rejection. Whenever you put the pen to paper, you found that all you could write was that you missed him. So much that it had become a terrible ache. Was that too selfish of you? Too terrible? You wondered if he had found a new love yet, if he thought of you. You wondered if he missed you, if he thought about you as often as you did him. You closed your eyes and pressed your nose to the heavy parchment that smelled of Sylvain’s cologne and dried ink and expensive paper and pretended for a moment longer that you could return to Faerghus as a woman who deserved to be at his side, that he would have you.

Autumn came again, the musty warm scent of sunshine on crispy yellow and red piles of leaves and sweet musk of death. The former Empire was finally becoming stable enough to free you from its clutches, the lords kept in check under Dimitri’s reign. Perhaps you would serve as an ambassador after all, Dimitri seemed willing to entertain the idea.

Winter descended a mild grip, bestowing a chilly kiss onto the city of Enbarr. No teeth, no cruelty. No snow. Although it was possibly one of the worst seasons to trek up north, you knew it was time to return. You had said maybe, but this was the goal you’d been building yourself towards all this time. You looked in the mirror and told yourself that you had changed throughout the year. No longer the disagreeable, antisocial child you had been. Even if Sylvain had forgotten his promise, even if he no longer cared.

Even so, even so.

The day had been short, shorter than most that you had spent in the mild climate of Enbarr. Comparatively, winter days in Fhirdiad were fleeting and freezing, the sun coming out just in time to wave goodbye. So many things had changed in the year and a half that you’d been away. Faerghus was a different beast entirely from the barren wasteland it had been. Trade routes had been established, relations between the former Alliance and Empire strengthened, and a certain feeling of life returned to the citizens. Fhirdiad was hardly recognizable, decked out in lights and wreaths in honor of the winter celebrations they were so fond of. Clean streets, rosy cheeks, playing children —you could barely reconcile the image of the city as it had been with the place that greeted you.

You had changed, too. Stronger, smarter, you had more perspective about the world. More confidence, maybe. Hopefully. By the goddess you hoped.

Many things hadn’t changed, however.

Until you were certain of your position and had a place to live, you’d taken a room in an Inn near the palace in Fhirdiad. It was cold and unornamented, such a stark contrast to the decadent rooms you’d taken in Enbarr. One thing you were at least somewhat certain of was that you hadn’t told anyone where you were staying. Despite that, barely an hour after you arrived, Annette and Mercedes towed an unenthusiastic Ingrid to your door. To get ready for the ball, they said, acting as if no time at all had passed.

With them, you didn’t feel as strong a need to prove yourself or the way you’d changed, the growth you’d achieved. They were quite unlike the sisters you’d grown up with, warm and kind and energetic. All the while tripping over themselves to inform you of everything you’d missed in the time you’d been gone, Annette and Mercedes styled you like a doll. “Ooo, you should wear your hair down like this,” Annette said, arranging your hair around your shoulders helpfully. “And I’ve got this shimmery eye pallet that will look great on you.” Mercedes dug through your luggage to find one of the many fancy dresses you’d acquired while living in the former Empire. “I think this dress matches the theme, don’t you think, Annie?” she asked. Surprisingly, even Ingrid joined in. Her hair was still short, but she applied makeup and donned a dress that showed an impressive amount of shoulder. Still, she rejected the lipstick Mercedes offered, saying that there would be sausages at the party and it’d get everywhere.

None of them mentioned Sylvain. You didn’t ask. It was nice to be around them again, to simply bask in their company. Making friends in Enbarr hadn’t been an option when so much of the court would have gladly seen you dead. Odd, you hadn’t realized how lonely you’d been.

By the end of it all, you couldn’t help but feel a bit vain. Yes, you had changed quite a bit. Where you had been a scrawny and awkward girl hovering between stages of life during the war, you were now truly a woman. Elegant and graceful. Peace had allowed your hair and skin to finally shine, given the proper attention that long war campaigns had denied. No longer living on rations and training constantly, your body was softer than it had ever been, filling out the dress. You put on a practiced smile and stood up straight and told yourself that it was natural, that this was who you wanted to be.

Snow drifted down in lackadaisical twirls when the four of you entered the royal palace ballroom. It was a place you’d only seen once, when Dimitri took the throne. You had strong memories of that night, ones that made your stomach dip and churn with anxiety. And excitement.

After being relieved of your cloaks and announced, you paused to take it all in. Built in much the same fashion as other Faerghus structures, there was a harsh, utilitarian cut to the grand palace ballroom. The low ceilings lent a bunker-like quality to the place, although you wouldn’t call it cramped, either. Everything was cut with sharp angles and little detailing. Most of the stone was smoothed and finished but not colored or altered. Despite the relative simplicity, the floor plan was expansive, giving the party goers more than enough space to spread out into the various nooks and alcoves. The dance floor, a rather new addition, was set on a platform on the far end, the band set up on a slightly higher platform beside it. Tiles on the floor were what truly denoted the inherent wealth and style of royalty. The Crest of Blaiddyd was the largest, patterned across the dance floor, but the major noble Crests from Faerghus were printed in other important spaces. It couldn’t be seen from the entryway, but a sequence of stained glass panels representing Loog’s war for independence was set behind the King’s table.

Ingrid broke off from the four of you, ostensibly in search of the buffet, but Annette took your arm. “We should go see His Majesty first! I’m sure he’ll be super excited to see you again.”

“Annie,” Mercedes chided. “I’m sure there are many people she’d like to see.”

“No, I’d love to see Dimitri again,” you said with a smile that felt somewhat weak. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to see Sylvain, if you were ready for that. At the same time, you felt like you couldn’t wait.

King Dimitri was easy to find. He cut a grand figure in his royal ensemble, mingling among the people with a genuine smile. His confidence in the role of king had clearly grown, his movements as easy in his gala finery as they were in armor, not to mention the way he interacted with people lacking the awkwardness you were used to.

He smiled and greeted you, even kissing your hand, and it was utterly genuine. Dimitri was as polite and kind as you remembered, but it was wrong. He looked at you and that blue eye didn’t linger or seem surprised, he saw no difference between the woman who stood in front of him and the nervous, awkward girl he’d celebrated with after the war. Only a year and a half had passed, but still.

“You’re here to stay, then?” Dimitri asked. You smiled, but it was strained. To stay in Faerghus, yes, that had been your plan. But why? To do what? You realized right then how silly it was to be wearing a face full of makeup and a gown, like you were playing an odd game of pretend. You wanted to be validated, to prove to them all how you’d grown. That you were worth something now.

“I am.”

“I’m interested to hear everything about the situation in Enbarr,” Dimitri said enthusiastically. His eye flicked behind you, a new group of people hoping to meet the celebrity Savior King. “Er, later, if that’s alright with you.”

“Yes, of course,” you responded. “Later.”

He shot you an apologetic smile as he bowed out.

You turned back to scan the ballroom and you told yourself that you weren’t specifically looking for a dash of bright red among the muted wintery colors because that felt an awful lot like hope. And that was silly. You had grown, you had changed. Childish promises were hardly a concern of yours, now. When disappointment struck your chest at the absence, you ignored it.

Instead, you set to work trying to find where Mercedes and Annette had disappeared to. Before you could stray too far, a familiar soft voice called your name. Mercedes stood beside the hulking figure of Dedue. “I was just telling him that you came!” she said, smiling.

“It seems that everyone is here,” Dedue noted. “I’m… Glad to see you again.” He bowed, stiff and polite. It didn’t necessarily shock you that he would regard you in the same way as he always did. Straightforward and famously terse.

“Dedue just got back, too,” Mercedes said.

“From where?” you asked.

“I was in Duscur,” Dedue said.

At your confusion, Mercedes added, “After Dedue left Dimitri’s service, he and I have been working on opening a school for the children of Duscur.”

“Yes, it is a difficult project, but a worthwhile endeavor,” Dedue said, wearing a small smile as he looked down at her. A private look that you didn’t quite grasp. “In any case, a great many things have changed while you were away. It must be shocking.”

“A bit,” you said vaguely, surprised by their behavior. Caught off guard. Awkward. “I’m going to go get a drink.”

“Of course, we’ll catch up with you later!” Mercedes said.

Drifting over to the buffet table, you saw that Ingrid was right about the sausages. The spread was quite grand, but you’d grown used to such foods by spending so much time in Enbarr. Maybe a little spoiled, as you couldn’t help but note that many dishes were missing. But your stomach was far too nervous to eat anyway, so you accepted a flute of bubbly champagne, sipping at it as you made your way around.

People looked at you, watched you, but none of it was quite like you wanted. Did they see you because of the way you looked, the ways you’d changed, or did they view you as an awkward introvert pretending at being a lady? Which, you wondered.

You saw Ashe at just about the same time that he saw you, your eyes locking and his face immediately breaking out in a smile. “I heard you were here!” he said enthusiastically. He didn’t look older, not really. His hair was a little longer, but that was it. It was the same Ashe who had taught you the names of all the flowers in the greenhouse greeting you with the same smile he always had.

You smiled and nodded, unable to think of any more elegant greeting.

“It’s great to see you again,” Ashe said. So genuine, it made you feel bad for being so bitter. “I wish I had more time, but-” His eyes danced around the crowd, looking for something. Or someone. “I brought my younger brother along to introduce him to everyone, but I’ve no idea where he might have gone.”

“Do you need help looking?” you asked, the words more polite than anything.

“No, thank you. I can manage,” Ashe said gratefully. “I can’t wait for us all to catch up.”

“Me neither.” Your smile was thin because you knew he certainly didn’t see you any differently. And you weren’t sure what it was that you expected, that you wanted. Only that the absence made you feel a bit hollow, like you wanted to retreat to the shadows and hide.

You found Felix by acting on that impulse. He stood by the wall, on the fringe of the crowd with a slightly annoyed look about him. He didn’t wear the current style of laid back formal wear with a militaristic edge, but a cape and coat and boots. They were fine and well maintained, of course, but little more could be said for the look. Despite that, Felix had a way of standing out, his narrowed eyes watching the crowd like he expected something to happen. Or maybe that was just a vain hope. “So you are back,” he said, turning to acknowledge your presence. His expression didn’t change, but his voice wasn’t exactly cold, either. You’d always felt a certain sort of understanding towards Felix. But that was probably why the two of you had never become very close, either.

“Try not to look too excited. I might get the wrong impression,” you told him, the vaguely clever retort coming out in a practiced way after the words had been properly arranged in your head. That made him smile. But there was no other reaction, no indication that he noticed the way you’d changed or the way you looked.

The previous song ended with a flourish, the next one picking up right on its tail. Laughter buzzed around the expansive room, conversation and heat filling the space.

“Do you need something?” Felix asked. He didn’t sound frustrated, more distracted.

“No,” you said. “Actually, have you seen Sylvain around?” you asked. And you tried to keep your voice casual, but something kind of cracked towards the end and you could hear the naked want in your voice which was all kinds of pathetic.

“No, I haven’t,” Felix said, seemingly blind to your slipup. Right. Felix wouldn’t notice that sort of thing.

“Is he with someone?” you asked.

Felix snorted. “I don’t know. Or care, for that matter. Why don’t you ask him?”

“If I could find him, maybe,” you muttered softly, although you knew the words were more of a cover for your nerves than anything. “What about you”

“What about me?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Felix eyed you for a second, his narrowed gaze unnervingly piercing. “Why?”

“Isn’t that what people normally ask their friends after having been away?”

“Probably,” Felix responded with a nod of understanding, but he didn’t answer.

“Right,” you eventually said, more to ease your awkwardness than anything. The person you wanted to be probably could have conjured up some way to draw Felix out of his shell, but you had no idea.

Instead, you bid him a farewell and ducked out. It was all so very anticlimactic. You’d been dreaming of the moment you’d return to court, confident and beautiful and desirable. But nobody looked at you like you wanted to be looked at, appraising you like you were worth admiring. It was like nothing had changed and that should have been comforting, but instead it just made you feel oddly weak. If you hadn’t changed in the way you thought you had, that took away the lie you’d told yourself so you didn’t feel so silly, the lie that you weren’t doing this for him. That you hadn’t returned because you were following the sweet trail of a promise made in the heady aftermath of battle and victory by tongues loosened with alcohol and intimacy ignited by the wild cocoon of a late summer night.

You wanted to be beautiful, but that wasn’t it. You wanted to be seen as beautiful. And worthy. Throughout the war, you had all remained in a half state of adulthood. Undeveloped and held back from moving forward until the war was over. That was why you had been unable to accept his proposal. One day he’d lose that mischievous affection in his eyes and you’d be left gutted and hollow and cheap. He’d realize you weren’t enough and leave you like a broken and useless toy. And things hadn’t really changed, not in the way you wanted them to have changed.

It felt like failure. Deciding to get some wintery air to calm yourself down, you abandoned your glass and reclaimed your cloak to wander outside into the garden. Most people opted to stay inside, but the weather wasn’t unmanageably cold. The tall stone walls kept the wind at bay, and the temperature wasn’t really so bad considering the heating artifices that had been set up in intervals along the paving stone walkways. You put up your hood to defend against the faint fog of the lazy snow. Mostly, though, you were just amazed by the sight that greeted you.

No flowers were cultivated at this time of year, most of Faerghus was killed by the brutal weather. To replace them, the garden was decorated with elaborate ice sculptures. Art was as rare in Faerghus as flowers were, making the sight a genuine surprise, but not an unwelcome one. It drew you out of your poor mood, giving you a much needed distraction.

Some of them depicted familiar scenes, frozen tableaus made to reflect scenes of scripture or history. Not just Faerghus history, either. All three nations were given spotlights among the icy sentinels.

The most interesting one, to you, was the ice Dimitri, standing double the height of the man himself with Areadbhar at the ready. Byleth had received similar treatment, the Sword of the Creator held high to fall on whichever unlucky individual happened to be beneath it. You wondered what the pair thought of such treatment, such deification. Either way, the sculptures were nothing short of breathtaking.

The arrival of a group of people urged you onwards, deeper into the frozen wonderland of stone and ice. It was colder as you got further away from the main plaza, the main sculptures grouped where they could be seen and admired. Darker, too, colors fading as if you were walking beyond the clustered beating heart of the celebration and into something else. Something eerie. You’d been too lost in empty ponderance to notice how far you’d walked. There weren’t any sculptures here, just ice molded into shapes to replace the empty flower beds, regular stone statues posed amidst the path. Just as you were about to turn around, the dark spoke.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that really you?”

Recognition hit you instantly like a sharp flash of late summer lightning. Even muffled through the wool of your cape’s hood, you knew exactly who that voice belonged to. Despite that, you had to turn around to be sure. Just in case. No matter how much you doubted yourself, Sylvain Jose Gautier himself stood behind you, wrapped up in a dark cloak that allowed him to nearly fade into the shadows. Only his face, as pale as you remembered, stood out in the magic light. He was smiling, shadows cast beneath his arched eyebrows and high cheekbones, his red hair both unruly and stylish at the same time. Although the finer details were lost between the darkness and distances, you were more than aware that your memories didn’t at all do him justice.

“It’s you,” you said, unable to think of anything more articulate. Even with as much as you’d anticipated this moment, you hadn’t planned for it, not like this. Actually, you weren’t even sure what you had planned for.

“Uh, yeah,” Sylvain said after a beat, grinning. “I hope you weren’t expecting someone else.”

“I wasn’t,” you said quickly. “You surprised me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “I’d have thought of a better ice breaker, but I wouldn’t want any of the mages to get mad at me for ruining their hard work.”

It was almost surreal. He was the same as he had been. The line was stupid, but it worked, it made your chest ache.

“Okay, I know. That one was terrible,” Sylvain said with a rueful laugh when you didn’t answer, scratching the back of his head. “Guess it’s kinda an off day for me… I didn’t know you’d be here. I mean, I heard that you were, but I wasn’t sure. Especially since it was so hard to find you.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Sylvain said. “In fact, I’m overjoyed. Although… I’d be happier if I could actually see your face. Don’t get me wrong, I love a bit of mystery, but I appreciate beauty much more.”

It took a moment to register what he meant, but eventually, it dawned on you that with the only light at your back and your hood up, your face was probably entirely obscured. “Right,” you said. It wasn’t exactly the grand reveal you hoped for, but it was still something. You pulled down your hood in a way you hoped didn’t mess up your hair. Trying to remain somewhat surreptitious about it, you turned slightly, enough to catch the light better. The air was colder without the buffer of the wool, but you didn’t exactly mind it.

“Wow,” Sylvain said, his voice soft, surprised. “You look beautiful.” He looked at you in the way none of the others had, his breathy voice quiet and expression stunned. Not in the artificial way of his flirtations, but something honest and fascinated. A moment later, as if coming to his senses, Sylvain’s awe turned awkward. “What I mean is that you look stunning tonight. Not to say that you never looked nice before! ‘Cause you did, er, do. You’ve always looked beautiful, but this is different. Good different.”

“Thank you,” you said, unable to keep from the spread of a slow smile across your face, a giddy feeling making your heart jump. Nerves, doubt too. But it wasn’t so bad.

“No, really,” Sylvain insisted, his expression earnest. “I almost feel bad for the mages who set this all up. Your mere presence completely devalues any piece of art. How could anybody admire something else when you’re around?”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you said after a moment of consideration, trying to deliver the line in a properly playful way. It must have worked, because Sylvain’s face broke out into another wide grin.

“You think so?” he asked. “‘Cause if you do, maybe you’ll do me the honor of touring this little exhibition together?” Sylvain held out his arm, one of his eyebrows quirked hopefully.

“I would,” you said, jumping at the chance to give such an easily presented answer and taking his proffered arm before you could talk yourself down.

“By the way, how’d you wind up all the way down here?” he asked as the two of you retraced your way back to the main plaza.

“I guess I was distracted,” you told him, trying your very best to keep your gait normal and not look at him. It hardly made a difference. Standing so close, you could smell the wool and tanned hide of his fur trimmed cape, the deeper musk of his clothes and the body beneath them, the leather polish of his gloves. It was intimate in a quiet, still way.

“That’s it?” Sylvain pushed, expectant.

You tried to figure out what that might be before giving up. “What do you mean?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he said. “I guess that part of you hasn’t changed.” Sylvain seemed pleased with that observation, but you weren’t. He was right, it was just like you to get wrapped up in your desire to isolate and your own thoughts and feelings. To isolate yourself.

Brushing past other couples, you and Sylvain walked and admired sculptures depicting Sothis creating the Fódlan. Serios with her sword held high, her hair and dress picked up by an unseen breeze. The Four Saints. Nemesis, the King of Liberation.

All the while, Sylvain was looking at you. The feeling was heavy even as you tried to avert your eyes onto the shining sculptures. They were marvels, genuinely, but you could barely see them for as hard as you were staring.

“Is everything all right?” you finally asked, meeting Sylvain’s eyes nervously. As much as you had craved it, you had been avoiding his gaze.

“Yeah, of course. It’s just… It seems like a waste to keep you out here all alone where nobody can admire you,” he said. “Then again, that makes me pretty lucky, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose,” you said slowly, “it depends on how you define luck,”

“Running into you?” Sylvain said. “I’d say that’s very lucky. Some might even say it’s fate.”

“That’s silly.”

“You don’t believe in fate?”

“No more than you do.”

“If it’s not fate, how is it that I seem to constantly run into you like this?” Sylvain asked, his voice and smile playful. “Face it, we’re fated to be together.”

You didn’t respond to that, trying to gauge how serious he was and coming up short of anything other than conflicted confusion.

“By the way,” Sylvain said after a moment passed, “what are you doing out here? You couldn’t have gotten dressed up like this just to admire the scenery all by yourself.”

“I was inside for a while,” you told him. “I said hello to everybody.”

“Except me.”

Did he sound a bit hurt? He was smiling, but there was an edge to his voice. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Really? Then you couldn’t have been in there very long. Are you sure that’s it?” Sylvain pushed suggestively. “You didn’t come out here to, I dunno, meet someone?”

“Obviously not,” you said carefully, holding just a bit more tightly to his arm. Not clinging, you didn’t want to think of yourself as clinging. “I’m known to be unfriendly and antisocial, it would be more out of character if I didn’t run away and hide.”

“I don’t think you’re that bad,” Sylvain said, either not picking up on your self deprecating tone or ignoring it. “Felix definitely has you beat in that regard. He’s completely hopeless.”

“If he wore a dress you wouldn’t think I was any better,” you responded, making a valiant attempt at teasing him to avoid giving in to your self pity.

It worked. Sylvain looked down at you like he was shocked, at a loss for words. “You have changed,” he said dramatically. “Ouch. You leave for a year and suddenly you know just where to hit me where it hurts. Did Ingrid tell you about that?”

“I’m just saying,” you said, skirting around that question, “that you’re biased when it comes to girls. And other feminine individuals.”

“Well, maybe,” Sylvain allowed. “But not about you. I pride myself on having enough personal experience to know firsthand how cute and charming you can be.”

“What is strange,” you said, forcing the conversation onward to ignore the way he made your stomach buzz with thousands of little butterfly wings, “is that you’re out here. Unless you’re meeting someone.”

“I was,” Sylvain said, “but I already found the girl I was looking for,”

You didn’t know what to say to that, all of your quips and clever retorts running dry, a dizzy intoxicated sort of feeling rising up into your head. Rather than answer, you pretended to be very interested in a sculpture of an eagle. It stared down at you with beady and judgmental icy eyes, it’s wings folded and posture regal.

“Anyway,” Sylvain continued, “I’ve heard that you’re in Faerghus to stay.”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” you responded.

“You know, I was prepared to wait way longer,” Sylvain casually noted as you continued down the line of sculptures to a lion cast in ice, his mouth forever fixed in an intimidating roar. “I had an image in my head of how I’d try to woo you as an old man. I figure that I’ll be one of those graceful old grandpas who uses a fancy walking stick and everything. Obviously, you’ll age very gracefully. Probably would have had to get the ring resized for your old lady hand, though.”

Your heart thumped, the palpitation hard enough to make your head spin.

“Um… What?” you asked in a faint voice, your arm going limp and releasing his as you stopped in your tracks. Sylvain hesitated, his feet brushing against the stone as he half turned towards you.

“Don’t you remember?” Sylvain asked, confused. “The night that the war ended, we made a promise.”

“I remember,” you said, swallowing down a lump in your throat.

“Great! So, uh, where do you think I should begin?”

“Begin what?” you asked dumbly.

His eyes narrowed, a frustrated glare that accused you of being purposefully obstinate. “Wooing you? Y’know, proving the extent of my undying love and all that.”

“Oh, that,” you said, your stomach dropping and a cold breath catching in your throat.

“Yeah, that,” he echoed, his confidence fading a bit. “If this your way of politely rejecting me, it’s okay to just say it outright. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”

Winter’s unyielding touch pierced the bubble created by walls and warmth, a draft of cold air teasing your hair, slipping beneath your cloak and making you shiver. Snowflakes settled in Sylvain’s messy hair, sparkling as they caught the light.

“I don’t have anything to offer you, Sylvain,” you told him after it passed, your eyes flicking away from his to stare hard at the lion’s icy maw to keep your eyes from stinging. “I thought that if I took some time and tried, I could. I wanted to, but coming back here and everything… I am what I am.”

“And I wouldn't want you to be any different,” Sylvain said. From your periphery, you could see that he was frowning, his brow furrowed in concern. “What do you think you don’t have that I want… Or.. Or expect? I don’t mean to be crude, but I could get almost any girl I wanted. At the very least, she’d be compelled to marry me because of my-”

“Crest and title,” you filled in, your voice flat.

His lips quirked up like that was a funny thing to say, but his eyes didn’t change. “Yeah, that. I mean, that’s how it is, right? That’s the person I’ve always been told I was. The fate I accepted. Until I met you. You showed me that I can be more than that. And this past year…” He laughed dryly, a gloved hand brushing the snow from his hair nervously. “Well, to be honest, it’s been pretty miserable. But it made me think even harder about myself and about what I wanted. I’ve made my choice.”

“And what’s that?” you asked. And you knew what he meant but that knowledge was unbearably presumptuous, something you could hardly let yourself dream, let alone be given in real life. So you asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sylvain asked, “You.”

Dizzy and cold, you probably could have been knocked over by a particularly stiff breeze. “Me,” you said softly. Not a question, just an attempt to taste the word, to understand it. He didn’t even hear you.

“But…” Sylvain continued before stopping himself. He sighed, shook his head. “Now don’t get me wrong, I love the chase, but I’ll give it up if you tell me right now that you don’t want me. I can accept that. However, if there’s even the slightest chance that I can convince you that I truly, genuinely want to be with you, I’ll do anything.”

“I’m not worth all that,” you said, but your voice was hushed and cramped by your swollen throat, spoken to the ground because you couldn’t look at Sylvain and admit that. Not directly. Couldn’t he tell? Beneath the makeup and hair and dress and all of the things you’d done to grow, you were still the pathetic slip of a girl he found in that greenhouse. The same nothing girl you’d been your entire life.

“What?” he asked, taking a step towards you.

You looked up, daring to meet his dark eyes. The words hurt to say. Icicles piercing between your ribs. But you did. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t deserve me?” Sylvain asked slowly, emphasizing the words as if to make sense of them. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he considered you, picking you apart with that too-keen gaze. “So all of this, the way you’ve been acting… I think I’m starting to get it. You think that you’re not enough… For me.” After saying that aloud, Sylvain laughed another humorless laugh. “Why, what makes me different?”

“Everything,” you said, speaking at a nearly inaudible hush because you didn’t trust your voice. “You’re my first friend, the only person who’s ever made me feel like I mattered. I couldn’t bear to ruin this because I…” Words weren’t your forte, they never had been. You knew that, he knew it. But you swallowed against your dry mouth so they could come out all the same, the warmth of your breath fading into the cold and carried away by the wintery air to the heavens above. “I love you.”

Sylvain didn’t react at first, staring at you in shock. Finally, just when the tension was ready to kill you, words emerged from his parted lips. “You…me…I...” He paused, then shook his head as if to clear it, to focus. “Come again?”

“I love you,” you repeated, the words coming louder now that they’d already been exposed, brittle in your mouth.

“Right…” He blinked once. Twice. “Do you remember earlier when I said that you were less hopeless than Felix?” Sylvain asked.

You nodded.

“I take it back.”

You purposefully fixed your gaze at the frosted ground with some mixture of embarrassment and nerves. Regret, too, it was tangy in your lungs. As it happened so often, you found yourself without anything to say. What were you supposed to say now that all of your damning insecurities were out in the dark winter cold? His tone was semi-playful with that last remark, but it was true. You were hopeless, you hadn’t really changed at all and now you felt like you were going to cry. Right here, in front of him, running your makeup, ruining the night-

Refusing to allow you to sink back into your own head, Sylvain grabbed your hands. Both gloved, his in leather and yours in silk. Despite that, you could feel the firmness of his grasp, remember the way his skin was calloused and rough against your own. You looked up to meet his eyes on instinct, confused and surprised by the easy way he touched you. But not displeased, not enough to shake off his grasp.

“I couldn’t bear to see you change,” Sylvain told you emphatically, his dark eyes serious and eyebrows raised. “Sure you’re a little weird sometimes and I can’t say that I always understand what you’re thinking, but I like that. I like the way that you listen to what I have to say and the way you try to understand me. Me, not my Crest or title or whatever. I like the way you smile and the playful look in your eyes when you say something clever. You’re intelligent and supportive and kind.” The words had an odd rhythm to them, like they had been practiced before but Sylvain couldn’t quite dole them out in the measured way in which they’d been composed. Each one was caressed by his voice before puffing out in a little cloud in front of his red lips, accentuated by the pleading, vulnerable cast of his eyes on yours. “I like you…” he told you, his fingers tightening around yours. “No, I love you. And if you’ll have me, I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you how wonderful I think you are. I’ve thought up a few pretty compelling ways in this past year.”

From an outside perspective, you could imagine that you were standing as still as the lion made of ice. Rigid, your eyes wide, your lips slightly parted as if to make way for words you weren’t able to speak. In your own head, however, you just felt dizzy. Aware of the cold biting the tip of your nose and freezing your feet in their brand new fancy shoes. Your breath was held as if to retain Sylvain’s impromptu speech for a moment longer, as if you could parse out the meaning of his words just from keeping them in.

“Uh…” he finally said, frowning. “Are you okay? Maybe that was too much...”

“No!” you said, the word finally breaking through the barrier of your mind to your lips before you could rethink it. Too loud. You flinched, clearing your throat to more easily manage your voice. “N-not too much.”

Sylvain waited expectantly for more. But there wasn’t more. What were you supposed to say? How were you supposed to offer him something even halfway comparable to that confession?

“Should I give you some space?” Sylvain asked, his grip loosening around your hands.

You panicked, holding onto him tighter. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m trying to… I mean, I… I don’t know what to say.”

Slowly, hopefully, a smile tugged at the edges of Sylvain’s mouth. “Have I ever mentioned how cute you are when you’re flustered?” He seemed to ponder that for a second before adding, “Strike that, you’re always cute.” Another beat passed and his expression sobered. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t able to show you how wonderful you are before you decided that you’re not.”

“Don’t say that,” you told him.

He frowned, but nodded. “You’re right. All I can do now is spend the rest of my life making it up to you…. If you’ll have me, that is.”

“Sylvain,” you said carefully, trying to keep your voice even so it didn’t slip away from you. “Is this a proposal?”

“Huh, well, I guess it kinda is...” He frowned. “I hate to say it but I’m completely underprepared for this. I haven’t really asked your father and I don’t even have the ring on me, also, I was envisioning more flowers. But…” He paused to compose himself before nodding resolutely. “Yes, this is me proposing marriage to you. I’d be the luckiest guy in the world if I could spend the rest of my life with you by my side.”

Like sugar in tea, everything that had been holding you back from accepting him was dissolved away. All the reasons you’d clung to so you could justify your cowardice and insecurities were dwarfed by what Sylvain was offering. Because you were weak, because you couldn’t hold onto the martyr mentality anymore. Not like this. “Okay,” you said. It was barely more than a whisper because you could feel the tears coming back, making your throat tight.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” you clarified, just a bit louder. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

Sylvain smiled. It was a look you knew well, one that you had treasured since the first time you saw it. He grinned and looked at you like you were worth wanting, worth caring about. Like he’d won something grand. “You’re a girl well worth waiting for,” he told you. “Although, we do have some things to make up for. I guess we’ve got time for that, though.”

Time to make up for the seasons apart. The thought alone made you feel giddy. Overwhelmed. Like this was a dream. Maybe it was, although you couldn’t say you minded the idea too much, assuming you never had to wake up.

“Is that a promise?” you asked.

Sylvain pulled you in closer. He was warm despite the cold, he smelled good even though your nose was a bit stuffy from the tears and chill. “You’re the only girl I’ll ever want, the only girl worth looking at. I swear my heart to you.”

You blushed, looking away. “That’s-”

“Too flowery?” he butted in nervously. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“I don’t mind it,” you told him slowly, honestly. “Even though it’s embarrassing. Maybe you don’t remember but the first time we met, you told me that if we were flowers-”

“We’d have a budding romance,” he said with a wry smile. “That was bad, I know.”

“It worked,” you said. “I never told you, but it did.”

“Really?” Sylvain’s eyes widened. “I thought you hated me for the longest time.”

“Never.”

“Even when I kissed you?” he asked. “You avoided me for a while after that, I was worried I had scared you away.”

“I didn’t want you to think that I felt like you owed me something for a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Sylvain repeated, his voice twisting the idea into something ridiculous. His leather-clad hand reached up to cradle your cheek, pulling your eyes up to meet his. Playful, dancing in the dim light. “Fine, what if I kissed you now?”

Your eyes widened, flicking down to his smiling mouth. Wide, full bottom lip, constantly on the verge of a half-smirk. Sylvain was so close, it would be very easy for him to close the distance between the two of you. “If you want,” you said. His thumb brushed across your lip, making you shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. “Yes.”

It had been winter when he first kissed you. Now it was winter again and the air was cold but Sylvain’s mouth was hot, his arms wrapping you up in a scorching embrace. Whatever else you were, in that moment, you could believe that you weren’t alone. You could believe that you —nothing little you— were wanted in the only way you’d ever wished to be wanted. As yourself, as someone worth loving, a girl worth caring about. Beautiful, not in the transient way you’d always feared.

The two of you parted and your breath was quick and warm as you tried to steady it, your pulse racing. “I love you,” you murmured quietly, your eyes closed. Finally, those words felt comfortable in your mouth, like they had a right to be spoken. Sylvain laughed breathlessly, delighted, his arms still wrapped around you.

“I don’t think you have any idea how happy it makes me to hear that,” he said. “Beyond happy, actually. I didn’t think this was possible.”

“You make me happy, too,” you told him, peeking through your eyelashes to meet his eyes. Warm. Tender. Excited.

“When you smile at me like that… You know, I don’t think there’s a single more beautiful sight in the world,” Sylvain said in an unfamiliarly soft voice, his dark eyes adoring. “It almost makes me not want to share you with anyone else. What do you think about eloping?”

“Eloping?” you repeated, caught off guard.

“Yeah. Right now, tonight,” he said. “I’m sure we could find someone…”

“You’re that impatient?” you asked, halfway questioning the playful intent behind the suggestion.

“You did keep me waiting for around, what, five hundred days, give or take? It’s romantic to act with such passionate abandon.” Sylvain paused, a wicked smirk twisting up the corner of his mouth. “If we stay here too long, I might feel inclined to want you to dance with me...”

“No.”

“Not even if I ask nicely?” Sylvain asked. Although his voice was innocent enough, the way he’d raised an eyebrow and suggestively licked his lips oozed bad intent. And desire. For you. The thought was as potent as any liquor you’d ever tasted.

“No,” you repeated, your voice less firm.

“So there’s no chance I can persuade you?” he asked, leaning closer.

You opened your mouth to refuse before rethinking it, your stomach tied up in a dozen wonderful, unknown sorts of knots. “You could try.”

#sylvain jose gautier #fe sylvain #sylvain jose gautier x reader #fe sylvain x reader #FE3H #fire emblem three houses #my writing #this is just PURE cringe #i wanted to try something different dynamic-wise #i HOPE it came across well #but really this is just a reflection of my abysmal self esteem #also i'm sorry editing wise i kinda am over it

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wildernessuntothemselves · 3 years

Text

I Hate Me Now

Word Count: 6k

Genre: Angst, smut

Summary: You and Wonpil used to be lovers, soulmates even, before your priorities in life got in the way. You wanted to do anything to help your family, no matter how morally ambiguous it is, while Wonpil thought that doing the right thing was of the utmost importance, no exceptions. Now, facing off in court years later, all the old wounds gets torn open again and things finally come to a head.

A/N: *long fart noise* this fic had the potential to be something good but I fucked it up and I’m beyond even caring.

Warnings: inconsistent writing if you’ve ever seen one, kinda femdom, unhealthy as per usual, sad little story.

The neutral, slightly intimidating mask you put on everyday was the one most people were familiar with by now. You rarely showed your real emotions anymore, not since you had lost him. His departure brought on a profound change in your life. There had already been a rift growing between who you wanted to be and who you had to be in order to survive, but when he left he took any remaining idealism left in you with him. It’s funny that the reason he left you was because he couldn’t handle your diverging moral standings, yet it was precisely his departure that cemented the turn you had taken.

Now, with him standing opposite you in the courtroom, fighting for the opposing team, you feel your mask slipping. It was hard seeing him like this. Even though it’s been years already, not having him break into that breathtaking smile of his that was like an ingrained reflex as soon as his eyes would meet yours was disquieting. Now he just frowns and looks away; his big, beautiful eyes that used to be filled to the brim with a sort of dreamy goodness were now empty and tired.

Needless to say, you weren’t on your best game. You could hardly concentrate at all during the trial, and you can bet your ass that your boss knew about your abysmal performance before it even ended. As soon as you were out of the courtroom, he was calling to give you crap about it and condescendingly remarking that if you couldn’t handle such a big case then you should’ve left it to someone who actually knew what he was doing, emphasis on the ‘He’. You assured him that everything was under control and that this wouldn’t happen again. You were just caught off guard, not that you dared tell him that last part. This was a huge case and it could either make or break your career. You couldn’t afford to get distracted by the man you had once thought to be the love of your life, and might still do…

You had to do this for your family. But it seems the man in question intends to put your resolve to the test.

You don’t know how he found you. Perhaps he had followed you out of the courthouse. Did he hear you talking on the phone to your boss? You sure hope not, not when his mere presence was forcing you to face the fact that you never got over him after all, and you didn’t need him to see that. You had hoped that the time and distance would harden your heart and heal the wounds he had inflicted upon it but all it took was one look in his eyes for them to get ripped wide open again.

If nothing else, you wanted to keep your pride. He doesn’t get to break your heart and see you still broken up about it all these years later. So you put on your mask again and smirk at him, “Good work today, Pili.”

His frown deepens at the term of endearment you used to call him when you were together. You suppose you aren’t allowed to use it anymore, which is precisely why you do. “Too bad it won’t do you any good. You always did have a soft spot for the hopeless cases.”

Wonpil puffs his chest out, subconsciously trying to look bigger under your mocking gaze. “Our case isn’t hopeless.”

“Yeah sure, whatever you say, Pili.” You roll your eyes. You should end it there, tell him you have no time for him and leave to go work harder on your case to take him and the people he represents down. But you haven’t made a levelheaded decision since the moment he came back into your life and you just can’t resist adding, “You shouldn’t be wasting your skill on these people. They’re never gonna win. Join my company. I’m sure I can find you a place.”

Wonpil’s face contorts in disgust, “You think I would ever be a part of a company like yours? You kill people!”

“My company doesn’t kill people.” You reply half-heartedly, not really up to defending your employers out of the courtroom.

“Maybe not directly but the chemicals they pollute the environment with has led to the illness and death of countless people. That’s on your hands.”

You’re not surprised that he insists on making you complicit in the actions of the company you’re representing. Wonpil always did have an absolute sense of justice, from the CEO to the janitor, everyone was equally responsible in his eyes.

“Be careful what you accuse people of, Pili. This could get you in real trouble once my company wins the lawsuit. And they will win.” You smile sadly, “They always win.”

You walk closer to him and reach out for his hand tentatively. You’re surprised when he lets you, and you take a moment to just hold it, feeling the familiar, yet almost-forgotten, weight of it in your own hands. When you lace your fingers together, they fit as perfectly as they did years ago, the heat of him permeating through yours like blood through a corpse revived.

You know you couldn’t let yourself get carried away for long. You needed to say what you had to say and then withdraw back into yourself when he inevitably rejects you. Rubbing your thumb over the web of skin between his thumb and index, you take a few moments to steady your breath as you willfully shed years worth of mental defenses to allow him to gaze onto the real you, naked from any pretenses and completely vulnerable against the bottomless darkness you see in his own eyes.

“I’ve missed you so much, you can’t even know. I… I still want you.” You weren’t sure if it was just your voice that was trembling or your entire body—you were holding too tightly onto his hand to be able to tell. “It’s not too late for us. We can still be together. What you’re doing right now is admirable, fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. You’ve got the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen… but it’s a losing battle. There is no hope for them, but there is for us. We can have a good life together.”

His lips press together into a thin line and he yanks his hand back, almost throwing you forward when you don’t react fast enough to untangle your fingers as he steps away from you, looking disgusted at the mere thought of what you’re suggesting. “If you really think that I’d not only abandon these people but actually work against them then you don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I know you.” You look down at your now empty hands, muttering tiredly, “I just hoped that you might’ve changed.”

“And I wish you didn’t. I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re nothing like the girl I once fell in love with. You’re a monster.”

You let out a bark of laughter to hide the stabbing pain his words delivered right into the center of your chest, cutting up your tattered heart all over again. “And did you follow me all this way just to say that? Aw, Pili, you shouldn’t have.”

He glares at you, utter contempt displayed on his face.

“I hate you.” He curses out before he leaves, not sparing you a second glance, and for that you were thankful. You could barely stomach the fact that the broken woman who was openly sobbing in the middle of the street in broad daylight was you—you didn’t need him to see that.

___________________________

Just like you hadn’t expected to ever face off with him in a courtroom, you also never expected him to show up at your place only days after your less-than-sweet reunion.

“What are you doing here?” You stand with your arms folded over your chest, feeling resentful that he’s forcing you to deal with the heartache he brought with him into your own residence. “How did you even know where my apartment is?”

“You’ve messed with my damn head.” He accuses, looking deeply agitated as he paces back and forth in your living room.

The audacity of this man! He sought you out first, then he rejected you, and now he barges into your home and claims you are messing with him?

You plant your body in his path to stop his pacing, and ask, putting emphasis on each word, “Why. are. you. here?”

He stares at you for a second, exasperated and contemplating what to say, but each time a sentence starts forming, he bites it back abruptly. Huffing, he runs his hand through his hair haphazardly and tries to get past you to start pacing again.

But you jump into action, your hands shooting out to grab him and hold him in place. You won’t let him play games with you. You won’t be able to handle it.

In the process of holding on to him to try to keep him in place, you had gotten much closer to him in proximity. With your arms almost enveloping him, your heart starts beating erratically. This was the closest you’d been to him in years, and by the looks of it, Wonpil wasn’t completely unfazed by it either.

“What do you want from me, Wonpil?” You ask, suddenly feeling weary as if all the fight has seeped out of your body.

His eyes flit down to your lips as you talk, and they linger there even after you’re done, giving you your answer. Wonpil was never particularly good at hiding his feelings, something he would readily admit to if asked, and you take advantage of it.

You raise your hand to his face carefully as if he’s a frightened animal you don’t want to scare off. When he feels your hand on his cheek, he finally looks you in the eyes again, and you feel a twinge of pity at the helplessness you see in his gaze.

Taking in a deep breath, you ask slowly, “Do you want to kiss me, Wonpil?”

You knew you shouldn’t be doing this; it will only open up your wounds further, but you’ve never gotten to say goodbye to him, and you knew that if you miss this-- probably last-- chance to be with him, you will live to regret it even more.

You’re so lost in your own head that you miss the subtle nod Wonpil gives you and, antsy by your lack of response, he makes the first move, pressing his lips to your own.

It’s an awkward kiss, tight-lipped and uncoordinated as Wonpil is unsure of what he is allowed to do, but feeling the urgency to touch you anyway. His hands are all over you, but not in a good way. They would barely touch a part of you before they moved on to the next, leaving you feeling unsatisfied.

Deciding to take the reins—which was par for the course back during your relationship anyway—you grab his hands and hold them behind his back, making him whine when you break the kiss. “Don’t whine. You don’t have the right to.”

He bites his lip, stifling anymore protests from coming out. Pulling on his arm, you lead him to your bedroom and push him on the bed. He tries to pull you down with him but you shake him off. Again, he starts whining but with a sharp raise of your eyebrow, he pipes down immediately.

Grabbing the hem of your oversized shirt, you cock your head at him. “Do you want me to take this off?”

“Yes, please.” He breathes out before you’re even done talking.

You slide the shirt up your body slowly, teasingly, making sure to give Wonpil a show. With the shirt off, your breasts are entirely exposed for you to play with them and tease Wonpil some more. Pushing them together, messaging them, twisting the nipples lightly, you do everything you know will drive him crazy until he’s biting down hard on his lip so he wouldn’t piss you off, but you could see from the obvious bulge in his pants and the way his right leg was bouncing up and down impatiently that he was getting needy.

You give your breasts one last squeeze before you slide your hands down your abdomen and towards the waistline of your shorts, pushing it down on one side only to pull it back up and do the same thing with the other side.

“Please.”

“Please, what? You want me to take this off too?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought I was a disgusting monster and you can’t even look at me. You have no problem with it now that you want to get your dick wet, huh?”

He averts his eyes, having the audacity to look ashamed and it pisses you the fuck off.

You grab his jaw, making him face you, and hiss down at him. “Either you grow some fucking balls and face the implications of your own desire or you get the fuck out of my sight.”

You needed him to voice out his desire so he’d admit that he’s equally responsible for what is happening. You’re not going to let him paint you as a monster seducing poor, helpless him. He wants this too, and he needs to be held accountable for that.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks, entirely too chagrined than he had any right to be.

“That you’re a fucking hypocrite.” You spit, astonished at how disgusted you were with him, while still wanting to be one with him. Your whole relationship is a mess, and you’re convinced that either it was never meant to be, or that the gods themselves are jealous of your love and are trying to hurt you.

“I’m… I’m a hypocrite. There, are you happy?” He challenges, but you just let out a tired sigh, almost having expected him to deny it and put an end to this—to tell you that this is insane and you’re insane, but he validates your insanity and now you can’t back down.

No. None of this makes you happy. You haven’t been happy ever since he left you.

You take your shorts and panties off unceremoniously and straddle him, staying still for a moment to see if he’ll try something, but his hands stay balled to his sides as he awaits your permission to touch you, so you give it to him. “Go ahead. You can touch.”

His hands immediately go to your breasts, touching you in the exact same way you were just touching yourself, and you laugh. “Aw, Pili, you wanted it that bad?”

He frowns in that adorably pouty way he unconsciously does sometimes, and it makes your smile falter, the memory of something you used to have but is just out of your reach now is all too painful.

He forcefully takes you out of your thoughts when his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, placing kisses all over it and sucking on your nipple. You moan out, a hand reaching for his hair and automatically tugging on it the way you know he likes, which only makes him needier, one of his hands eagerly moving down to your pussy, and the moan that leaves him lets you know just how excited he is to find you dripping. Too impatient to wait, his fingers move down to your hole right away. When a finger enters you, he’s the one pulling back with a throaty moan.

You chuckle breathlessly, feeling yourself quivering around his finger. “Does my pussy feel that good, Pili?”

He nods, pumping his finger in and out of you, making you gasp as you start unbuttoning his shirt. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“Tight. Wet. Soft.”

“Hmm, and did you miss it?” You slip his shirt off his shoulders, forcing him to remove his hands from you, but as soon as the shirt is off, his hands are back on you again, one grabbing a handful of your breast and the other two fingers deep in you.“Do you miss how it feels around your cock?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and you know that he’s imagining it.

“Do you want to feel it again?”

“Yes.” His eyes snap open again, full of silent pleas.

You push him backwards until he’s lying down in the middle of the bed with you straddling him, his cock snug between your wet folds as you slowly rub up and down against it. With your hands holding his arms over his head, he looks up at you, gaze brimming with need as he holds his breath and waits, but you don’t give it to him yet.

“Look at you. You were acting all high and mighty earlier but now you’re willing to do anything to get inside this pussy, huh?” You taunt, rubbing yourself with the tip of his dick.

When he doesn’t say anything, you lean down to bite his collarbone, making him yelp. “Answer me, Pili.”

“Yes, please, give it to me.” He nods emphatically, throwing his head back and crying out as you sink down on him.

As soon as you have him all the way inside of you, you know you are in trouble. God, he fills you up so good. Everywhere his cock touched inside of you burns with pleasure and you can’t even help yourself; you ride him hard and fast, desperate to feel the kind of pleasure you haven’t felt in years. Everything is just different with him, the way he fits inside of you, the needy, almost reverent look on his face, his choked off moans, they all work you up to a frenzy.

“Does it feel good, Pili?”

“Yes. So, so good.”

“I bet you’ve been fantasizing about this for years... just lying in bed, fucking your own spit-covered hand and imagining it was me taking you.”

“Yeah, y-yeah…” He sniffles, lower lip trembling as he readily admits to it.

“You’re gonna cry?” You spit out, suddenly enraged, and come to a stop. “Fuck, you’re so pathetic.”

“No! I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Please keep going.”

“No. I won’t let you twist this narrative into you being the victim.” You fall back onto the bed and pull him up over you. “If you want me, take me.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps as he considers his options for a second, and you lay completely still under him, waiting for him to make the decision on his own, half-wishing he’d stop this madness. But he doesn’t.

Grunting, his hands grab your hips as he pushes his length back inside you. It only takes a few unexpectedly sharp thrusts for you to cooperate and wrap your arms and legs around him. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, the shaky moan your action elicits causing heat to start gathering in your belly once again. You stare up at him in hunger, admiring how sexy he looks as the pleasure overtakes his features.

“Shit…shit, you feel so good.” Wonpil rasps out, his eyes squeezing shut as his thrusts turn sloppy. “ I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Don’t you dare.” You snap at him, your nails digging red trails down his back, making his hips stutter.

“Please, I can’t hold it.” He shakes his head, desperate to get you to let him cum.

“No.” You hiss, silencing him with a kiss. You swallow his whines as your hands grab his ass and force him to keep fucking you. The more he squirms, the more his hips grind against you, rubbing coarsely against your clit and bringing you oh-so-close to your orgasm.

But—seemingly just a second away from release—Wonpil goes rigid under you, his body freezing up too hard to allow you to move him anymore. His mouth tears away from your own in a loud moan as his dick twitches inside you and fills you up with his hot cum.

You can’t believe it. You were so, so close. Frustration and disappointment fill up the spaces the receding pleasure leaves behind.

“I told you to stop.” You hear him say meekly, and you sigh as you’re left tense and unfulfilled, just like always.

“It’s fine.” You mutter darkly, pushing him off you, and Wonpil’s face falls, shame spreading all over it.

You know your reaction is hurting him. Wonpil hated not pleasing you. He took it as a personal failure if you were even the slightest bit unhappy with his performance. His desire to please and your desire to be pleased are what brought you together in the first place many years ago. But honestly, all you can think about right now is that mind-blowing orgasm you were just robbed of because he couldn’t hold back just a little bit more.

But before the last bit of pleasure inside you recedes from your body, it is forced back in when Wonpil, still half-hard and sheathed inside you, starts moving again, fucking his cum into your sensitive pussy.

“What are you doing?” Your mouth hangs open in shock and pleasure, and you watch him grit his teeth and set a frantic pace. As his cock starts hardening inside of you again, he’s able to fuck you harder and harder, the determined look on his face the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.

His moans are loud, and you can’t tell if they’re from pleasure or pain as Wonpil never once lets up his assault, hitting just the right spot that has you seeing white. When his thumb flicks your clit, it is over for you, your hands flying out to grab his face and pull him down into a searing kiss as you cum.

When you pull back from the kiss, signalling the end of your orgasm, Wonpil collapses into a sweaty mess next to you, still clinging to your body by wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck as you both catch your breath.

“What’s so funny?” He perks his head up, asking as you start shaking with laughter in his arms. But the more you look at him, the harder you laugh. This is just all so absurd.

Wonpil watches you uneasily. He needs assurance, something that he had always relied on you to provide for him, but you can’t do that this time.

You come down from your laughter fit with a deep sigh. “Get out.”

He’s taken aback at your sudden coldness. This isn’t what he expected, not what he was used to from you, and you almost start laughing again. Is he really that clueless? Did he expect things to be just like they were before after what he’s done?

His eyes flit between yours, searching for a comfort he won’t find in them. “But—but… aren’t we going to talk about this?"

“Talk about what, Wonpil?” You ask in exasperation, “Have you changed your mind about my work?”

“No, but—”

“But you want me to make the sacrifice for you.” You finish his sentence for him. “This is why you’re here, isn’t it? You refuse to give up your job but you expect me to give up mine for you.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” He bristles, sitting up.

“I don’t care about the right thing. All I care about is my family.”

His face hardens at that, and through gritted teeth, he says, “Your family isn’t going to starve if you work at another firm.”

“Quality of life isn’t measured by whether you starve or not. I want them to have a good life.” You don’t know why you even bother anymore, he’s never going to listen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He tears himself away from you and gets up, angrily putting on his clothes. “Yes because I’m just a poor orphan boy who will never understand what family means. Isn’t that right?”

“Pili… you know I didn’t mean it like that.” You unconsciously reach out for him but he jumps away.

“Yes, you did. You always pitied me for not having a family.” Pain twists Wonpil’s pretty features. “You know, for a while, I actually thought you could be my family.”

“No, Pili. I couldn’t have.” You sigh sadly, the deepening look of hurt on his face cutting you up. “Because you left me. And family never leaves.”

His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something but doesn't even know what. Collecting himself, Wonpil scoffs and turns towards the door.

“Yeah, like that.” You mutter, collapsing back on the bed as you hear the sound of your front door opening and slamming shut.

___________________________________

You know it is wrong but you can’t stay away from each other. Now that you have had a taste of the forbidden after years of having sworn off each other, you couldn’t find it in you to stop.

You find yourself in each other’s beds again and again, hurling accusations at each other and fucking your emotions out until you’re too tired to do anything but sleep, each time getting more and more exhausted until you stop trying all together, just blocking out everything and focusing on the here and now as if nothing else existed outside of your respective bedrooms.

Your nights have been sleepless ever since he's gotten back into your life, and not just for the obvious reason that he’s the person you thought was the love of all your lives, past or present. No, many nights were spent just staring at each other, no words uttered for fear of disturbing this fragile improbability that brought you back together, or holding each other so gingerly as if you were made of matter and antimatter and your meeting could annihilate not only yourselves but the entire world you’ve built around you.

It’s a bubble and you know it, the translucent shell that surrounds you gleaming all rainbow-like when the light of forgotten dreams hits it just right. It sways and wobbles, signaling its impending explosion any moment now. And yet, you stay curled up around each other as if you can’t see the surface tension on the verge of breaking.

Every once in a while, one of you would lean forward and press their lips against the other’s, and you’d close your eyes and pretend like these past years have been nothing but a bad dream and you’re still college students, young and lost and unsure of everything in the world except for the notion that love is eternal and that you have already found it in each other.

You wonder what you’d look like now to your past selves, having gained all the conviction and knowledge you would’ve never thought you would possess, but having lost the one thing that made any of it worth a damn. You bet your past selves would hold each other and cry at the sight of the broken you holding onto the jagged pieces of your once-sweet notion with bleeding hearts and crushed souls.

Tears trickle down your face, and Wonpil reaches up to wipe them with the backs of his fingers, pressing his lips to yours again when the branching stream reaches even your lips.

Pulling back ever so slightly, he whispers to you and to the dying universe around you, the vibrations of his voice reaching your lips through the tiny distance between you, sounding choked up like he had begun crying too, “I wish we could stay here forever, just forget about everyone and be forgotten by them.”

You sigh and wrap yourself around him, his starry eyes shuttering closed and a soft pout forming on his lips as he drifts off to sleep, just like old times. And you're left alone to wonder... if you could do it all over again, would you have chosen differently?

______________________________

You knew something was off. Despite the time and distance that have whittled down your sense of him, you still knew that something was off. Your body had picked up on so many little things—the way his eyes glossed over when he would force himself to face you, his excessively soft touches that resembled those of a volatile lover silently apologizing for his latest outburst, the lingering looks he gave you as if he was memorizing every little detail of you before you went away—it just took your brain too long to make sense of it all.

Or maybe you just didn't want to believe it. You got too greedy and wanted to live in your fantasy world just a little bit longer, and it cost you everything.

Looking at him now, you think he’s saying something to you but every word is muffled as if you were submerged in water. He gets agitated, shouting something again and again that gets just a little clearer every time as he forces you back to the surface and you register that it’s your own name.

When you blink, your gaze finally focusing on him, he breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re scaring me.”

“I wish I had never met you.” Your sentence is slow and raspy like the ghostly murmur of someone fished out of water.

“Don’t say that.” He whimpers, "I had to do it." He says it like he means it, like he really couldn’t stop himself from betraying you, using you, ruining your life. "You said it yourself, we never would've won. It was the only way. These people depended on me."

"And what about me?" You rasp, tears stinging your eyes. "I loved you."

"And I love you." He tries to hold you but you push him away.

"They fired me.” You inform him monotonously, “They had me blacklisted to make sure I would never find a job in this field again."

Of course they did. What company will want you now that you've shown yourself not to be reliable? You slept with your rival and allowed him to steal crucial documents that could jeopardize the entire case from right under your nose. Your stupid amateur mistake could cost the company millions.

"How am I going to provide for my family now?" You moan, not really asking him.

"You could join us. It's not a big pay but—”

Your hand goes to pull at your hair in frustration, “God, do you ever shut the fuck up?”

"I'm sorry.” He holds his head down, sobbing.

"No, you don’t get to cry about ruining my life! You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself! You don’t—” You stop abruptly, unable to breathe. Cradling your head now, you lament, "Oh god, what am I gonna do now?"

"I don't know."

"No, you never know." You say bitterly. "I don’t want to ever see your face again."

His head whips up, "Don't say that..."

“Go.”

"I didn't mean for all of this to happen--"

"Go." You shriek and he flinches back. His lower lips tremble as he tries to hold his tears back to no avail. In a shaky voice, he says, "I'll give you some time to calm down but I'll be back. I'll fix this."

"God, Wonpil," You suck in a shaky breath, "for once in your life, I wish you'd leave it alone."

He jerks his head away, wiping at his tears furiously, "I'll see you later."

_____________________________

You struggle to hold back tears as you wait inside your cramped studio apartment. You don’t know how much longer you can stand to do this— lie to your parents about getting fired and blacklisted, telling them that you quit for moral differences, accepting money from the man who ruined your life just so they wouldn’t find out for a little while longer.

But you couldn’t do anything to help yourself, let alone support your family without Wonpil’s charity. The only jobs you are able to get now are in the service industry and those barely pay your rent and living expenses. You couldn’t even go back to your hometown and your family for fear that they’d figure out the truth, and you just couldn’t let that happen.

You knew your father would insist on getting back to work in order to help support the family. You barely even had him convinced that his condition doesn’t allow him to work and that he needs to rest. If he finds out you not only lost your job but also any hope for a future one in that field, he’d go back to work right away, and that could very possibly kill him.

Your siblings’ future now lies unknown. The eldest of your siblings after you is a senior now, and soon you’ll have to tell her that she isn’t going to college like you promised her she would. She has to abandon her dreams in order to get a job to help provide for the family, and as your other siblings grow older, they too would follow in her footsteps; a family that came from dirt and will die in it, that’s what Wonpil’s ideals have cost you.

After everything you’ve done, after all you’ve gone through, you’re still nothing. It’s funny that Wonpil is fighting for the poor and innocent when he’s the one who has proven to you once and for all that the rich will stay rich and the poor will stay poor and under the feet of the rich.

The case he betrayed you for was a loss in the end. After a long, tedious trial, his clients were forced to settle because they couldn’t afford to pay for a trial that kept getting prolonged, a strategy the rich and powerful employed in order not to lose doomed cases, in the end making the poor people poorer and worse off than they were before. That’s what Wonpil does. He makes people hope and believe that maybe, just maybe the world isn’t as shitty as it seems, only to shatter them completely when he can’t follow through on his beautiful promises. He breaks them because he made them hope.

Hearing the doorbell ring, you get up to answer it, moving mechanically. After you swing the door open, you stand in the way so Wonpil wouldn’t be able to barge in like he tries to sometimes.

He hands you an envelope which you take with a heavy heart. Every envelope you accept is a debt piled on you that you’ll live the rest of your life paying back.

“I’m working three jobs right now but I hope to find something with a better pay soon so I can start paying you back.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” He rushes to say, but you cut him off. “Yes, I do.”

He sighs and stares at the floor, fiddling with his finger. It annoyed the hell out of you. “Is there something you want?”

His head shoots up, eyes wide at having been caught.

“I—“ He clears his throat after he chokes on the word. “I miss you.”

You hate yourself because of how his words still affect you, how you wish you could fall into his arms and let him comfort you until there are no more tears left in your eyes.

But you won’t cry. You won’t let yourself be vulnerable in front of him. Never again.

“Goodnight, Wonpil.” You say coldly, closing the door in his face before he can say anything else.

______________________________

#wonpil smut #wonpil angst #day6 smut #day6 angst #sub!idol #dom!reader

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onemilliongoldstars · 4 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 32

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

32/33

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 11

Lord Pike’s eyes are as cold and merciless as the ice of The Wall, and there is not a flicker to them as his hands tighten around her neck, an iron band cutting into her skin. He does not seem to hear her gasping cries, or feel the prying of her fingers, her nails digging so deep that warm, sticky blood spills across their skin. She tries to feel around behind her, but there is nothing she can use as a weapon, and his weight is so heavy on her chest that she can scarcely breathe. When she opens her mouth to scream again, no sound comes out and his eyes glint, his fingers tighten. Her head spins, and she reaches up to claw at his face, his eyes, her nails scouring through his skin until it looks as though he has been mauled by a wild beast. Beneath her fingers, his skin begins to crumble, and she watches in horror as it peels away in long, bloody strips, falling away to reveal an empty face behind it.

The touch to her shoulder jars her so violent that she startles awake with a gasp, jerking away from the touch. Through the dim light she makes out Harper’s figure, holding out a candle and hesitating over her.

Her eyes are creased with concern, one tendril of curled hair falling out from her braid as she takes a slight step back. “I’m sorry, your majesty, you wanted to be woken before the dawn?”

Her breath seems to return to her in staggered stages, and she pulls air back into her lungs. Her voice is weak and broken when she answers. “Yes, yes I’m sorry Harper. I was just startled.”

Concern still lingers at the corners of Harper’s gaze, but she gives a nod and turns away to light the tapers around the room and stir the fire into life.

Clarke pulls in a slow, unsteady breath, watching her with vacant eyes. Her fingers ease up to touch softly at her neck, the ghost of a bruise tingling beneath her fingertips. It seems impossible that her nails are not caked in blood, and her throat not hoarse with screaming, and bile rises in her throat when she thinks of Pike’s skin falling away into her hands.

Harper must sense her disquiet, because she breaks the silence with mindless words as she draws the water and warms it over the fire. “The weather should be fair today, your majesty. The sky was as pink as a peach last night. Summer will be here before we know it.”

“Yes,” Clarke eases herself slowly from the bed, wriggling her toes against the cold slabbed floor. “I do so long for it.”

“We all do,” Harper smiles, and steps behind her when she settles into the chair in front her looking glass. “Will you wear your crown today, your majesty?”

“No,” Clarke shakes her head, reaching out to run the pad of her thumb over a rose petal in the vase before her. “For today, I think I would like to forget I am the queen.”

The sun has risen by the time she descends the final sandy steps onto the private docks behind the castle. It is already a warm day, and she is glad of the hazy, light fabric of her dress, baring her back and her arms just as she used to when she was young and care free in Highgarden. Her hair is pulled back into soft golden braids, a golden, rose shaped clasp keeping them together, and a light stole is draped over her arms, in case the weather turns. The dock is quiet in the morning sunshine, but for Lexa, Anya and Lincoln, waiting patiently beside the low, bobbing pleasure barge. Lexa is dressed more lightly than Clarke has ever seen her before, with britches and a white linen shirt, pulled with a honeycomb stitch at the top of her arm. Her tunic bares her arms and is fastened down its front with silver direwolf pins, her hair pulled back in a simple braid.

As she approaches Lexa turns and offers a smile so wide she is caught off guard for a moment. Gone are their secret smiles of the past, shared glances hidden in the embers of their forbidden love, and in its place is something that seems to have risen from the spring itself, its head turning to the new sunlight. Her heart stutters, as it hasn’t since those fateful days in Winterfell so very long ago, and she feels a flush rising to her cheeks as Lexa nods her greeting.

“Clarke.”

“Lexa.” She returns, as she crosses the final few steps that separate them. She has to dig her nails into her hand to keep from reaching out and touching Lexa, so great is the depth of her feeling. Though they cannot be heard here, there may still be eyes watching, and it wouldn’t do to stir any unrest in the people. “Have you been waiting long? I apologise, I slept poorly.”

“No,” Lexa’s brows twitch with concern at her words, but she doesn’t comment. “No, not long at all.”

“Your wolves are not with you,” Clarke observes, as they fall into step walking down the dock together towards the pleasure barge. When Lexa shakes her head, Clarke cannot help but press, eager and curious. “I have never seen you without them.”

They come to a stop beside the barge and Lexa turns to look at her with eyes that see straight to the deepest parts of herself. “Perhaps,” She muses, softly, “they know that I don’t need them, not here and now.”

The words catch at her tender heart more acutely than she expects, and when Lexa offers her hand out to help her down the gangplank onto the barge, she finds that she is trembling at the touch. They board one after the other, their guards accompanying them. The pleasure barge is a long, shallow vessel, towards the front of which a low bench is hidden from the sun by a canopy of hazy curtains. Clarke sinks into the cushions there, and after a moment of hesitation Lexa joins her. The curtains swing about them, and though they are not alone, the illusion is almost as good.

Behind them, Clarke’s most trusted and expert oarsmen push away from the dock so silently and smoothly that she barely realises they are moving until the dock begins to slip away and leave them with only a distant view of the city.

Lexa must notice her glancing over her shoulder, because she asks, quietly. “Are you worried about leaving it behind? If only for the day?”

Clarke pauses and considers her words, glancing back at the imposing towers of the Red Keep, reaching up into the blue sky as if they intend to pluck the sun from its perch themselves. Part of her worries, a part of her that she expects will never stop worrying, but it is not enough to draw her back. “No,” She answers honestly, and Lexa’s smile makes her eyes shine.

As they sail smoothly from the harbour, Clarke runs her hand over the embroidered cushions below them, trailing her fingers across the golden stitching.

“It’s beautiful,” Lexa comments, obviously watching her, and Clarke nods.

“It was made for King Thelonious and his wife, to allow them to leave the city in privacy and luxury.”

“I never met the king’s wife,” Lexa admits, “But I hear she was a beautiful and clever queen.”

“So do I,” Clarke offers her a small smile. “King Thelonious loved her very dearly. He was never the same after her death.”

Lexa’s gaze holds hers. “They were lucky to have each other, even for such a short time.”

Warmth and peace washes over her, as it always does when Lexa looks at her so deeply and truthfully, as if she is the thing she is most sure of in the whole world. Clarke has to glance away, to keep herself from flushing and stuttering like a fool, and after a moment she manages to find her words enough to speak.

“Aden once told me about your mother, he said that she was the only woman your father ever loved.”

“They were very devoted to one another,” Lexa admits, “Or so I have heard,” Her voice changes, catching and breaking over some unspoken emotion. “I never met her.”

Clarke reaches out and twines their fingers together, keeping her voice soft. “You must miss her.”

“No,”Lexa conjures up a smile which is as false as a mummer’s mask. “How could I miss something I never even knew?”

“A bird caged for all of its life will still miss the sky,” Clarke counters, and squeezes their fingers to ease her words. “You can admit it, I won’t think any differently of you.”

“I know you won’t,” Her thumb rubs a gentle circle over the smooth skin of Clarke’s palm.

They are disturbed by Octavia clearing her throat obnoxiously from beyond the hazy curtains. Clarke glowers at the hazy shadow of her shape and she catches Lexa biting back her smile as she calls out.

“Yes, Octavia?”

“Your majesty,” Octavia must take that as her cue, because she puts her head around the curtains and can’t look either of them in the eye when she says. “There are refreshments for you, would you like them brought in?”

Clarke purses her lips, annoyed despite herself, and then nods curtly. “Yes, that would be fine I suppose.��

“Thank you, Octavia,” Lexa puts in, still trying not to laugh at Clarke’s utter lack of manners. They settle back onto the bench as plates of dewy strawberries and goblets of cool, watered down wine are delivered by their guards and set upon the low table before them.

“The sea here is so beautiful,” Lexa comments, as Clarke picks up a strawberry. “So blue and clear and bright.”

“There are legends of mermaids in these parts,” Clarke tells her, offering out the plate of fruits. “Sirens who would steal away sailors’ hearts with their songs and seduce them with their beauty.”

Lexa’s eyes linger upon her face. “I think I understand their plight.”

—-

They finally slow when they reach a spit of land, barely big enough to call itself an island, with sandy shores and a few rolling hills on which long grass and a smattering of trees grow, some hanging heavy and colourful with their fruit. The island has no dock and so their shallow ship simply slows to a stop amongst the sandy shores, bobbing back and forth in the clear water.

Lexa gazes out onto the spit of land and her brows furrow, “Where are we?”

“This is royal land,” Clarke explains, as their guards busy themselves preparing to disembark. “Nobody comes here but the king or queen.” She cannot help but smile at the blush that dusts Lexa’s cheeks when she adds. “We will be completely alone.”

“I see,” Lexa tries to hide her smile, “Would you like me to carry you to shore, my lady?”

“Not at all,” Years of practice with Wells make it easy enough for her to follow Anya and Octavia into the water. Slipping her shoes from her feet, she gathers her skirts in one hand and holds the other out for balance as she slips from their vessel and into the warm, shallow waters. The sand shifts beneath her feet and for one horrifying moment she thinks she might fall, but rights herself just in time.

When she looks back to the boat, Lexa’s astonished expression draws a delighted laugh from her and everything feels light and delicious as she watches Lexa pull her shoes from her feet and follow her into the water. When she too stumbles, Clarke holds out her hand to steady her and Lexa laces their fingers together, holding tightly as they make their way together up to the beach. The sand is warm and soft beneath their feet, and their fingers stay laced together even as they find their feet.

“Ser Lincoln and Captain Snow will go on ahead with the servants, your majesty,” Anya says, once they have approached. “And ensure everything is safe and set up. We will follow,” She indicates to herself and Ser Roan. “Just in case.”

Clarke gives Lexa a wide smile and she feels filled with a childlike glee as she leads the way from the beach to the well trodden path through grass and trees.

“Where are we going?” Lexa looks to her, expression open and curious, and Clarke squeezes her fingers.

“You’ll see.”

They tread their way carefully through the undergrowth, their shoes still held in their hands. Beneath their feet, the grass is as soft as sheepskin, warm from the sun and sandy, and Clarke luxuriates in the feeling as she walks. Together, they make their way to the highest point on the island, their fingers never untangling from one another, exchanging soft conversation. Though the air is warm and the sun glows down upon them, it feels as if they are back at Winterfell again, sitting in the library or walking the battlements, so comfortable is their quiet conversation.

“This place is beautiful,” Lexa says, as they walk through a grove of orange trees. “So quiet and peaceful.”

“The best is yet to come,” Clarke promises, with a smile, and guides them into a clearing.

Still shaded by orange trees, before them the gentle rise they have been climbing falls away sharply into the sea, and the view it exposes is a breath taking expanse of crystal blue waters. In the distance, the mainland is visible: the tall towers of the Red Keep and gathered around it like sycophants the rusted tile roofs of the city. Upon the ground are spread rugs and cushions for them to lounge on, hazy strips and fabric hanging from the trees to keep the hot midday sun from their faces, and a spread of breads and cheese, meats and fruits, is awaiting them.

Lexa casts her a shy, surprised smile. “You planned this.”

“Of course,” Clarke fights against the beam that is threatening to spread across her features. “Won’t you sit, my lady?”

With a smile Lexa sinks onto the floor, settling upon the cushions. She turns back to their combined Queensguards as Clarke follows her, and waves her hand to them. “We are perfectly safe here for the moment, you may all go.”

Octavia and Anya exchange a disgruntled glance, but when Clarke nods her agreement they move away reluctantly, peeling back into the trees until you could almost forget they were there. They are suddenly as alone as they ever are, but there are no nerves now and when Clarke looks up into Lexa’s face she feels contentment shine through her, like the sun into a darkened room.

“I can understand why you missed your home when you were with us in Winterfell.” Lexa tells her, once they have both settled back into the cushions, so close that they are almost touching. “Truly, this place is beautiful.”

“Oh, Kings Landing is not my home,” Clarke shakes her head, and curls fall over her shoulders. “Even now, it is nothing compared to Highgarden.”

“We’ve never really spoken about Highgarden,” Lexa gazes down upon her, “You have seen every inch of my home and yet I know almost nothing about yours.”

Something pinches in her heart at the mention of home and she has to avert her gaze, running a stray thread of embroidery from one of the cushions between her fingers. “Highgarden is like… a dream compared to Kings Landing. The sun always shines and the sky seems to go on forever and ever.”

“Tell me about your favourite places to go, when you were growing up there?” When Clarke looks at her, surprised by her words, Lexa explains, with the most earnest tenderness. “I want to know you Clarke, all of you.”

The smile that has been tugging at her lips appears, unbidden and difficult to shake away. “Once I learned to ride I used to love setting out into the rose fields alone. Our lands went on for leagues, I could ride for a whole day and never meet anyone who bore me ill will.” She glances at Lexa from beneath her lashes and watches the queen’s face begin to colour under her hooded gaze as she continues. “When I became older and young lords began calling I would ride with them out to the orange grove or the orchards of peach trees, and we would find some shadowy place to hide away.” She has the distinct pleasure of watching the blush settle and darken upon Lexa’s cheeks, and laughs quietly at the sight.

Lexa makes a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat, but leans in to accept the strawberry Clarke offers as a peace token. The juice spills over her fingers and across Lexa’s lips, and Clarke struggles to tear her gaze away as Lexa’s tongue darts out to catch the sweet droplets. Her breath comes out in a soft sigh, and Lexa’s eyes are dark, even as she draws herself reluctantly away. Clarke pours them both a goblet of wine, desperate to drown out the yearning hum that has settled in her breast, but when their fingers brush together, the touch of Lexa’s warm hands sends a shiver through her like she has never felt before and she feels like a young maid again.

Lexa’s eyes flicker to her, as green as the leaves that stretch for the sky around them, and Clarke feels almost breathless at the sight. Lexa finally tearing her eyes away only barely helps her claw back her sanity, and she takes a long draft of her wine to hide her flushed cheeks, though she is sure it barely works.

“I’m sure you charmed many young lordlings into giving away their heart to you.” Lexa finally jokes, her voice weak, but Clarke laughs obligingly anyway.

“There were several marriage proposals,” She admits, at last, sharing a teasing smile with Lexa. “But none who were remotely suitable.”

“It is a fair archer who could ever catch the heart of a Lady Clarke Tyrell,” Lexa’s voice is soft and her eyes glance away to the view, as if afraid of what she will see in Clarke’s expression.

Unable to help herself, and unsure why she should, Clarke reaches out and traces gentle fingers over the back of Lexa’s hand, easing it over until she can lace their fingers together and Lexa’s eyes are drawn back to hers again.

“It is a good thing that you shoot so well then,” She murmurs into the space between them. “I would not want to give my heart to any but you.”

Lexa’s breath escapes her in a stutter at her words and when her fingers tighten which affectionate tenderness, Clarke swears her heart stops in her chest.

“I once wondered what it would have been like if we had met before… everything.” Under Lexa’s curious gaze she is powerless but to continue, “If you had to come to Highgarden as a guest of my father and our eyes had met over feasts and dancing.”

“I know what would have happened,” Lexa remarks, her voice so low that Clarke’s eyes widen in surprise. “I would have been helpless before you, Clarke.” Lexa’s thumb tracks a warm stroke over her palm.

“And I you,” She admits, in a whisper. “Of all of the suitors, not one has ever compared to you, Lexa. Sometimes I-” She cuts herself off, suddenly shy and uncertain She has kept her heart so closely guarded for so long, the chains that protect it are stiff and old.

Familiar fingers, warm and rough from years of swinging swords and pulling back bowstrings, nudge at her chin and when she raises her gaze she finds Lexa looking back at her, eyes as soft as summer grass. “You can tell me anything, love.”

The name sounds so perfect falling from her lips and Clarke leans into her touch as Lexa cups her cheek.

“After all we have been through, all we have seen and survived, sometimes I still fear that my love for you will break my heart open.” The words leave her in a rush, and when she glances up at Lexa she worries what she will see in her eyes.

Despite her fears, there is nothing but love in Lexa’s gaze, and when she offers out her arms, Clarke falls into her embrace gratefully, allowing Lexa to wrap her arms around her and press them together so tightly that Clarke feels as if she is sinking into her. She is surrounded by Lexa’s warm scent, pinewood and something sweet and soft, a flora she cannot place, and when Clarke rubs her cheek against her shoulder, her lips skim the exposed skin above her shirt.

“My love,” She speaks with more tenderness and emotion than Clarke has ever heard in any two words. “Clarke, I promise to protect your heart, no matter what. I swear it, before the old gods and the new.”

Clarke’s breath hitches, and she blinks tears from her eyes as she places her hand very carefully over Lexa’s heart, spreading her fingers apart. Beneath her touch, she can feel the steady thrum of Lexa’s heartbeat, and it is like opium to her, spreading peace throughout her body so that her voice is calm and measured when she answers.

“And I promise to protect yours, always.”

Lexa’s hand still rests on her cheek, and when she guides Clarke’s face gently up to look at hers, it feels as natural as breathing to part her lips and breach the space between them, kissing her. Lexa’s lips are soft beneath hers, the fingers that thread into her hair and hold her close- as if she would ever wish to escape this blessed prison- are impossibly gentle. This must be the heaven her Septas told her about, Clarke thinks, absently, for how else could she explain the pure, unadulterated joy that spreads through her at Lexa’s touch. They break apart only when they have to gasp for breath, foreheads pressed together and lips still brushing. She feels as if she is addicted to Lexa and cannot bear to pull herself away, if even for a second. For her part, it seems that Lexa feels the same way, because she does not unwrap her embrace, keeping them so close together that they are sharing breath.

Still, Lexa’s eyes flicker open and find Clarke looking up at her, and her expression shifts with the slightest unease. “Is this alright?” She asks, in a whisper, and Clarke lets out a soft breath of laughter.

“Of course,” She answers, and cradles Lexa’s cheeks in her hands to bring their lips together again.

Lexa’s lips are like a tonic for an ailment she did not know she had. They taste like strawberries and wine, and her skin is soft as butter beneath Clarke’s touch. Their bodies seem to move as if they know exactly where they should be and when, like a dance that they never knew they had been learning, but in this moment Clarke cannot think of any reason she wouldn’t want to be as close to Lexa as possible. Her body shifts and she drops her hand to curl at Lexa’s waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of her linen shirt, until she is pressing Lexa back into the cushions, their kisses becoming hot and heavy and more desperate than Clarke knew love could be.

The brunette gasps for air again, and Clarke takes the momentary respite to continue pressing her lips to Lexa’s jaw bone, tracing its sharp ridge with her kisses, worshipping the valley of her neck until Lexa runs a tender thumb over her cheek and draws her up. She kisses her quickly, though there is nothing chaste about it, it is all fire and passion, as if she cannot help herself, and then says, her voice breaking over her ragged breaths.

“Clarke, I don’t- We have to stop now if-”

“I don’t want to stop.” Clarke insists, and presses back into her love like Lexa is air and she will suffocate without her. “Please, please Lexa.” When still the northerner hesitates, Clarke adds, a desperate yearning to her voice. “You are the only person I will ever love like this,” Her throat is tight and she brushes away the tears that slip down her cheeks impatiently. “Please, Lexa. Please let me love you and know what it is to be loved in return.”

Gentle fingers curl around hers, stilling her furious movements, and Lexa meets her eyes with green so deep Clarke thinks for a moment that she can smell clover fields and a fresh spring rain. Tenderly, she runs her thumbs over Clarke’s cheeks, catching her tears. “All I want is to love you,” She admits, in the quietest of whispers.

When their lips meet again, it is with the softest of whispers of a sigh, and it feels to Clarke more like a homecoming than any journey’s end she has experienced before. Lexa falls back against the cushions beneath her, hands around her hips urging her to follow, and when Clarke fumbles a little settling herself above her, they exchange a slight, nervous chuckle which brings them back together again.

The feeling of Lexa’s body beneath hers is like nothing she has ever known. She has ridden the finest stallions and sailed in the fastest ships, she has commanded her enemies to die and killed men with her bare hands, but that is nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline she feels with her legs on either side of Lexa’s body, her hands framing her face like some beautiful portrait.

For some time they are simply lost in one another, kissing and learning one another in a way they have never been afforded a moment to before. The lightest of touch appears at Clarke’s bare leg, where her skirt has ridden up, playing with the fine hairs there, and she reluctantly pulls her lips from Lexa’s to meet her questioning gaze. Lexa seems nervous beneath her, the touch of her fingers is so light that Clarke is sure she will pull them away in a moment if asked, so she reaches down and pulls Lexa’s hand further up her calf, hauling a strangled gasp from her lover.

As Lexa’s hand continues its steady, uncertain exploration of her body, Clarke fingers at the laces that pull the neck of Lexa’s shirt together, giving Lexa her own curious look. As if to answer her question, Lexa sits up a little, and with a moment of awkward struggling, pulls her shirt over her head. Clarke’s eyes widen at the sight of Lexa bared before her. Though she has seen the pale expanse of Lexa’s chest before, today her lover wears no bindings and her breasts stand tall in the center of her chest, nipples already pert and puckering.

The sight is enough to draw an audible gasp from Clarke, and Lexa laughs softly, even when Clarke tosses her a glare. With renewed vigour, Clarke falls upon her exposed skin like a woman possessed, kissing, sucking and nipping every inch, working her way steadily down towards Lexa’s breasts and beneath her the northern queen shivers and whimpers. When she reaches up to cup one, and runs her thumb over Lexa’s nipple, Lexa jolts beneath her, arching up into her touch and letting out a soft moan. It’s enough to heat the pool of desire between Clarke’s legs and she begins to feel herself become uncomfortably wet, shifting a little for fear that she will drip through her light chemise and onto Lexa.

She worships Lexa’s breasts as if they are the statues of the Seven themselves, and she a devoted Septa. Neither is left untended for long, and she delights in the strangled moans she tugs from Lexa’s body with every purposeful stroke of her tongue. Truly, she would have been content to spend the whole day learning how to make Lexa squirm and shiver beneath her, but soon her lover finds her strength again, and she finds herself gasping against Lexa’s skin as her hand travels up beneath her dress, circling the underside of her knee for a moment to give her the chance to stop if Clarke hesitated.

But Clarke is far from hesitating, in fact it feels as though every sensible thought from her mind has vanished other than wishing that Lexa would touch her harder and faster. Their eyes meet as Lexa’s hand continues its journey up her body, both shivering at the intensity of the feelings between them, until finally Lexa’s fingers brush against the hairs around her cunt, and they both still.

“I- I-” Lexa cannot seem to find her words, her eyes suddenly wide, and Clarke shakes her head, silencing her.

“I can show you.”

True to her word, she takes Lexa’s hand in hers and guides her to the touches that she has learnt make her quiver and scream into her bedclothes. Lexa’s fingers feel different to her own, and the touch makes her shiver like she has been trapped in the ice for years, but she encourages her concerned lover to continue. Where her fingers are soft and well practiced in this routine, Lexa’s fingers feel longer and warmer, and though she is still finding her footing she touches parts of Clarke that make her squirm and whimper. Lexa’s fingers run the line of her wet slit, eyes wide with amazement, and when they journey upwards to bump clumsily against her clit, Clarke spasms with desire, a high keening escaping between her lips. At that, Lexa’s eyes flash with hungry desire, and she nudges away Clarke’s guiding hand, her fingers running circles over the sensitive little bud.

She sits up, her free hand grasping at Clarke’s back to keep her steady and close against her. Her lips finding a path from Clarke’s earlobe down to her collarbones, cursing softly when she comes up against Clarke’s dress. For a moment her touches to her cunt hesitate, and Clarke whimpers, grinding her hips wantonly down onto her hand. She cannot bear to think that Lexa might pull away now, and instead she reaches up to pull at the laces and clasps of her own dress with frustration, until the flimsy sleeves fall down her arms and expose her heaving chest.

Lexa makes a delighted noise, falling upon her breasts like she has been fasting for days, and when her lips seal around Clarke’s nipple, she throws her head back and cries out, pressing only harder into Lexa’s touch. Her crest comes too quickly, she feels as if she is galloping towards it on a stallion that she cannot control, and when she falls over the edge it is with a high pitched cry, falling forwards into Lexa’s waiting body.

There are a few moments of uncertainty, as she reaches down to help Lexa work her through the aftershocks, but then Lexa’s arms are around her, easing her tired, sweaty body back into the cushions and holding her close. Lexa gazes down at her, awe shining in her eyes, even as she runs a hand through her hair, brushing the sticky tendrils away from her face.

“That was beautiful,” She breathes, and Clarke can’t help but laugh, even as Lexa continues earnestly. “Truly Clarke, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Thank you for letting me-”

“Thank you,” Clarke tells her, voice low and throaty, and the sound of it sends a shiver through Lexa. Just the sight reinvigorates her, and Clarke clambers back on top of her lover, her dress still tangled around her waist, to press her back into the cushions. Lexa’s widened eyes meet hers and she brushes the softest kiss to her lips, pouring every tender thought she has had into this touch.

“Can I return the favour?”

“I-” Lexa hesitates, staring at her, and her cheeks begin to pink as she says, quietly. “I do not know if I can… I have never…”

“Oh you can my love,” Clarke smiles, “I will show you that you can.”

With that, she begins to trail her way down Lexa’s body again, like an adventurer picking her way through unknown terrain, she takes her time to familiarise herself with every rise and fall of the body below her. Lexa is all muscle and sinew, her body built from years of training and leading an army. It is so different from Clarke’s own softness that she is fascinated by it, by the way Lexa’s breath shifts with she kisses the underside of her breast, by the way she keens and jerks when Clarke places a bite to her ribs. Lexa’s britches are little issue when she comes to them, she simply pulls at the laces and Lexa lifts her hips obligingly to tug them down and reveal dark, wiry, wet hair and the beautiful scent of her arousal.

Carefully, watching her lovers face, Clarke touches her gently, exploring her wetness and watching the way that Lexa’s eyes widen, her breath hitching at certain touches. When Clarke takes her finger, covered in the evidence of Lexa’s want, and sucks it clean, she fears the girl may pass out. Unable to help herself, she leans in and draws the flat of her tongue along Lexa’s slit. Beneath her, Lexa jolts at the touch, a strangled cry escaping her. Clarke looks up, concerned that she’s done something wrong, but then Lexa’s hand curls in her hair and tugs her unerringly back down again, and Clarke smiles into her wetness.

---

It is some time later when Lexa runs her hand through her lover’s golden locks, pushing them back to gaze upon her sleeping face. Clarke’s delicate braids have begun to unravel in their fervour, her hair sticky with sweat, and Lexa feels a twinge of satisfaction in knowing that her restless fingers contributed to such disorder. She knows that her own hair must be equally unkempt, but she cannot bring herself to care about that, or anything else, when Clarke’s sleeping body is resting upon hers.

With the sun dappling the ground through the leaves of the orange trees, everything feels calm and peaceful. This island is like a paradise that their real lives cannot touch, and in that moment she wishes so deeply that they could stay here forever and let the world find its own way. Perhaps Clarke feels her discontent through the beating of her heart, because in that moment she stirs, her eyelids flickering open to reveal blue like the summer sky looking up at her.

Lexa feels a tinge of regret to have disturbed her, but how can she truly be sad when greeted by the sight of Clarke’s beautiful eyes blinking up at her, clearing the sleep from her vision.

“I fell asleep?” The southern queen asks, her voice rough with fatigue. “I’m sorry, I-” She goes to move away, but Lexa tightens her arm around her just a little. Clarke relaxes back into her hold with a grateful sigh, and then offers a wicked smile that makes Lexa glad they had managed to redress after their ardour. “You exhausted me, my lady.”

Lexa flushes a little at her words, bashful despite their earlier intimacy. “You were tired,” She admits, and her expression softens with concern. “You said you slept poorly?”

A shadow passes across Clarke’s face at the reminder, and she half shrugs, as nonchalant as possible. “I had bad dreams, that’s all.”

“Bad dreams?” Lexa prompts, and runs a hand down her bare arm ever so gently.

Clarke hesitates, mulling over her words for a few quiet moments, before reluctantly admitting. “I dreamt about Pike, that he was in my rooms…”

The mention of the treacherous lord’s name makes Lexa bristle unhappily, her jaw clenching even at the thought of Pike so close to Clarke again. But the bags beneath Clarke’s eyes and the genuine exhaustion she sees in every inch of her body is enough to placate her, and she reassures her quietly.

“Pike is gone. We both watched as the executioner took his head.”

Beneath her, she feels Clarke shiver, and a bite of revulsion runs through her as well. As evil as Pike may have been, the sight of his head being cut from his body is not one she wants to see again.

“I know I just-“ She hesitates again, and when Clarke looks up to meet her gaze, there is something terribly sad in her eyes. “Sometimes it is as if… I have been so terrified for so long, my body has forgotten what it is to be safe.”

Lexa has to shut her eyes for a moment, to hide the pain she feels, and instead only tightens her arms around the girl in her embrace. She knows what it is to be scared, has faced down an army of thousands with the weight of a nation upon her shoulders, but always she has had a sword in her hand and her own army at her back. She can’t imagine how Clarke must have felt, alone and virtually defenceless in the capital.

Soft lips press against hers, drawing her from her thoughts and she opens her eyes to find Clarke looking back at her, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.

“Let’s not think of sad things,” She instructs, “Tell me something happy, please Lex.”

“Alright,” Lexa can’t help but steal another kiss, before allowing Clarke to settle back into her side easily.

“One of our horse boys disappeared while we were here,” She casts her companion an exasperated smile, “Surely seduced by the excitement of the capital. Anya managed to find a new boy within the day though- a lad called Peter who calmed her mount when he spooked in the street.”

“The boy just appeared from nowhere?” Clarke asks, ever so lightly, and Lexa hums her agreement, running an absent minded hand through her hair.

“As if he were sent by the Gods,” Lexa agrees, then smiles to herself. “Though I’m sure the gods have many more things to trouble themselves with.”

“Will you take him back to Winterfell with you?” The words are enough to give them both pause, and Lexa hesitates, contemplating the painful thump of her heart.

“Yes,” She murmurs, eventually, “He will work in the stables.”

“Aden will be glad to see you again,” The joviality in Clarke’s voice is as false as silk roses. “You must make him write to me and tell me how Rose is doing.”

“Stop, please,” She is surprised to find that her voice is breaking over her words. When Clarke meets her gaze, there are a sheen of tears to her eyes as Lexa begs, “I don’t want to think about leaving, or Winterfell, or any of it. I just want to think about you – and love you.”

“Lexa,” Clarke cradles her cheeks in her hands and leans forwards to capture her lips again. “I love you too.”

Their foreheads pressed together, their bones tired from making love, and the sweet smell of oranges in the air, Lexa could almost believe that this moment would never end.

Clarke is warm in her arms and when she twists to press a kiss to the side of her head, she hums happily. Lexa gives a soft sigh, following Clarke’s gaze out to the crystal waters and the bluest of skies. “Then that’s all we need.”

It’s a lie, but a beautiful one.

---

It is a warm, bright day, the first of many that the southern summer will bring, when a messenger girl, almost tripping over her own feet to give a deep bow of deference to her queen, tells her that a representative from the Iron Bank has arrived. Clarke’s brows furrow, and she thanks the girl before asking her to have both the guest and Queen Lexa sent to her private audience chamber, with the utmost discretion.

Harper watches from where she is checking Clarke’s new bed linens for poison, and asks, quietly. “Is there anything I can do, your majesty?”

“Have refreshments sent to us Harper, if you would. And when you’re done go to Grand Measter Orrin and ask him for the leather satchel from across the sea, and bring that to me.”

Harper nods, and bobs a curtsey, before hurrying from her solar. Clarke runs a hand over the skirt of her dress; her eyes linger on her crown, but when she looks in the mirror she sees a woman who could easily be underestimated and that is exactly what she wants.

Lexa has already arrived by the time she gets to her private chamber, and is pacing back and forth before the window like a caged animal. Soon, Clarke knows, she will have to return to the north. The life of a courtier in Kings Landing does not suit her, and besides she has her own country to rule.

“Your majesty,” Lexa turns at the sound of the door, catching sight of her. There are still servers arranging sweet wine, cheese and fruits along the table, and so all they can do is look at one another, their hearts pounding.

“Our friends from across the sea?” Lexa asks, pointedly.

“They will be here soon,” She reassures her. Unable to help herself, she crosses the room, breaching the space between them so that they can speak more privately. “I believe it is truly them this time.”

“As do I.” Lexa nods seriously. “We must present a united force, they must understand that we are not pawns to be played in their games.”

“We will,” Clarke assures her, and steps away as a knock comes to the door. Often, she feels as though she is the tide and Lexa the shore, and though they are forced to retreat from one another somehow they always come back together.

“Enter,” She calls, as she settles herself into the high backed chair at the head of the table, carved with elaborate roses and stags. Lexa steps up behind her, her hand upon the back of her chair, and Clarke thinks they must make a rather striking tableau because their guest’s eyes widen as he is shown inside.

Dante Wallace looks much the same as he had all those months ago, though his hair is more silver now and there is gauntness to his expression that wasn’t there when last they met. He bows, low and elegant, to them both, and offers a charming smile when he straightens up again.

“Your majesties, well met.”

“Well met Master Wallace,” Clarke answers, with a nod of her head. “I hope your journey was not too strenuous.”

“The crossing of the Narrow Sea is never easy on old bones, your majesty.” Dante gives a small smile. “But I had to come to meet the new queen of the south.”

“Please, sit,” Clarke gestures to the chair before her. As Dante sits, she pours him a goblet of wine, “We have met before.”

“Indeed, but I have not met the new queen,” Dante takes the goblet she offers with a nod of his head. He offers her a smile which is almost paternal, “I thought you would go far when last we met.”

“It is terrible circumstances,” Clarke glances down at her own goblet, “But I intend to do whatever it takes to keep my country safe.”

“It seems that you are keen to maintain the good relationships King Thelonious left behind,” Dante observes, and his eyes linger on Lexa long enough to make it clear what he is referring to. “I hope that that courtesy extends to us.”

“I hope so too, Master Wallace.” Clarke glances back at Lexa, as if she had forgotten she was there. “Have you met Queen Lexa of the Northern Kingdom?”

Master Wallace doesn’t flinch away from her expectant expression, a cordial smile on his face. “I have not yet had the pleasure, your majesty.” He nods to the northern queen, “Your majesty, we at the Iron Bank have written to you since your reign began.”

“I am aware,” Lexa answers, steadily, and only the slightest shift in Dante’s expression gives away his annoyance.

“The queen and I are keen to ensure that relationships between our nations are close.” Clarke informs him, a steely edge entering her tone.

Almost as if she were listening at the door, a knock comes and Harper is shown inside. Clarke waves a hand at her, motioning her closer without drawing her eyes away from Dante Wallace.

The foreigner watches the handmaiden’s approach, a flicker of hesitation in his voice before he says. “That is excellent news. All any of us want is peace.”

Harper deposits the leather pouch into Clarke’s hands and retreats without a word, closing the door softly behind her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” At his words, Clarke dips her hand into the pouch in her dress and pulls out the iron coin that has been beneath her pillow for so many nights. With careful precision, she places it onto the table between them and watches as his face turns grey. Into the silence that hangs between them all, she says. “There are others in Braavos who feel similarly.” She reaches into the pouch, her fingers closing around the cold, withered skin of Cage Wallace, and places the face onto the table between them.

Dante Wallace stares down at his son’s face, and his expression draws as if he is going to vomit. He recoils away from the sight, his chair legs scraping against the stone flag floor with a terrible squeal, but he doesn’t get very far before Lexa’s strong hand clamps around his shoulder, keeping him down.

The silver blade she presses against his throat shines in the candlelight and Clarke sees the master’s eyes bulging with fear.

She offers her prettiest, rosebud smile. “It wouldn’t do for people to find out that you once sought to undermine our close relationship. It would be terrible for the Iron Bank’s reputation.” With a sigh, she puts the face back into the bag and pockets her coin again, as Lexa slides away from the Braavosi banker.

Clarke is slightly impressed that Dante doesn’t flee in an instant. Instead, he takes a moment to straighten out his robes, and stands with all the grace a man just held out knifepoint can possibly have.

He clears his throat and speaks weakly. “As you say, your majesty,” he gives a nod of his head to them both, and turns for the door, but Clarke’s words pull him up short.

“And I’m sure you will be happy to erase all of the crown’s debts to you, won’t you Master Dante.”

---

The sun draws in, painting the sky with long strokes of apricot and rosebud pink. This is quickly becoming one of her favourite parts of the day: her petitioners have all gone home, and from her place on the balcony with Wells she can hear the sounds of people in the city downing tools and streaming into the inns and alehouses of the city.

This balcony is hers now, just as the castle behind it is, and the city sprawling out below, and while that weight has not become any lighter, she has learnt to bear it better in the weeks that have passed. Beside her, Wells seems more relaxed than he has in years, and she glances over at him curiously, taking a sip from her goblet before asking.

“You seem to be in good spirits, my friend?”

Wells considers her words for a moment, and then nods. “I am.” He answers, and he offers a smile that warms her to the bones. “I feel more content than I have done in some time.”

She eyes him with interest, “May I ask why?”

“You are the queen, you may ask whatever you wish.” He teases her, and she scowls at him over the rim of her goblet. “Truly though,” he continues more seriously. “For some time I have been wondering what I will do next… there is no place for a disgraced prince in your court.”

She cuts through him, abruptly alarmed by this line of talk. “There will always be a place for you here, Wells, you know that. This is your home as much as it is mine.”

“I know, but as long as I am around there will always be a challenge to your reign, whether I want to be or not.” He sets hardened eyes upon her, “I am done being a pawn in their games. I will not be used against you.”

“But where will you go?” Her wide eyes are set to him, her heart thrumming in her chest.

He takes a deep breath, “I know this sounds strange, but I would like to return to the Maesters in Oldtown.”

Her brows crease and her mouth drops open to protest, but he speaks over her.

“I have always wanted to learn more, and now that I am no longer a prince I am free to do so. Who better to learn from than some of the wisest men in Westeros?”

“Maester Wells,” She rolls the words across her tongue like a sugar coated almond, considering them. After a moment she admits, reluctantly. “It would suit you.”

He smiles, and reaches over to place a hand upon hers, squeezing gently. In the glowing evening light, she sees the lines that have been carves around his eyes and the heaviness that rests there, and wonders if he sees these confessions of age and weariness in her too.

“I will not go without your blessing, but I truly think it would be the best for your reign if I were to leave.”

“Of course you should go,” She frowns at him, “If it is what you want I will not stop you- though I will miss you dearly.”

“Thank you, my friend,” He smiles, and she is reminded of the youth they shared, of chasing one another through the castle gardens and stealing away from their Septa. Part of her aches for those times, but she knows now that they will never be what they were before. That innocence was stripped from them long ago and the best they can hope is to find some happiness in the world they have now.

“What about your son?” Her voice is pitched so softly that Wells can pretend not to hear her if he wishes. When his expression shifts to sadness, she presses a little further. “I don’t think that they allow babes in Oldtown.”

“You’re right,” He sighs, shaking his head. “I love my son, but I could never care for him as his mother did. Whenever I look upon him-” His voice breaks and she turns away, giving him a moment to gather his emotions.

“I think you would be a wonderful father,” She murmurs, to the warm evening air, and Wells squeezes her fingers.

“Thank you Clarke but… it would not be fair to raise my son when everytime I look at him I am reminded of everyone I lost.”

“I won’t argue with you,” Clarke assures him, after a moment, “Though I think you’re wrong. I will make sure Benam is protected and well cared for.”

“I meant what I said,” Wells fixes her with a firm gaze, suddenly more sure of himself than she has seen him in years. “I want you to raise him, acknowledge him as my son and your heir.”

She presses her lips together, considering. There is a part of her, she is ashamed to say, which sees the advantages Wells is offering her and wants to take them without hesitation. But there is another part of her, a larger part, who cannot help but think of Aden’s words to her in the Winterfell crypt what feels like a lifetime ago. “Are you sure you won’t regret it? Every son wants to know his father, and every father wants to know his son.”

“I am sure,” Wells looks at her with grave eyes, and she senses that he has given this great thought. He stands and takes a few steps to the balcony, looking out over the patchwork of red tiled roofs and snaking streets. “My father wanted the Baratheons to rule this land for all of eternity. He thought that we would always do what was right for our people. While watching him wage the war against the north I saw for the first time how difficult it was to be a ruler,” He shakes his head and glances back at her, a pitiful smile upon his lips. “My father was a stronger man than I, and I saw him be pulled in every different direction by advisers who sought to influence him. For some time he lost sight of his wisdom and his faith and all he was fighting for, and in that time so many men died in an unnecessary war.”

Clarke stands, her skirts swaying soundlessly around her legs, and moves to join him at the balcony. “Your father was a good man,” She tells him, softly. “Please don’t doubt that.”

“I don’t,” Wells assures her, “He had merits that I do not. He was certainly braver and more shrewd than I will ever be, he had more wisdom and ruthlessness. That is how I know I cannot be king… but that doesn’t mean my son might not be better than I am.”

Clarke’s brows crease and she glances to him, “Benam?”

He meets her gaze and speaks earnestly. “Raise him Clarke, and teach him to be the sort of king this land deserves. At least then the Baratheon name will live on and my father’s legacy will be satisfied.”

“After all you’ve seen, you still want Benam to be king?” Clarke shakes her head, astounded.

“He will have the best teacher there is,” Wells smiles at her, touching her hand very gently. “And besides, from what I understand you are unlikely to be making any heirs yourself.”

Her eyes widen and her head snaps to stare at him so violently that she feels her neck twinge. “What?” She demands, and her fingers tighten instinctively about his. “What have you heard?”

“Not heard,” He promises her, “Only seen with my own two eyes. You seem to be very attached to Her Majesty Queen Lexa.”

“I-” Clarke scrambles for words, like a fish out of water, and Wells laughs very softly at her floundering. “Are people talking?” Clarke demands, at last, “Do people know?”

“No one knows but I, and perhaps your Queensguard if they were not dropped atop their heads as infants,” Wells laughs, and then continues at her stricken expression. “Peace, friend. I only know because I have watched you fall in and out of love since we were babes.”

“And you still want your child to be raised by me?” Clarke asks at last, with a watery, derisive laugh. “Who makes such unwise decisions?”

“Oh Clarke,” For a second she thinks she sees pity in his eyes. “We don’t choose who we love. I know that, above anyone else.”

“Soon it will not matter,” She shakes her head, and forces her eyes out to the slowly darkening horizon. “She will return to Winterfell any day now.”

“And she will take your heart with her,” Wells observes, quietly. When her gaze turns to him, he offers a sad smiles. “The common people may think that we are blessed with all manners of riches, but content is a crown seldom enjoyed.”

At that, she can only nod, and they stand there together for some time, watching as the sun eases further and further through the sky, leaving trails of indigo in its wake. A knock comes to the door, startling them from their reverie, and when Harper steps in and introduces Queen Lexa, Clarke’s heart throbs.

“Your majesty,” Lexa hesitates at the doorway to the balcony, her gaze flickering uncertainly to Wells, “I apologise, I thought you would be alone at this hour.”

“That’s alright, your majesty,” Wells bows his head to them both. “I will take my leave, I have suddenly got a hankering for roast lamb and new potatoes.”

“Prince Wells, you really don’t have to-” Lexa protests lamely as he places down his goblet and inclines his head to Clarke.

“Nonsense,” Wells shakes his head, a smile playing upon his lips. “Thank you for your counsel, your majesty, as always.”

“Thank you, Prince Wells,” Clarke smiles, watching him leave, and when Harper closes the door behind them both she crosses the space between Lexa and herself and takes her love’s hands within hers. “I am glad to see you.”

“And I you,” Lexa confesses, and the stars dance within her eyes when she leans forward to steal a kiss from Clarke’s lips. It leaves Clarke breathless and smiling, and she can’t help but pull Lexa back to her by her hand, pressing their lips together again until they have to break away, laughing very softly.

“Would you like to sit?” Clarke gestures to the two chairs left empty on the balcony, but Lexa takes her hand, smiling a little sadly.

“No, I couldn’t bear to be that far away from you tonight,” Their hands still clasped, she pulls Clarke towards the low stone wall, and they lean against it together, so close that their shoulders brush, and look out onto the stars just beginning to show themselves in the darkening sky. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your time with your friend.”

“Don’t be,” Clarke runs her thumb over the smooth skin of Lexa’s palm. “We have said all there is to say tonight,” At Lexa’s curious glance she explains. “He tells me he wants to become a Maester.” Lexa makes a soft, interested noise, and she continues, a little hesitantly. “And that Benam should be my heir.”

“His son?” Lexa’s eyes widen, focusing with an intensity that Clarke has not seen in her before. “That is an interesting proposition- he does not want to raise the child himself?”

“He says he reminds him too much of Ivy, the boy’s mother,” Clarke meets her gaze and squeezes her fingers. “Wells loved her very much and she was killed by Pike’s men.”

“That is terrible,” Lexa’s expression is soft with sympathy and understanding. “Wells must miss her immensely.”

Clarke nods, and then asks quietly into the silence that settles about them. “What do you think I should do?”

Lexa sighs ever so softly and turns to look at her properly, her expression intense upon Clarke’s features. When she speaks, she is incredibly serious. “I cannot tell you what to do Clarke, but if you would like my advice… you are young yet and could easily bear many heirs of your own.”

Clarke’s eyes meet hers and her voice breaks over her words. “And if I do not want to bear many heirs of my own?”

Lexa’s breath catches in her throat, and she swallows. “I would… ask you to be sure when you make that decision. Life is long Clarke, and your reign is yet beginning. You may find it helpful… perhaps even desirable… to have a king by your side some day.”

“I am sure.”Clarke takes their clasped hands and presses them against her breast, above her heart. Her voice wells with emotion when she says. “I know what I want, I know who I want. You will live in my heart always Lexa, and I could never bring myself to try to replace you.”

“Oh Clarke,” There are tears sparkling in Lexa’s eyes. “You know I would never ask you…”

“You don’t have to ask,” Clarke shakes her head, “And you could go away and marry hundreds of other queens and kings, but I would still love you just as much as I love you today.”

“My heart beats only for you.” Lexa answers, without faltering. “I will never love another, not until my dying breath.”

At those words, Clarke can’t help but lean forward to capture her lips, kissing away the tears that fall down her cheeks and wishing that she can soothe the anguish that rages through them both. Lexa’s arms wind around her waist, holding her close, and when they break apart their foreheads touch, so that they are looking deeply into one another’s eyes.

“You understand that we can never be wed while we are queens?” Lexa murmurs, their lips almost brushing. “My people have fought hard for their independence, and while it may have been for the wrong reasons it’s my responsibility to help them find their way now.”

“And I cannot abandon the south without a leader,” Clarke lets out a very soft sigh, resting her head against Lexa’s shoulder and enjoying the feeling of being held, of strong arms clutching her close. “And so we are like the sun and the moon,” She muses quietly, her eyes fixed to the sky darkening to twilight. “Destined never to be together.”

“But when they meet, even if ever so briefly,” Lexa murmurs, brushing her hair back from her forehead and pressing a soft kiss close to her ear. “The sky is filled with the most beautiful colours. We will be that way Clarke, I could not live without you for very long.”

Slowly, Clarke peels herself away from her lover’s arms as she thinks about what Lexa means. “So we shall meet in secret?”

“Until all is settled and we can be together as we should be,” When their eyes meet Lexa is soft, but determined. “As I say, I can no longer live without you.”

“Nor I you.” Clarke breathes, enraptured by the sight before her.

“And we cannot leave two great nations within sovereigns,” Lexa brushes softly along her cheek. “So we must meet, for the good of our people.”

Clarke’s lips quirk, and she echoes. “Our people.”

“And one day, when all is said and done,” Lexa cradles her very close, as if afraid she will vanish. “I should like to marry you, Clarke Tyrell, if you would be obliged.”

“I think I should like that more than anything else,” Clarke catches her lips again and when they kiss it tastes of roses and cold winters nights and promises to be kept.

#clexa #clexa gotau #clarke griffin #commander lexa #clexa fic #dreamsofray

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autumnblogs · 3 years

Text

Day 32: Through the Looking Glass

https://homestuck.com/story/4116

So right out of the gate, we learn a few things about the Scratched version of the universe, aside from the obvious fact that the new heroes are the previous guardians. Everyone is a little more mature, and identities are a little more fully-formed.

Jane’s name is already set in stone. Notably, the definition between the audience and Jane is also a little clearer here than usual - the Narration implies a distinction between us and Jane. Could be because we’re not controlling her yet - but as we get into Act 6, we will find a lot of cases where audience participation happens as part of the mechanic of narration, and this distinction will be called to a lot more.

More after the break.

https://homestuck.com/story/4117

So let’s unpack Jane’s interests and relation to pre-established parts of the Homestuck Universe, and see if we can’t start making guesses about Jane.

First thing’s first is that while we could read Jane’s affinity for these mustachio’d funnymen as being purely an attraction, she roleplays like John does - as a bit of a prankstress herself, and one who dons a fake mustache for one of her disguises, Jane roleplays as these men immediately suggesting to us that she looks up to them, and wants to be like them, rather than that she’s attracted to them.

(Though she certainly could be.)

Second thing is that Jane’s position as the Heirress parallels her not to John, but to Feferi. Like Feferi, Jane is a sweet girl who is the heir to a position of abominable power, and because she is beholden to the shape of that power, as long as she remains wedded to that shape, she will not only struggle to do anything productive with it, but in the course of the story, be subverted into a villain, at least for a little while, and it’s clear from the way that Crockertier Jane’s situation is communicated to us that she is an accomplice to her own brainwashing, and that the actions she takes in that form are meaningfully hers.

On another note, I think it’s interesting that on this side of the scratch, the Condesce has reimagined her empire as a megacorporation.

https://homestuck.com/story/4120

What do we learn about Jake right out of the gate? He likes movies - adventure movies. Jake, like Tavros, the other page, loves to bluster about subjects that he actually has relatively little affinity for - and in both cases, their lack of affinity can largely be described as performing their culture’s ideal of public personhood - warrior virtue. While Jake has all of the outward signifiers of masculinity, and is actually a pretty brave and technically skillful fighter by the standards of the real world, up until the Hopesplosion, he is outclassed by a lot of his friends, and ultimately, the cases where he most embodies warrior-manhood, Jake is being forced into it by someone who wants to take advantage of him.

We benefit from most of this knowledge with hindsight. It’s not actually there in this opening section, but the main thrust of Jake’s interests is his love of adventure and his love of wrestling, and I’m principally interested in Jake’s physicality in addressing his interests - he’s a very physical kid.

https://homestuck.com/story/4121

We’re hot off the heels of Terezi’s fake choice, and a lot of conversation about free will and fake choices in Act 5 - and here we’re presented with one almost immediately. We can pick either option, but the outcome will be the same whatever we do.

https://homestuck.com/story/4124

I’ve always thought the Condescension’s relationship with Jane is deeply fascinating. There is something about the prospect of cultivating an heiress, someone to take over her legacy, that brings out something tender and maternal in her, I think, even if it only manifests in a twisted way. She’s a bit of an enigma to me.

https://homestuck.com/story/4126

Well, Jane is certainly interested in Foxworthy, so I rescind my earlier comment.

We’ve barely been introduced to her and she pretty much immediately starts showing off her paternalistic disdain for rural and vulgar people through the narrative’s language, and her nostalgia for Problem Sleuth characterizes her enjoyment of its sequel.

Jane has an aristocratic mentality, and conservative leanings in the media she appreciates, and the way that she appreciates it. If Andrew’s commentary that he continued to examine the themes he started with Feferi in Jane, I think what we should take away is that Feferi’s concern for the lowly comes with a heaping helping of...

Wait for it.

Wait for it...

Condescension.

https://homestuck.com/story/4127

Jane’s disdain for the vulgar - low culture, low classes - also shows itself pretty quickly. In stark contrast to the other two leaders - John and Karkat - Jane isn’t much of a movie watcher at all (Jake gets that attribute in his session) and her attitude toward’s Jake’s movies is one of snobbery. Both of the other two movie watchers have a playfully self-deprecating attitude toward their own bad tastes in movies, but they still enjoy those movies sincerely.

Her relationship of passive-aggressive one-upsmanship also distinctly recalls Rose’s relationship with her mother, suggesting that Jane shares some of the underlying pessimism and mild hostility that Rose struggles with.

Also, as a symbol Swanson is a representative of the sort of anti-government animus that characterizes the politics of Trans-Mississippi America outside of the heavily populated West Coast, where the wedding of big business and state planning have created a lot of disaffection toward the distant and disinterested corporate landlords and bureaucratic apparatuses that govern huge tracts of federal land and private property in the west. Pawnee Indiana may not actually be on the other side of the Mississippi from Washington, but having grown up in Montana for at least a part of my childhood, Swanson’s politics are immediately recognizable.

Unfortunately, this anti-state animus has manifested not in the form of a renewed commitment to emancipation, but to the uniquely American, get-off-my-lawn form of Right-Wing populism practiced by the short-lived Tea Party, and smug “It’s just basic economics” Reagan-worshipping conservatives.

What I’m trying to say is, Jane would probably be a Ben Shapiro or Steven Crowder fan in the modern day.

https://homestuck.com/story/4136

Jane’s skepticism prevents her from listening to her friends when they tell her about the extraordinary things that they do, but it’s also not exactly a kind of scientific skepticism, and more of a dogmatic realism - she has a narrow vision of what the world is like, and is dismissive of ideas that are outside of her bubble.

Quick Note that while Jake makes only an off-handed remark about it here, he is sensitive to the hostile, toxic relationship between the AR and Dirk in a way that neither of the girls really is, and while that may seem uncharacteristically emotionally intelligent of Jake, I think he’s a lot more aware of his surroundings than he lets on.

https://homestuck.com/story/4142

Now as long as we’re talking about Right Wing Populism and comparing Jane to John there is an extremely potent assertion.

The USPS, and the idea of privatizing it, is as much a symbol of the war of corporatists and authoritarians against social democracy as anything is, and because of the way John is associated with Mail in general as a Hero of Breath, Jane is almost immediately setting herself up as a foil to John.

https://homestuck.com/story/4144

Calliope is so cheery that it’s easy to take everything she says in stride, and yet, with all the horrors Sburb has to offer, in terms of the way it destroys planets, and traumatizes its players, her optimism toward the game is at least disquieting.

Sure, the Null Session isn’t going to destroy the kids’ session, but her language is contrasted against both Kanaya’s and Karkat’s when they berated Aradia and Jade respectively. Both Karkat and Kanaya rue the effects of the narrative on their lives, but Calliope is a superfan.

https://homestuck.com/story/4156

I know I’m spending a lot of time ragging on her here, but like, as long as I am; Jane is sure openly hostile to her best friend, in a way that comes as kind of surprising even given the precedent that we have to work with.

https://homestuck.com/story/4160

Poirot is from Belgium.

I wonder if Andrew or Jane is the one committing that error?

https://homestuck.com/story/4168

Jake is full of little contradictions like this. Likes Adventure, terrified of monsters. Not even ambivalent about them, certainly not excited by them. It’s like the opposite of how little kids are usually super into Dinosaurs.

https://homestuck.com/story/4171

So what is the deal with Jake and his fascination with Blue Women? Aside from the metaphysical connection with Vriska and Aranea (and to a lesser extent, Jake), like... what’s the meaning of it?

I think a possible answer to the question lies in the process of the initial portraits becoming blue - leaving them out in the sun to fade - and the relationship between that, and the way in which he likes mummies and suits of armor, and so on and so forth - and even his stuffed trophies.

Maybe this suggests that Jake is, on principle, far more comfortable with the idea of a thing, than with the thing itself. Jake’s Blue Women are comfortably static. They have ceased to change a long time ago, and now exist, preserved in perpetuity, without the need to worry about adapting to suit them.

https://homestuck.com/story/4175

While a lot of Jake’s guesses are incorrect, he’s still clearly spending a lot of time pondering over the mysterious time shenanigans - he just hasn’t quite put it all together.

https://homestuck.com/story/4177

The same way that Dirk’s fastidious organization is equated to his complicated and demanding modus, and the way that John being a big impulsive himbo is equated with his inability to manage his fetch modus, constantly getting distracted from his goal by the card on the surface, Jake’s Modus has an enormous capacity, but most of it is preoccupied inefficiently.

https://homestuck.com/story/4184

The Autoresponder continues the conversation that Andrew has with the audience about the distribution of the self - Dirk does this more generally, but the particular thread the AR tugs on is the question of where a person’s self really stops - just as the question lingers in the air because of John’s disposition toward Davesprite, the question of whether the AR is really a separate person from Dirk, or a part of him, is posed continuously just by the fact that it exists.

https://homestuck.com/story/4192

To be fair to Dirk, who I will have a lot of kind-of-sympathetic-antipathy for, I had forgotten that it is, in fact, the Autoresponder who sets up this particular challenge for Dirk.

The parallels between Dirk and English are nevertheless being set up through this conversation nevertheless - by sending him the parts and getting him to assemble the robot, Dirk makes Jake complicit in his own humiliation, even as he attempts to build Jake up into an ideal partner.

https://homestuck.com/story/4196

Already we’re seeing indications that this segment of Homestuck will deal with different themes of growing up than the first half. Which is already kind of obvious, but we’ve moved decisively out of Part 1: Problems, and into Part 2: Feelings. The second half has moved out of the territory of other humans and their emotional situations as somewhat idealized problems (somewhat) and into this situation where everyone is a moving body, complicated and the characters are each others’ biggest obstacles, and their own biggest obstacles. That’s a bit of a reductive way of describing it, but I think it rings true.

https://homestuck.com/story/4256

While I am willing to concede that Dirk is not literally responsible for siccing the Brobot on Jake today, he more or less assents to AR’s sexual harassment and physical abuse of Jake.

In addition to his vicarious physical abuse, Dirk’s persona as the Prince of Heart calls him to suppress the uniqueness of the people who are around him, moulding them like clay into shapes that better resemble him. Jake and Jane need to be more like each other in his eyes - which is to say, they both need to be more like Dirk.

We also get some insight into Dirk’s sense of humor here - it’s not just about the irony. I think there is an extent to which at the base of the thing, Dirk’s sense of humor is about simultaneously denying and affirming a thing’s meaning - making fun of it while cherishing it. Having a thing be incredibly silly - while also being incredibly serious business. He cherishes the absurd.

I wonder if he’d like Kojima’s stuff.

https://homestuck.com/story/4257

The way that Dirk identifies with logic and reason recalls the sort of “enlightened by my own intelligence” New Atheist jerks who were known to prowl the internet in the early half of the decade, and to some extent, still do. Like Libertarians, these folks have often in the present day gotten caught up in Right Wing Populism. Maybe it’s something about the way that Right Wing movements increasingly identify as a part of counter-culture even though they advocate reactionary policies.

https://homestuck.com/story/4273

This is extremely silly, but Jake is in mortal peril all the time, and I expect even at the best of times he might be uncomfortable being touched.

https://homestuck.com/story/4284

Here we shall pause.

Sorry for the late post. Early work was quite busy, and once the rush was over, it was already quite late.

So the first Act of Act 6 has been very informative! Compared to the first Act of Homestuck, we’ve been introduced already to all our Dramatis Personae!

Tune back in tomorrow to here Cam Say,

Some variation on Alive and Not Alone.

#commentary #liveblogging

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the-trashy-phoenix · 3 years

Text

Supernatural season 4 review (part 1)

Link to part 2:

Carly and I have been waiting for this season since we started watching Supernatural. She had been sending me Destiel posts and pictures and telling me about them even before we watched the very first episode, so I had a lot of expectations on this particular season, and on one particular character.

Castiel appears from the very beginning (I thought he wouldn’t come out so early) to explain Dean’s inexplicable resurrection. In fact, Dean died at the end of the third season and at the end of his last year on earth due to the deal to save Sam, but we already knew he would survive because the authors would never let him die at the third season and we are no more surprised by the fact that in Supernatural being dead permanently is more unusual than coming back to life after a while.

The first episode is happy and tragic at the same time: Dean wakes up in his coffin (that was pretty disquieting if you ask me) and he manages to come out and reach Bobby. At first he cannot believe he’s really Dean, but Dean convinces him even without knowing how he was saved from hell. Bobby’s pain for Dean’s death is comprehensible, as he considers him as his son, and so it is the confusion he feels seeing him again, but that’s nothing compared to Sam’s reaction. He’s been deeply broken by Dean’s death and, as it was predictable, tried in every way to take him back, and failed (as most of the fans have noticed, this total impossibility of the brothers to live without each other is quite toxic, but from some point of view their entire life is…). In fact he’s so surprised by Dean coming back from hell he can’t hide the fact that Ruby kind of took his brother’s place. She is an interesting character who emerges properly only in this season and develops through it in a quite complex way: I was never able to tell if she really wanted to help the Winchesters, as it seems in the first place, or if she was only following a mysterious path. By the way, thanks to her help and especially her blood, Sam, without Dean in his life to stop him, persuaded himself that the best way to keep hunting was by enhancing his demonic powers in order to kill demons. I’m quite sure he thinks it’s a good compromise between his two sides, good and evil, but I also think that something happens inside him the exact moment he sees his brother again. He’s so afraid of Dean’s judgement he tries to hide his relationship (also romantic, which is quite creepy) with Ruby, also because deep inside he knows what he’s doing is somehow wrong, even if he’s actually saving people. Of course when Dean finds out he gets mad at him, and that’s understandable considering how suspicious he’s always been about Ruby. However, he himself is never really sincere with Sam about what happened in hell, both because he doesn’t want to remember and somehow feel again all that pain and because he feels deeply guilty for having accepted to torture some souls, even after a long period of resistance. Also, Dean’s pain doesn’t end as he’s back in earth, because he meets again several times Alastair, the powerful demon who tortured him in hell and forced him to torture other souls (and I was quite happy when Dean had the chance to get a little revenge and torture him). Of course these big secrets lead to fights and misunderstandings to which we are used, but those issues could have been solved easily, if only they had spoken to each other from the beginning. After a while they finally do clarify their positions, and that’s a relief for us all. Sam tells Dean what Ruby has done saving him on a lot of occasions and partly persuades him to rely on this good demon, but even after this clarification, the problem is not completely solved because Dean can’t but think Sam has replaced him with Ruby and prefers following her advice rather than keep hunting with him. Deep inside Sam has always the same feeling towards his brother: he doesn’t want Dean to treat him like a child, and his biggest struggle is being considered as the little brother who needs protection. That’s why he wants so bad to break free from Dean. Although, he doesn’t understand that also Ruby is patronizing him and, as he acknowledges at the very end, she’s not doing it because she loves and cares about him, but because she needs him.

I’ll jump quickly to the final episode, as we’re talking about Ruby. The main villain of the previous season, Lilith, was not defeated at all: in the last episode we just get to know Sam can resist her, so she has to find another way to take over him. During all the fourth season we see Lilith breaking the so-called “seals”, which will allow her to free Lucifer from his cage down in hell. The boys struggle with that all the time and they don’t know how to stop her, apart from killing her. At the end, Sam decides to do that all by himself, helped by Ruby and by the demon blood he can’t stop drinking at this point, without knowing that’s exactly what he has to do to bring Lucifer back and Ruby has been cheating on him all the time. I do have to admit it was quite a shock, because I had started to like and trust Ruby and to think Dean was a little too paranoiac, and jealous, about her. Maybe it’s just that I liked to think that someone who’s destined to be a monster, like a demon, can actually have a choice and do the good thing. Also Sam always seems to hope that, because he himself has demon blood in his veins and tries to use his evil powers for the good. He mirrors himself in monsters all the time, as in episode 4, when he tries to convince Dean that a bad creature can really control itself if it wants to, but everything, even in this episode, seems to prove him wrong. Even his blood thirst is insatiable and, although he thinks he can control himself and choose the good side (as he thinks he’s doing when he accidentally frees the Devil), at some point in episode 21 Dean and Bobby feel the need to close him into the panic room to detoxify him from demon blood (and they would have succeeded, if he hadn’t managed to escape).

As I mentioned Bobby, I’d like to point out the fact that the boys seem to consider him only when they’re both alive, while, when one of them is (temporarily) dead, the other one is so lost he cuts every link with other human beings, especially Bobby, who in the contrary is always there for them. I just think he deserves a little more consideration and gratitude, because he loves the boys just as they love him and they don’t seem to realise he suffers so much when one of them dies or if he doesn’t know what’s happening to them.

To go back to the final episode, you may wonder what Dean was doing while Sam was freeing Lucifer and starting the apocalypse… To answer this question we have to go back to the beginning and Castiel.

As I said before, this mysterious character appears as Dean’s saver and presents himself as an “angel of the Lord”. Of course we’re as surprised as Dean is hearing that, because we’ve learnt to think the world is full of evil and there’s no such thing as a good supernatural creature, so we wonder what’s the truth. Well, there’s no contradiction: we soon also learn angels aren’t as good as the Bible teaches us (at least the ones in Supernatural). They do exist, so Castiel is not lying, but they just want to do their own good and they don’t care at all about humans (that’s quite paradoxical, that Sam and Dean care more about protecting humanity than angels, and as far as I know God himself, do). But that’s another thing we get to know as the show goes on and that reaches its apex in the last episode.

Of course I already knew something about Castiel (and his “special relationship” with Dean) as Carly told me a lot about him, but still I found his appearance and the whole angel thing quite interesting, especially because at first Cas tries to be solemn and focused on his duty, which is at first even a bit scary, then quite funny considering how his relationship with the brothers will evolve through the season and through the entire series. His character changes a lot not only in his behaviour towards the Winchesters, but also in his faith in God’s and angels’ plans, as he decides to actually do the right thing against all the odds and against his own father, which must’ve been really hard for him, knowing how blindly faithful he was at first. He decides to put himself into the hands of those two guys without knowing anything but they’re fighting to save as many people as possible, and that’s why we love him and consider him the only angel worth the name. The more the show goes on, the more we see the continuous contrast between Castiel’s attitude (at first just a little uncertain) and the other angels’. I’ll mention just two of them for now, Anna and Zacharia. Anna is a girl who’s perceived as crazy because she says she can hear angels speaking, and of course demons hunt her as a means to find out the angels’ plan. When Sam, Dean and Bobby find her and try to help her, they call Pamela, an old friend of Bobby’s who always helps the boys as best as she can (I think she’s one of the characters that help Sam and Dean more and that they never thank enough, considering she finally sacrifices her life to allow them to conclude a hunt successfully). Pamela makes Anna realise she’s a fallen angel, and that explains why she’s able to hear angels’ voices, and after some time, she can go back to heaven, the place she belongs to (only after having randomly had sex with Dean because why not…). Anna’s story is quite unusual compared to the other angels we met: most of them are just sort of powerful and incorporeal spirits, who, just like demons, need a human body to fit in. We see it in detail in episode 20, in the narration of Castiel’s story. I think this mechanism of appropriation of innocent human beings contributes to Supernatural’s evil connotation of angels, who seem to be even more sneaky than demons, because they take advantage of people’s faith to convince them to hold them in their bodies and do whatever they want once they’re into them. Of course this vision of both angels and demons as villains is clearly made to make us sympathise even more with Castiel, who rebelled, and with the brothers, who seem to be the only ones really caring about mankind.

Angels’ wickedness emerges in all its power in the final episode and in the character of Zacharia. That’s the time when the entire plot is solved: Zacharia, an important angel in heaven hierarchy, keeps Deans locked in a sumptuous room to prevent him from stopping Sam from breaking the last seal. Just as Sam doesn’t know what he’s doing while he thinks he’s saving the world from apocalypse, Dean didn’t know angels actually wanted the apocalypse to happen to purify the world and finally defeat demons and Lucifer. It’s quite shocking for him (and also for us) and, even though he had never liked and trusted angels, he’s led to hate them completely. He thought he was brought back from hell because angels wanted him to help saving the world, but he understands it’s exactly the opposite. In addition, I also think the worst feeling for Dean is feeling useless and not being able to protect someone he loves, especially Sam; that makes his situation even more painful, and Zacharia seems to know it well. At the end, he manages to escape, but he can’t stop Sam from killing Lilith and the brothers can do nothing but acknowledge together the beginning of the apocalypse, which will be the main theme of the following season.

I’ll go rapidly through the single episodes as usual, to highlight some I particularly liked.

I found the fifth episode, the one in which a monster fakes itself into Dracula, quite original and I appreciated the mixture of colored and black-and-white scenes, aimed to mark the difference between “reality” and the movie set up by our Dracula. In the sixth episode we are shown a hidden side of Dean, an uncontrolled fear which is of course aroused by something the brothers are hunting, but which is also credible imagine is actually an emotion Dean constantly feels in his dangerous life but can’t allow himself to show. One of my favourites of the season is episode 8, where all people’s wishes come true, because the scene of the little girl wishing for a giant teddy bear and actually getting it was so funny and scary at the same time. Episode 13 gives us another piece of the puzzle to reconstruct Sam and Dean’s childhood and youth, as they work a case in a school they had attended: apart from blaming John for making his sons change home and school so often they can’t even make friends or built a sort of life, these highlights from the boy’s past provide us even more information to understand how they became the men we see in the present and how they were, and still are, deeply different from one another.

I feel I have to mention a new character, who is quite important for the Winchesters and also recurrent in the show, Adam. He randomly comes out as Sam and Dean’s half-brother, son of John and a local woman he met during a hunt; of course at first the Winchesters don’t believe him, but at some point they have to face the truth and kind of feel sympathetic with him for John’s absence during his growth, because they’ve been through the same issues even if in theory their father lived with them. Moreover, Adam’s appearance testify once again Sam and Dean’s biggest weakness: even if they don’t know Adam at all, they can’t help but try to save him and give him love (especially Sam, I have to say) welcoming him into the family. That’s so cute, but that’s also what keeps bringing them troubles.

I’ll end my review with episode 14: the hunted monster is a siren, which, as you all probably already know, shapes itself as a male federal agent to seduce Dean. “Big hint of Dean’s bisexuality!!”, I can hear some of you scream. What I think is that the explanation the episode gives for it (the siren takes the shape of a man similar to Dean, in other words the type of brother Dean has always wanted) is quite convincing, and is not the strongest element to sustain Dean’s queerness. I’ll impatiently wait for other clues in the next seasons…

- Irene 💕

#Supernatural #spn #Spn season four #spn review #sam #sam winchester #dean #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #bobby #bobby singer #ruby spn #adam winchester #bi dean #first time watching supernatural

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soiruntotheriver · 4 years

Note

(9) In summary, when things get hard, does Silver go back to what he knows: being out for himself, lost in creating his “perfect” life, even if it means losing the person who loves him/he loves, all stemming from his repression in realizing his feelings, in repressing his past, an inability to stand being truly seen, and therefore an inability in being an honest, equal partner?

Alright, my dude, you’ve got me doing a deep dive on this one haha. I actually went back and re-watched the last three episodes and took notes to sort all this out in my head. Hopefully it all makes sense. This is all about Flint and Silver’s motivations and the actions they take to achieve their goals towards the end of the series. It’s gonna be a long one, so buckle in. As Jack Rackham once said: “Please forgive me, I will go on from time to time, but generally in the service of thoroughness...” I’m gonna post this under the last of your asks, as I believe it addresses most of your points. If I leave anything out please let me know.

Alright so, *crack knuckles* here we go:

For context: Rackham and Max have gone to create an alliance with Marion Guthrie in Philadelphia, Billy has gone to Rogers to show him how to divide Flint from Silver, and Madi has been taken prisoner.

Early in episode 8 we get the first of a number of similar conversations between Silver and Flint concerning the war. This one has Silver asking what’s going to happen after their current conflict. He points out that any time Nassau hasn’t had a someone to lead/support it (Eleanor, Rackham, Rogers) it becomes a place of horrors. If this is meant to be a period of transition, what’s on the other side? Something better, something meaningful? He asks:

‘But what if it isn't? What if the result of this war isn't beyond the horror, what if it is the horror itself. Have you given this any thought at all?’

To which Flint replies that to be rid of England and fashion something else, he knows that they will have to go through a period of darkness and seeming hopelessness. But that he has to believe that it will be worth it and that progress is possible. Silver responds by saying that’s a lot of potential suffering to wager on blind faith. Flint assures that with the right people in place they can get through it. He also states that those people are meant to be Madi and Silver, and that Madi is just as important to realizing their goals as the cache.

So Silver agrees to try Flint’s plan to retrieve Madi, but he still brings the treasure along just in case this all goes sideways. And it does. Rogers just starts shooting people willy-nilly which even Flint seems surprised about. Just as Rogers is about to blow Madi’s head off, Silver shows him the chest and next thing we know we’re on our way to Skeleton Island to make the exchange. On the way there Flint yells at Silver about how he’s just given Julius more leverage against the cause and crippled the war effort. Silver retorts by telling Flint that they’ll make do somehow and demands his support in this venture. He points out the numerous times he’s helped Flint even though he didn’t necessarily understand or agree with him.

‘My god. The number of times I have followed you blindly, backed you with the men blindly, put men in the fucking ground…good men! Friends! Because you said, “I know the way. "Don’t ask me how. Just do as I say.”’

Silver asks again if Flint will support him and Flint answers: “Yes.”

Shortly after this we have two great conversations happening in parallel: Silver with Hands and Flint with Dooley. Hands tries to convince Silver that Flint is Bad and must be killed. Silver asserts that he trusts Flint. Hands says that a crown can’t be split two ways and that he knows that Silver actually wants Flint dead, he just doesn’t know how to ask for it. To which Silver responds:

‘Hear me very clearly, there is no hidden message and no equivocation, you will make no move against him, you will not speak of doing so to any man on this crew nor to me again. Do it, and you'll answer for it.’

Meanwhile, Flint is telling the legend of skeleton island to Dooley in order to bring up the subject of men loosing their wits. He asserts that he believes Silver is compromised and so he (Flint) finds himself in need of a new partner. Dooley agrees and they go to fetch the gold, almost getting killed by another crew member in the process. They are saved by Hands who tells Flint he wants them to go ahead and take the treasure so that Silver will see Flint’s true colors. The end of the episode has Silver witnessing this betrayal and deciding to send men out after Flint, ostensibly to kill him, though I think he knew those men were not a match for Flint and really just wanted to find out where he was going so that he could get the treasure back.

In a fit of true diabolical evil, our writers chose to follow up this last scene from episode 8 by opening episode 9 with the first flashback of Flint and Silver’s fencing lessons. I literally said “Oh, no” to myself several times aloud as I watched Silver climb that hill to the bluffs.

Now these are lovely scenes I could go on about forever, but the most important takeaway for me right now, is that Flint realizes he doesn’t know anything about Silver’s past. Silver says that his past isn’t important. Flint argues that that’s not true. From Flint’s perspective, he’s revealed himself to Silver, given him his history, which defines him, and also the tools Silver needs to guess at Flint’s future actions. Flint goes on to insinuate that Silver wormed his way into Flint’s story by comparing himself to Flint’s former ill-fated partners. That he did this in order to use Flint’s affection for him to make it more difficult for Flint to act against him later. Silver is disquieted by Flint calling his bluff and seems thrown by that last comment in particular, mostly because I don’t think Silver consciously meant to manipulate him that way at all. Flint says he’s not angry with him but Silver is too overwhelmed to continue. He asks if it’s okay if they resume tomorrow, and flees.

I want to revisit the fireside chat here for a moment in order to point out that Silver was, in fact, already very deeply in the story by that point, a story he’d been made a part of largely against his will (by his injury, by Flint’s machinations, by Billy, etc.). In regards to Silver’s motivations during that conversation, I always assumed them to be exactly what they seemed to be: He wanted to understand why Flint was so driven to wage war and he wanted to voice a real, actual warning that he himself might prove to be Flint’s undoing. Flint responds in a way that makes me think he either A. didn’t think Silver would betray him or B. he didn’t think that Silver could get the better of him.

This is an important moment of dissonance between them, because it repeats itself in the sword lesson flashback: Silver asks if Flint is worried about the fact that he’s essentially teaching Silver to best him in combat and Flint waves him off with a smile, saying he’ll take his chances.

The most significant moment within the flashbacks comes when Silver finally finds the words to outline his philosophy and frame his decision not to share his past. I actually think this scene gives Flint all he needs to know about Silver as a person (in terms of being able to anticipate Silver’s future actions), though I’m not sure in that moment he could really wrap his head around it. Knowing the details of Silver’s past are not necessary when you realize that they did, in fact, define him and one can use that knowledge to recognize the ways in which they shape his future decisions.

Silver maintains that he is not trying to hide anything, he merely absolved himself from the obligation of finding any relevance in his own story because there is no coherence, ‘nor sense, nor grace’ to be found in life. But more than that it’s because he’s experienced ‘events some of which no one could divine any meaning from, other than the world is a place of unending horrors.’ He says that Flint knows of him all that’s relevant to be known and swears that Flint has his true friendship. He asks if it is enough for there to be trust between them and Flint, not quite sure what to make of all this, answers by resuming their lesson.

Intermixed with these flashbacks are our real-time scenes, some of which I want to touch on to check in on Silver and Flint’s states of mind. As Silver and Hands pursue Flint in the forest, Hands asserts that he believes Silver will keep finding reasons to forget everyone’s warnings about Flint. He also mentions when Silver tells the men to split up to find Flint that he’s sending at least one group of them to their deaths. Hands makes a point of saying that Silver’s decision here shows that he’s learned a lot from Flint. Aka, Silver is willing to sacrifice other’s lives to reach his own ends. Silver seems uncomfortable with the comparison, likely because he sees the truth in it. Silver’s desire to not be like Flint is very important in the final moments of the show and will come again up later. Silver admits to Hands that he’s not sure if Flint actually wants to save Madi for the sake of it or if it’s just part of his larger machinations. It’s key to note that Silver’s trust in Flint is degrading further. Both because of Silver’s inherent pessimism, and because of Flint’s own actions.

Meanwhile, Flint and Dooley are doubling back to the chest after having chucked it over an embankment to throw Silver’s party off their scent. Dooley essentially tries to convince Flint that Silver might become a liability. Flint defends Silver but Dooley’s like, yeah, but if it comes to it I’ll kill him for you. The look on Flint’s face clearly shows how not okay he is with the thought of Silver dying, but he keeps his reservations to himself for now. At this point, it is important to acknowledge that neither Silver nor Flint wants the other dead. They are both still trying to outmaneuver each other in order to reach their goals.

Silver finally catches up to Flint which leads us to another Important Conversation wherein Silver states that if the war were to continue it would be just like this, forever - lies, betrayals, death. He also tells Flint that he understands Flint’s motivations more fully now because he’s suffered a similar loss. When Madi was presumed dead, he wanted to give her sacrifice meaning by waging battles in her name. But he says that underneath that desire was the thing that Flint himself taught him to recognize: rage. In a very Miranda moment, Silver tells Flint that part of what drives him is wanting to watch the world burn. This is another way in which Silver does not want to be like Flint.

After this is a deeply depressing flashback wherein Silver is trying to explain his relationship with Flint to Madi by saying: ‘I have earned his respect, after all the tragedies that man has suffered (...) I have earned his trust, I have his true friendship. And so he's going to have mine. And as long as that is true, I cannot imagine what is possible.’ And all of our hearts break a little to think of what could’ve been. Because, as I mentioned before, Silver no longer believes he can trust Flint and so he no longer has faith in their friendship.

The episode ends with Rogers blowing up the Walrus which puts a hold on Flint and Silver’s duel and forces them to ally once again with Rackham. Flint makes a little speech about how their priority is to rescue Madi and tells Jack he’s taking over command of the ship to facilitate that end. The next episode starts with Silver questioning Flint’s motives, sure that he’s only placating John whilst continuing his scheming. Flint throws him by offering a very candid and heartfelt reply about how he isn’t sure he wouldn’t have acted exactly as Silver had if it were Thomas’s life on the line. He states that he meant it when he promised he’d see John through this and still wants to put things back together. Silver is visibly torn over whether or not he believes what Flint is saying.

Alright, we can now fast forward to the Final Confrontation. Flint, realizing that something has passed between Silver and Jack that smacks of betrayal, halts their trek through the woods in order to question Silver about it. Silver can’t bring himself to lie. He asks Flint how much more ‘measuring of lives and loves and spirits’ there will be ‘so that they may be wagered in the grand game. How many casualties can be tolerated for the cause, how much loss?’ So it’s not just Madi’s life he’s concerned for, not just his own or Flint’s. He mentions the men, women, and children who have already died for this, who will continue to die for this. And he cannot see where the line might be, because Flint has yet to draw one - this is a man who frequently endangers himself, killed his best friend, sacrificed crew members, murdered innocent civilians, and has no qualms betraying his allies. I think Silver legitimately believes that Flint will stop at nothing. That’s why it’s not a war to Silver, not like any other, instead it’s a ‘fucking nightmare.’

When Flint insists that Silver stopping the war will mean that they will have been for nothing, that this is how the powers-that-be win, that they’ll be distorted to fit false narratives, Silver asserts that he doesn’t care. I personally don’t find this surprising at all, given how little Silver cares about his own personal narrative. I also don’t think that Silver Doesn’t Care At All, it just means that he doesn’t care enough for it to change his mind. I mean he’s lost a leg for these people, risked his life and freedom for this cause, allowed himself to be molded into a better partner for Flint. When Silver opened himself up to a partnership/friendship with Flint and later to a partnership/romance with Madi, he was choosing to allow meaning back into his life. He became a part of a story. But he’s not totally invested in the story itself. He’s mostly just invested in the people in it. Because what does it matter what strangers say after he’s dead? Life up to this point has been about grabbing onto whatever you can in the moment and enjoying it until it is inevitably taken away from you. Experience has relentlessly taught him to have low expectations. So while I think he cares about his relationship with Flint, is proud of what they were able to achieve together, would like to change the world for the better, and wants to be worthy of Madi, none of those goals/states of being are as achievable to him in this moment as ending the war.

I’m not sure that Silver believes that a “good life” with Madi is possible after this - Flint points out that she won’t forgive him for taking the war away and I think Silver knows that’s true - but he’s willing to go for some kind of reconciliation at least. I also don’t think Silver is factoring a post-conflict relationship with Flint in at all - as far as he’s concerned either Flint will be safe somewhere far away with Thomas or Silver will be forced to kill him.

This leads us up to the ending. I personally don’t believe that Silver killed Flint. I feel that’s an important distinction to make when trying to make sense of Silver’s decisions. I won’t go into all the reasons I believe this, in the interests of keeping this thing under ten thousand words, but I will mention a few.

Firstly, as I mentioned above, I think that Silver honestly didn’t want to turn into Flint. When Madi say she thinks he’s lying about not murdering Flint, Silver says that he’s not the villain she fears he is, he’s not him. I think this is in reference to Flint killing his friends to further his goals. I also believe that Silver thought that giving Thomas back to Flint was the key to Madi’s forgiveness and so I think he would have done it for real in case she ever checked up on it. However, I do also think that Silver embellished the story of Flint’s reunion with Thomas. What parts were true and which were false, who can say? He just sounds like he’s dressing up the story a bit, both for Madi’s sake and for his own.

The second main reason why I think Silver’s story checks out actually involves Rackham. Jack tells Marion Guthrie that Flint has retired. Why would he lie about that when telling her Flint was dead would more thoroughly assuage her concerns? He mentions that Flint retiring was a better story to sell the Maroons, but at this point, the treaty has already been signed, so why keep up the fiction?

The third and most tenuous thought I have about it is that Silver uses his “I’ll wait a day, a week...” etc. line on Madi because it actually worked previously on Flint. Maybe some of Flint’s anguish in the woods is over the fact that he’s going to do what Silver’s asking him to do. Maybe he doesn’t want Silver to have to kill him so he gives in and gives up his war.

In conclusion, and to answer one of your questions directly, I think that characterizing Flint as someone who just wants to sate his rage is just as limiting as characterizing Silver as someone who just wants to take the easy way out. And I think that saying that Flint’s motives for reforming the world were noble is as incomplete as saying that Silver just wanted to save the ones he loved at the cost of everything else. All of those things, and more, are simultaneously true.

For me, Flint and Silver were both bad men and good men. Both had room to grow. Both made choices for each other. Both manipulated each other and made mistakes. Both were forced to make quick decisions under enormous amounts of pressure. They were both angry and afraid and courageous and loyal and deceitful and kind. They were both very very human.

It might not seem like it, but I’m more of a Flint irl. Maybe that’s why I’ve tried so hard to understand Silver, because his motivations were a bit more foreign to me at first. I’ve come to love and sympathize with both of them - which is why I continue to talk about them incessantly and devour fan works - especially the ones that get these two to finally work out their issues. If you’re ever looking for fic recs, btw, please do let me know. A lot of this meta is fleshed out beautifully in fan fiction. And those authors say it more profoundly and elegantly than I could ever hope to.

#james flint #john silver #Black Sails #black sails meta #hoo boy it's a long one folks #black sails s4 #this is practically a play by play

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dinfeanoriel · 5 years

Text

Road’s End

The second installment of Hollow Point, my friends! I am so sorry about the late update! But here it is at last!

LU belongs to Linked Universe and Jojo56830. Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~

Sky yawned for what had to be the umpteenth time that night. Wild quietly ate and savored the bowl of soup he’d warmed up after stealing into the kitchens.

A midnight snack, Wild had told him when they’d bumped into one another in the halls. The next few minutes found the two seated comfortably around a table with Wild sipping away and Sky fighting sleep. Wild watched him ever so patiently.

The Hero of the Sky had his fist pressed against his cheek, and every few seconds or so, his head would bob.

Up...down...

Down...up, up...

Those expressive eyes, glazed with weariness and the beginnings of crescent shadows forming underneath, fluttered.

He was battling, and fast-failing.

He suddenly dropped forward, eyes slipping shut when the Skyloftian’s body jolted upright. His head snapped back and cobalt blues flew open.

Wild hid an amused smile.

“Go back to bed, Sky.”

Sky blinked owlishly at him, mind muddled and briefly bemused. After a moment, he’d processed Wild’s words and shook his head, tendrils of golden-brown hair disturbed by the movement.

“I can’t,” He stifled another yawn, lashes incredibly heavy.

Wild curiously inclined his head.

“Why not?”

There was no response and when Wild looked, he found Sky’s head bowed and his eyes peacefully shut once more. Wild had to admit, he was impressed. The position his fellow Hero companion was in didn’t look at all comfortable.

His neck would be stiff and painful come morning.

He merely shrugged and decided to let Sky doze for a bit. He still had yet to finish his soup.

He stirred the light but wholesome meal a couple of times before lifting the spoon. He jumped slightly when Sky abruptly whipped his head to the left, staring with marginally wide eyes at the empty chair next to him.

Wild took note of the uncertainty and disbelief distorting those normally calm and peaceful features. The drowsy half-smile Sky was infamous for was gone, replaced by a bewildered frown.

Whatever had startled his friend?

Setting down his bowl, Wild quietly called, “Sky?”

Sky never looked his way. Instead, the Hero pointed hesitantly with a finger at the chair and inquired,

“You did see that, correct? Or was it just me?”

There was a faint plea hidden in his carefully guarded tone Wild didn’t miss.

Wild looked to the chair under Sky’s scrutiny.

Nothing seemed out of place to him.

“See what?” He asked then, gaze sliding back to the now less-tense Sky. His companion relaxed and shrugged to himself, seemingly relieved.

“Nothing...” Sky dragged a hand down his face. “I think Wind’s words from before are getting to me.”

Wild was about to make a teasing remark when the wooden and rickety-old chair was forcefully pushed back a few inches by an invisible force.

Sky leaped to his feet, hand immediately darting for his absent blade. The bowl Wild had picked up and cradled in his hands froze in mid-air as he stared, utterly baffled, at the chair.

Then, rather nonchalantly, Wild pointed with his spoon and remarked,

“Now, I did see that.”

~~~~~~~~

It was the feeling of considerable unease, a sense of imminent wrongness, and intense foreboding that awoke Time with a start. The creeping sensation of apprehension and disquiet crawled forth from his very bones, ensnaring and alerting him to the fact that something wasn’t quite right.

The Old Man- as the group had taken to calling him at times- immediately sat upright. He scoured the bedroom sedulously, searching every inch and space available to find what could have possibly awakened him.

Nothing caught his eye or struck him as out of place until his gaze fell upon Twilight’s bed.

It was empty.

The covers had been tossed aside and his boots were gone. His pack was untouched and his sword remained leaning idly against the wall.

Time pursed his lips and slipped from his bed, wandering over and testing the coolness of the blankets of Twilight’s own.

Cold.

Freezing even.

Time’s brow creased. When had Twilight left and how hadn’t he heard him? While Time wasn’t exactly a light sleeper, he was attuned to living in the wilderness. He would wake at the slightest of sounds and instinctively know something was amiss even when asleep.

He was a Hero. A warrior. These habits and hypersensitive awareness had saved his life more times than he could count.

Twilight had been gone for a handful of hours now...and for him not to have returned told Time something was severely wrong.

Time didn’t have to wonder where Twilight could have possibly gone. He already knew. The Ordonian had most likely left to check on Wind. The Sailor had shown great reluctance in coming here, and although Time had given him no choice but to go to the inn, he hadn’t dismissed Wind’s absolute refusal to stay. There was more to it. Wind had his reasons and Time could tell something was grating on the Sailor, making him uneasy and anxious.

He might be young, carefree, and open, but he was one of them. Experienced, knowledgeable, and a Hero. He’d seen, done, and experienced things no child ever should. All because he wanted to save his little sister. Wind was willing to take on the world, to adventure where few had ever gone, and face the King of Evil if it meant rescuing his little sister.

Wind must not know how incredible and amazing he truly was. He took upon himself the title Hero and accepted everything that came with it. He shouldered the responsibility and bore it with a strength and courage that was to be admired.

He wasn’t untainted and unaffected by his adventure- Time knew he’d changed, grown, and matured because he’d had to- but for Wind to remain bright, cheerful, and pure was unbelievable. His ready smiles, merry laughs, and sparkling eyes never failed to lift the spirits of his companions.

Some of the other Heroes were envious of it, but for the most part, relieved. Wind was a breath of fresh air. A light and treasure the Links sought to protect and cherish.

For him to suffer as they had…

Time felt his bitterness towards their dreadful fate grow, but he quashed it and left the room. He strode across to 33, bare feet softly thumping against the cool, wooden, floor. He extended his hand and made to turn the knob when a faint, distorted and barely there sound caressed his ears.

Time turned his head sharply, hand hovering in the air. His eye narrowed, carefully searching the whole expanse of the dark and dreary corridor he was in.

It was vacant, with Time as the sole occupant. He wasn’t about to shrug it off, however. He knew better than to doubt himself.

“...Time...”

The familiar, warped, voice came again, more distinct and noticeable. The Old Man started and spun on his heel when he heard a creak not too far from him.

There was nothing there.

Just a blank space.

Humming skeptically to himself, Time went to open the door once more when a golden flash in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Looking quickly, Time’s gaze latched onto the familiar form of Warrior. Dressed only in his beige under tunic and breeches, the Link was cautiously making his way towards a room nearest his and Sky’s. There was a perplexed look on his face mingled with canniness that told Time the Hero was attempting to check something out.

But the caution in which he moved, the purposeful, light steps he took towards room 35 made Time frown deeply.

Momentarily distracted from his previous objective, Time twisted round and made his way towards the creeping Warrior just as the Knight reached the door and pressed his ear against it.

A look of deep concentration entered the Knight’s eyes as he listened intently for something Time couldn’t hear but had undoubtedly captured his attention. He slowed to a stop only inches behind Warrior then waited for the Captain to acknowledge his presence.

Warrior listened for a few, long, moments before releasing a deep exhale and shrugging to himself. He straightened and took a step back, only to stiffen when he collided into something solid.

“Warrior,” Time coolly murmured before the Knight’s soldier instincts could kick in. A deep breath of relief escaped Warrior as he spun round to shoot a mild glare up at the older Link.

“Time!”

The unspoken you-scared-the-life-out-of-me went unsaid but not unheard between the two.

Time raised an eyebrow in return.

“And what, might I ask, were you doing?”

Warrior scratched at his neck, averting his gaze to the door they still stood before.

“I woke up to a strange noise.” He explained briefly. “Music of some kind. I was going to ask Sky if he heard it, but Sky’s gone.”

Time narrowed his attention on the Knight.

“Gone?”

Twilight first. And now Sky?

Sky, known for his incredible ability to sleep anywhere at anytime, gone?

Time found himself growing more troubled. So many questions, so few answers.

Warrior made to reply when the door to room 35 opened a crack, drawing both their immediate attention.

Where Warrior took a step back, Time took a step forward, purposefully placing himself in front of the Knight should the door fling open and something come flying out.

He was prepared. Years of experience had honed his reflexes and quickened his reaction times.

Warrior slyly quirked an eyebrow at him, a teasing grin curving his lips. His sharp eyes and cunning mind had correctly interpreted Time’s motives.

“Settle down, Papa Bear,”

Time rolled his eye good-naturedly, grasping Warrior’s shoulder and guiding him forward til he stood in front of him.

“Perhaps I should let you go in first.” Just in case something is there.

Warrior didn’t resist him, allowing himself to be moved.

“I see how it is, Old Man,” Warrior grumbled without any ire. Time smirked.

“Go along now,” He prodded the younger towards the door. Warrior needed no further prompting. He gently pushed against the aged wood. Both Heroes suppressed the urge to cringe when it creaked. The eerie sound echoed throughout the corridor, loud in comparison to the still silence that had settled over the slumbering inn.

Warrior brushed it aside and swiftly entered the room as soon as the door was halfway open. Time followed without hesitation.

They paused once they were inside, raking their gazes across the expanse of the modest chamber.

Vaguely unimpressed, Time stated the obvious, “Empty.”

It was only a bed with dirtied white blankets and turned up sheets, raggedy curtains pulled away from the balcony doors, an old desk, and a night-table.

Warrior moved away from him, heading towards the frail desk still miraculously standing directly across from the bed. Time idly wandered towards the balcony doors, peering through the glass to estimate the hour.

An hour or two before dawn, it would appear.

“What is this..?” Time heard Warrior wondering to himself. Then he was cranking something.

Time curiously glanced his way. He found Warrior’s fascination was in a small, white cube with a crank sticking out of the side that was lonesomely decorating the table. The paint on it was faded, with some red and hints of blue and yellow here and there. There was a lid at the top but it wouldn’t budge. Warrior had tried.

“A children’s toy?” Time suggested, for it certainly looked like one. Neither he nor Warrior had ever seen one like it, however, so how were they to know?

Warrior tapped it then rotated the handle in a full circle. What appeared to be music, distorted and choppy, was projected from the box.

It was rewinding, the two realized. Warrior continued turning the crank. The short, snippets, of the shrill and jerky tune continued until the handle jerked to a stop. Warrior tried turning it again, but it wouldn’t move.

“I think it’s finished rewinding, War,” Time said.

Warrior released the crank and the lever began moving on its own. An eerie tune, high-pitched and sharp, filled the room. Warrior tilted his head, peering closer at the object of his interest.

The longer the music played, the more tension began to build within both Heroes. As if they were waiting for something to happen.

The apprehension grew and grew. The tune was both suspenseful and haunting, telling of something to come. It made Warrior uncomfortable and uneasy to listen to. His stomach churned, his heartbeat picking up pace as the melody became more intense.

When the music began to die down, Warrior leaned forward to stop the handle from rotating when the lid suddenly burst open and a terrifying, devilish, face painted on a sphere shot up from within the confines of the box at him.

Warrior reacted almost violently. His hands and arms flailed, his feet scrambling away and tripping over one another, and body careening back as if performing a wild dance. With a startled yelp, Warrior frantically scrabbled with the box and lid, trying vainly to shut it, but was unable to. His movements were too jerky and too quick.

The sudden and most unexpected surprise took its toll on him.

He was sent crashing onto the floor, the white cubical box toppling over and falling alongside him. Warrior instinctively kicked it away. The object skidded towards Time, who sent it coasting in a different direction.

He hadn’t appreciated the unpleasant surprise awaiting them when the music came to an end.

With a dark scowl, Time shot the offending toy a glare that more-often-than-not served to shut Legend up before he focused his attention on Warrior. His entire demeanor softened when he saw Warrior in a heap on the ground, staring wide-eyed at the item. The Old Man could tell his heart was thumping frantically in his chest.

“That thing is a toy for kids?!” Warrior breathlessly exclaimed.

But...replaying the unfettered spectacle from before...Time couldn’t help it.

The look on Warrior’s face when the thing shot out at him...

Priceless!

The split second it took for Warrior to realize something was springing up at him...

The widening of his eyes, the shriek, the flailing of limbs...

He began to laugh.

It started as a deep chuckle, rumbling through his chest, and increasing in volume until the room was enveloped by his mirth.

Warrior took a few seconds to calm himself down, his breathing returning back to normal. He glowered up at Time as the elder Hero curled an arm around his aching stomach.

Although he knew he’d never forget this wondrous moment, Time wished he’d had Wild’s Sheikah Slate to preserve this most amusing memory... Ah well...it certainly did make for an entertaining story to share around the campfire.

“Yeah, yeah,” Warrior grumbled, sorely embarrassed and irritated. He huffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child although the twitching of his lips belied his true feelings, “Laugh it up, Old Man...Laugh it up.”

And Time did.

~~~~~~~~

Four crept along the faded wall stretching the entire length of the corridor. He moved carefully, with the precaution of a hunter knowing he might have possibly become the hunted.

Earlier that night, Four had awoken to find Wind absent from their room. When he’d glanced over to Hyrule’s bed, he found the humble traveler had also vanished. After consulting with Red, Blue, and Vio, it was decided Four would go in search of them.

And so, here he was, scouring the depths of the inn in the hopes of finding the missing Links.

The soft, barely perceptible, footfalls following behind him with just as much caution alerted him to the fact that Legend accompanied him still.

The two had run into one another a little into Four’s search and both elected to stick together.

Neither of them voiced of their growing discomfort in staying in the inn, but Wind’s voice, Wind’s words, and his refusal to remain rang clearly in their minds.

‘It’s dead silent,’

Four had to keep from startling violently upon hearing Blue’s voice murmuring in his mind.

‘Did you have to say dead?’ Vio griped ungratefully.

‘Oh, Vio,’ Red tremulously whispered, ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid!’

If they were physically there along with him, Four knew Red would have been clutching onto Vio.

‘Not at all,’ Vio was quick to say, soothing Red’s rising fear and nervousness.

‘Sure you’re not,’ Blue smirked, poking some fun at an unappreciative Vio.

‘Blue, so help me I will-’

‘Not. Now.’ Four cut off the threat before Vio could finish. His steps faltered when the warm glow from Legend’s lantern began to dim. At first, Four thought it was his imagination until he found himself struggling to see a few feet in front of him.

The lantern’s light flickered, threatening to go out. It tried its hardest to combat the darkness, but its weakened beams could no longer pierce its thick hide.

Four heard Legend muttering behind him. Disgruntled and more-or-less annoyed, Legend tinkered with the lantern.

Four listened and watched the heavenly glow flicker on then off...on...and off.

He did not particularly like it.

He jumped when a weight settled on his shoulder and snapped his head back to see Legend’s form, barely distinguishable in the low-light.

Legend’s lantern had completely snuffed out. It was only the pearl rays of the moon seeping through the windows that now lit the dreary and grey corridors.

“Relax,” Came Legend’s irked voice, no louder than a mutter, “It’s just me.”

‘Or is it?’

‘BLUE!’

Four flinched at Vio’s thunderous bellow and Red’s wail.

“Yeah, I know.” Four tersely replied aloud, rubbing at his throbbing temples. Legend’s grip tightened.

“You doing alright?” The concern was carefully hidden, but it was there.

Four managed a tight-lipped smile although Legend couldn’t see it.

“Headache.” He offered by way of explanation.

The curt responses about as short as Four was tall made Legend frown. He knew better than to press, and so, let it slide. Gesturing with his head, the snarky Hero directed Four’s attention to a partially opened door,

“There’s a room there,” Not to mention it was lit, “Maybe Hyrule and Wind are inside.”

Well, it was worth a shot. Who knew where Wind and Hyrule’s midnight wanderings might have taken them? Four believed Wind was unable to get a wink of sleep and had gotten up to leave, possibly rousing Hyrule in the process. Knowing Hyrule’s gentle heart, the humble traveler most likely accompanied the Sailor out and to wherever they’d disappeared off to.

Who knew how long ago that had been?

Together, Four and Legend made their way towards the room. There was a sliver of bluish-white light streaking across the wooden floor, emanating from the crack in the doorway and Four felt uneasiness churning in the pit of his stomach.

He stubbornly quashed it down.

‘That’s no ordinary lamplight,’

‘Blue, you’re commentary is unneeded,’

‘I don’t like it.’ Red declared with a finality, ‘Green, don’t go anywhere near it!’

Four could’ve sweat-dropped.

‘He’s going for it,’

‘Yes, Blue,’ Vio drawled wearily, ‘Why don’t you narrate Green’s tale for us as it plays out before our very own eyes,’

Four felt the snideful remark coming as Blue bristled, but he was never given the chance to fire it when Legend reached in front of Four and pushed the door open with hardly any qualm. The red-clad Hero then stalked inside without a care, leaving Four to stride in after him.

“It’s polite to knock first, enter second, Legend,” Four deadpanned.

Legend waved a hand dismissively in the air, “The door was open. That’s enough of an invitation for me.”

Four could have face-palmed.

‘He does have a point,’

‘Really, Vio?’

Blue snickered.

None of them could argue against Legend’s logic.

Four shivered, goosebumps crawling over his skin as an unearthly chill encompassed his form. He loosely hugged himself, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. The temperature difference between the hall and this bedroom was considerable and incredibly notable.

“Whew,” Legend exhaled, his breath fogging up the air, “Did someone leave a window open?”

“It’s not that cold outside, Legend,” Four could see his own breath also. The small, puffs of a wispy cloud appeared before his face before fading into nothingness.

Both shuddered as chills raced down their spines but the Heroes chalked it up to the wintry breeze gusting about the small chamber. It nipped at them unforgivingly as they studied the small space.

An old, metallic bed, balcony doors with moth-eaten curtains, a vanity with a clouded mirror, and walls with peeling paint. The sight was rather unnerving. The atmosphere of the room itself was ominous and eldritch. It made them uncomfortable. Creaks and groans were muffled by the howling wind outside.

“Spooky much?” Legend huffed out a short laugh, furiously dragging his hands along the length of his folded arms. Four didn’t feel particularly inclined to comment. He didn’t like this room.

“This room gives me the creeps,” Four found himself admitting aloud. His cobalt gaze swept here and there, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, “Wait a moment…” His brows drew together and he flashed Legend a confused look, “Where’s the light coming from?”

The room was dark and grey, with no hint of the bluish-white light they’d previously seen anywhere to be found.

Legend’s back was turned towards him, but when Four voiced the question, he paused and glanced back at the shorter Hero.

He pursed his lips together, scanning the interior and searching for any lights. There was an old, broken, lamp decorating one of the night stands beside the bed. The only plausible object that could have made the glow.

But it wasn’t lit.

“That...I don’t know.” He shrugged, clearly unfazed. Four wondered exactly how experienced a Hero Legend was if he was this calm about matters. His been-there-done-that attitude towards everything was quite well-known among the Links and spoke a great deal on Legend’s behalf.

Not of his adventures, but of his experience. He was a veteran. A Hero well-rehearsed in travel, battle, and adventuring.

Four’s attention was then drawn to the second night table barely peeking from behind the bed. He was about to look away when his mind processed exactly what he’d seen.

Four did a double-take.

‘I’m not the only one who sees that, right?’ He asked the others just to ensure he wasn’t going crazy.

‘Nope.’ Blue replied first, popping the ‘p.’

‘Not at all.’ Vio casually answered second.

‘I was hoping you guys would say it was our imagination.’ Red sighed forlornly.

Four released a breath, “This place must be haunted.”

Legend scoffed, “Please. I was messing with the lantern to freak you out.”

Four gives him a cool look and pointed, “Then how do you explain that?”

Legend followed the direction his finger pointed and saw a book hovering in thin air, as if something were holding it there.

He blinked.

It was still floating.

He blinked again.

Still there.

Legend nodded slowly, surmising, “This place must be haunted.”

Without warning, the book slammed against the mattress and the cover flew open. Some unseen force began to rifle through the pages, skimming through them at record speed. The wispy sounds resembling hisses filled the room as the pages fluttered wildly.

“Nope,” Four and Legend chimed as one. They spun on their heels to exit the room, but the balcony doors suddenly burst apart and the bedroom door slammed shut.

The lock turned on its own, barricading them inside.

Four and Legend shared a look. An unearthly, bluish-white light began to encompass the bedroom, the brightness gradually intensifying.

“We’re not alone.”

“Poe?” Legend suggested, unwilling to believe otherwise. Four inclined his head,

“Makes sense.”

They’d had experience with those, and they were tricksters.

“Alright then.That makes things simple.” Legend started digging through his pack, searching for a weapon of some kind to combat the mischievous creature belonging to another, lesser-known, world. He grasped his bow and a handful of arrows, tugging them out. He saw Four readying his sword and turned with an arrow already nocked and ready to fly.

Determination flared in his eyes but what Legend saw made him pause and his face to fall slightly. The ghastly sight, the inhuman entity his eyes fell upon, the decrepit and decayed form...

“Um, Four…”

“Hm?” The shorter of the two turned round, sword ready and looked up in time to catch what Legend was staring at. He took a step back in mingled alarm and surprise, “That is not a poe..!”

If Legend had been listening closely, he would have caught the multiple intonations and slight distortion of Four’s voice. As if three other voices had combined with his own and become one.

But he hadn’t.

“You don’t say,” Legend sarcastically groused, readying his bow once more.

A haunting, coarse and hair-rising cackle pierced the stillness of the night, closely followed by a wolf’s resonating howl.

~~~~~~~~

Deep in the winding and labyrinthine halls of the inn, a humble traveler clad in brown and green was struggling to find his way back to his room after having wandered a bit too far from it. He’d passed the lobby twice, the stairway once, and somehow ended up outside of Road’s End in a foggy cemetery.

Tombstones of varying shapes and sizes littered the earth. Some weathered, others worn down by age, and few crumbling apart. Words once inscribed into the stone were hardly legible. Symbols and letters joined together, making it near impossible to understand what was engraved on them.

The traveler was not at all bothered by the sight. Moreso, he was grieved. He could tell the town had suffered hardships and the inhabitants most likely struggled to make a living. He wouldn’t be surprised if this place had once been a bright and merry destination for weary travelers to spend the night and rejuvenate their strength.

He turned round and made his way back into the inn, searching for any kind of map he could find. Surely, this inn had one. The lobby was empty, with no sign of a clerk at the desk or the woman from before. Hyrule thought they might have retired for the night.

He ascended the stairs, unable to recall whether or not they were the same he’d taken with the other Heroes. That was when he passed the spot where Legend had broken a part of the wall.

Well...At least he knew he was going in the right direction.

Hyrule idly drifted down the corridor. Surely, his room was somewhere around here. Earlier, Hyrule had woken to find Wind absent from the room. He’d felt strongly impressed to go in search of the Sailor, and so, Hyrule slipped from the comfort of his bed and made sure not to wake the mumbling Four as he left.

Of course, as he was prone to, Hyrule took many wrong turns. Although...was it possible for him to take wrong turns if he wasn’t sure where Wind might be? Not to mention this place was certainly creepy. More-often-than-not, Hyrule felt as though there were invisible eyes watching him. The portraits hanging on the walls almost seemed to follow his every movement.

Hyrule ignored the sensations. He figured if Wind wasn’t in the room, he’d wake Time and the others. He wasn’t comfortable with the thought of Wind wandering the dreary Inn alone and in the middle of the night.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a feeling of foreboding that told him something was amiss.

He jumped when a drawer from a nearby dresser flew open. His body tensed, his head snapping round to stare at the dresser in something akin to shock. Before his very eyes, the drawer slammed back shut. The sound was almost deafening.

Hyrule blinked rapidly.

“What..?”

Had he...

Had that...

What..?

Hyrule shook his head, his unruly hair becoming even more disarrayed.

“Ghosts..?” He murmured to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick that seemed to be inherent to the Links. An uncertain smile grew on his lips as he tried to brush it off.

He didn’t feel particularly scared. No. He’d spent the majority of his time as a Hero running away from mobs of monsters that flooded his Hyrule. What was a ghost compared to them?

That was when a chill raced down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck rose. His heart began to thunder and Hyrule had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something coming up behind him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look-

He chanted in his mind.

But curiosity tinged with fear won him over. The urge to peek grew overwhelming and before he knew it, Hyrule was slowly turning his head to glimpse past his shoulder in the length of the corridor behind him.

What he saw made his eyes widen and his jaw to drop. Never in his short life had he ever witnessed such a strange and terrifying sight.

There was a pulsing cloud of darkness racing towards him. It sped up the stairs he’d climbed seconds before and came diving towards him.

RUN!

Hyrule jolted violently and before he knew it, his body was moving. His feet barely grazed the ground as he fled from whatever pursued him with such vigor. The all-encompassing voice that seemed to come from all around and within him echoed in his ears, urging Hyrule to quicken his pace in order not to be overcome by the dense mass of impenetrable darkness.

Hyrule took back his words from before.

This was worse than being chased by hordes of monsters!

Somewhere in the distance, Hyrule heard a wolf’s sonorous howl.

Wolfie!

Hyrule would recognize the wolf anywhere! Immense relief flooded over him as Hyrule took a sharp turn around a corner and raced in the direction the howl had come from.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Whatever you do, do NOT look back.

Hyrule knew. It was drilled into his mind. Looking back only slowed one down. But it took a lot of strength and steely determination not to give into the temptation to see how close the darkness was in swallowing him up.

His booted feet thumped against the floor at the same pace as his heart was beating. He swerved around another corner, cobalt orbs catching sight of the darkness coming up behind him.

He faced forward when-

CRASH!

Hyrule flailed as he was flung back from the force of the collision. Agonizing pain exploded in his nose, spreading through his face and causing Hyrule to instinctively throw up a hand to hide the bloodied mess from view. His eyes watered as the smarting bone intensified.

He couldn’t allow the pain to distract him however, and although his vision was now horribly blurred by tears, Hyrule knew he needed to move.

He scrambled to his feet, tugging his hand away to find there was a good deal of blood on it.

Definitely a broken nose.

“Hyrule!” A familiar voice cried in surprise and alarm. Hyrule whipped his head in the direction it had come from in time to see a blue and blonde blur racing his way with a dark brown blur beside it. “Run, Hyrule!”

Wind!

And Wolfie!

Before Hyrule could say anything or react, the wide-eyed Sailor caught hold of Hyrule’s left hand and jerked him along. He started running and it was then Hyrule noted the sheer terror etched into the younger boy’s face.

“Wind?” He breathlessly managed to say.

“Just keep running, Hyrule!” Was all Wind said, gasping sharply as his ribs protested against the continuous running. His lungs were struggling to take in whatever air they could.

Ignoring the pain bursting in his nose, Hyrule asked,

“What are we running from?”

If Wolfie was running...Then whatever it was couldn’t be good.

“Does it matter?” Wind very nearly squeaked. “Right now, I’m too occupied in staying alive to care!”

That...made Hyrule incredibly uneasy.

“Oh, look!” Wind cried in relief, pointing with his free hand. They dashed down the corridor at a remarkable speed, “A room!”

Wolfie barked sharply and Wind nodded in agreement.

“We can make it!”

And with that encouragement, the three flew into the room and Wind flung the heavy door shut and immediately locked it.

Something heavy slammed against it, causing Hyrule to jump back. Wind backed away, nervous and antsy.

Wolfie crouched low and growled fiercely.

“Wolfie...” Wind’s shuddering voice tore at Hyrule to hear and made him all the more terrified. The great beast straightened then trotted to Wind’s side, nudging the Sailor reassuringly.

“What...” Hyrule swallowed thickly, “What’s out there?”

Wind could only shake his head, eyeing the door warily.

“We don’t know.” The youngest Hero turned around to see if there was an escape from the room only to freeze in place when his eyes fell on something. An object that caused all color to drain from his face and horror to steal over his featured. A haunted look entered his eyes.

“Wind?” Hyrule stepped up beside him, worriedly gripping his shoulder. Wolfie whined softly, nosing at Wind’s arm. Both beast and Hylian followed Wind’s line of sight to find a single table positioned before a great, wide, window. The full moon peered inside from the top frame, its luminescent rays filtering into the room.

Atop the round table, positioned in the exact center, was...

“An Hourglass...” Wind breathed in disbelief, voice catching. Hyrule didn’t like the tone he’d used. Wolfie didn’t like the tone he’d used. Both moved closer to the Sailor in concern.

Why did a simple hourglass earn such a powerful reaction from Wind?

“No...” Wind shook his head, pained and pierced Hyrule with a pleading look. “I’m imagining it, right?”

Hyrule found he wished he could tell him so. He wished he could assure the Sailor that the Hourglass wasn’t there.

But then...that would be a lie.

His silence was all Wind needed. His face crumpled in dismay and his shoulders slumped.

“The Phantom Hourglass...” He whispered, wanting with every fiber of his being to curl up and disappear.

But he couldn’t.

~~~~~~~~

Somewhere within the deepest and darkest entrenches of the inn...

A mirror cracked.

#Wind #Wolfie #Legend #Four #Time #Warrior #Hyrule #Sky #Wild #Haunting?#Legend of Zelda #Linked Universe #linkeduniverse #Kept my end of the deal #forsakentoast

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kusunogatari · 4 years

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[ Frozen Flames and Shadowed Lights || Chapter Eleven ] [ @yukaikokoro @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Uchiha Madara, Hatake Kakashi, Kottakawa Kumiko, Raziya ] [ Verse: Divine Light ] [ Previous || Next ]

Two days later, Ryū hasn’t eaten. Has barely slept. Though hardly granted much freedom beyond her nook before, she now remains tucked into its furthest corner, curled into the smallest form she can manage.

He’s starting to get worried.

Just as diligently, Tobi has continued to bring her her meals, lead her to the other ‘rooms’ of the cave she needs, and has even risked sitting as he did before Madara discovered their pastime. But she remains despondent, not even looking up when he enters. Her food sits and grows cold.

Part of him understands, and yet...part of him doesn’t. And it frustrates him to no end…! Until now - until her interference - he’s had no reason to question things. Madara’s every word and action has been gospel, no inkling in his mind telling him otherwise.

...and yet…

Now, he finds questions burrowing into his brain where there has always been mindless obedience. She called Madara’s treatment of him wrong...cruel. Refuted it and insisted he deserved kindness. And all after she herself faced the man’s wrath for interfering in his punishment.

It had brought a spark of...something to his chest. It felt hot, like fire...but there were no flames. And it left him wondering where such a reaction came from.

In his short memory, he never recalls feeling it before.

And then there was what he told her. About needing her kindness. He knows it’s true, and yet...why? He had no need of it before. He wanted for nothing before they met. And yet now, whenever he has another task to tend to, or a place to teleport...his mind remains back in the cavern, in her nook. It’s like a string that gently yet insistently tugs at him whenever he’s away.

And before, being in her presence was...pleasant. Her reading, though a simple gesture, brought forth an excitement and yearning he’d not yet known. Never before did he have something to look forward to. A reason to complete his tasks beyond the tasks themselves.

...but now, being with her is...is…

...painful.

He decides he doesn’t like her like this. It’s...wrong. And it disquiets him, somehow. Even if he doesn’t understand why. But he doesn't know how to remedy it. He brings her meals like before, sits like before...but nothing seems to help.

...will she be like this forever? The notion leaves him deeply unsettled.

The morning of the third day, he finds her as he left her: leaning back into the corner, eyes fogged with something he can’t know.

And he decides he has to try something new.

“...you need to eat.” The words are given lowly, holding out the bowl.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“...Ryū, you must eat.”

The only sign she still lives is a slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.

The disquiet in him grows to the point of making him shift in discomfort. Though he hasn’t dared it yet, he breaches the edge of her blankets, carefully approaching until he’s close enough to touch her.

Still no reaction.

His chest tightens to an unreasonable degree. “Please.” The word is croaked desperately, only made harsher by his rasping tone. “You...you worry me.”

Finally, her eyes lift to look to him somberly.

“I...I don’t like to see you like this. If you don’t eat, you’ll start to wither.”

“...maybe that’s what I want.”

“...but -?”

A soft sigh escapes her. “...you don’t understand,” she whispers. “If I keep on, I’ll…”

“Can you explain? I want to understand.”

He’s never needed a reason before. For...anything.

She curls up tighter. “...that man - Madara? - he...he wants to do something horrible to me. Something that...will not only hurt me, but possibly hurt everyone. And he’ll treat me like an object in order to do so. It won’t matter that I tell him no. And that...that scares me,” she admits in a whisper.

Conflict rises in him. Treated like an object...no use in saying no...why does that sound like his own circumstances? Why does she seem so averse, and yet...he’s never had any inkling to question it?

What is he missing?!

Shifting carefully, he sits just beyond her bent knees. “...I was told his plans were necessary.”

“Did he tell you why…?”

“...no.”

She studies him, eyes flickering across his face. “...you’ve never wondered…?”

“...I…” That same uncertain feeling rises in him. “...I had no reason to…”

“...you really don’t remember anything, do you…? It’s so strange. You’re like...a doll. No thoughts or feelings or memories of your own. I’ve never met anyone like you…”

“...is that...wrong?”

“...it gives me a bad feeling,” Ryū admits softly. “But...I don’t know enough. And I don’t want to make a wrong assumption. But…” Her brows wilt. “...all I do know...is that what he’s doing to you is wrong. He mistreats you, Tobi. You’re not his...partner, or his friend, or even his ally. It’s like you’re a tool. And no one should be treated like that.”

He sits and tries to think, mind full of swirling, conflicting thoughts. “...I don’t know.”

“...I’m sorry. I don’t mean to confuse you.”

“...until now, I’ve had no reason to doubt, or to question. But you…” He sighs, a hand at his brow. “...you unlock thoughts I’ve never had before. Questions. And it feels like something is...is missing…”

“Your memories, I’m sure. Whatever, or whoever you are...it’s clear Madara erased it. Made you into something...blank.”

“...do you think...I can remember…?”

“I don’t know. But I hope so. It’s cruel for you to be without your past.”

The pair fall into an uneasy silence. Tobi sits, one hand at his brow and the other still cradling her bowl. When his frustration - unable to make sense of this - grows too great...he tries one last time to offer it.

Ryū’s eyes lower to the food, and after a long pause...she reaches and accepts it.

And for a moment, their fingers brush...and Tobi feels static run up his arm to his chest, where it pulses.

“...thank you,” she murmurs, taking a spoonful.

“...you’re welcome.” As she eats, he feels something in himself ease, still watching her mindfully to make sure she keeps going. Nor does he move, remaining perched just beside her. Once she seems steady in her pace, he takes to watching the entryway, wary of being discovered.

So when he hears a faint rustle of paper, it takes him by surprise. Head turning so fast he nearly grows dizzy, he sees her pull out a book.

Their book.

For a moment she seems to consider it, but then heaves a breath...and starts to read.

Relief washes over him like a tide.

From there, Ryū slowly seems to improve. One day at a time, she regains her appetite, and color in her cheeks. Though still muted, her melancholy seems to shift to quiet contemplation.

He wonders what she’s thinking of.

“Where...do you come from?”

Looking up, she pauses. She’s yet to begin reading today. Their time together has been far more fragmented, both of them wary of Madara’s intrusion. “Well, I...I don’t know. There’s much from my childhood that’s foggy. All I really know is what Rin and Kakashi have told me.”

Deep in his chest, there’s a hint of a flicker. He decides to call it curiosity. “...who are they?”

“I...guess you could call them my guardians. They’re not much older than me, really. Rin tells the story of them trying to help my mother fight off el’tahl hunters, and taking me in after she died. They lost a friend that day, too...a boy named Obito.”

Another flicker, this one ever so slightly stronger. “...he died…?”

A somber nod. “They fled the city that night to protect me...Kakashi had lost an eye, which my mother replaced with one of the boy Obito’s. He was el’ven...and it granted Kakashi igni. He eventually parted ways from us, and...Rin raised me in a little town, trying to keep me hidden.”

“Why?”

“There aren’t many people like me left,” Ryū sighs. “It’s...a long story. A lot of history. But...she was afraid people would try to use me. And...I guess she was right.”

Ever so slightly, Tobi wilts. “...but you were in the Luxerian capital when...I found you.”

“Yes. Rin and I traveled to Salustia a few years ago. I...decided I wanted to try and revive the Council of Elements: a meeting of representatives of all twelve elements. And since I was presumed to be one of - if not the - last disciples of Luxeria, I was the only one who could open the city from the barrier that protected it. It took years of planning, but...I managed to do it. And Kakashi returned to be my advisor, and protector.” A sad smile flickers across her face. “...they’re like big siblings, really. Him and Rin. I used to consider them my parents when I was young, but...well, now that we’re all grown it seems a bit odd.” The smile then fades. “...I wonder if they’re looking for me…”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

“...I feel so foolish. I keep asking myself if I could have done anything different to prevent this. I feel like it’s my fault...and now, with my ven sealed, I have no way to try and change my fate.”

Tobi watches her carefully. Something, in the back of his mind, seems to be pounding from the other side of a door, at the end of a winding corridor. Faint, and yet… “Is it...truly so terrible?”

“What?”

“Being...here.”

Her greys flicker over his face. “...I was taken against my will. Madara’s plans for me will steal my future...and maybe that of everyone else. I have no freedom, no way to return to my home, or my family. I’m...trapped.”

Part of him is not happy to hear that. If she weren’t here...if they never met...then he -

“Tobi!”

Flinching at Madara’s barking command down the cavern, he jumps to his feet. Something in that tone makes his chest clench.

...something is wrong.

Beyond the cave, battered and blown by the storms of the snowy peaks, Kakashi keeps his face buried against Kumiko’s back. Even at his fastest gallop, his mount has never gone as fast as Raziya streaks among the peaks. Add in the buffeting of the headwind itself, and he’s amazed he hasn’t simply been blown from her saddle and smashed against the ice below them.

With the weather so violent, getting close enough to the mountains to try and sense anyone within them has been dangerous. More than once, they’ve nearly been thrown against the crags. But Kumiko wasn’t lying: it’s clear she and her drach partner have practiced flying in even the worst conditions. Each time they grow too close, the dragon manages to pull away.

At the front, Kumiko’s brows are furrowed against the cold, ven steadily trickling as she uses it to shield herself from the wind and snow. Even so, ice clings to her forelock and lashes. “Anything yet?” she calls against the squall.

“Not yet,” Raziya reports, her mental call far clearer than her rider’s voice in the whipping winds. “But there is much of the range yet to search!”

Heaving for breath, Kumiko replies, “We may have to break soon - even with my ven, the storm’s taking too much of our body heat.You could go on for days at this rate, but we’ll freeze to death in a few hours.”

Behind her, Kakashi feels his heart clench. He’s already come close to that once on this journey. Doing so again is far from appealing.

“Tell me when you wish to land, and I shall -” With a jerk, Raziya flutters in an attempt to stop, far from still as the winds try to toss her. “Wait! Do you feel that?!”

“What?”

“A large cloud of ven, not far!”

“I can’t feel it yet - can you get closer?”

“Yes, but -” The drach hesitates. “It will likely be dangerous.”

“Likely little more so than staying out here much longer,” Kumiko calls back. “Close the gap!”

At the words, Kakashi dares to look out, one hand sparing to reflexively grip at the hilt of his blade. Though already unsettled, his heart pounds in his chest.

They must be getting close…!

Raziya continues fighting the storm, and eventually even Kakashi can feel the buzzing disruption of energy in the air. Squinting through snowflakes the size of his fist, mismatched eyes then widen at what he sees.

A rippling shroud of black seems to stretch across what appears to be the mouth of a cave. Like a starless night, it seems to swallow light...and the snow vanishes into its depths.

“What is that?”

“A Tenebreon barrier, if I had to guess,” Kumiko calls back, tone fringed with worry. “If we touch it, we’ll be dissolved to less than dust. A Luxerian barrier reflects...but Tenebreon consume.”

“Then what do we do? They have to be in there!”

Kumiko bites at the dry, windswept flesh of her lip. “Neither of us have any skill in terra...or I would suggest tunneling in from the side. But I doubt either of us could manage it. I might -”

“Look out!”

With a jerk, the three of them suddenly dive, the humans clinging to their mount as their hearts leap to their throats. Where they’d been a moment before, a flurry of snow catapults off the mountain: enough to bury them ten times over.

“The snowpack is unstable! We must be cautious!” Raziya warns. “More could collapse at any moment!”

“Can you divert it if it does?”

“...I can try.”

Ever so slowly, they try to edge closer and get a better look. And the nearer they get, the more the hair on Kakashi’s neck stands on end. The pull of the ven is terrifying.

...and soon, they realize, more literal than they first assumed.

“Raziya, we’re getting too close. We’ll have to find another way in,” Kumiko calls.

But even as the drach pumps her wings...they don’t make any headway back out into open air. “I...I can’t retreat!”

“What?!”

“It’s pulling me in!”

“...a black hole,” Kakashi mutters, heart dropping at the realization. “Between the pull of the barrier and the push of the wind...we’re being sucked in!”

Tensing, Kumiko plants her hands against Raziya’s neck, trying to help give her energy by granting her own. “You’ve got to change course!”

“I-I’m trying!”

As they draw closer, Kakashi stares at the barrier...and like a shadow, he can barely see the outline of a figure beyond the shield.

And something about it fills him with dread.

“...Kumiko, I’ve got an idea. But you aren’t going to like it.”

“Tell me! We’re running out of time!”

Beneath her, straining until her muscles pop and joints crack, Raziya foams at the mouth. The sickening power of the barrier is almost overwhelming.

“NOW!”

Watching from behind his barrier, Madara grits his teeth. While the possibility did indeed exist of being discovered...the fact that it’s only been a few weeks...irritates him. They’re in the corner of the world, in some of the most inhospitable terrain of the continent. How did these fools find them?

“Madara, what’s going on?”

“Someone’s stumbled upon our little hideaway,” the man growls at his companion, ignoring his flinch. “And we may have to clean them up.”

Following his master’s gaze, Tobi watches as the looming shape struggles against the pull of the ven. “...seems it won’t be long until that happens.”

“Indeed.”

The pair of them jolt, however, as a faint but deep rumble sounds above them. “...what?”

Like a waterfall, snow and ice cascade just beyond the sealed mouth of the cave, burying the would-be intruders and sweeping them down the mountain face.

Shocked, Tobi moves to the edge, trying to watch through the dark shroud of the barrier.

“...well, that should take care of that,” Madara muses.

“...what happened?”

“Avalanche. The snow collapsed off of the peaks. The weight of the new snowfall must have proved too much. A fitting burial for them.” Turning his back, Madara then calls, “You’d best feed the lux mage. She’s still thinner than I would like. I want her kept at a fit weight before her cycle turns. She’ll be needing the extra energy.”

Tobi doesn’t reply, watching him retreat. The ones beyond the barrier...were they the people Ryū spoke of? Rin and Kakashi?

...why did the avalanche make him feel so...panicked? If it were them...then there’s little hope now of her being rescued. Which means she’ll stay here, with them.

...with him.

...and with Madara.

Like two ends of a rope pulled taut, duality and indecision tear at him. In part, he’s happy she won’t be taken. And yet...he knows being here hurts her. But if she leaves...surely he’ll never see her again.

Would she even want to see him again…? Does she...hate him? Surely not. Not with how she defends him. But...why does she do that? He’s just as much her enemy as Madara, and she clearly hates him...is frightened of him. But he himself was the one who brought her here, helps keep her here. So why…?

Unsure and agitated, he turns on his heel from the shield and makes to follow his orders. Ryū needs to eat. But...what will he tell her? Should he be honest? No...he shies from that. Something tells him if she were to know their fate, she would fall back into that hopeless despair.

And he cannot bear to see her like that. Not again.

For now, he’ll spin half-truths. Tell of the avalanche...but not of those caught in it. Besides, he can’t know it was the pair she hopes for. Surely that will be enough to assuage her.

As per usual, a basic stew is all he can afford her, thinking over his story as he returns to her ‘room’. He prays she won’t needle him too deeply.

“Is everything all right?”

She’s still in her mess of blankets, looking up in question as soon as he turns the corner. He sees her tuck away a book, shifting her focus entirely to him.

“Avalanche,” he responds, crossing the gap and kneeling to offer the bowl. “Madara feared it may affect the barrier.”

“Oh...did it?”

“No. It rolled over and down the mountain.” Watching her, he catches the wilt of disappointment as she accepts his offering. “...even if it had, we could have recast it.”

“...I know. I just...hoped.”

Studying her closely, Tobi asks, “...if...you were to be freed...what would you do?”

“...do?”

A nod.

“...I’d return home, of course. Back to Salustia. Surely by now the Summit has ended, but...hopefully Suigin held it in my place.”

“Who is that?”

“My drach kirav - my dragon partner. She is a child of Luxeria. Surely with me gone, she took the mantle and kept the Summit going. I hope it went smoothly…”

“Is it so important?”

Ryū looks up to him in surprise. “...of course. There hasn’t been a proper summit in over a hundred years, when the war began.”

“...war?”

After a pause, she sighs. “...I forget how little you know. But now isn’t the time to explain. It’s a long and heavy tale. Like most of history.”

“...I see.”

She chews slowly, thoughtfully. “...maybe someday I can teach you more. After all...it seems I’ll be here quite some time…” is her somber note.

“I...would like that.” As a silence blooms, he then blurts, “And if you were to leave?”

“What?”

“If you were ever to leave...would you still teach me?”

Ryū stills, studying him with an unreadable expression. “...I...suppose that depends.”

“On what?”

“...on many things,” is her vague reply, which frustrates him.

“But would you?”

“...I would. But maybe you already know these things and just...forgot. Until we know what was lost in your memories...” She trails off to silence.

Tobi sighs, clearly still agitated.

“...what’s wrong?”

The truth would only make things worse. “...I don’t like this blank slate in my mind,” he offers instead.

“...maybe someday we’ll fill it again.”

Out beyond the barrier, the snow is finally still. Caught in a crag dozens of meters down from the cavern, the newly-tumbled tons reflect the rising moonlight like a billion crystals.

And then, with a flare of flakes, a hand lifts from the mass. Like a rock dropped into a pond, the snow disperses outward to create a crater. Standing in the middle, still peppered with white, Kumiko heaves for air alongside a knelt Kakashi.

Not far away, Raziya bursts from the snow, shaking like a drenched dog to dislodge what clings to her fur.

“...that...was the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” the glacial mage admits, dropping to her knees to catch her breath.

Beside her, Kakashi manages a weary chuckle. “Well...it was either that, or get disintegrated.”

“You’re still a madman.”

“True...but we’re alive.”

Resting back on her haunches, Kumiko stares up at the cave above them. “...so...we need to be a bit more stealthy, it seems.”

“Indeed. Any ideas?”

“Raziya can’t come with us - for one, getting us in will be hard enough, let alone something her size. True, she can take her mor form...but she’s far less effective with her ven in that state. She might not fit once we’re inside if she were to try to change. And two, they’ll still be able to sense her as easily due to her saturation of energy. Her presence is just too obvious. And it’s as you say: we need the element of surprise in case they decline a fight and decide to simply teleport elsewhere once they realize we’re there..”

“So we go in alone. But do we know how to go in at all?”

“I have an idea...not as mad as yours, but hopefully viable. First, however, we need to get back up there, and without Raziya’s help.”

“What should I do?”

“Wait here. We may need to make a desperate escape. Be ready at a moment’s notice, my friend,” Kumiko offers.

“Very well.”

“So how are we getting up there?” Kakashi asks again.

“With a little ven. Here, stand next to me. Keep your knees bent - it’s going to be a little...loose.”

“...what?”

“I’m going to urge the snow back up, but it’ll be a little unstable. Think of standing on a ship.”

“...wonderful.”

“Just don’t fall off.” Adjusting her stance and letting Kakashi do the same, Kumiko then feeds ven into the snow beneath them before lifting her arms. Following her guidance, it starts rolling back up the incline in reverse.

Kakashi’s stomach can’t help a small turn of its own, and he’s immediately reminded of why he hasn’t been on a ship in quite some time. “I...think I might vomit.”

“Just a little longer - hold on.” Sliding up the peak, Kumiko brings them to a stop along one edge of the cave, several meters to the right to avoid the barrier’s pull. Maintaining their height, she spares a hand to gently clear away snow until the mountain itself is exposed. “All right...step off here.”

Eagerly doing as he’s told, Kakashi glances around. “...now what?”

“Now...I’m going to give you a little science lesson, Kakashi. Do you know why we don’t make much use of stone roads this far north?”

“...no, enlighten me.”

“Because the freezing and thawing of water causes cracks. Water seeps into any divet it can find...and when it freezes...it expands…” Ven melting some of the snow, Kumiko guides it into a gap in the earth. Then with an urging, it freezes...and Kakashi hears a soft crack. “Over time, with each freezing and thawing...the crack widens. And eventually...you’re left with little more than rubble.”

Watching with widening eyes, Kakashi can only stare as Kumiko carves a tunnel through the earth and stone of the mountain face with only a few gallons of water. “...you’re amazing, did you know that?”

Grinning, Kumiko just keeps going until - after uncounted minutes - light and warm air slips through a gap.

The pair glance to each other, each nodding and preparing themselves for whatever might lie ahead.

Holy mother of overdue chapters, Batman! This is...well, very late :’D But since I’ve decided to just go full-blown hiatus from RP for July and just...take a breather, I thought I’d try and finish up some WIP fics instead while I have some spare time / energy. Maybe not...fully taking a break, but...tbh fic writing is almost always easier for me than RP for...some reason. ANYWAY, a bit of a cliffhanger cuz...honestly I was going to have a whole other scene in this chapter but it was getting...really long :’D I’ve been trying to keep chapters between 3-4k, and this was just over 4k, and uh...yeah it would end up a monster if I kept going. And there’s a LOT of plot in this next scene. So I think just...better to wait and let that stand on its own. And that means MORE CHAPTERS anyway, so...y’know xD Total word count is almost to 38k so that’s neato! BUT YES. We are...SO CLOSE to a possible reunion...? But things are about to start hitting the fan. We’ve got “Tobi” having FEELINGS and starting to question the unquestionable. We’ve got Ryū being that big depressy, Madara still being a jerk, aaand Kakashi and Kumiko getting ever so slightly closer (in more ways than one, huehue)...! So the next chappy SHOULD be pretty excitinggg! I am going to DO MY DARNDEST to finish this fic by the end of July. As my plotting stands now there should be four more chapters, but uh...the last two ended up having to be split into four, so that’s...probably not accurate x’D BUT either way, this is my main goal for July writing-wise. I will DO MY BEST! For now tho I...need to eat, then I’m get right back to it ÒωÓ *dashes away* Thanks for readinggg!

#yukaikokoro #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #uchiha madara #kottakawa kumiko #hatake kakashi #raziya #divine light [ au ]

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ante--meridiem · 5 years

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Fictober Day 4

Prompt: “I know you didn’t ask for this”

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald

Compared to Durmstrang, Hogwarts was deeply underwhelming. Gellert looked around for any hint of why Albus spoke so fondly of it. There was, perhaps, a certain homeliness to it that he had to admit Albus might like, though it struck him as purely stifling.

His eyes were still fixed upon an archway while his hand toyed absently with the contents of his pocket when the prefect who had guided him to Albus’ office straightened suddenly. “Professor Dumbledore! There’s someone here to see you. Says he was sent by -”

“The Department of Magical History,” Gellert interjected smoothly. “They said you might be able to help me with my thesis?”

Albus peered at him, and Gellert wondered if he’d bought the story at all. No matter; the cover only needed to be strong enough to get him into the castle, and keep Albus from kicking him out immediately.

It was amazing, how a few years could change someone. There was a maturity to him that Gellert didn’t remember; he’d always seemed wise beyond his age but never quite so wearied; even at his most frustrated, there had always been a spark of youthful brightness in him. It hit him all at once that his illusion of Albus living his life in peaceful bliss had been just that – an illusion he toyed with to keep his resentment from giving way to guilt.

“Well, I suppose you’d better come inside, then,” Albus said, opening the office door to usher him in. “I am rather busy at the moment, but I’ll do my best to help.”

Gellert followed him silently. As soon as the door slid shut behind them, he let his disguise drop.

For a moment, Albus just stood there, realization slowly dawning. Then, with quick, jerky movements, his hand went to his wand.

Before he could utter any spells, Gellert pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and, with a flourish, unraveled it, allowing a smooth, unassuming pebble to drop on the table between them.

Albus’ eyes flicked rapidly between Gellert’s face and his desk, while Gellert watched, waiting for a clear reaction.

“Is that -”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

Seemingly without realizing it, Albus had pocketed his wand again. He reached out for half a moment, hand hovering just above it, before he withdrew his hand again. With a swallow, he tried to school his face back into impassivity, but it was too late; Gellert had glimpsed the naked longing there. Satisfaction stirred in his chest; this visit might be worth it, if only for showing him he still knew how to pierce straight through Albus’ put-together exterior.

“Why?” To Albus’ credit, his voice shook only slightly. “Why would you bring it to me?”

Out of absurd impulse, would have been the answer if Gellert could bring himself to be entirely honest. Because every time he laid eyes on it the only thing he could think about was Albus. Because it was one of those things he felt he must do, and maybe he would find peace with himself once he had.

Instead, Gellert shrugged. “Finding the Stone was always your dream. Not mine.”

It had always struck him as the most useless of the Hallows. Its only purpose, it seemed, was to ensnare its owner in past regrets. Gellert had no-one he missed enough to bring back from the dead.

But aching for someone right before you, yet always out of reach? That, he understood well enough.

He could not see how it would ever be anything but a curse.

“What of your army of inferni, then?” Albus asked. The delivery was arch, but the underlying question clear enough: do you still want what you did before?

“It doesn’t work that way.” A few experiments had been enough to show that; the stone was no weapon. Its only use might be in completing the other two, though that in itself was not a possibility to give up lightly.

“So I am expected to believe this is a gift out of the kindness of your heart? No strings attached?”

“None,” Gellert confirmed. He’d considered make it a bargaining chip, but if he knew Albus at all, he would not react well to conditions. The only way to win him was to leave him room to choose for himself.

And if he knew Albus at all, what he’d just done was far from a kindness.

“I know you didn’t ask for this. Consider it – a belated apology.”

Albus’ eyes flashed, but Gellert noted the stone was no longer on the table. Albus raised it in the air with a trembling hand and turned it over, seeming entirely entranced.

“Of course,” Gellert added after a moment, “If you were interested in picking up our old plans...”

“I’ve heard whispers of what you’re doing on the continent,” Albus said severely. “Believe me when I say I have no desire to partake in it.”

“If you ever change your mind... I trust you’ll manage to find me.”

Albus looked at Gellert. His face was pale, hand clenched around the stone. “Is that all?”

Gellert met his gaze. There only two ways this could go; either, once he was left alone with his thoughts, Albus decided to take the hand Gellert offered him, and they found a way to salvage the dreams they once shared – or he left things as they were, and wasted away with the reminders of his past. Either outcome meant that Gellert won.

“It is,” he confirmed. “Unless you want it not to be.”

Later, as he walked away from the castle, the look on Albus’ face when he’d first seen the stone lingered in Gellert’s mind. With it came a growing – and more than a little disquieting – certainty that he’d just handed his old friend the final tool he needed for his self-destruction.

#grindeldore #Fictober #fictober19 #two consecutive days!#I'm probably going to take a break from these for a while because it's getting too time-consuming though #Once again unedited and written on the fly #i write stuff #I wrote a thing #fanfic #My writing

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literallyjustanerd · 5 years

Text

Hurts to Try, Hurts to Stop - Chapter 2

Writing angst and fluff to distract from your own steadily building anxiety and sense of impending doom is the biggest mood. What can I say? Nightangel comforts me.

Kurt’s tail twitches restlessly over the bedroom carpet as he checks his phone for the third time in ten minutes. The screen is clear of any new messages, and he can see his wallpaper in full: his bright grin as Warren kisses his cheek, both of them bathed in the bright neon of the lights in their favourite restaurant. There is a sharp hiss as he sucks a breath in through his teeth, foot tapping in disquiet against the floor. Three text messages now, and two calls, all unanswered. He’d woken up alone, his back cold and missing the press of Warren’s chest against it. He knows what this means, exactly why Warren hasn’t answered.

First, the unassuming ‘good morning xx’ text, then the less optimistic ‘where did you go?’ ending in a final, resigned, ‘please don’t see him today.’He isn’t surprised that Warren has gone back to see his father, to endure another day of abuse, but the lack of surprise doesn’t come with a lack of disappointment. There is even a slight twinge of frustration bubbling deep in the pit of his stomach—the faintest rumble of thunder from an incoming storm.

He jumps when Scott appears next to him, asking what Kurt’s frown is for. Kurt, as ever, dismisses it with a shake of his head, shoulders shifting with his sigh.

“It’s okay. It’s nothing,” he says. But Scott has had years to get to know Kurt, to come to recognise the slight shake in his voice and the quirk in his lips. Not to mention he has come to feel somewhat protective of Kurt, especially since he knows just the kind of grief Warren is capable of giving. He says nothing, but keeps his gaze through his glasses trained intently on Kurt. The lie withers under this scrutiny, and Kurt cracks easily with it.

“Warren’s gone back to see his dad,” he begins, voice like that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Their family has this… this big fancy lunch once a week, and Warren always goes, and it always ends in an argument and him feeling miserable.”

“And you’ve told him he shouldn’t be going?”

“Every time! And every time, he ends up back there.”

Scott sighs, leans back against the doorframe, and balls his hands in his pockets.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. Aside from, you know, what I’ve already told you before.”

Kurt dredges up a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and forces himself to stand, patting Scott’s shoulder as he passes by into the hallway.

“I know, Scott. But he’s my boyfriend. We love each other, and we’re not breaking up.”

There comes an unconvinced shrug from behind him.

“Just saying. Still think you could do better than that hot mess.”

“Scott.” There is a chuckle in Kurt’s voice, letting Scott know he has done his job. The pair together leave the bedroom behind, beginning the day a little late, but much better than if Kurt had been left to start it himself.

“Sehr gut, jeder! That’s enough for today. You did wonderfully, I hope you had as much fun as I did!”

That is a lie. Kurt, in fact, hopes his students have had much more fun than he has. As the dozen or so young mutants he’d taken charge of that afternoon pass him towards the Danger Room’s exit, he once again is lost to his own thoughts, the unending debate that tugs at his mind.

It has been three months since he had put his name forward to handle a weekly Danger Room, and, overall, he has relished the experience. The students had taken a shine to him straight away, and the chance to share and teach his skills had proven both heartening and cathartic. Today, however, not even the bright, fresh young faces of his newest pupils are enough to dissuade him from obsessing over Warren, who has still not made an appearance despite the day being all but over.

Once the students have drained from the hall completely, he follows them up from the basement levels of the school and begins towards the living room, hoping to find some conversation to smother his sorrows with. He passes by the window, the last dregs of twilight bleeding into night, the trees an inky black tide lapping at the horizon. Another silhouette catches his attention, this one wheeling high above the treeline. Though barely visible in the dim, Kurt knows the arc of those wings too well, in too much excruciating detail to mistake the shape for anything else. Anyone else. Warren is out there, and he is agitated. His movements lack their usual grace and fluidity. He flies with the air of a man being pursued, and this observation drives a deep unease into Kurt’s chest, like a splinter worming its way beneath its skin that he has no hope of removing. For a moment, all frustration about Warren’s disappearance and foolishness vanishes, replaced only by dread of what horrors the man has endured today at the hands of his parents. The thought stays with him for the rest of the evening, along with the question of when Warren will choose to end his self-inflicted purgatory in the skies and return to Kurt’s waiting arms.

The mansion is dark for the most part when Warren touches down on the front steps. As usual, the heavy, ancient oak door creaks maddeningly loud as he opens it, drawing a wince from the man as he slips inside and locks it behind him. There are people still awake, almost certainly, but the mansion is big enough, its halls long and winding enough that he is able to take himself to his room unseen with ease. But as he nears the door to his refuge, his dull footfalls are cut off. There is a soft, yellow light streaming through the crack underneath the door. Shit. He had been hoping to forgo this confrontation, stayed out until the cold turned his wingtips numb to avoid it. And, of course, with the heightened sense of hearing that comes with his boyfriend’s (frankly adorable) pointed blue ears, he has almost definitely already heard Warren approaching. Dread building to a crescendo in his stomach, Warren makes the final few strides to their bedroom and opens the door.

If it hadn’t been for the situation they were in, the sight of Kurt before him would have filled Warren with warmth, with the addictive calmness and security that Kurt usually provides him with, tense disagreements about family notwithstanding. He is sitting up in bed, curled up against the night’s chill with a book in his lap, rich blue fur bathed in the incandescent light of a bedside lamp. He looks to Warren expectantly when he enters the room, lips parting slightly and then pressing back together as if he had begun to speak and thought better of it. He has grown more adamant lately, more determined not to enable Warren’s more avoidant and self-destructive behaviours. The silence stretches on, fraying and thinning like an overtaxed rope until Warren finally gives in, words leaving his lips with such force that he almost lurches forward.

“It’s not that fucking easy, okay?” he blurts. “I can’t just cut him off whenever I feel like it. That’s not how it works.”

“I didn’t say it was,” replies Kurt, his tone earnest if somewhat dry, with just enough force in it to spark a fresh wave of frustration in Warren.

“But you think it, don’t you? You think I should be able to just snap my fingers and be totally done with him!”

An exasperated sigh from Kurt has Warren feeling like a child again, scolded by a parent, a relative, a teacher, and infuriated by their condescension.

“You do!” he snaps before Kurt has gotten a single word out. The interruption causes Kurt to frown deeply, peeling back the covers and standing up with as much composure as he could muster.

“Is it so bad that I want you to get rid of the single worst influence in your life?”

“He’s my dad.”

“He’s said horrible things to you! He says them every time you see him! Homophobic things, mutophobic things. The number of times you’ve come home in tears because of him… He’s an awful, bigoted, ignorant man and you don’t deserve to have that in your life!”

“It’s more complicated than that! He’s really shitty to me, yeah, I’ll give you that. But he’s my dad. He’s family. And I keep thinking, I don’t know, maybe if I give him enough time... Look, I can’t just— If I tried to—” The words dry up in his mouth as quickly as they had come rushing to his mind, his building agitation tearing an animalistic growl from deep within his throat.

“I know how impossible it seems to give up on the idea of things getting better.” Kurt’s voice is a warning, stepping closer to Warren like a lion tamer, fighting his own anger as it tries to leap up in response to his partner’s. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been through it before. Which means I also know what I’m talking about when I say that taking the plunge and making the tough choices makes everything easier in the long run.”

The words make sense. They sound perfectly reasonable. And this, more than anything, is what angers Warren the most. These perfect, reasonable words coming from a perfectly reasonable man, so well-adjusted and put-together and so fucking adult. The affront of having his own misjudgements and insecurities laid out for him is almost too much for him to bear, and it only hurts more that despite knowing deep down that Kurt is right, he cannot stop his own feelings. Even with full awareness of the problem, he is powerless to unravel it.

“He’s my dad,” he snarls, gaze affixed firmly to the floor, hot, shameful tears pricking the backs of his eyes.

“And? My father is a literal biblical demon! And my mother is… well, my mother.” “That’s different. You had Margali. You had your family in the circus.” “Until I came here. Then, I had a mother who couldn’t figure out whether she was evil or not and a father who wanted to use me and all my other half-demon siblings to tear a hole in the underworld.”

His breath trembles as he steps forward, catching Warren’s chin under one finger and raising it to meet his eyes. Through all his pent-up frustration, the anger and grief, he smiles. Meekly, faintly, but with enough tenderness to melt through all of Warren’s pride. In an instant, he is putty in Kurt’s hands once more, hanging precariously on the silence between them, desperate for shelter from the storm raging within him.

“But I also had the other X-Men. I had you. And whenever Mystique shows up, or I want to feel sorry for myself because of who my father is, I just remind myself that you guys are enough.” The tears are streaming freely down Kurt’s cheeks now, collecting in shivering droplets at his chin and falling onto Warren’s fingers, numb with the weight of all the emotions warring in his mind.

Gradually, and then all at once, Warren is hit with an astounding exhaustion, one that reaches right to his bones. He gives in, gives up the reins he has clung so desperately to, and collapses into Kurt’s waiting arms. They catch him with all the strength in the world, holding his entire life afloat in their firm yet gentle grasp. Warren feels lips pressed against his ear, exults in the hot breath against his skin. The lips and the breath are accompanied by whispered words of comfort, reassurances and promises that everything would be okay. He loses himself to the simple, euphoric feeling—of being safe, of being loved, so absorbed in it that he cannot tell how much time has passed when Kurt lifts those wonderful lips from his ear, pressing them instead against Warren’s for just a moment before pulling back to gaze at Warren with searching eyes.

“I’m sorry I got so worked up,” he murmurs. “I just hate seeing you like this.” Warren nods, slow and short.

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I’m sorry, too.”

Wordlessly, the two of them climb under the covers, retreating all too readily into a world much smaller than the one that had sparked the argument between them. Warren hesitates when he tries to speak, throat catching involuntarily, a remnant of his pride, though the night’s events have left it weakened enough that he can easily push past it.

“I’ll… I’ll work on talking to dad less,” he says, and Kurt can tell that the words are a promise. “I can stop going to so many family things, stop answering all his stupid invasive questions.”

Kurt nods, pausing reverently before he replies.

“I think that’s a good idea. Take it at your own pace. We’ll see how things go.”

Warren can’t do a thing to help the great swell of adoration he feels at seeing those big, thoughtful yellow eyes, the crease of his brow. He presses his head to Kurt’s chest, and even then he feels he cannot get close enough to the man he has fallen so achingly hard for. His wings sweep up and out, blanketing Kurt on both sides, movements as careful and covetous as if he were handling a rare and precious gem.

“Kurt?”

The blue mutant is almost dreaming when the voice stirs him, the rumble of the chest atop his rousing him back to consciousness.

“Mm?”

“Thank you. For sticking with me. Putting up with me.”

“I don’t put up with anything, mein Engel. I love you. I’ll always want to help you when you’re struggling.”

Warren inhales sharply, lips pressed tightly together.

“If either of us is anything close to an angel, it’s definitely you,” he says with the softest hint of a laugh, winding his arms tighter around the warmth of the body he has positioned himself against. Kurt says nothing, heart suddenly bounding with something unplaceable. The feeling stays with him until he loses himself to sleep, lulled into a deep, peaceful rest by the rhythm of Warren’s breaths against his fur.

#nightangel #nightcrawler #angel #kurt wagner #warren worthington iii #warren worthington #nightcrawler x angel #x men #x men apocalypse #uncanny x men #marvel #marvel comics #fanfiction #drabble #hurts to try hurts to stop

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writer-of-the-revolution · 5 years

Text

Icarus Ch 2- Awakening

Drip. Drip. Drip. Cold, fear, pain. Escape! I have to- have to get out. Please! “Hold him down!” I can't stand. “We’re losing him!” Black.

I woke in a hospital bed; not my favorite place to regain consciousness. Strangely, I found myself lying on my stomach, a sweltering blanket draped across me. Even with my limited medical knowledge, i know that this is unusual. The wisps of a dream retreated from my mind as a team of medical professionals rush into the room. Why would I need a team of medics. What’s wrong with me? The already uncomfortable blanket seemed suffocated. I can’t breathe. I can’t move! Images of sterile walls and bleak cells cloudy my vision and my heart rate accelerates. Doctors start shouting and I am roughly turned over. A needle is jabbed into my arm and my heart rate returns to normal. I lose consciousness.

My second Awakening was much calmer. The suffocating blanket was gone and I could breathe again. Sitting at my bedside was none other than Alexandria Gray. She looks surprised to see me awake. Then she looks guilty. Why would she look guilty? For that matter, why was I here. My whole body throbbed I cannot remember how I got to the hospital. I try to pull myself up but Alex's shaky hand presses me back down.

“Hey, slow down, Kai!” Something's wrong. She always calls me Agent or Valerius, never Kai.

“ Where am I?” Instead of my usual voice, a deep, raspy sound, almost unrecognizable, filled the quiet room. Oh God, my voice sounds like it hasn't been used in years. How long was I out?

As if sensing my disquieting thought she spoke. “ You're in the B.O.A. med wing, the plane went down.” God no. Months of training rushed to the forefront of my mind.

“How long?”

“Kai I don’t think-”

“How long!?” I was I was practically panicking. My nerves were set alight and my back pulsed pain.

“Two weeks.” She said quietly. “ They've had you here for two weeks.” something about the way she said that seems so, so wrong. Like she's hiding something.

I take a moment to glance around the room it was small and plain with light blue walls with a chair in the corner, a mirror against the side wall, and a television playing the news for- wait that can't be right- February 18th. That's in 6 months! My chest tightens.

“Its February! What do you mean I've been here for two weeks?! Where the hell have I been?”

Her voice turned soft as she attempted to soothe my racing heart. “We lost to in the crash when the people who brought down the plane came to collect their prize,” she shuddered, “ You fought. You went back to buy us time and we never saw you again, at least until you showed up shot to pieces at an American military base in Paraguay.” I lay there speechless. I tried to set up again but this time I realized I couldn't. There's something attached to me holding me back. I clawed at the bandages wrapped around my torso. Alex tried to stop me but I pushed her aside as I stumbled out of bed. Managing to break the last of the wrapping I slowly dragged myself across the room, wincing slightly as a dull aching pain shot up my side. I limped in front of the mirror and recoiled in disgust. A pair of dark, ragged wings that now hung from my back.

I fell back in horror, tripping over one of the new appendages, and causing it to bend at an awkward angle. Sharp, almost unbearable pain cut through me as my freshly stitched wounds tore open and a warm blood flows down my back and pools around me. A groan of agony left my lips and dark spots clouded the corners of my vision. I hear the shuffling of feet, and a few nurses crowd around me, cautiously lifting me off of the cold and now blood-stained tiles and laying me on the bed. I see Alex’s face, her soft features twisted into worry as the nurses begin re stitching the wounds. I didn’t even flinch as the sharp needle pierced my skin.

What happened to me? Why can't I remember. Since waking up it seemed as if every second brought more questions and few answers. Wonderful.

The next few weeks past in the snail-paced blur medical terms and updates. How miraculous it was and I'm alive. How quickly I heal. How grateful I should be. I've had too much time to think. Think about what my life will be like now. How do you live a normal life with 8-foot wings dragging behind you? I can't exactly make my weekly trip to the grocery store can I. God! I remember when I found out.

I was barely week into my stay when I got the news. Alex and a somber looking doctor came in with a folder full of scams and results.

“ So! When can I get these abominations off?” I watched then hopefully but my spirits plummeted when I saw their faces fall. “Guys?”

“Look Kai,” ...she only calls me that when she has bad news, “ the people who did this to you, whoever they are, knew what they were doing. The wings are attached so deeply that even attempting to remove them would most likely cost you your life” Maybe it would have been worth it.

By the time the second month rolled around I had had a few more visitors...Other than the failed physical therapy attempts, Oliver Green came to thank me for saving his life, allowing him to return home to his family, as did the rest of the team. Captain Warshow gave his condolences. And Alex… Well, Alex is what kept me sane.

It wasn't until that point that I realize how fortunate I was. I was sitting in the chair in the corner reading when a red-faced and teary-eyed Alex Grey ran into the room trapping me in a hug. I grimaced as she sobbed into my shoulder, irritating my sensitive ribs.

“Th-They found him!” Her brother. The one I promised to help her find. “He- he’s probably not gonna wake up.” She sobbed harder, her chestnut hair tangled around her face.

I hesitantly wrap my arms around her in an embrace, slowly rubbing my hand across her back as an attempt to calm her. While doing so I had a revelation. I was alive and well and me. It was no one's choice, but my own to stay here, locked up in this stuffy room debilitating. I wasted my chance to help Alex save her brother and I wasn’t about to waste another.

That night was my first out of the infirmary. Slipping past the night nurses was easy. After all it is my forte. Was. I push onward. The gym was empty, no doubt because of the unusual hours, and I went to work. I could feel the months of misuse aching in my muscles. The wings were held close to my back by a thick swath of bandages. Opening my bag, I started to wrap my knuckles. I stepped up to one of the bags and swung.

The bag flew away from me with gusto, and for the first time since regaining consciousness, I smiled.

#Icarus #Superversemk1

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eremiss · 5 years

Text

Safety

Takes place some time mid/late 2.1

It was the temperature that woke Thancred. The air was barely too cool for comfort, and the warm weight against his side wasn’t enough stave it off.

His consciousness congealed slowly, details coming to him one at a time as he reluctantly got his mind working.

He’d slept upright. The ground was hard, and his rear was complaining about it. His back and neck were stiff from his position and the chill. His legs were asleep. Or maybe they were just cold.

The urge to shift around and stretch away the unpleasant stiffness and all its little aches prodded at him. He put it off.

Thancred noticed the smells next. Moldy straw was the strongest. And then the unique musk of feathers. Something that smelled lightly of leather and flowers was there, too, but faint in comparison.

He identified the scents and sensations easily enough, but they only served to make him confused. All of the odd details confirmed he hadn’t slept in his room.

He’d slept. The realization made him pause, sinking in rather than flitting by like the other little details.

He’d slept. And, despite the chill and his complaining back, it was the best sleep he’d had in weeks. He couldn’t remember his dreams, if he’d had any, but he also couldn’t remember any nightmares.

A peaceful night’s rest… After Lahabrea he’d thought such a thing beyond him.

Priorities. He could be relieved in a moment, first he needed to figure out where he was.

Thancred lifted his head and leaned it the other way, immediately replacing the stiff ache with gratified relief. He raised a hand to clumsily rub some sleep out of his vision before blinking his eyes open.

The shadows around him were deep and soft, clinging stubbornly in the corners and slowly fading away everywhere else. The pale light that barely illuminated the small room suggested the sun was only just rising.

He wasn't in a room, he realized, but a stall. A rather large one, at that. No wonder he was so cold, nights in Thanalan were deceptively cool compared to the blazing day. Once the sun was above the horizon the temperature would skyrocket, but the new dawn hadn't yet brought much warmth.

Thancred had spent the night in the stables. Without a blanket, no less. What on Hydaelyn…?

He registered the sound of soft breathing and looked beside him.

Thancred barely managed to suppress a twitch of surprise when his searching gaze found Gwen. She was pressed close to his side, leaning against him with her head pillowed comfortably on his shoulder. Her closed eyes and easy breaths made it plain she was still asleep, not yet as affected by the cold as he had been. One of her hands was loosely curled around his, the pair resting on her knee.

Thancred blinked rapidly a few times, as though that would either change what he was seeing or provide him with an explanation.

It did neither

Little details leaped out at him, like the flowery scent in her hair, unbound and falling freely about her shoulders. The gray streaks that cut through the messy tumble of ash-brown had turned silvery after so many hours under the Thanalan sun, and her skin had darkened a few shades. Gwen had foregone her armor and traveling gear in favor of more comfortable, casual clothing. It suited her, but it didn’t fit her quite as well. Her nails were growing back, carefully maintained as they recovered from being anxiously chipped and picked down to nothing.

She wasn’t adept at touching others or allowing herself into their space, and affectionate gestures like holding hands or cuddling were things she simply didn’t do. Yet tiredness had seemingly made her bolder.

A shift on her other side alerted Thancred that he had a far more pressing –and possibly life-threatening– concerns. Specifically, Gwen’s fiercely protective mount. No wonder the stall was so big.

Duskfeather’s large form loomed on Gwen’s other side, curled snugly between her and the wall. His aquiline head was leaned against her leg, keen eyes closed and leonine tail tucked. Deep breaths wheezed steadily in and out of his massive beak, uninterrupted by the rogue’s sudden shock.

The immediate jolt of panic eased once Thancred realized the griffin was as soundly asleep as his mistress. The griffin’s feathered ears hadn’t so much as twitched. He was safe.

Thancred relaxed a little and tried twice as hard not to make a sound.

He’d slept in the stables. With Gwen.

Now that he’d somewhat gotten his bearings back, he knew he was rather stuck. He couldn’t find the will to wake Gwen when she was sleeping so peacefully, nor did he want to risk waking Duskfeather, should the griffin suddenly decide he no longer cared for Thancred’s presence.

So he was stuck there, which meant he had plenty of time to be utterly confused.

When had Gwen returned to Vesper Bay? When had he gotten to the stables? Why had Duskfeather not objected to his presence?

Thancred rubbed his forehead with his free hand, casting his mind back in search of answers.

The previous day had been a trying one, he recalled. But that didn’t mean much. All of them had been trying, in one way or another, since Gwen had purged Lahabrea most of two months ago.

Thancred’s physical wounds were healed and the lingering aches had finally faded. He was growing stronger, regaining strength and mental fortitude that had been neglected for so very long. He’d again be fit for duty soon…theoretically. Things were returning to normal.

A few weeks ago Thancred had snooped through Gwen’s journal and finally learned why she had been skittish as a hare around him. That it was something so innocent and well-intentioned as guilt, rather than more visceral like hatred or distrust, had been a relief.

When Gwen had eventually offered stumbling but genuine apologies for her battle with Lahabrea and the damage she had done, Thancred had replied with playfulness and teasing. His irreverent jibes and guileless rebuffs did nothing but frustrate her, as he’d hoped, and soon enough they’d started bickering. There had been a little sparkle in her eyes when she’d finally tossed up her hands and declared she was giving up.

With her needless guilt assuaged, Gwen no longer blanched at the thought of being in the same room as him. And when she was her normal, shy self again, the entire Waking Sands seemed to breathe a little easier.

And that was where the positives ended.

No amount of reassurances or improved health would change the fact that the Scions were moving to Revenant’s Toll. Alphinaud could insist the move was a purely political and strategic one all he wanted, but they all knew the underlying cause: The Waking Sands wasn’t safe. It hadn’t been since Lahabrea had handed Thancred’s knowledge over to Gaius and his legion.

The moons Thancred had been a prisoner in his own body clung to him as surely as his shadow and harried him like a sickness. His physical wounds were healed, but the mental ones yet festered and showed no signs of improving.

The endless hours he’d endured watching Lahabrea traipsing among his friends were indistinct and vague while he was awake, but in dreams they were as clear and torturous as they had been in the moment. And now, same as then, he couldn’t escape them for long.

When Thancred was awake the memories lurked at the edges of his thoughts, tinging places and conversations with bitterness. They only truly slipped out of focus when he threw himself into a task or had something to devote his focus towards. In sleep they plagued him as nightmares, replaying over and over and occasionally twisting into dark ‘what if’s to further taunt him.

Drink helped to settle it, and sometimes it could even numb the nightmares enough to make a difference. But the looks he got from his friends on his second or third glass were unwanted and only ever served to worsen his already poor mood. Occasionally a combination of the two managed stir up some deeply-buried bitterness about how it was a little bit late, don’t you think? to be paying attention to his state. Thusfar those sharp words hadn’t yet made it past his teeth.

Worse still were the sparse moments when Thancred’s body would suddenly feel off somehow, like strange tingle skittering up his back or a uneasy weakness twinging at his muscles out of nowhere. Small things that, before all of this, he would have considered innocuous or may not even have noticed at all. Now they instilled a sense of dread and terror that was all but paralyzing, and the heavy doubt that was left in its wake was nearly suffocating. He’d be left disquieted and off balance for bells, even after he twitched his fingers and purposefully moved about to demonstrate, for none but himself, that he was still in control, that his body and will were wholly his again.

Every aspect of regular life, from keeping his stride light and his posture casual to maintaining a charming –or at least pleasant– expression to trying to perpetuate a reasonable mood, required more concentration than it should have. And so many minor things, small talk, paperwork, even just caring for himself, took far too much out of him.

He had to manage a thousand moving parts at any given moment to be himself, to just get through the day, rather than everything simply happening like it used to. He was growing stronger, getting healthier, yet so very often he was all but spent by midday.

Thancred’s self-afflicted lack of sleep certainly wasn’t doing him any favors. He didn’t try to deny it. But to sleep was to invite nightmares, and he’d suffered more than enough of them already. Besides, sleep inevitably found him no matter what he did. He saw no reason to subject himself to it more than absolutely necessary.

And then there was last night. Last night…

---

Thancred recalled jerking awake in the dead of night. He had bodily ripped himself from the sound of cruel laughter in his ear, a nauseating crawling sensation on his back and the sight of his hands–but not his hands–wielding his daggers.

In the brief panic upon waking he’d banished the rest of the details, refusing to think about them. Instead he'd focused all the energy he could muster on getting control of himself, grappling with his breaths until they'd evened out.

He’d been in his room, which had thrown him for longer than it should have. Because last he could recall he’d been in the library with Y’shtola and Uriangier, chatting about all manner of things and… And clearly he’d dozed off, and then been put to bed by one of them while he couldn’t protest.

Thancred had grit his teeth over frustrated cursing and resolutely ignored the complaints of his body as he threw away the sheets and climbed out of bed. He had decided to weather the rest of the night with the aid of tea and busywork, as had become his habit.

He had felt no better for his brief rest, as it hadn’t been for long, and it had been anything but restful. A haze of fatigue had clung to him like a wet blanket as he struggled into fresh clothes, insolently demanding rest. His traitorous, exhausted mind had tried to urge him back into bed, tempting him to lie down and let his eyes close just a little while longer. More sleep, even so little as another bell, would have provided some relief from the weight of exhaustion that had been crushing him for days.

Yes, of course, he should just submit himself to a fresh round of nightmares while cruel laughter still rang in his ears and the feeling of puppeted hands still twisted at the edges of his thoughts. That would definitely be helpful, because wasn’t he feeling better after a bit of a nap?

Thancred had scoffed and bitterly muttered, "Like hell," as he jerked his shoes on.

Part of him had been so very hackled up he’d almost wanted to find the three and give them a piece of his mind. Not that he had had any real outcome in mind besides sharp words and a bit of yelling. But even his addled mind had known that idea to be a stupid and fruitless one, so he hadn’t spared it more than a passing consideration.

His head had been full of cotton as he stumbled to his door in the dark, a headache born of exhaustion, frustration and stress starting to form behind his eyes. Thancred had resolutely stomped out of his room, ignoring the heaviness in his limbs as best he could. Anger and annoyance were a fine fuel, but they wouldn’t last forever, and would wear him out further if he wasn’t careful. He had wanted to put distance between himself and his bed while could. Ideally he’d also find something to occupy himself until he had the piercing light of day to help keep him conscious.

The sour turnings of Thancred's thoughts had been interrupted when he made his way into the main corridor and found Gwen.

The sight of her had taken him so by surprise he’d nearly tripped over his own feet, his train of thought scattering in an instant and leaving him off balance. He’d been pleased to see her, but also confused, as he’d thought she was away on some assignment or another.

For a moment he'd wondered if she was actually there, or if he'd become so truly sleep deprived he was starting to hallucinate.

Gwen had been equally surprised to see him, thinking she was the only one up at that hour. “Good–-evening? Morning?” She’d hesitated, letting out a weary chuckle, “I’m…not sure what time it is.”

“What say we settle for ‘too early for either of us to be awake’?” he’d replied automatically, surprised by the lightness of his tone.

And she’d smiled at that. Smiled at him. For him. And he’d felt a little better.

In the wake of the Praetorium Thancred had found her presence gave him an intangible sense of security that he otherwise sorely lacked. He had never spent much time wondering why, content with clinging to his eased mood while it lasted and rather than spoiling it by trying to pull it apart.

Maybe it was because she’d saved him when he was so sure he was beyond saving. She’d banished the darkness, literally and figuratively, and Lahabrea hadn’t stood a chance. And she was ready, willing and able to achieve such impossible feats again at a moment’s notice. It made sense that he would come to think of his savior as something of a symbol of hope and safety.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact he’d been fond of her before that whole gods-begotten mess, and that she no longer blanched at being in the same room had eased some of the weight he was carrying. They hadn’t spent an inordinate amount of time together, no, but to gain and hold a bit of interest. Long enough to start getting comfortable, and then curious. Long enough to matter.

Maybe it was because Thancred’s old self didn’t feel so far away when he could still chat and joke, or make her blush, or get her flustered like he used to. He didn’t quite want to be his old self --the one who had gotten into all of this in the first place-- but he did want…parts of it. The good parts, like flirting as easily as he breathed, or being a dependable and trustworthy friend, or making whatever fair maiden struck his fancy laugh, or having that natural, easy sense of calm he’d been missing.

Thancred had shoved all that aside and plastered on his usual smile, dredging up the energy for a bit of small talk. Mostly because he’d had to, he had an act to maintain, but partially, just a little, because he’d wanted to.

He’d gamely acted as though he wasn’t dead tired after a week of little and less rest, and he’d done his best not to show that he’d just been ripped from sleep.

The way Gwen had looked at him and studied his face in the dim light had made it plain enough he wasn’t fooling her.

Yda's statement that Gwen had 'loud eyes' had been utterly accurate, despite the joke Thancred had made about the phrasing.

Those green eyes had been warm with concern that had irked him to see, and yet was so endearing he couldn’t let himself be annoyed by it. She worried about everyone, so of course she'd worry about him, too. That was just how she worked.

Gwen hadn’t asked why he was up, or where he was going. She hadn’t asked if he’d had nightmares, nor told him he needed to go back to bed and rest. She didn’t pester him to share his troubles, or smother him with worry for his health.

She’d seen though the act but let him have it anyway. The thoughtful look on her face and those loud, gentle eyes had said so.

She had let him know, too. She'd cocked her head a little and given him a small, tired smile. “You look as tired as I feel.”

Even the mention of the word had made his eyes threaten to sag closed.

A wry smile had found its way to his mouth, genuine rather than a cover like he’d been wearing all day. “I’m told pots and kettles have a lot in common.”

Gwen had laughed at that. A warm, happy sound that had eased the bowstring-tight set of his shoulders and chased the cold whispers of Lahabrea’s laugh from his ears.

Thancred could still make her laugh. He could almost feel his foul mood lifting, the bristling edges of his patience smoothing out.

Maybe she let him feel like getting his life back, being himself again, wasn’t impossible or out of reach.

The odd, nameless ache in his chest had eased a little more.

Ignorant to all the wheels turning is his head, Gwen had explained that her assignment had brought her to the area. She knew it would mean arriving in the dead of night, but she'd wanted to spend the night at the Waking Sands and thus made the journey home.

Thancred had listened, providing commentary and a few little jibes about the Scions missing her as much as she missed them. The lighter mood had lingered, his head still hazy but thoughts less prickly and bitter than they had been all day.

It had been easier to just be while she was around.

But whatever good mood he had never lasted long. And before she’d even finished her explanation Thancred had been struck with the certainty that his newfound feeling of ease was short-lived. Gwen would turn in for the night and he’d be left alone, and without her or her conversation as a distraction...

He had felt his nightmares already trying to worm their way back into his thoughts. A phantom itch had ticked his palms while a cold shadow needled at the back of his neck, and the dim hallway seemed to grow just a bit darker.

Thancred had fumbled for a way to draw out their conversation, trying to postpone Gwen retiring and stave off the return of his darker mood. For just a little longer, at least, though he’d have rather avoided it altogether.

But it had been late, Gwen had been plainly exhausted, and conversation could only last so long when neither of them had much to say.

Thancred had been sorely tempted to try and convince her to keep him company; perhaps she could have joined him in the library while he wasted the night on research or something equally mundane. He’d very nearly been ready to toss his pride aside --whatever he had left of it-- and just plainly ask.

But no. No... He couldn't subject Gwen to a sleepless night for his sake. She shouldn’t suffer just because he couldn’t sleep. He of all people had no right to be a draw on her time, anyway. Hadn’t she done enough for him already?

He’d avoided even hinting at it, because he hadn’t been certain she’d turn him down. And he hadn’t been confident he could muster the will to turn her away if she’d agreed.

Thancred had hurriedly tried to think of something else as their words dwindled.

Well, if he really wanted to feel like himself again, perhaps returning to bed would be a little less dreadful if he had company. And he’d always thought she was rather attractive--

He’d nearly grimaced, snuffing the thought out like a match.

Gwen didn’t have much interest in trysts, and he’d known that for ages. And their relationship wasn’t a romantic or intimate one -–the word 'yet' had sprung up to tag on the end, because perhaps that could change. But not right then and there. Their friendship was only just mended, though that arguably had more to do with Gwen than him, and he hadn’t been too sleep-addled to know it had not been the time to go about trying to change that, so he didn’t. Besides... she deserved far better than that. Better than him.

Thancred needed to get his head back in order before trying to change one of the few relationships he had left. He needed a good night’s sleep and an even temper, too. And patience, and his wit, and…

Thancred needed to be himself again.

And then–-

And then…

Somehow they’d gotten to the stable. The consequences of being near Gwen’s mount hadn’t occurred to him until far too late to matter.

For the life of him Thancred could barely remember what transpired between being hallway and arriving at the stables.

He did, though, recall a jab of hope when Gwen had wearily sighed and said that she needed to tend to Duskfeather.

Thancred couldn't ask Gwen to stay awake with him, but he certainly had no problem staying awake with her instead. He’d immediately volunteered to accompany her and provide a bit of good company to pass the time. For her sake, of course.

She hadn’t protested, thank the Twelve, though she had certainly given him a long, searching look before agreeing.

Thus had they found themselves outside Duskfeather’s stall at gods-only-knew-when at night.

And the griffin had the decency to not make an attempt on Thancred’s life this time. He hadn’t acted the least bit aggressive, in fact.

It had made perfect sense once Thancred had thought about it. Duskfeather hadn’t attacked him those many months ago. He had attacked Lahabrea.

The griffin had recognized the Ascian for the threat that it was, though he had aggravatingly limited ways of communicating it. And he had also known that the threat was now passed, and that Thancred was himself again.

The sense of reassurance Thancred had gained from that simple acknowledgement had been small at first, just like when his friends had assured him of their genuine trust and faith in him. But it had bloomed into something heavier and more meaningful the more it sank into his hazy thoughts.

Because Duskfeather didn't particularly care about him--which, admittedly, typically wasn't what made actions and gestures feel more meaningful.

Duskfeather didn't pity Thancred, and had no interest in coddling him. He wouldn’t make nice with the rogue, or anyone else, purely for their own --or Gwen’s-- sake. The griffin had already made it abundantly clear that he had no qualms about making his stance known, even if that meant rustling feathers (Thancred would get bitten if he said that out loud, he just knew it) or hurting feelings, as evidenced by the months of blatant distrust and hostility he had displayed towards Lahabrea.

If Duskfeather was acting like Thancred was worth of disinterest and being ignored, like he was no longer a threat, it was because that was the truth of things. As far as the griffin was concerned, Thancred was himself again --dents, bruises and irritation notwithstanding-- and that was all that mattered. It was as simple and plain as that.

Strangely, it was one of the few affirmations that hadn’t glanced off the wall Thancred had built around himself.

Gwen had hesitated only a briefly before letting Thancred, confidence unexpectedly bolstered, follow her into the griffin’s stall. She’d mentioned something about checking an injury of some sort, and he volunteered to help in any way she needed, though he knew next to nothing about animal care.

At Thancred’s friendly insistence Gwen had regaled him with accounts of her assignment, despite her protest that it had been a terribly mundane affair. He didn’t care. It was time spent in good company and time he could truly let himself relax.

And at some point the sound of her voice had lulled him to sleep.

—

Thancred smiled more widely than he had in weeks. No wonder his mind wasn’t so thick and his mood was so high. Well, so high compared to the rut it had been stuck in.

Half a night of good sleep, upright or otherwise, wasn’t enough to make up for all the hours he’d missed, but it was certainly a wonderful start.

A fresh round of complaints from his back and the growing discomfort in his legs told him he couldn't keep sitting there, even with Gwen still soundly, adorably asleep. He needed to stretch, maybe pop his back, and rub some life back into his legs.

Thancred shifted his shoulder and squeezed her hand, “Gwen.”

Her eyes moved behind closed lids and she shifted her head, turning her face into his shoulder as though she intended to hide from the morning.

Duskfeather’s ears twitched, sharp beak opening in a wide yawn that somehow looked catlike. He, too, refused to wake.

“I understand completely,” Thancred drawled, nudging her head with his chin. “But I think further rest would be better had indoors.”

Dark green eyes opened halfway, expression drawing inward in confusion. “Hmmm…?” Gwen blinked once, twice, and then she looked up.

It was as though a switch had been flipped.

One moment Gwen was cuddled against him, drowsy and confused, and the next she was fully tense, like she'd been caught in the middle of some illicit act. She immediately sat up, offering a bashful smile and nervous laugh by way of explanation, or maybe as an apology.

She slipped her hand from his under the guise of trying to get her hair back in order, giving another little smile as her face turned rolanberry-red.

The previous night’s 'yet' flitted hopefully through Thancred's head again.

He chuckled to himself and scooted over a few ilms, giving her a bit of space to breathe.

“We, ah, fell asleep out here?” Gwen asked slowly, as though she didn’t quite believe it.

Duskfeather harump’d disapprovingly at the all the noise and shifting about and tucked his head under his wing. Gwen made a face at him.

Thancred bent his legs and rolled his shoulders, his back letting out a few obscenely satisfying popping sounds as he stretched, coaxing life and warmth back into his limbs. “You weren’t exaggerating when you claimed your assignment was less than interesting.”

Gwen's fluster eased, hiding behind humor as she crossed her arms in mock affront. “I did warn you, if you’ll recall. But you were fairly insistent.”

“A boring story isn't always a bad thing. That was the best I’ve slept in weeks.” It wasn’t quite the joke he intended, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it more seriously.

Gwen’s smile changed slightly, growing a little warmer.

Her eyes drifted for a moment, as though she were literally searching for words. Her expression softened with something like affection and she laughed quietly, “In that case I’ll have to make a habit of taking mundane assignments.”

“Oh? You’ll bore me to sleep every night, will you?” Thancred asked with a laugh, feeling a little warmth in his chest where there had only been aching before.

Her smile widened, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Gladly.”

'Yet', fluttered around in his head like a butterfly.

----------------

In case it isn’t apparent yet, I’m bad at ending things.

like sooooo baaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.

ANYWAY. Change in perspective! And past-past tense! Meh. I’m pretty happy with it overall. May rewrite it later. My head’s been in a major fog this week, and writing has been a definite chore @_@

#FFXIV #my writing #write ffixv #Ishgard #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred #Thancred Waters #Gwencred #wol/thancred #I love when people fall asleep on each other #like so so much

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ranwing · 6 years

Text

Kadam Fic: Learning to Fly (7/?)

Title: Learning to Fly Series: A New Direction (was Season Four Remix) Pairing(s), Characters(s): Kadam, Kurt Hummel, Adam Crawford, Burt Hummel, Rachel Berry, Santana Lopez, Carmen Tibideaux, Cassandra July, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang, Elliot “Starchild” Gilbert, Dani, Adam’s Apples, Original Characters Rating: PG13 Genre(s): canon divergence. Parts: 7/? Summary: As another school year starts at NYADA, Kurt seemed to have it all. The respect of his teachers, a group of wonderful friends and best of all, getting to live with the man that he’d come to love. So of course the universe would throw a few curve balls in his direction.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

On AOE

There was something oddly comforting about waking up at his old home. In his old bed, Kurt considered as he slowly came awake. It helped ease the feeling of displacement and feeling totally adrift in the world. The home that he’d shared with Adam no longer existed and his lover was no longer close at hand to reassure him that everything was going to be all right. For someone who’d always prided himself on being so self-sufficient, this sense of vulnerability was extremely disquieting.

He and Adam had spoken on the phone the previous night for what seemed like hours. The Englishman was settled into the hotel room he was sharing with Nialls and told Kurt about how interesting Boston was and that he and the others in the cast planned to spend a day or two sightseeing before they went into tech and all of their free time vanished. He was glad that Kurt was taking a bit of time to spend with his family before the school term began.

It’ll be good for you, sweetheart, the older man had insisted when Kurt had first proposed his plans to visit while his father was home on winter recess. I don’t want you to be alone right now.

Better to crawl home to lick his wounds than hide away in his dorm room in a nearly empty school, Kurt thought petulantly as he curled up under the heavy layer of blankets that provided a warm nest and pulled a pillow to his chest. He would be content to hide there for the duration of his visit.

A knock on his bedroom door roused his unwilling attention. All he wanted to do was huddle under the blankets like he did when he was a child and the outside world became just too much to bear.

“Kurt?” he heard his father’s voice call out gently. “You awake, buddy?”

Despite himself, he sat up and emerged from the covered. He didn’t want to worry his father unnecessarily. “Yeah..,” he answered, his voice sounding wan even to his own ears.

His father opened the door and peeked in to make sure that Kurt was decent before coming in and sighed when he saw that he was still in bed. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “How are you holding up?” he asked gently, sitting down on the edge of Kurt’s bed.

Kurt shrugged, feeling too mentally and physically tired to feign otherwise.

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

Kurt shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted, knowing that it wouldn’t do any good to lie. His father would know from the dark circles under his eyes that he’d been tossing and turning most of the night.

Burt sighed in sympathy. “I know that telling you that everything is going to work out isn’t going to make you feel at all better, so I’m not going to try,” he said. “But you can’t hide away from the world the whole time Adam is away. And you’re going to have to get your head back on straight before you head back to school. Adam wouldn’t appreciate you letting your grades slide because you miss him.”

Kurt couldn’t help from smiling a tiny bit at his father’s blunt form of comfort. It was kind of gentle kick in the pants that he needed.

“I know,” he granted. “I just need to feel sorry for myself for a little while.”

“That’s okay. You’re allowed under the circumstances,” Burt granted. “But not too long. Got that?”

Kurt nodded, inhaling deeply. He knew that however much he wanted to wallow, his own nature would push him to push past his pain and shift his focus on his education. But right now, he just hurt.

“Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs,” Burt suggested, though there was just the slight edge of command in his tone. “Carole’s making breakfast. Just between you and me, I think that she’s looking forward to feeding you up while you’re here.”

Kurt couldn’t help from smiling. His stepmother apparently missed having boys around to take care of and he could look forward to plenty of home cooking and hearty meals during his visit. He’d have to make sure that he went running every day if the weather permitted, otherwise he’s probably gain twenty pounds before he returned to New York.

“I’ll be down in just a little bit,” Kurt assured his father. “I just need… Let me just wash up.” He needed a bit of space to get his mental feet under him.

“You got it, sport. Better get a move on while there’s food left,” Burt said, pleased that he at least was able to get Kurt out of bed. He ruffled Kurt’s hair playfully, hoping to coax another smile out of him before leaving his son to make himself suitably human.

“Don’t eat all the bacon before I get there,” Kurt called out, hearing his father chuckle at the not-so-playful admonishment. His father did still need to watch his diet and now that he was home for a little bit, Kurt was going to remind him of his dietary restrictions.

He arrived in the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, his face washed and teeth brushed, a soft robe wrapped comfortingly about his body. The warm scents of coffee and cinnamon greeted him and he went right for the coffee pot to pour himself a mug. The kitchen table was already set with plates and a bowl of fresh fruit salad.

Carole was standing at the counter in front of an electric skillet, turning over the pancakes she was cooking. At seeing Kurt, she placed down her spatula and pulled him into a warm embrace. “Good morning, sweetie,” she greeted gently, seeing immediately that he wasn’t his usual chipper self. “How are you feeling?”

He wasn’t going to lie to her. This was the one place where he felt that he could let down his shields and admit how much he was hurting. “Not so good. I didn’t sleep much and… I miss Adam.”

Carole smiled understandably and pressed a kiss to Kurt’s forehead. “I know you do, honey. But he’ll be back before you know it. And I’m sure that he misses you just as much,” she insisted kindly.

Kurt felt himself smiling a little sadly. “I know he does,” he granted. “It just hurts… being away from him like this.”

Carole hugged him again. “Why don’t you sit down? Breakfast is almost ready. You’ll feel better after you get some food into you.”

His stepmother’s cooking skills hadn’t deteriorated since he was home the last time, Kurt noted. And while she had prepared what she’s hoped would be comfort food for her stepson, she did it with a nod towards Kurt’s normal eating habits and her husband’s health. The pancakes were whole wheat, studded liberally with blueberries and accompanied by a plate of turkey bacon.

“This looks great, Carole,” Kurt complimented, feeling his appetite start to kindle. He took two pancakes and some fruit onto his plate, along with several strips of bacon. After pouring a healthy amount of syrup onto his pancakes, he took a bite and made an appreciative moan. “I missed your cooking.”

His stepmother smiled broadly as she served herself. “Well, if you came to visit every now and then, or came down to Washington while we’re there...,” she hinted playfully,

“Carole, let the boy be,” Burt admonished gently, chuckling at her teasing. “He’s got school and work to worry about.”

“Thanks Dad,” Kurt grinned and nibbled on a piece of bacon.

Carole huffed with mock indignance, but offered her stepson a tolerant smile. “Well, I’ll just have to send a few extra care packages your way. Especially since you’re going to be living on dorm food for the duration.”

“I won’t say no,” Kurt said agreeably, sipping at his coffee. While the dorm cafeteria kept the eating habits of their student body in mind with lots of healthy options, he was sure that it would get boring after a while. Between Carole and Ellie Crawford, he’d be the envy of all the dorm residents.

“Do you have any plans for today?” Burt asked, looking at his son pointedly. It was clear that he did not want to see Kurt moping around the house, feeling sorry for himself during the whole duration of his visit.

Kurt sighed, knowing that he needed to find something to occupy himself with besides quality family time. Thankfully McKinley High School was out for winter break, so he wouldn’t be tempted to pop in on New Directions. He’d made some tentative plans to meet up with Tina and Artie while they were all home, but he really need to find something to occupy himself with. And at the moment, he needed something to clear his head.

“I thought I’d head over to the garage this morning,” he proposed. “I kind of want something to tear apart and put back together again. I’m sure they’ve got something I can get my hands into.”

Burt nodded approvingly. “That sounds like a great idea,” he agreed. “I was going to stop by later on, but I’m sure the guys won’t mind you going in to help out.”

Having a goal now perked Kurt’s spirits up a bit. “I figured that some of the guys might be taking some time off for the holidays and they might need some help. And it’ll feel good to get my hands dirty for a little bit.”

Carole chuckled brightly at Kurt’s apparent enthusiasm. “It’ll also give you an excuse to treat yourself to a manicure,” she teased.

Kurt couldn’t help from laughing a little bit. “Well, I do have to keep myself in good condition,” he advised. Oil under his fingernails and obvious calluses would not help his employment options as audiences liked their actors to be pretty.

After finishing breakfast and helping to clean up, Kurt returned to his room to find something suitable to wear to the garage. He was sure that he had a set of coveralls in the back, but he didn’t want to risk any of his good clothes with stains that he knew from experience would never come out. He found an old pair of jeans in the back of his closet and pulled them on, wondering if they still fit.

They were a bit short since he’d bought them before his last growth spurt and a little snug about his thighs, but he definitely needed a belt because they were loose in the waist. Squatting a few times, he thought that they’d be comfortable enough to work in. Topped with an old henley that stretched across his shoulders, he realized just how much he’d changed since leaving for New York. The physical changes were just as profound as his mental and emotional ones, and he felt a certain amount of gratification that he was so far from the boy he’d been just a few years ago. He liked who and what he’d become.

Tugging on an old pair of Doc Martins, he headed downstairs. His father and Carole were lingering over another cup of coffee and talking quietly when he entered the kitchen. “Dad, I’m going to head over to the garage now.”

“Okay, sport. Tell the guys that I’ll by a later this afternoon,” Burt advised, sipping at his coffee. “Have fun destroying something.”

Kurt grinned and gave them a quick wave before bundling up to face the bitter Ohio winter. The drive to the garage went quickly, the route permanently imbedded in Kurt’s memory and he parked behind the building in the employee area. Dodging slush puddles and snow piles, he walked into the garage area where several of the mechanics were already at work.

The manager spotted Kurt as he entered and exclaimed happily, “Kurt! We were hoping you’d stop by!” Bill hurried over to hug the younger man warmly.

“Hey Bill. Good to see you,” Kurt greeted, smiling at the man who’d been mentor and baby sitter for a good portion of his childhood. He accepted the hug, feeling a sense of comfort to be around friendly faces and a familiar setting.

The other mechanics came over to offer their own welcome, glad to see Kurt. Greg leaned against the Ford SUV that he was working on and looked to him expectantly. “Your dad warned that you were in town for a little while,” he said, wiping his dirty hands on a rag.

Kurt nodded, letting himself relax a bit. “I’m on winter break and Adam had to go out of town for work so I thought I’d come home for a little bit.”

“And you’re doing well in school?” Bill asked, making his near-parental concern clear.

Kurt thought back to his winter critiques and let himself nod confidently. “It’s hard work, but I’m doing okay. We’ve got a big musical this spring and I got cast as an understudy for one of the major roles.”

“That’s great, kid,” Greg complimented. The mechanics might not know all that much about musical theater but they knew enough to understand that being cast as an understudy at this stage was no small thing.

“I was kind of hoping to get my hands into something,” Kurt explained, looking about the garage. “I need a little automotive therapy.”

Bill nodded understandingly. “I think there’s a set of your old coveralls are in the back room,” he offered. “Go get changed and I’ll see what we’ve got around for you to play with.”

Kurt smiled appreciative and headed to the staff room. Pulling on the heavy cotton material felt comforting in its own strange way and he marveled that he could still be as comfortable in an oil stained jumpsuit as he could in the most elegant couture fashion. Adam would just smile and say that it was an example of how complex a person he was.

Thoughts of his boyfriend dimmed his smile a bit. He really needed to get his hands on an engine and start taking it apart so he could clear his head a little bit.

Returning to the work area, Bill pointed him in the direction of an Audi that had clearly been on the wrong end of a significant accident. The whole front end was crunched in and the airbag had been inflated, warning that the impact had been substantial. Hopefully the driver was not seriously injured.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Kurt cooed sympathetically to the car, running his hand over a crushed bumper. It was an absolutely crime for such a beautiful vehicle to be in such sorry condition. “What happened to you?”

“This just came in yesterday,” Bill explained, amused at how Kurt always treated damaged cars like he would a wounded kitten. “Got into a fight with a lamp post after skidding on some ice and I think the lamp post won. Think you can you get started on the diagnostic so it can be submitted to the insurance?”

Kurt nodded, feeling his mood start to improve. This was exactly the kind of thing he needed. Rolling up his sleeves, he pulled a tool cart over to where the damaged car sat and carefully popped open the hood to get a look at the engine and see what needed to be done.

Running the diagnostics gave Kurt something to focus on, taking his mind away from his loneliness. He had to pay attention to what the instruments were telling him and what his own eyes were seeing. This was the part of working with cars that he’d always found the most interesting; trying to figure out just what was wrong and how to fix it in a way that was economical for the customer. It was like working out a large, greasy puzzle and he’d always been pretty good at it.

He took his time, going over the entire car and made careful notes of all the things that were wrong and needed immediate repair. There was a good crack in the radiator that he wasn’t sure could just be repaired and might need a complete replacement. Several hoses were torn or pulled loose, but those were easy fixes. One of the engine mounts was missing and definitely would need to be replaced, otherwise the owner would hit a bump and end up with the engine in his lap.

The rest of the engine seemed okay, he needed to check out the undercarriage and make sure there was no other damage. Getting a creeper board and hanging light, he lay down and slid under the car to see what was going on.

Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be any damage to the major structures and while the repairs would be considerable, the owner was lucky that the car wouldn’t have to be junked. Sliding out from unde the car, he wiped off his hands and wrote up the report to be submitted to the owner’s insurance.

There were other jobs on the list that he took over to give the guys a little breathing room. It felt good to do simple tasks like oil changes and brake jobs where he got a bit dirty but was able to keep his head clear. Focusing on the tools in his hands and the machinery in front of him prevented him from dwelling too much on the other things in his life. Here there were no worries about the pressures of school or the loneliness of Adam being away. One of the guys turned on a radio and Kurt found himself humming along with the classic rock tunes, dancing a bit as he worked.

“I don’t hear any singing,” Greg complained from his station, where he was elbows deep in the engine of a Dodge Charger. “What do we have to do around here to get some entertainment?”

Bill laughed, giving Kurt a playful nudge. “Come on, kid,” he urged. “Give us a little show while we still can afford to see you.”

Kurt couldn’t help from grinning at their urging. They’d always been so supportive of him when he was growing up, despite the fact that he couldn’t be more different from them. When he came out, it was probably not much more of a surprise to them as it had been for his father and they never treated him any differently. The teasing was good natured and affectionate and he would always have a place here, no matter where life took him.

“Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law,” he began, using the lower end of his register. He was standing underneath a classic Chevy, draining the old oil into a disposal pail. He could certainly sing while he worked and gave his father’s employees the show that they wanted.

Kurt left the garage a few hours later after having lunch with the guys and returned home to clean up. He was feeling a bit better about things now that he had a chance to clear his head a little bit. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink with a bar of abrasive soap that his father kept there to scrub the stains off his hands, using a nail brush to get the grime out from under his fingernails. He would need to seriously moisturize his hands afterwards because the soap was so harsh on his skin, but by the time he was done, his hands were in pristine condition. A quick shower and a change of clothes left him fit to face the world again.

Coffee, he decided. He needed coffee and something sweet. It had been over a year since he last went to the Lima Bean and hoped that they were still serving the gingerbread loaf cake that he’d always loved. With a vanilla latte. That would be just the kind of pick-me-up he needed.

Driving to the café, he slipped back into instinct. He knew the way like the back of his hand, having followed the path hundreds of times before leaving this town for good. It still felt a bit strange that he was now starting to see Lima through a visitor’s eyes and not that of boy desperate to leave. Now he was more aware of the charms of the town and less focused on its obvious shortcomings. The feeling of nostalgia was almost pleasant.

The Lima Bean seemed much the same as it ever was; brightly lit and clean, the display cases filled with appetizing treats and smiling baristas preparing drinks. For a moment when he walked through the doors he felt a flash of the panic he’d felt when he’d worn one of those aprons. He’d lived in absolute anguish, fearful that he was doomed to spend his life trapped in Lima and working here because he didn’t have any other options. It had just been something to do that filled his days until he managed to find the courage in him to take the plunge and leave nearly everything and everyone that he knew in order to chase his dreams.

Going to New York without a place or plan had been terrifying, but less frightening than being stuck behind that counter with a fake smile pasted on his face so that the customers would never know that he was screaming inside. Thankfully he had escaped this trap and now felt that could walk in with his head held proudly. He wondered if the day would come when he no longer saw his hometown as a place just waiting to snare him and drag him back.

He was still seeking the balance, Kurt realized as he pulled himself mentally together. He didn’t have many fantastic memories of life in Lima, so coming back home was still hard in a lot of ways. But he had family here and it would always be a part of him no matter where his career took him in the future. Be it a Broadway stage or touring the country the way Adam was, Lima would always be a huge part of his past. It helped make him who he was.

Looking over the offerings in the case, he was torn between the gingerbread that he’d been craving and an absolutely scrumptious looking cranberry scone. He couldn’t afford to eat both, not with the way Carole was going to be stuffing him the whole time he was home. There was no way he would dare show up back at school having gained an ounce because Ms. July would certainly notice and make him suffer the consequences. One treat only.

He ordered the gingerbread since he could get scones back in New York anytime he wanted, along with the much-needed latte. The café was pretty full with the afternoon rush and there didn’t seem to be empty tables. Maybe he could find someone who would be willing to share so he could enjoy his afternoon snack.

He smiled to himself when he saw a tall blond woman sitting at the table in the back reading a magazine while nursing a large coffee that Kurt knew from past history would be black with no fewer than five packets of sugar.

Taking his plate and cup, he walked over to the table. “Mind if I join you?” he asked to get her attention.

She looked up at him with a sharp-eyed glare and prepared to launch what was probably a viciously worded refusal that would have left him gathering up his own entrails when she realized who was standing there. Her blue eyes widened in shock and, Kurt suspected, pleasure.

“Porcelain,” Coach Sylvester said softly, very clearly surprised by his presence. Her mouth drew into a wide smile. “Sit that tight little tush down right now.”

Kurt couldn’t help from smiling at the command in her voice. He placed his food down and took the chair opposite her. “It’s good to see you, Coach. Even if you are out of uniform.” It felt odd to see her dressed in anything other than her customary track suit.

“I’m off duty right now, and I’m not your coach anymore,” she reminded him playfully. “You can call me Sue if you want.”

Kurt recognized this for the honor that it was. There were moments when he felt like he was one of the few students that she’d not only genuinely liked, but respected in some way.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked. “I would have thought that the only way you’d ever come back to this town would be dragged kicking and screaming. You were already halfway out the door during your sophomore year.”

Kurt was reminded that for all her cutting comments and bizarre behavior, Sue had been one of his chief supporters while he was in high school. He’d never forgotten the lengths that she went through to protect him during the worst of the bullying he’d suffered and he knew that she’d been very upset during her stint as principal that she hadn’t been able to do more. Even after he gave up being a Cheerio, he remained one of her chosen few.

“Just here for a little while on winter break,” he explained. “I start classes again in a few weeks so I thought I’d enjoy a little family time. Dad’s home on recess, so it seemed like a perfect time.”

She nodded understandingly. If there was anyone who appreciated the need for family, it was Sue. “And that gorgeous hunk of English beefcake that looked like he’d follow you to the ends of the earth?”

Kurt couldn’t help from sighing. “He graduated last June and he got cast in a show that’s doing a national tour,” he explained. “We’re going to be doing the long-distance thing for a couple of months.”

His former coach gave him a sympathetic stare. “Well, if he gives you any problems, you let me know. I have several highly skilled and very discreet assassins on retainer if you need a referral.”

Kurt could only stare at her in surprise, but the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her and he realized that she was joking a little bit. He couldn’t help from laughing. He’d long suspected that Sue’s outrageous behavior at school was something of an act, but this confirmed it for him.

At least, he hoped that it did.

He nodded his head at the magazine, seeing an overly perky cheerleader photographed in mid-leap on the cover. “Professional research?” he asked, not hiding his amusement. “I assume that you’re going to be gearing up for Nationals when school restarts, right?”

She chuckled, nodding. “Just getting a sense of what some of the other teams may have in mind,” she explained. “You know, considering what a few of them tried last year trying to outdo me, my plan to shoot Brittany from a cannon wasn’t that insane.”

“Well, you were always a trail blazer,” Kurt reminded her, taking a taste of his gingerbread. It tasted just the way he remembered, the bite of ginger and cloves perfectly tempered by the creamy glaze.

“I don’t think we ever did so well as when we had you on the team. Your Celine Dion solo was a total showstopper that no one has been able to match,” she reminisced fondly. “What I wouldn’t give to have you back and doing a ten-minute Italian aria while doing a perfect handstand at the top of the formation.” She sighed happily at the concept.

“How NYADA is treating you? I’m assuming that you’re doing well there.”

Kurt smiled. “It’s good,” he insisted. “I’m learning a lot and we’re doing this huge musical in the spring. It’s a pretty amazing place.”

“And you’re looking awfully fit,” she noted admiringly. “It’s a shame I can’t steal you back for the team.”

Kurt couldn’t help from feeling flattered at her appraisal. “I run now pretty regularly and I’ve been doing a lot of upper body work. And I’ve got dance three times a week with a teacher that I would love to run a DNA test on, because there is no way that she’s not related to you in some way.”

“And she’s going to let you get away with eating that?” Sue asked archly, pointing to Kurt’s cake. “Because I would have had you doing jumping jacks until your limbs came flying off.”

“I usually burn it off pretty quickly because I’m so active, and I’m keeping up on my physical regimen while I’m here,” he assured her. “Ms. July will personally cut off any flab she sees with a letter opener so I need to take care of myself. My body is one of my instruments, after all.”

Sue nodded approvingly. “Well, whatever you’re doing, the results are certainly impressive,” she complimented, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders appreciatively. “You look like you could probably toss any of our fliers one handed now.”

Knowing how rarely Sue gave unvarnished approval gave Kurt a sense of pride at her positive appraisal. “We did a lot of pairs work in dance the past semester and I wasn’t always matched with the lightest girl,” he admitted. “Missing a lift always ends up with Ms. July bitching us out in the middle of class and no one wants that. And I’m taking stage combat this semester so I really need to be in good shape.”

“Now that is something I would look forward to seeing you do,” Sue chuckled, mentally picturing him wielding a sword and slicing through the bullies that had tormented him when he was younger. She paused to look at him, her eyes softening in a way that Kurt rarely remembered her showing to anyone other than her sister.

“Oh Porcelain… I’m glad to see you doing so well,” Sue claimed with clear sincerity. “I never doubted that you’d manage to find your way out of Lima. I think that you would have crawled out of here on your hands and knees if that’s what it took. If only to spite anyone who ever tried to make you feel like nothing.”

Kurt nodded, knowing that there was more than a grain of truth there. All the times he’d ended up atop a pile of trash in a dumpster, the times when he did laundry as soon as he got home from school so that his father wouldn’t see the stains from food being thrown at him or the time when he spent several weeks’ worth of allowance money to buy a designer sweater to replace the one that his father had given him as a gift and ended up destroyed… it had all been fuel to Kurt’s determination to escape Lima.

“And that was something I always appreciated about you,” she explained. “You didn’t need anyone carrying your ass the way Berry did. I mean, Schuster all but ferried her to New York on his back.”

Kurt winced a bit internally, not liking to hear the harsh reminder of how unfair an advantage Rachel had back then and not surprised that Sue still had a rather unforgiving opinion about his friend, but she hadn’t seen how Rachel had matured since coming to New York. His friend had a better understanding of her own flaws and Rachel was constantly striving to prove to Kurt that she could be the kind of friend that she wanted to be. He hoped that in time others might see that shift.

“I’ve run into your father a few times, when he’s in town,” Sue confessed. “I always liked Burt. He’s always talking about how well you’re doing, which is the best ‘screw you’ to everyone in this town that looked down on you. He mentioned that you were in some plays this past summer. I would have liked to have seen that.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt answered softly, surprised at her statement. “I didn’t even think…”

“It’s okay. I’ll forgive the lapse this one time,” Sue assured him, a touch of teasing in her voice. “I checked out some videos on line and your dad gave me a program for the Cheerio display at McKinley. You’re definitely turning out to be one of our prouder legacies.”

Kurt wouldn’t put it past Sue to wanting to brag about him, setting up the constant reminder that someone who she had personally chosen had been mocked and put down so harshly was now succeeding. It didn’t matter that he’d only been on the squad for a few months. In Sue Sylvester’s eyes, no one ever stopped being a Cheerio once they donned the uniform.

“And next time you’re in a show, I expect that you will tell me and have a ticket for me,” she said warningly, a familiar spark that bordered on madness in her eyes. “Because if you don’t, I will personally carve out your right kidney with a grapefruit spoon and sell it on the black market to compensate my hurt feelings. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t help from laughing a bit. “Yes. I promise,” he assured her.

“Good, because I don’t think your boyfriend will be happy to be visiting you in the dialysis unit,” Sue warned playfully.

Kurt’s phone beeped for his attention and he quickly checked it in case it was something important. “Speak of the devil,” he pronounced at seeing that it was a message from Adam.

Sue smiled, amused at the way Kurt’s expression brightened at just receiving a text from his lover. It gratified her that her protégé had found someone worthy of him. “What does he have to say?” she asked, chuckling to herself at the starry-eyed look on Kurt’s face.

Kurt opened up the message and immediately started to laugh. He pressed his hand over his mouth to keep from disturbing the entire café. Adam had texted a photo of him and Nialls at what looked like Boston Commons, both of them with their hands raised in surrender because a man dressed in a colonial military uniform was guarding them at musket point. Adam had added a quick caption, Bad day to be a Brit in Boston.

Kurt handed Sue his phone and watched as she chuckled at Adam’s silly antics, but not in a way that felt like his boyfriend was being mocked.

“I’m glad that you found someone more on your level,” she insisted, handing him back his phone. “He looks like he can keep up with you.”

Kurt nodded. “I’m very happy with him,” he stated confidently.

“Good. I’m glad about that. Otherwise I’d have to take steps,” Sue warned with apparent seriousness. “I have friends in several government agencies that could have him shipped back to England before he could finish his tea.”

“Well, as much as I appreciate the gesture, that won’t be necessary,” Kurt chuckled. “He treats me like absolute royalty and besides… he can’t be deported.”

“Oh?” Sue questioned, one thin eyebrow rising in query.

Kurt couldn’t help from grinning, knowing that he was going to be surprising her. “He’s got dual citizenship,” he boasted, popping the last bit of gingerbread into his mouth.

Sue cocked her head, the surprise apparent in her expression. “Does he now? Well… that does raise my opinion of him a bit.”

“He’s not Blaine,” he assured his former coach. “Not by the furthest stretch of the imagination.”

She nodded evenly, her eyes softening. “That’s good, because if I had any inclination that he was anything at all like that weaselly Muppet that you foolishly allowed yourself to become enamored with, I’d have to arrange for your immediate kidnapping and deprogramming. I know people at Langley that excel in such matters, but I suppose that would put a crimp in your Broadway career aspirations,” she mused.

Kurt laughed at her outlandish threat, accepting that at least the sentiment was sincere. “I think that it would, so I’ll avoid doing anything to warrant such drastic actions,” he promised.

Sue laughed riotously and got a few stares turned in her direction, but she clearly didn’t care about anyone looking. She gazed at him adoringly, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Oh, I’ve missed you. You, Lopez and Fabray… you were my special ones. I saw a lot of me in all of you.”

Kurt smiled, smart enough to recognize what an honor that actually was in Sue’s estimation.

“So make sure that you enjoy your visit here,” she advised. “Take a look around and see how far you’ve come. Because as time goes by, you’re only going to push further away from this place.”

Kurt felt himself nodding, having had very much the same thoughts since he arrived in Lima. He’d long ago made the decision not to let Lima become a trap for him. There was so much waiting for him in New York. Hard work, to be sure, and undoubtedly disappointments with no promise of success. But it was what he hungered for.

He knew that in a few days, he’d be returning to New York. Classes would be starting at the end of the month and he would be moving towards the future he wanted. He looked to his former coach, deeply grateful for all that she had given him.

“I have to thank you,” he said sincerely. “I don’t know if I would have made it out of here if it weren’t for the help you gave me over the years. Or if I’d be able to survive NYADA if I hadn’t experienced learning with you. Surviving you gave me the kind of tough skin I needed.”

Sue chuckled ironically, a touch of color reaching her cheeks. She seemed touched by his statement and a bit at a loss for words. He doubted that too many people thanked her for the insults and teasing, but he recognized how it was helping him now.

“I’d better get going,” he said reluctantly. “I promised my dad that I’d be home for dinner tonight.”

Sue just smiled. “Go on,” she urged. “And say ‘hi’ to Burt for me.”

Kurt nodded and gathered up his trash. Impulsively he bent to quickly kiss Sue on her cheek. “Thank you for everything,” he said again. “I’ll let you know about my next shows.”

It took Sue a moment to recover her wits, but she reached for her wallet and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my personal information,” she said, a suspicious hoarseness in her voice as she tried to maintain her customary air of detachment. “If you need my help… or just to brag about what you’re doing so I can rub it in Schuster’s face.”

Kurt snickered, knowing too well that she would do just that given half a chance.

* * *

“Are you kidding?” Finn asked, astonished at what his stepbrother was telling him. “Sue Sylvester?”

Kurt nodded, laughing out loud. “Finn, I’m telling you that beneath that diamond-hard exterior beats a heart that is pure marshmallow.”

“For you maybe,” Finn said cautiously. “She threatened to rip my spleen out when she thought I’d knocked up Quinn and I didn’t even know what my spleen was at the time.”

“Oh, she’s not that bad,” Kurt insisted, only to be cut off by Finn’s laughter.

“To you! You were one of her favorites,” Finn pointed out. “She would have happily murdered anyone else.”

Kurt leaned back and looked at his brother’s laughing expression on his computer monitor. “Oh, I miss you so much,” he sighed fondly. Finn had always been able to get Kurt to smile. “How are things going down there? The job working out?”

Finn nodded enthusiastically. “It’s been great. You would love it here,” he insisted.

Austin certainly seemed to be agreeing with Finn. He looked tanned and fit and really happy with things. Happier than Kurt could remember him being in quite some time. He seemed to have made some progress on finding his own path, which gratified Kurt tremendously. He’d hated how Finn had felt so lost, but he appeared to be much more secure with himself now.

“And the new apartment is okay?” Kurt asked, glad that his brother had managed to find better accommodations. The one room that he and Puck had managed to find when they first arrived in Austin was neither comfortable nor safe, and Kurt was relieved when they quickly moved out.

“It’s fine,” Finn assured him. “And work has been really great. Our boss has been teaching us a lot and we’ve been going out on a lot of jobs with him. There’s this mansion that we’ve been working on that’s really amazing. Robb, our boss, said that we’re doing so well that he’s giving us a raise and wants us to stay on for good.”

Finn paused, looking a bit contemplative. “You know, I didn’t expect things to turn out this way but I think that it’s really working out well for us. Robb said that we can really do well as craftsmen and I like the work,” he assured Kurt. “He said that if you find something that you’re good at and you like it, you can really be successful if you work hard. And I think I can really see myself this.”

“That’s great, Finn,” Kurt praised happily, delighted that Finn finally seemed to be finding a pathway for himself. “Austin really seems to suit you.”

Finn nodded. “We really like it here. I mean, the people are great and it’s fun and there’s all kinds of stuff to do. Puck and I are looking to put a band together,” he confided. “There are so many clubs down here and the music scene is amazing. We think we might be able to get something going. Just for fun. And we seem to have found another guitarist so we’re off to a good start.”

“I’m so glad, Finn. That sounds amazing!” Kurt said sincerely. He could understand how the two of them might miss music and even if the band turned out to be nothing more than a hobby, it would be good for the both of them.

Finn chuckled to himself. “It’s kind of cool because he moved in with Puck and me. We can share expenses and jam whenever we want,” he explained. “And Robb gave him a job so we can afford to stay here.”

Finn cocked his head. “You want to meet him?” Before Kurt could answer, Finn turned his head and called out, “Hey! I’ve got Kurt on Skype!”

There was a bit of jostling on Finn’s end as the computer image shook and Puck’s face came into view. “Hey, little dude!” he greeted happily. “Good to see you!”

“Hi, Puck!” Kurt couldn’t help from grinning at the sight of his old friend. Like Finn, Puck was looking healthy, tan and happy. Getting out of Lima has definitely been to both of their benefits.

The image on Finn’s end jostled again as the boys shifted so that a third man could squeeze in. Kurt felt his jaw drop in shock at seeing a familiar blond head come into view.

“Sam? Is that you?” he gasped.

Sam’s familiar wide smile came into focus. “Hi Kurt,” he greeted happily. “Bet you’re surprised.”

Kurt nodded, his eyes wide with shock. “You could say that,” he admitted. “How did this happen?”

Sam cocked his head towards the other boys, who sat behind him laughing at Kurt’s reaction. “Well, I’ve been keeping in touch with these bozos and they called me up one day that their boss was looking for more workers and if I was interested in a change of scenery. So, I flew down to Texas last week and the rest is history.”

Finn leaned forward, throwing an arm around Sam’s broad’s shoulders. “It’s really cool,” he told his stepbrother happily. “It’s kind of like us having our own New Directions offshoot down here. All we need is a bassist and we’ll have a proper band.”

Kurt looked at their smiling faces and felt a sense of relief for them. “That’s great,” he stated. “I’m so glad that it’s working out for the three of you.”

Puck gave Finn a playful nudge. “And tell him about Jane,” he urged.

That sparked Kurt’s curiosity. “Jane? Who’s Jane.”

Finn began to blush so deeply that Kurt could see it over his computer, and that got some teasing laughter from the other boys. “I… I kind of started seeing someone,” he confided shyly.

Kurt’s smile widened. “Oh? Tell me more…,” he urged.

“She’s a student over at the university, studying to be a social worker,” he explained. “I met her at this bar where she works as a waitress and we started talking. You’d like her…. She’s really cute and smart and…” His voice trailed off and he started blushing again.

Kurt remembered how moony he’d been when he first met Adam and fully understood what Finn was feeling. “She’s sounds nice,” he agreed. This was the first girl that Finn seemed to be really interested in since his break up with Rachel and Kurt grasped just how big a deal it was for him. It was the last step in Finn moving on.

His phone began to ring for his attention and Kurt quickly checked to see who it was. “Oh, I’ve got Adam trying to call me,” he explained. “Gotta go.”

Finn nodded understandingly. “Okay… say hi to him for us,” he urged.

“I’ll talk to you guys soon,” Kurt promised. “Sam, you keep those two out of trouble!”

“I will,” Sam assured him. “Talk to you soon.”

“Bye Kurt!” Puck chimed in before Finn ended the connection.

Kurt shook his head in amusement at their antics before answering his phone. “Hi sweetie!” he greeted happily, putting his laptop aside.

“Hello darling,” Adam answered and Kurt could all but hear the smile in his voice. “Oh, I miss you!”

“It’s only been two days,” Kurt reminded him, though he wasn’t going to protest as he missed Adam just as much.

“I know,” Adam acquiesced. “But I still miss you.”

Kurt felt his eyes start to water from the emotions that he’d been pushing down all day. “I miss you too,” he confessed. “But you look like you’re having fun.”

Adam laughed a bit. “We had most of the day to ourselves so we did a bit of sightseeing about the city,” he explained. “We visited the Freedom Trail and Independence Hall… I’ll tell you, love, that there seems to be a bit of anti-British bias in all this.”

Kurt chuckled in amusement at the playfully hurt tone in his lover’s voice. “Imagine that,” he teased.

Adam sighed a bit dramatically. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected,” he granted. “Admittedly this part of history gets a bit glossed over in school across the pond.”

“I assume that it would be,” Kurt laughed. “So, tell me everything. What do they have planned for all of you?”

He could hear Adam settling down more comfortably on the other end. “The hotel is quite nice and I’m rooming with Nialls. Apparently, the others decided that us ‘old marrieds’ should bunk together, but that’s fine. He and I get along well enough. Oh, and we saw the theater this morning and it’s huge! I’ve never performed in a venue this large before.”

“That’s so exciting,” Kurt said happily. “That sounds like it’s going to be amazing. Now what kind of schedule do they have for you?”

“Tomorrow we have a cast and crew meeting that’s probably going to take up a lot of the day,” Adam explained. “And in the afternoon, there’s a meet and greet with the local press so you’ll probably see some things in the next few days before our opening.

“Then we go right into tech and our final dress rehearsals before our opening night,” Adam sighed. “The producers have already warned that most of our run in Boston is selling out. It’s a bit intimidating.”

Kurt wished that he could reach through the phone and wrap his arms about the older man. It broke his heart that Adam was facing such a huge step in his career and that he wasn’t there to support him in person. He knew that Adam was capable of meeting this challenge and that he would be wildly successful, but he wanted to be at his lover’s side to encourage him.

“You have no idea how proud I am of you,” Kurt insisted. “You are going to be so amazing and everyone is going to see what I see in you. You deserve this so much.”

Adam didn’t answer for moment and Kurt thought that he could hear the older man sniffling. “Thank you, darling. But I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for you,” he insisted. “You’ve been so generous in encouraging me, even when it caused difficulty for you. I owe you so much…”

“Hush,” Kurt admonished gently, feeling his heart swell for this wonderful, gentle man. Adam had been so giving and supportive since the two of them first met that he couldn’t imagine not making the same effort for his lover’s benefit. “I’m fine and the next few months are going to go by so quickly for the both of us. Before we know it, your tour will be done and you’ll be back in New York with me.

“And you’ll be the big star that everyone will the clamoring to hire for their shows,” Kurt claimed. “It’ll be worth all the hard work in the end.”

“I hope so,” Adam sighed.

“It will be,” Kurt insisted gently, sensing that Adam needed a bit of metaphysical hand-holding.

He heard Adam huff a bit, as if trying to regain his composure. “Tell me what you’ve been doing, love,” he urged. “How are Burt and Carole?”

Kurt could see a deflection from a mile away but decided that it wasn’t worth pointing out. Adam was going to have to deal with his worries on his own for now. He didn’t want to start an argument right at the start of Adam’s trip.

They chatted quietly about the kind of small, unimportant things that they always discussed when together. Kurt listened to Adam’s amusing stories about the cast and updated him on his family’s antics. They laughed as they shared their stories, both of them wishing that they could be with their partner.

Kurt lay down on his bed and stretched out, cradling his phone against his cheek so he could hear Adam’s voice clearly. He closed his eyes as he listened to Adam regaling him to stories about a group of British expats on the wrong side of American patriotic exhibitions and feeling a bit on display to the other tourists.

“It was so absurd darling, but I thought that this flock of schoolchildren were actually going to demand that we personally apologize for the starting the war,” Adam laughed. “One little boy was eying me very angrily. I thought he was going to start kicking me.”

“You poor thing,” Kurt chuckled teasingly.

“Their teacher was most apologetic,” Adam reassured him. “She reminded her class that none of us had been born at the time and that we shouldn’t be held responsible for what Old King George did.

“Oh… and maybe you can clear up something for me,” he requested. “That bell… why didn’t anyone ever fix the crack? Because it’s looks so odd!”

Kurt just smiled, listening to Adam chatter about the things he’d seen and was content to let his boyfriend tell his stories. He kept his eyes closed so he could imagine that Adam was in the room with him and not several states away. And maybe if he waited long enough, he would feel Adam’s hand reaching out to touch his.

* * *

“See anything interesting?” Kurt asked as he thumbed through the racks of sheet music.

Tina shook her head. “Not really. I just don’t know what my teachers are going to be asking me to do,” she sighed.

The past few days of his vacation had gone quietly for Kurt as he’d settled into something of a routine. He would wake up early, have a cup of coffee and then go out for a quick run. He stopped by the garage a few times to help out, glad to have a chance to see the guys for a bit before he returned to New York and keep his mechanic skills up to snuff. He spent time with his father and preparing meals with Carole. He did some studying for school, rested a bit and talked with Adam every moment that Adam could steal away from his work.

To be honest, he was very much looking forward to getting back to school and what passed for normal in his life at this point. Being at loose ends was wearing on him and he wasn’t very good at coping with not having a hundred things to do at a time. He just wasn’t’ made for inactivity

He had been lazing in front of the television while his father and Carole were out for the day, feeling his brain cells dying one by one from too many hours of appalling stupid daytime television shows. Not sure if he could stand another moment of watching pathetic dramas about paternity claims, he was nearly delirious with gratitude when Tina had called to ask if he could join her at Between The Sheets to help choose some material for the upcoming semester.

Kurt looked at the stack that she’d picked, seeing that she had chosen an assortment of classic and contemporary musicals. “I think you’re off to a good start,” he consoled. “You’ve got a little of everything. Some of these are just perfect to showcase your voice.” And to push her a little out of her comfort zone, he added mentally.

She looked at the books and shrugged. “I guess,” she conceded. “I just wish that I knew myself as a performer a bit more. Rachel never had that problem.”

“That is not true,” he corrected. “Rachel thought that she did and learned the hard way that trying to copy he favorite performers wasn’t going to get her the career she wants. She’s trying to find herself just as much the rest of us are so don’t feel like you’re at a disadvantage. That’s what going to school is supposed to be about. Don’t be afraid to try new things.”

Tina looked over her selections, making sure that the music she had selected was in the key for her voice. “Did you find anything for yourself?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t need any classic musicals and they don’t have too much contemporary for my range,” he admitted. There was a decided lack of anything written specifically for a countertenor’s range, so he was concentrating on traditional tenor material. “I’m going to check out some other stuff.”

While Tina continued her search in the musical theater section, Kurt moved to where the books for other musical genres were kept. Working with the Apples had expanded his comfort zone and he wanted to utilize that more unorthodox material in his voice work in class to help him stand out from the other students. He pulled out a book of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that looked promising and began to thumb through it. He’d like to be able to surprise his voice teachers with some unorthodox material.

“Kurt?”

He felt himself freeze at the tentative greeting, his shoulders instinctively stiffening. Taking a breath to maintain his calm, Kurt turned to find his ex-boyfriend standing too close for his comfort.

“Blaine,” he said with cool indifference, pleased that he was able to keep any anger out of his voice.

The shorter man gave Kurt a tentative smile. “Hi. I wasn’t sure if I would see you while I was in town,” he said carefully. “I’m home on winter break.”

Kurt nodded. “Dad’s home on winter recess from Congress so I thought I’d spend a little time with him before classes start.”

“That’s nice,” Blaine responded, still clearly trying to gage Kurt’s reactions.

Kurt looked Blaine over, seeing that his olive complexion was darker from the California sun and that he still had the tendency to dress like a color-blind geriatric. And he felt…. He was surprised that he felt nothing. No real anger or frustration or lingering affection. Just a bit of annoyance at being bothered when he had things to do.

It was as if he was looking at a stranger that he had no past or present contact with.

“Is… is your boyfriend with you?” Blaine asked carefully, obviously putting out feelers over Kurt’s current relationship status.

Kurt snorted, not surprised that Blaine either couldn’t be bothered to remember Adam’s name or couldn’t bring himself to actually use it.

“No, Adam is out of town right now on a job. He got cast in a play that’s doing a national tour,” he proclaimed proudly. “And yes, he and I are still together. Just in case you were wondering.”

“No! I mean…. That wasn’t…,” Blaine stammered, clearly caught off guard by Kurt’s blunt assessment of his motives. His cheeks began to burn red. “I just saw you and stopped to say hi. Nothing more, I swear.”

Kurt shrugged, honestly not caring what Blaine’s motives were. “Sam said that you’re going to school in California,” Kurt said indifferently, as if he was making polite party conversation. He eyed Blaine’s gelled helmet of a hairstyle and wondered what the hell he’d ever seen in his former boyfriend.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tina notice the unwanted intrusion on Kurt’s personal space and gave him a silent signal to see if he wanted her to step in. He shook his head, letting her know to keep her distance, aware that she didn’t want to be around Blaine any more than he did but he was grateful to see that she was ready to step in if needed.

Blaine seemed to brighten a bit at Kurt’s vague knowledge about his current activities, apparently mistaking neutral awareness for genuine interest. He still clearly lacked anything in the way of self-awareness, not realizing that the only real emotion Kurt felt was relief that Blaine was on the opposite side of the country and that he could avoid most of Blaine’s drama.

“Yeah, I’m living with Cooper while I go to UCLA,” he explained, displaying his usual pleasure in discussing anything revolving about himself. “It’s really amazing out there. I’m doing well there in my acting classes and am already being considered for television roles. I met an agent at one of Cooper’s parties and she’s convinced that she can get me a lead role.”

Somehow, Kurt doubted that, though he kept his opinion to himself. The boasting reminded him far too much of the way Rachel used to brag about her questionable achievements in a way to puff herself up when she wanted to impress others. And whether or not it was true, no longer mattered to him.

Kurt was surprised at the lack of anger and resentment he felt towards Blaine. He hadn’t forgotten what Blaine had done, but he realized that he had truly moved on. Blaine and his actions was no longer a factor in his life. The only emotion he felt was gladness that Blaine wasn’t in his life.

He felt himself nodding absently, offering the barest of compliments for whatever fortune Blaine was finding for himself without any emotional investment, good or bad. He didn’t wish any misfortune on Blaine, but he was thankful that that their lives were on completely separate tracks and would likely not be intersecting in anything other than the most superficial way ever again.

“Kurt, listen… It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Why don’t we go grab a cup of coffee? My treat,” Blaine offered, a bit desperately in Kurt��s opinion. “We can talk… catch up a little…”

Kurt just shook his head. “No thanks. I’ve got to get going,” Kurt pronounced, a trace of firmness in his voice that warned Blaine not to try to argue him into lingering.

“Oh, come on Kurt,” Blaine whined. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, and…”

“I said no, Blaine,” Kurt said again, making the refusal as clear as possible since Blaine was determined to be obtuse. “Tina’s waiting for me, but good luck in L.A.”

Blaine’s expression fell at the realization that Kurt was so totally closed off to him. He could only nod in defeat and mutter, “It was good to see you, Kurt. I’ve missed you.”

Kurt didn’t say anything more, only gathering up his purchases to join Tina over by the cash register. She looked over to him with gentle concern while the cashier bagged up her purchases. “You okay?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to cut in, but you seemed to be handling him.”

Kurt smiled brightly, openly displaying the emotions that he refused to with Blaine. “Oh, definitely,” he assured her. “Let me just pay for my stuff and we can go grab lunch. There’s a burger joint that opened up that the guys in the garage said is really amazing.”

“Sounds good,” she chirped, accepting the shopping bag with her music.

Neither of the bothered to look behind them to see Blaine’s longing stare, the final realization of just how much he’d lost evident on his face.

* * *

The moment Kurt and Tina walked into Brew & Que, Kurt knew that his father’s employees had it right. The smells coming out of the restaurant kitchen were amazing and Kurt found himself liking the casual atmosphere. The restaurant had been designed to look like a roadhouse, but it was clean and the staff appeared to be friendly.

Tina picked up the menu and looked it over. “Well, there goes my diet,” she laughed when she looked at all the choices. “This all looks so good.”

“You don’t need to diet,” Kurt assured her honestly as he looked over the options. He could see why the guys at the garage liked this place so much, as the overwhelming majority of the menu was meat-based and there didn’t seem to be a low-calorie option in sight. Well, there was a salad but given how woefully out of place it looked on the menu, Kurt decided that it probably wasn’t the best offering.

Once they gave the smiling waitress their orders, Tina settled back in her seat. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I know that Blaine can be a pill and he didn’t look like he wanted to take ‘fuck off’ for an answer.”

Kurt couldn’t help from laughing at his friend’s words. He was so glad that they had reconciled and that he had given her the chance to regain his trust. “I’m starting to think that I’m never going to totally shake him,” he sighed dramatically. “I could be celebrating my ten-year anniversary and I’ll have him showing up, trying to serenade me with Katy Perry. I really wish that he’d meet someone else so he’ll forget about me.”

Tina smiled gently. “You are kind of unforgettable,” she advised. “And I know what it’s like to be hung up on an ex longer than is healthy.”

Kurt’s gaze softened. He hadn’t been around when Tina was dealing with the aftermath of her breakup with Mike, but he had been on the receiving end of some of her poor behavior. He was glad that she woke up and recognized what she’d been doing and only hurting herself before it was too late.

“So, tell me more about your classes,” he urged, changing the conversation to something more pleasant. He didn’t want to discuss Blaine any further.

He let Tina ramble on about her teachers and classmates while they waited for their lunch, giving her his full attention. On some things, NYU didn’t seem all that different than NYADA. Demanding teachers, challenging classes and competitive classmates. Tina was faced with the same challenges that he and Rachel faced; figuring out how to stand out in a school filled with talented students while developing her own unique gifts as a performer.

“Are you taking any dance classes this year?” Kurt asked, sipping at his iced tea. “You should do well in that.”

She nodded. “Dance, voice and acting,” she confirmed. “I’m going to have a pretty full schedule.”

“How are your teachers?”

Tina couldn’t help wincing. “Tough,” she sighed.

“That’s good,” he assured her. “I know that it doesn’t feel like it at times, but the tougher they are, the better a performer you’re going to become. The key is to learn to take criticism and use it to grow. Not let it demoralize you.

“You know, you can always talk to Elliot if you’re feeling a little overwhelmed,” he reminded her. “He’s still at NYU, and I’m sure he’d be glad to help.”

Tina smiled gratefully. “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “There are times when I envy you and Rachel being able to support one another at school. I feel kind of on my own.”

“Well, you’re not,” Kurt promised. “Just because I’m at NYADA doesn’t mean that I can’t be there if you need me. NYU isn’t that far away.”

Tina couldn’t resist reaching out to grasp his hand in gratitude. “Thank you, Kurt,” she said earnestly. “I’m so glad that we’re still friends. Especially after how I treated you. I was such a jerk, and…”

“Shush. It’s fine,” Kurt insisted gently. “We went through a rough patch, but we’re good now.”

And they were. Kurt recognized what a dark place Tina had been in and that Blaine had taken advantage of her vulnerability, playing with her feelings in order to make himself feel better about his lot in life. Holding a grudge would not do either one of them any good. And it would give Blaine a win by letting him destroy a friendship that Kurt had cherished. He was sure that Blaine must have been annoyed to see Tina with him and not willing to give him even a word of greeting.

He probably should feel a trace of sympathy for his ex. After all, he was the one exiled to the other end of the country with none of his old friends to support him, but Kurt didn’t have quite that much nobility in him. There was just enough vindictive pettiness within him to take a rare bit of pleasure in Blaine’s misfortune.

“Kurt Hummel! Is that you?”

Kurt looked up in surprise at the familiar voice calling his name and grinned when he saw Dave Karofsky approaching their table with a huge grin on his face.

“Oh my God,” Kurt exclaimed happily, letting the bigger man sweep him up into a hug. “How long has it been?”

“Too long,” Dave admitted, letting Kurt find his feet again. He looked Kurt over from head to toe. “Wow…. You look fantastic.”

“Thanks! So do you.” And Dave did look good, in Kurt’s opinion. He was still a big, brawny young man but he was solid muscle underneath his snug fitting shirt. But what made him good looking was the brightness of his brown eyes and the open smile that contained none of the anger that had so marked him back in high school.

“You remember Tina, right?” Kurt asked, motioning to his table-mate.

Dave nodded animatedly, offering her a warm smile. “It’s good to see you,” he greeted sincerely.

“So how are things at OSU?” Kurt asked curiously.

“Good… good,” Dave confirmed. “It’s been great there.”

“You still majoring in sports business?”

Before Dave could answer, a tall young man approached him with a warm smile. “Hey, I paid the check. Are you ready to go?”

Dave’s eyes softened at the other man’s approach. “Hey, come here… I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Taylor, this is Kurt… from my high school.”

He looked to Kurt, with a gentle smile on his face. “This is Taylor. My boyfriend.”

Kurt’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly remembered his manners and moved to shake the other man’s hand in greeting. “Hi! This is… wow… It is so good to meet you.”

Dave’s boyfriend was a good looking young man with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to glimmer with spirit. He appeared to be about Kurt’s and Dave’s age and was dressed neatly in a pair of dark wash jeans and a soft knit sweater that clung to surprisingly broad shoulders.

And it didn’t miss Kurt’s attention that Taylor bore more than a fleeting resemblance to himself, and he turned a teasing arched eyebrow to the larger man. Dave just gave a small shrug, as if to say, “Hey, I’ve got a type.”

Taylor seemed just as surprised at the unexpected introduction. “So, you’re the Kurt he’s always talking about,” he laughed. “Dave was always going on about you and how I reminded him of you a bit so I feel like I probably already know you.”

Kurt felt his cheeks warm. He probably shouldn’t be too surprised that Dave apparently still regarded him so strongly.

Dave placed his arm about Taylor’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Taylor’s also a student at OSU. We met when he came to see a rugby game that I was playing in.”

The other boy laughed brightly. “I was actually there to cheer on my cousin when I saw Dave. He was totally adorable pushing around the other guys and totally kicking butt.”

Dave blushed at his boyfriend’s compliments and Kurt noticed the way the slimmer man leaned in to nuzzle teasingly under Dave’s jaw. To see Dave so easily accepting physical affection warmed Kurt’s heart because he knew just how fearful Dave had been when he was younger. It was gratifying to see just how far Dave had come. And if he had any worries that Dave’s attraction to Taylor was because of any resemblance to Kurt, the genuine affection between the two of them put his mind at least. Dave clearly liked his boyfriend for himself and not any lingering torch he might have carried.

“You’re home visiting your folks?” Kurt asked. Dave looked so happy and he hoped that everything was well with his family.

“Yup,” the larger man confirmed. “I wanted them to meet Taylor since we’ve been together for a while. Dad’s just happy that I’m happy, and Mom… she’s learning to deal.”

Kurt nodded sympathetically, knowing that Mrs. Karofsky was still learning to accept that her son was gay. Still, it sounded like she was trying, which was a lot better than the outright rejection Dave had experienced when he was first outed.

“We’re going up to Dayton to spend a few days with Taylor’s family before we head back to school,” Dave explained. “This is kind of the ‘meet the mutual folks’ tour.”

“And they’re gonna love you,” Taylor insisted.

“So, what are you doing in Lima?” Dave asked. “I would think you’d have to be pried out of New York with a crowbar.”

He turned to his boyfriend and explained, “This guy is at the best singer you ever heard. He got into this super-elite theater school. It’s like the best in the country.”

Tina couldn’t help from laughing at Dave’s effusive praise of her friend. “Careful Kurofsky, or you’re going to make your boyfriend jealous,” she teased.

“You’re mine, big guy,” Taylor reminded his boyfriend possessively. “And I don’t share, so don’t forget it.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to do that,” Dave agreed, giving Taylor an affectionate glance. “We already saw what happens if he thinks that someone is poaching.”

Kurt found himself liking Dave’s guy, if only for the fact that he seemed completely head over heels for his former classmate.

Dave gave Kurt a rueful grin. “We were at Scandals the other night and ran into your ex,” he admitted. “Taylor was in the bathroom and Blaine… Well, he started hitting on me.”

He paused, gaging Kurt’s reaction to that bit of news but Kurt just sighed.

“I’m not surprised, to be honest,” Kurt said evenly. “That’s a primary reason why he’s my ex. Was he drunk?”

Dave nodded. “He’d definitely been drinking. And he was really pushy. He kept going on about… well, about what happened back in high school and that I could do so much better.”

Kurt couldn’t help from wincing. After the way Blaine had behaved at the music store, he was left wondering if Blaine had any real feelings at all besides his own immediate gratification. Trying to use Dave’s old crush to entice him seemed to be just the kind of childish pettiness that was up Blaine’s alley. And trying to use Dave to get back at Kurt for rejecting him really ticked him off.

“Anyway, this one,” Dave continued, giving his boyfriend a playful nudge. “He comes out of the bathroom and…”

“I see this badly dressed, drunk creep all over my boyfriend and I told him that if he didn’t remove his hands from my man, then I was going to rip his arms off and beat him over his greasy head with them.”

Taylor laughed wickedly. “You never saw someone back pedal so fast in your life!”

“And he would have done it!” Dave insisted, giving Taylor and affectionate look. Having someone that looked like him being treated with such possessiveness was more than a little satisfying.

Looking at Taylor’s hands, Kurt had to agree with Dave’s assessment. They were surprisingly strong-looking, with unexpected calluses on the fingers and palms that hinted at a lot of hard physical activity. The young man’s forearms were corded with powerful muscle and sinew. Paired with those strong shoulders, there was a lot of upper body strength there. Taylor looked like he could probably lift Dave without too much effort.

Dave couldn’t resist leaning close to Kurt and whispering confidingly, “He’s on the gymnastics team.”

Kurt cocked an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

Dave nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “He’s super bendy.”

Kurt couldn’t help from laughing. He was genuinely happy for Dave, glad that he was finally in a good place and seemed really content with his life. That was all Kurt could have ever wanted for him.

“Are you still seeing that guy you met at school?” Dave asked curiously.

Kurt nodded and got out his phone. “Yup. Adam’s working on a national tour right now, but we’re still together.”

“They’re disgustingly in love,” Tina inserted, giving her friend an affectionate smile.

Kurt pulled up a photo of the two of them from Thanksgiving and showed it to Dave and Taylor.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous,” Taylor cooed admiringly. He looked to Kurt and nodded in approval. “Very nice.”

Kurt smiled proudly. “We know how to pick the good ones,” he informed Taylor, causing Dave to blush.

And Dave was a good guy to Kurt. He’d come so far from the fearful, bullying boy he’d been and was now a man who was confident and open about who and what he was. It was wonderful to see.

When the waitress returned with Kurt’s and Tina’s lunch, Dave stepped back. “It was great to see the both of you, but we’d better get going,” he said graciously. “I promised my dad that we’d spend the afternoon with him.”

Kurt nodded, turning to shake Taylor’s hand again. “It was really great meeting you,” he insisted sincerely. “Take good care of the big guy here.”

Taylor nodded. “I will. Good luck back in New York.”

Kurt smiled appreciatively, glad to see that Dave had found himself a really good guy. He turned to give Dave a hug. “Take care of yourself,” he urged. “And let’s make sure that we keep in touch more.”

“You got it,” Dave confirmed. He glanced over to Tina and gave her a friendly wave. “It was nice to see you, Tina.”

She smiled back. “You too!”

Once the two men left, Dave’s arm casually thrown around the other man’s shoulders to keep him close, Kurt and Tina sat down to enjoy their lunch. Tina picked up a french fry and popped it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“It’s funny,” she mused. “Some people change so much and others… they don’t really change at all. Do they?”

Kurt knew that Tina was talking about Blaine and sad realization that the behaviors he’d been displaying of late were his true colors showing through. And that he probably had been showing for a very long time. And that it hurt to have loved and trusted someone who clearly had been so unworthy of that consideration.

And he wasn’t the same person that he’d been when he first left Lima. He was discovering strengths and desires that he’d barely begun to tap. He could see the boy he’d been when his father first put him on a plane for New York and the man who had returned for a brief visit.

All they could do was take what they had learned from the experience and move on. Kurt took a bite from his burger and took a moment to savor the taste, putting Blaine from his mind. He had so much to look forward to in life and it was something of relief that his old relationship no longer haunted him quite so strongly.

Blaine, like Lima itself, could hold him back only if he permitted them to. And he had long since made the decision that they wouldn’t.

He had dreams to follow and Blaine had long since ceased to be a part of them.

* * *

The last days of Kurt’s visit home were pleasant and easy ones. He allowed Carole to mother him, and spent quiet hours with her and his father to reconnect. He rested and prepared for his upcoming classes and rehearsals. He hung around with his friends who were in town. And he spoke with Adam every moment that his boyfriend could spare during his tech preparations.

Still, he would be lying if he tried to claim that he wasn’t glad to be returning to New York. Back where he really belonged.

He nearly went back to the apartment that he’d shared with Adam, only recognizing after he stepped onto the subway with his luggage in tow that he couldn’t go back there again. A change of trains brought him to NYADA, which would now be his base of operations in all things

His room in the dorms was stark and bare, the only amenities being the bed, dresser and desk that had clearly seen a lot of wear and tear since they were installed. The cinderblock wall behind his bed was painted a clean white, providing him with a blank canvas that he could transform into his own space. The boxes and bags containing his possessions sat on the floor, waiting to be unpacked.

Kurt sighed to himself, the realization of what the next few months would really entail finally hitting him. But there was no use in moping, not when he had things to do. Adam needed him to be strong enough to stand on his own two feet while the older man was away and the last thing that Kurt wanted to do was disappoint him. He needed to be able to do this for the both of them.

With quiet resolve, he took up the box cutter and opened up the first box. A framed photo of himself and Adam took a prominent spot on the desk where he would be able to see it from anywhere in the room. After that, the rest of things would fall into place.

#kadam fic #kurt hummel #adam crawford #rachel berry #santana lopez #tina cohen chang #artie abrams #burt hummel #carole hudson #finn hudson #sam evans #noah puckerman #dave kurofsky #blaine anderson #not blaine or klaine friendly #original characters

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patricia-von-arundel · 6 years

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Frozen: A Dark Retelling - Chapter 24

Rating: T

Summary: The movie retold, a darker exploration of the characters, their motives, their psychological states, and their fates. Two sisters who were once the best of friends, kept apart by forces beyond their control: when secrets are revealed and death seems imminent, will their isolation eternally define them, or can they find one another again in the darkest depths of winter?

Elsa's second attempt at sleep was deep and hard and dreamless, eating away at the day around her. She woke to an unfamiliar, echoing noise like the deepest note of an organ, reverberating from the walls and shivering through her, as she lay disoriented and confused, still half asleep on her bed of ice and snow. She sat up slowly, blinking and stretching muscles stiff and sore after unaccustomed exertion. She hurt all over. Her head was pounding – she had to find food soon. Already, she had lost weight – hugging her knees to her chest, she could see how sharply defined the bones there had become, even though the opaque shell of her new dress. It was night – could she sneak down to one of the tiny villages scattered lower down in the mountains, find something while the inhabitants slept? But she didn't want to steal. How did people find food in the wild? She knew the basics, of course – hunting, fishing, foraging – but not the logistics of any of it. She heard another echoing boom from below, jerking her back to the realization that something was happening there. Her heart sped up; she hugged her knees more tightly. She had, only hours before, felt so secure, so bold; she had build a towering monument as testament. She had led them right to her. Men watching from the safety of Arendelle, staring up at the mountains as she had once done from her window. They had seen what she had done, sun reflecting off the smooth surface of her ice. And they did as was expected of men since time immemorial, facing with a monster: left the safety of secure walls, armed and atop swift, strong horses; like dogs, they would be baying for blood. Hers. She should have known they wouldn't wait. They would be afraid – as they should be – of this monstrous creature, one who could destroy them all; who almost, in fact, had done so. She curled more tightly, curving over herself. She was afraid, too. Whatever happened, she hoped it would be swift and as painless as possible, even if she did not deserve either. She had not felt enough. She had felt too much. It was so hard to think. She had slept all day, into the night, but her head still felt as though it was deep under water – pressure, pain, no clear perception. Again, she tried to remember how long it had been since she'd eaten, but she couldn't even figure out how long it had been since the coronation. "Elsa?" She jerked, her head coming up in startled, dismayed surprise. It couldn't possibly be her. "Elsa!" The voice behind the door. The voice echoing down the halls, stubborn and insistent. The voice screaming for her across the fjord. Anna – awful, irrepressible Anna. Elsa scrambled to her feet, backed into a corner of her little room, as if she might meld with the ice itself. Her heart begged her to go – but her head insisted that would be the most foolish thing she could possibly do. Anna. Of all the things she might have feared happening here, Anna showing up she had not even considered.

She wanted to see her. After the dream, that horrid dream, she just wanted to go her sister, tell her it would be fine, she would make a wonderful queen. And if she truly loved Prince Hans, then she should marry him – Elsa had no right to stand in the way. But talking to her felt risky; Elsa knew she was weak, likely to cave at any demands made of her, because she had always been weak. "Elsa?" The question had returned to her voice. Elsa took a step forward. Another. Her hands were clasped before her so tightly they ached. All those years... It would be all right, just for a moment; surely, it would be all right. Just to see Anna for a moment, and reassure her. Reassure herself that her dream was not coming true. Snow Queen. Elsa took another step forward. But it was hesitant. Her fingers slipped and twined against one another. What if Anna had come for her? She would have a retinue of guards with her, as Elsa remembered watching surround her mother and father on the few occasions they set out from the castle – dour, stiff-backed men who looked as if they could not smile if their very lives depended on it. The same men might now be with Anna, or perhaps their successors – trained to defend Arendelle's monarchy, whatever the cost. Elsa had buried her crown. But Anna wouldn't let them hurt her. Would she? Her voice came again, calling Elsa's name – with none of the dark undercurrent of the dream. She sounded almost as tentative as Elsa felt. Elsa took another step. Her body felt lost to her control, an automaton, cogs and springs carrying her onwards, drawing her to the voice from below; her mind might resist, but volition was lost. Anna – she needed to get to Anna. To see her. Explain. And send her away again. There could be no danger in one last glimpse. Could there?

The closer they got to Elsa's new palace, the more Anna felt her heart speeding up with nervous anticipation, the more her breath came short and fast from something besides the thin mountain air – and the more Kristoff hung back, clearly uncertain. He had seemed almost comfortable with her today, doing some talking, seeming a little less grumpy, if still not as friendly as she might have hoped a travel companion would be. She finally stopped halfway up the stairs leading to the palace and looked back at him. He was several steps below, staring upward at the imposing edifice Elsa had – apparently – constructed in the night. "Are you coming?" His eyes found hers, but he looked uncertain – almost afraid. She saw his chest rise on a deep breath. "Anna, I'm not so sure this is a good idea." "What?" They had made it all this way – she had made it all this way. Anna, the silly one, the one who never did quite as well, the one more likely to get a patronizing smile and praise for trying than to actually achieve anything – she had made it up here. Had found Elsa. Might even be able to bring her home. He couldn't want to take that away from her. He sighed, rubbed a hand across his face. "Look, I know you want to see her, but... what if she doesn't want to see you?" The hurt must have shown on her face – reflection of so many years of fearing exactly that: Elsa's rejection, her closed face and closed door. He continued quickly: "I don't mean that she'll never want to see you, just.. she might prefer a little time to herself." Anna looked towards the ice palace again – closed and cold and up among the clouds – and bit her lip. She couldn't stop thinking of the terror in Elsa's eyes, her desperate attempts to escape. And besides, as Kristoff himself had mentioned earlier, there was still the matter of all the snow. Elsa had to get rid of it, at least down in Arendelle – thaw the fjord and the city, allow people to come and go. She was surely more likely to do it if her own sister asked, especially if Anna could convince her there was no reason to be afraid. "I won't stay long," she said. "But I have to. I have to try to talk to her." Kristoff sighed again. "Anna, she could hurt somebody. Probably you. Let's find somewhere to make camp and-" But she cut him off. "You were the one who wanted to get here before dark. And she won't hurt me, she's never hurt anybody." "Anna, she-" But he stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, shook his head. "I'm just not sure this is a good idea." She repeated herself, the words still firm in her throat: "I have to." "And what if she does want to be left alone?" She shrugged, feigning nonchalance to hide having no answer, and turned away, starting back up the stairs, refusing to allow herself to doubt. Elsa was only meters away, and Anna had to get to her – not just for Arendelle's sake, but also to reassure herself that Elsa was all right, the panicked fear not now her permanent state of being. She wished she could also toss away her own burgeoning panic. The palace looming above her, everything it might represent, was as disquieting as it was beautiful. Shadowy in the dying light, it bristled like an icy guard, looking down on her with evident disapproval. Would she ever – ever – do whatever it was Elsa wanted? Would she ever even know what that might be? If Kristoff was right, if Elsa didn't want to see her, where did that leave her? Nevermind the kingdom, the prospect of ruling – where did it leave her? Who was Anna without Elsa? She thought of Hans, how she had practically begged him to help her escape, and felt suddenly, deeply ashamed of herself. How could she have considered leaving Elsa behind, scared and alone as she was? Anna couldn't even claim full ignorance of the truth; she had certainly known something had caused the castle to be locked up and kept that way. She had just been too scared, too selfish to give that something much thought. She had to see Elsa, to talk to her, no matter the outcome. To ask her to come home; even if she didn't want to be queen, that was okay, but Anna couldn't just leave her here, all alone and probably frightened. Maybe the palace was no more than a show – a cat puffing itself up to appear larger, more threatening, an attempt to hide how afraid and vulnerable it really was. And even if it wasn't, it didn't matter. Elsa was her sister. Elsa had once been her best friend. Anna needed to see her. She was at the top of the stairs. The door of the palace was in a direct line across a plateau of smooth snow – had Elsa left no footprints, or had it snowed here again? Maybe around Elsa, the storms of the night of her coronation had lasted longer – maybe inside, they were still ongoing. Anna had no way to even guess how long these things lasted for Elsa, once started, though clearly, the snow and ice did not melt merely because Elsa went elsewhere. Or would it, eventually? Anna didn't know that, either. She could hear the faint echoes of Kristoff's boots on the steps below her, resuming his climb. She didn't wait for him – she took a deep breath and set out for the palace. Her boots cracked the surface of the snow, leaving prints. The enormous doors looked down on her from ahead. They had no knobs, no handles of any sort. She had spent so long locked in, desperate for the doors to open. Desperate to greet the world once more. And oh, it was beautiful – it was frightening, overwhelming, strange. But still so very, very beautiful. Could Elsa see that? She had added such wondrous things to it. But she had closed the doors again. Anna walked across the snow. She put one mittened hand against the door; she could feel the cold through the thick wool. Kristoff caught up, but she hardly glanced at him. The door. She could not look away from the door. "I may... go in alone," she said. "Just in case. She can be a little... skittish." She expected a snide comeback, but Kristoff only said quietly, "I understand." She looked over at him, now – just for a moment, a flash of warmth – and smiled. "Thank you." He just nodded. She turned back to the door. Raised her hand. She knocked. The door swung open as if on a pendulum – so unexpectedly that Anna started, expecting nothing of the sort. It moved slowly but apparently effortlessly. There appeared to be no one behind it. "Maybe she does want to see you," Kristoff said – then, surprisingly gently: "Go on. I'll wait right here." Anna nodded. She could feel how fast her heart was beating, how shallow her breath came, but her comprehension felt sluggish and off-kilter. The inside of the palace was surprisingly well-lit, somehow capturing the last rays of the dying sun, shimmering in that cold light. She took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold. It was as if she emerged into another world. Elsa's world. The air was thicker here, the calm absolute, an atmosphere of breathtaking solitude. The walls and ceiling were magnificent, faceted in glints and shining in a hundred shades of blue and white, above and below and all around, pulling at her eyes, playing with them. Even the floors were ice, though here it was perfect, seamless, a lake of smooth solidity. When she stepped onto it, she could feel the sudden weight, the density of it – and the same all around, surrounding her. The tap of her boot heel echoed. She shivered – and not from the cold. There was an air of menace here – as if the walls themselves were not sure they wanted to welcome her. But it was all beautiful, too, beautiful as she'd never realized ice could be. Everything here was as intricate as carved marble, as deft as a Renaissance sculpture, all abrupt edges and smooth curves. She wanted to touch them, run her hands over the walls, search for any tiny imperfection and hope there were none to be found. Some deep, timid part of her wanted this place as perfect as she'd once believed Elsa to be. There would be comfort there, she thought, though she did not know precisely why. Maybe it was simply evidence that Elsa might, in the end, still be all right. How could she create something so beautiful, so pristine and perfect, if she was not all right? Anna walked slowly towards the center of the enormous room, swiveling her head, trying to take it all in, awestruck. It reminded her of paintings she'd seen of cathedrals, grand and overwhelming in their splendor. She looked in wonder at the sweeping staircase; the enormous, multifaceted chandelier and the balcony below it; the frozen fountain, a perfect blue mimicry of the ones in the square back home in the city. The door behind her closed abruptly, loudly, and Anna started as she sound reverberated through the walls and shivered beneath her feet. She whirled towards it – just barely managing to keep her balance in the process – but there was no one there, just as there had been on one to open it. And there were still no handles – on a door that opened inwards. Kristoff might be able to push it from the other side, but she suspected it might not be that easy. She was trapped here, by - "Elsa?" She called her sister's name, feeling the fear that became her constant companion struggling to once more grab her full attention. "Elsa!" But though she continued to call, there was no response. She felt the beginning swells of irritation – because even after so many years, she had still allowed herself to believe Elsa would come when she called. The door had opened, though. Maybe it meant nothing. But no – she didn't believe that. Elsa had been cold and distant for a very long time, but never emotionally manipulative. She wouldn't do that – wouldn't allow the door to open if she didn't want Anna here. If Elsa didn't want the door to open, it wouldn't open. It never had. Anna walked tentatively, but she walked – Elsa was here somewhere. It was getting darker. She needed to find Elsa. She called her name again. And from somewhere above, hesitant and unsure, came the response: "Anna?" She looked up, startled – and there she was, at the top of that amazing staircase. She looked tired, but happy; she was smiling, eyes wide and soft. She was thinner, Anna noticed – that quickly. But that wasn't the greatest change in her sister: if the face had not been Elsa's, she would never have recognized her. Elsa's hair was loose, as Anna had rarely seen it since they were children; it fell in a long braid over her shoulder, twinkling with frost; her bangs were pushed back over her head in pale waves. And she was wearing a sheer, clinging blue dress, the same color as the walls – and, Anna realized with some disbelief, made of the same material, too. Elsa had encased herself in ice.

After the door slammed shut – making him jump – the mountaintop was silent. It felt ominous, though he knew that was ridiculous – there was nothing up this high, it should be quiet. Nonetheless, Kristoff could not entirely shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He went to the top of the stairs and looked down, but the only thing below was Sven, calmly awaiting their return. He squinted, but it was too dark to make out much beyond that. He sat at the top of the stairs, leaned on his knees and sighed. He was in good physical shape, and was nonetheless exhausted – he imagined Anna was about ready to drop, whether she would admit it or not. She was stubborn. And surprisingly resilient. He was impressed by her. A lot more than he'd imagined he would be. He wondered what was going on inside Queen Elsa's palace. At some point, if Anna didn't come out, he would go in – but it hadn't been long enough yet. He told himself to be patient. It was strange – patience was usually something that came very naturally to him. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days catching up with him. After he- He stood again, suddenly, leaning and peering into the gathering darkness. Something – some things – were coming up the mountain.

#frozen #frozen fanfiction #frozen a dark retelling #shardsverse

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sushigirlali · 6 years

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Finding You - Part I (Reylo Fanfic)

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX

Summary: Unseen forces move against Kylo Ren from within the First Order as he struggles to unravel Snoke’s deceptions / Rey must balance her relationship with Ben Solo and her dedication to the cause that opposes him / Leia Organa makes a desperate plea to an old friend in a last ditch effort to restore the Resistance. Pairing: Rey x Kylo Ren/Ben Solo [Reylo] [ReyBen] Continuity: Set directly after Star Wars: Episode VIII - The Last Jedi ends. Warnings: There will be a lemon in Part II Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or anything that relates to Star Wars.

A/N: The Last Jedi is everything I wanted and thought I’d never get!! Honestly, I’m still a little stunned that Reylo is canon. I was just hoping they weren’t related! It’s a Christmas miracle! This fic will be presented in three parts, and is paired with the song Finding You by Kesha off the Rainbow album. You can find me on FanFiction.net as sushigirlali as well. Enjoy!

Finding You - Part I By: sushigirlali

I wanna lay in your arms when the world is burning I wanna dig in your heart, take away your hurting Kiss me and tell me I'm fine and forget we’re dying

Rey fiddled with the busted control panel she was supposed to be fixing. The escape pod on the starboard side of the Millennium Falcon had taken some damage during the battle on Crait. It should have been a quick job, but Rey just couldn’t seem to focus on the task at hand.

“Did he know?” she muttered to herself distractedly. “Did he know that I was on the Falcon?”

Rey chewed her lip, trying to concentrate on the web of wires before her.

“Ow!” she gasped as sparks suddenly erupted from a nearby junction.

Pulling her singed fingers back, Rey turned around—and nearly ran right into the dark robed man before her.

“What—Ben?” she looked up, shocked at seeing him so soon after their last connection on Crait.

They stared at each other in tense silence, taking inventory. Rey was glad to see that he wasn’t injured, that he was okay. He looked absolutely livid, to be sure, but whole. Rey opened her mouth to speak, but Ben beat her to it.

“Despite your best efforts, I’m still alive.” Kylo Ren said, his dark eyes bright with fury.

“Ben!” Rey objected. “You can’t really believe I want you dead!”

“Why not?! I offered you the galaxy and you turned on me without a second thought!” he accused.

“That’s not true! I wanted—want—to help you, but not at the expense of what’s left of the Resistance.” She tried to reason.

“The Resistance is nothing but a band of inept dissidents who have deluded themselves into believing that they can defeat a more powerful force with nothing but sentiment and luck!”

“The Resistance is made up of the bravest, most decent people that I have ever met! Don’t you dare speak about them like that!” Rey’s voice rose as she defended her friends. “I had to leave! I had to save them!”

“You left me unconscious before a broken throne with hell raining down around me!” he charged roughly. “You left me to die!”

“Ben, I checked to make sure you were breathing before—”

“YOU. LEFT. ME.”

The pure anguish in his tone tore through her. But she knew, deep down, that no matter how much he was hurting, giving into him now would spell doom for them both. He wasn’t ready to turn back to the light, not yet.

Still, she wanted to offer some comfort. Rey reached toward him, but he caught her hand halfway.

“Ouch!” Rey protested as he grasped the burnt fingers of her left hand.

His grip softened automatically, soothingly, but he didn’t let go.

“You gave me no choice, Ben.” She replied firmly. “I can’t be what you want. I won’t.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.” His voice was harsh, unwavering.

“Ben--”

“Ben Solo is dead. Kylo Ren is the only name I answer to.” Kylo said resolutely.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn! I only want what’s best for you! I’ve seen your future! It doesn’t have to be this way!” Rey snatched her hand away as frustrated tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks.

“The future doesn’t come to order, Rey. It’s something that happens to you, and if you’re not strong enough to cope with it, it will destroy you.” The hand that had been holding hers clenched at his side.

“Like Luke’s betrayal destroyed you?” Rey asked softly.

“You go too far!” Kylo snapped back.

“Ben, you don’t know Luke’s side of it. I know this is difficult to talk about, but there’s something I need to tell you.” Rey pleaded with him.

“His side of it?!” Kylo snarled. “My master, my mentor, my uncle tried to murder me in cold blood! While I was sleeping! Defenseless! And you dare to defend him?!”

“Ben, there’s more to it than that. Luke told me that he sensed your dark side was rising, yes, but that when the moment came he—”

But suddenly her surroundings came back into focus.

“Rey?” a familiar voice asked hesitantly from the doorway.

She glanced around, cursing the interruption, but knowing that she would forgive her best friend.

“Yes, Finn?”

“Dinner is ready. We’re waiting for you.” Finn said with a concerned expression. “Is everything alright?”

“What? Oh, yes. I’ll be along shortly.”

Finn nodded and went back up the entry ramp. Rey slumped down against the wall dejectedly once he turned the corner. Nursing her burnt fingers, she blew out an angry breath.

She needed to tell Ben what Luke had imparted to her. Once Ben knew the whole truth, when he understood that Luke had made a grave mistake, she hoped that he could finally start to heal. Rey knew the wound was deep, how could it not be, but she didn’t believe it was irreversible.

Now that Snoke was dead, and his disgusting influence lifted, Ben could finally have his mind back. This didn’t absolve him of the horrible choices he had made on behalf of the First Order and his master, on behalf of his own misguided lust for power, but Rey suspected Snoke had been leeching the light out of Ben Solo for longer than any of them knew.

That kind of long running mental and physical abuse left deep scars. Still, she refused to give up hope. The link between them was strong, despite Snoke’s death. And that thought would give her solace for the difficult times ahead. The Resistance needed Ben Solo, she needed Ben Solo. Now if only she could convince him of that.

Kylo Ren paced his private quarters, fuming. How dare she presume to lecture him about Luke Skywalker! His lip curled. Skywalker. The last Jedi Master. Destroyer of the Emperor and Darth Vader. Attempted murderer of his only nephew.

“His side.” Kylo mocked, furious at the implication.

There was only one side—Kylo’s. Luke Skywalker was a coward who only challenged his betters when they’re backs were turned. And yet…something at the edge of his mind nudged him that there was more to the story. Something that had been obscured. By Snoke? He didn’t know for sure. Not yet at least. But with the death of his master, Kylo’s mind was clearing.

Maybe Rey did know something. He should have forced her to tell him, before they were interrupted. As soon as he thought it, Kylo smirked. Right. Like he’d ever been successful in forcing her to do anything.

Kylo recalled their argument and flinched. He’d charged in with accusations and anger, but she seemed relieved, almost happy, to see him again. He didn’t know if he could forgive her for betraying him, though. He had offered to share his ambition, his very life, with her, and she had rejected him.

No, she hadn’t just rejected him, she'd also attempted to attack him. With his grandfather’s lightsaber nonetheless! But while he was knocked out, vulnerable, she hadn’t slit his throat. She had left. Was she so sure of her premonition? Did she really believe that he would turn to the light?

And what did Rey know about Skywalker? He was curious now. Next time he saw her, he’d listen. Not because he believed he was wrong, but because she believed she was right.

I wanna feel you tonight like the very first time Let's run away, baby, drive straight into the moonlight Kiss me and tell me you're mine like no one’s watching Like time is stopping

It was three days before he saw her again. And while it had been an agonizing wait, the time alone had given Kylo perspective. The more time passed, the more Kylo realized how often Snoke had infiltrated his mind. It seemed that he had always been there, lurking in the shadows. And the sudden absence of his master now, after so many years, caused Kylo great disquiet.

There were things in his memory, terrible things, deeply buried, that were suddenly available to him. But he was afraid to look at them directly. At least, not until he could give himself context. As a result, Kylo had taken to deep meditation over the last few days, determined to root out how it all began.

Focusing inward, Kylo traveled into the past, reliving pivotal moments in his life—trying to understand what had brought him to this point. His mind opened as the stain of Snoke’s concealment receded.

He could see it now, how it started. Even as a child, as far back as he could stretch his mind to remember, Snoke had been with him. Snoke was subtle at first, merging their minds a little at a time, making sure never to penetrate too deeply. And once young Ben Solo had begun to bond with the soft, authoritative voice in his head, Snoke had imprinted on Kylo’s lonely soul with false promises of companionship and understanding.

As Kylo grew older, he started to resist Snoke’s invasion. The presence became uncomfortable, demanding. And like his parents, Ben Solo was not one to bow to orders. The turning point, yes, he could see it clearly now, was the night that Skywalker had crept into his room to murder him. The old Jedi had sensed his growing power, and the dark connection that bolstered it.

But was that what actually happened? He had always believed so without a doubt, reinforced by Snoke’s insistence. Or was Rey right? Was there another side to the story? If his uncle’s true intention had not been to kill him, then what had it been?

Kylo stepped outside of himself, examining the scenario from an objective position. Skywalker was reading his mind that night, looking for evidence of corruption. But…it wasn’t all Kylo. Snoke was there as well, feeding the darkness within until it was all Skywalker could see.

The horrified look on his uncle’s face disturbed Kylo. His old master looked pained, and panic stricken. As he pulled out his lightsaber, Kylo saw the indecision there, the fear. But also, a realization that his actions were impulsive and wrong. And then, just as Skywalker moved to turn off his lightsaber, he realized that Ben was awake.

Kylo came out of the memory slowly, adjusting to the dim light of his personal command shuttle. He had taken to utilizing the private cabin aboard the spacecraft when he needed to meditate, preferring the confined solitude to the main living decks in the crowded Star Destroyer. The cabin doubled as a troop carrier compartment during battle.

Lifting himself off the bed, Kylo tightened the silken belt around his waist. He liked to use a lighter, less repressive robe during meditation; the weightless texture allowed him to reach out to the Force with ease. It was something he wore only when alone, however, because Kylo always felt more vulnerable out of uniform.

Still, merging with the Force had been demanding on both his mind and body this time. It had taken a great deal of willpower to uncover Snoke’s smokescreen. Kylo walked over to a basin near the door and splashed cool water across his face and neck. Whipping the excess off with a plush towel, Kylo contemplated what he had seen through the Force.

The burning hatred he had harbored toward his uncle all his life was still there, but tempered as reason took over. The man had been a coward, coming in the dead of night to test his own nephew instead of speaking with him in the light of day. If only they had talked about the unspoken thing inside him—about the dark side. But neither Ben Solo, nor Luke Skywalker, had taken that course.

Kylo knew now that the blame wasn’t solely on Skywalker’s shoulders. He had contributed to the situation with his silence, his fear of admitting that something—someone—had taken a hold of him. He had been Ben Solo, son of the great rebel war heroes Princess Leia Organa and General Han Solo. He was the nephew of one of the greatest Jedi Masters to ever live.

And yet, he had failed them all. He had killed his own father in the misguided belief that Han Solo’s death would bring closure to the gaping wound in his soul. At the time, he’d felt betrayed and abandoned at every turn, by his entire family. He had felt justified in his vengeance. But now, all he felt was empty.

His mother and father had never given up on him, had never given up hope that one day he would return to the light. And now, with all the knowledge he had gained, Kylo Ren had to admit for the first time that he had been wrong. Luke Skywalker had made a mistake, but he, not his uncle, had destroyed Ben Solo’s life. And as a result, his family, who had loved him, was broken beyond repair.

Casting aside the towel in a fit of anger, Kylo whirled to find Rey standing before him. He must have looked fearsome because she took a quick step back.

“Ben, are you…alright?” She asked hesitantly.

Kylo didn’t answer her; he couldn’t. He knew he should, that he had a lot to explain to her, but he couldn’t speak because the words were choking him. He needed more time to process the shocking revelations of the last hour. When he didn’t speak, Rey took the lead.

“Ben, I need to tell you about Luke. Now. Before we’re interrupted again.” She started imploringly. When he didn’t make a move to interrupt, she continued, “Luke told me what happened. He did go into your room that night. Not with the intention of killing you, but he was testing you all the same. And when he saw the darkness in you, when he saw what Snoke was doing to you, he overreacted. But he never would have killed you! His mistake cost you your life, your family, your soul! And he never forgave himself for it. So, you see, it wasn’t all your fault! There’s still time to come back, to join me on the right side.”

She was almost panting as she finished speaking. It was one of the many things that he admired about her—her passion for life, her goodness. Despite her desolate upbringing, Rey was the most accepting person he had ever met. She strived to bring people together in an effort to create what she had been denied all her life: a family.

He understood her, and she him. Though their circumstances were wildly different, the aching loneliness was the same. And so, as he gazed into her pleading eyes, Kylo felt his strength flow back into him. He could put aside any weakness when she was near. His soul rose up to meet hers, his equal in the Force. His balance.

“Rey, I believe you.” Kylo told her.

Her eyes widened, shocked by his easy acceptance. Clearly, she had worked herself up over the last few days and was expecting a fight.

“You…you do?” she asked in wonder.

He nodded. “I’ve been meditating. There are periods in my life that have always escaped me, no matter how hard I concentrated.”

“Snoke.” Rey said with disgust.

“Yes.” Kylo acknowledged. “He was in my mind almost my entire life, blocking off connections, blurring memories. It’s difficult work to discover where the suppression lies. As I clear out the cobwebs in my mind, however, the truth is beggining to take shape.”

“So…you’ve already seen everything I just told you?” she asked a little sharply.

The barest hint of a smile titled his lips. “Yes, I have.”

“And here I’ve been, going out of my mind with worry about you!” Rey huffed.

“You were worried about me?” Kylo asked, surprised. “Why?”

“Well, I didn’t know if you were going to fly off the handle after I left. I certainly didn’t expect you to investigate the situation on your own.” She said honestly.

“Why not?”

“You seemed so angry with me, Ben.” Rey bit her lip. “I thought you would just ignore everything I said and brood until we met again.”

“I was angry, very angry, at first. But the more I thought about what you said, the more curious I became. I knew you weren’t lying to me, that you believed in what you were saying, so I decided to uncover the truth for myself.” He told her.

Rey moved closer to him, her eyes bright. “I’m so proud of you.”

Kylo felt something lift in his chest, like a burden being removed. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved, for not listening to you earlier.” He replied.

“I understand why you were so upset. But, please, just talk to me in the future. I don’t like fighting with you.” Rey beseeched him.

“I’ll do my best.” Kylo agreed.

“Ben, there’s something else.” Rey started cautiously. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that I was on the Millennium Falcon when the First Order tried to shoot it out of the sky on Crait?” Rey asked, frowning.

Kylo was stunned. No, he had not known. How could he not have known? Their connection was strong, but he had been blinded by rage, by a sense of deep betrayal after waking up alone in the throne room. He still felt it now, to a lesser degree, if he was honest with himself. But if he’d been in control on Crait, it would have been more than obvious that Rey was in command of his father’s vessel.

In his anger, he could have lost Rey. He could have killed her.

“I didn’t know.” Kylo fell to his knees in front of her, head bowed. “Please forgive me.”

Rey stared at the proud man in front of her, her heart pounding. Their previous meetings had shown him to be honest to the point of insolence, but this contrite response was beyond her wildest expectations. She had anticipated an argument at the very least, but looking at Ben now, Rey felt ashamed for doubting his feelings for her.

“Ben, I believe you.” Rey said, repeating his words back to him.

Ben lifted his head, as if soaking in Rey’s radiant smile.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hands, “I’ll help you up.”

He hesitated for a second, but allowed her to pull him up. Electricity raced up her arms from where their bare hands melded together. He wasn’t wearing gloves, for once, and his rigid uniform had been replaced by a lightweight black silk robe.

Rey blushed as they continued to hold hands, as she tried not to stare at him.

“Rey,” Ben said quietly, “how did you get back aboard that ship?”

“After I left,” she stopped herself from saying ‘you’, “the throne room, I knew that the Falcon was the only chance for the Resistance to survive, so I took Snoke’s escape vessel and signaled Chewy to pick me up. The chaos created by Holdo’s sacrifice covered my escape.”

“I’m sorry I put you in that position. I still believe that the past needs to be put to rest, but I shouldn’t have tried to sway you from helping your friends.” Ben told her seriously.

Rey felt hope swell up inside her at his words. She still had so much to learn about the Force, about life, but she believed Ben was being sincere. It was clear that everything he had seen while mediating over the last few days had had a profound effect on him.

“I don’t care if it’s selfish or silly of me, but I don’t want to choose. I didn’t then and I don’t now.” She confessed. “I want it all—you and my friends.”

Ben’s eyes burned into hers in response, innumerable emotions swirling in their dark depths. Bringing up his ungloved hands, he cupped her cheeks. She quivered in response; it was the most intimate touch she had ever received.

“Why are you here? Why has the Force connected us?” Ben asked huskily.

“Don’t you know?” she whispered coyly.

He shook his head. “You deserve better.”

“I deserve you.” She said boldly. “I’ve been alone all my life until now. Suddenly I have friends—family—and I’m not scared of opening up to them anymore. I owe that to you, to the trust we’ve built between us. Now stop implying that our connection isn’t mutual!”

Ben smiled slightly, then reached down for her left hand, lifting her knuckles to his lips. The burn she had sustained a few days ago was mostly healed, but Rey felt her face heat at the sweet gesture.

“Okay,” he conceded, his tone holding a wealth of apology and acceptance.

Rey beamed up at him, curling her fingers tighter into his. Raising her other hand, Rey pushed back Ben’s lush hair, framing his cheek. Then, with all the courage she possessed, Rey stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, sealing their bond for all time.

A/N: In my mind, there has to be a lot of meditating and talking to get to a point where Kylo Ren is ready to be Ben Solo again; I want his turn to the light to feel earned. Part II will be posted sometime next week, once I button up Part III, and will include some lemony goodness! You can find me over on FanFiction.net as sushigirlali as well.

A little something extra!

Kylo: Who hurt you? Ali: …what? Kylo: Why are all your favorite male characters in need of a redemption arc? Ali: Because I’m a slut for complex character development? Kylo: It’s because they always wear all black, isn’t it? Ali: Ummm…no? Kylo: You a freak. Ali: Oh, you’re one to talk, Cry-lo Ren!!

#my fanfiction #finding you #reylo fanfiction #reyben fanfiction #reylo #reyben #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #otp #sushigirlali

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