#and uh I think that's Bramble on the left with Ash at the back? this is from so long ago | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loosesodamarble · 7 months

Text

A Seamstress and Tailor

Summary: A small writing project I did involving @cringeyvanillamilk and @mikuyuuss' Demon Slayer ocs (as well as my own). A scenario wherein Akari meets Takayuki, Suzume, and Shizuka. Genre: general Word count: ~2100 A/N: Thanks for letting me use your ocs in this fic, Steph and Unni! It's always fun to write ocs meeting each other jahdglahsrut!

..........

Another evening, another successful mission.

Akari watched as the demon she defeated turned to ash. A cremation without flames. Thinking about a demon’s death that way left Akari feeling odd. Like their deaths were incomplete without the proper ritual.

Then again, the lives of demons were wrong altogether.

The thought quickly left Akari as she sensed a familiar presence behind her.

Giyuu, who she’d been sent on the mission with. While the threat hadn’t been serious like a Demon Moon, Kagaya had correctly predicted that the demon activity was several weaker ones. Thus a team up was done to handle it more easily.

“So you finished u—GYAA!” Akari yelped at the sight of Giyuu when she’d fully turned around.

While not severely injured, he did have a ridiculous amount of small cuts on his face and his hands. Some even leaked little bits of blood. And his haori was a tattered wreck.

“Giyuu-san, how did that happen?! I thought these were all weak demons,” Akari remarked while stepping closer to the man.

“They were weak. I just tripped into a bramble bush,” Giyuu answered flatly. “Sorry to worry you, Akari-san.”

Akari blinked a couple of times.

Classic Giyuu. He was cool as a cucumber on the outside but clumsy on the inside. Though usually that was a social clumsiness rather than physical. Imagining Giyuu, a skilled Pillar, tripping was also very hard for Akari.

Akari examined Giyuu again, focusing on his haori and the shreds it was in. She bit the inside of her cheek.

“Giyuu-san… I’m not sure I’ll be able to restore your haori from this… I’m—”

“Don’t worry, there’s someone who can help with this,” Giyuu stated without missing a beat. “And actually, it’s about time you two got introduced.”

Akari raised a brow.

…..

The Bird Pillar, Takayuki Fukushima.

Akari had heard of the man through Giyuu and the other Pillars. That Takayuki was stern and disciplined. That his temper could surprise someone. That he indulged in literature in his spare time. She’d never had the chance to meet him herself though. Things just never worked out for them to cross paths it seemed.

But today, Akari found herself at the threshold of Takayuki’s home, called the Eagle Manor.

I guess Shinobu-san isn’t the only one who fancies naming their housing, Akari mentally noted as Giyuu knocked on the door. Does that make them weirdos?

The one to answer the door was a young woman. She was shockingly tall, probably as tall as Giyuu or taller. Her hair was mostly brown hair and a few streaks of black and white mixed in. She wore a simple brown yukata and a white overcoat.

“Tomioka-sama, welcome back,” the woman greeted with a grin. Her eyes, a shade of orange which reminded Akari of cattails, then landed on Akari. “Oh, and you are?”

“Akari Takahashi. Nice to meet you.”

“Right, likewise. And I’m Suzume Hayashi.”

The young women bowed their heads to each other.

“So uh…” Suzume smiled at Giyuu in a way that told Akari that she wasn’t entirely sure of herself. “What brings you here, Tomioka-sama?”

“Sewing.” Giyuu raised the bundled remains of his haori in his hands.

Suzume blinked.

Akari blinked.

Giyuu didn’t say anything else.

“R-right… Then um…” Suzume gestured inside. “Right this way?”

Suzume walked ahead of Giyuu and Akari as they were side-by-side.

“Do you and Suzume-san not get along?” Akari whispered.

“I don’t think so. We just don’t get to talking when I visit because I’m usually just here to see Takayuki.��

“Uh-huh…” Akari looked ahead at Suzume. “Hey, Suzume-san, what’s your opinion of Giyuu-san?”

“Huh? My thoughts?” Suzume glanced over her shoulder at Giyuu. “Well, he’s definitely one of the nicer Pillars. And…” She touched her chin. “He’s very graceful with his swordsmanship.”

Akari grinned to herself when she glanced at Giyuu’s wide-eyed surprise. He blinked, and his eyes fell to the floor. All the while, his face turned a pleasant shade of pink.

“Well whad’ya know,” giggled Akari.

Suzume led Giyuu and Akari around another corner and that’s when the group crossed paths with someone else.

A girl, around Akari’s height, with black hair that turned green at the tips and a morning glory patterned haori over her body. Her eyes, which seemed to naturally set in a glare, scanned the trio.

“Afternoon, Shizuka,” Suzume greeted. “Where’re you off to?”

“Well I was going to the nearest pharmacy to better stock the medicine room,” Shizuka started. Her eyes flicked to Giyuu. “But I see that Tomioka-sama had some injuries that should be tended to…”

“Hm?” Giyuu shifted a bit at the mention of his name. “Oh no. These are perfectly fine. I already washed them and—”

Shizuka clicked her tongue and her expression became harsher.

“And you didn’t apply any salve at all? Sometimes, water alone isn’t enough to keep a wound from infecting,” Shizuka snapped as she walked past Suzume and grabbed Giyuu’s wrist. “Apply an antiseptic at least once. A Pillar shouldn’t be taking unnecessary risks.” Despite her short stature, she started to drag the man away.

“H-hey wait a moment!” Akari called out. “Giyuu-san came here to talk to Fukushima-san!”

“I’ll be quick about it, dammit!” Shizuka hissed over her shoulder, making Akari jolt a bit.

What an intense little girl!

Giyuu turned as best he could while being pulled along and locked eyes with Akari.

“Akari-san, you can take it from here,” Giyuu said and tossed his haori to her. She awkwardly caught it. “It seems I’m not getting out of this…”

Akari let out a gasp, completely baffled.

“What on earth was that? What’s her deal?”

“Shizuka’s not as bad as she seems,” Suzume remarked with an awkward smile and laugh. “She just takes recovery really seriously.”

“So she’s like Shinobu-san?” To Akari’s question, Suzume nodded. “Her attitude is more like Shinazugawa-san though, and he…” Akari let her voice trail off. Of course Suzume would understand what she was getting at.

The women looked at each other.

“Well, uh, I guess I’ll take you to Fukushima-san.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s not much else to do.”

The rest of the walk through the manor was dead quiet. Without Giyuu there, Akari didn’t feel quite up to getting a conversation going. She didn’t feel uncomfortable around Suzume though.

Based on her view of Giyuu and the way she was able to shrug off Shizuka’s prickly personality, Akari felt that she was a good person. The mild and understanding type.

Eventually, they reached a door, a Western style one surprisingly, with an intricate design of various birds carved into the wood.

“Fukushima-san, there’s someone to see you,” Suzume called out while knocking on the door.

“Coming.”

And a moment later, a man opened the door. His hair, which fell past his shoulders, was pure white and his eyes had a silver hue. Hanging from his shoulders was a cape that looked like it was made from feathers. He was surprisingly, in a word, handsome.

And this would be the third white-haired person amongst the Pillars… Akari mused. I’d make it four once I become a Pillar.

“And you are?” Takayuki asked Akari.

She once again introduced herself. When she gave her name, Takayuki’s face tensed just the slightest bit.

“So you’re Takahashi-san. Giyuu’s made mention of you,” Takayuki remarked with a curt nod.

Akari felt herself warm up at the thought of Giyuu talking about her with someone else. Someone else who was his friend. Another man. Something about that made her heart flutter.

“Are you here on an errand for Giyuu?”

“Uh…” Akari tilted her head side-to-side for a moment. “Well, kinda? Giyuu-san is here too, but… your other student, Shizuka? She took him away to tend to some minor cuts.”

Suzume let out a sound that was between an exhale and a laugh at Akari’s recounting.

“That girl…” Takayuki hummed and shook his head. “She’s not my student. She’s just settling here for the time being.”

“Ah. So like the patients at the Butterfly Mansion. Makes sense.”

“So…” Takayuki’s eyes flicked downward and landed on the bundle that was Giyuu’s haori. “Clothing repairs.”

“Yes, exactly!” Akari exclaimed back.

“Right then.” Takayuki turned to Suzume. “I can take it from here. Go back to relaxing. Who knows when you’ll get a mission summons.”

“Alrighty then!” Suzume waved and jogged off.

…..

Akari stared in awe at the room that Takayuki had led her to. Bolts of fabric were set up on racks. There was a mannequin wearing what looked like the beginning stages of a kimono. A sewing kit was laid out on the table at the center of the room.

“Oh wow! You’re really serious about sewing!” Akari exclaimed. She was still hesitant to be around Takayuki but knowing they had a shared hobby warmed her heart. And now she wished that Giyuu had introduced them sooner.

“For me, sewing is…” Takayuki hesitated. For the briefest of moments, he looked melancholy, only for him to tilt his chin up and resumed a nonchalant expression. “It kills time between missions or while I’m in the midst of recovery,” he said, his tone cool and somewhat dismissive. “So Giyuu’s haori got ruined, huh?”

“Pretty much…”

Akari unfurled the remains of the haori, showing off what a mess it was.

“I’m not sure how it can be fixed…”

“Not to worry.”

Takayuki opened a drawer in the corner dresser and brought out two bundles of fabric which perfectly matched the patterns of Giyuu’s haori.

“Wha—? When—?” Akari’s mouth flapped open and closed. Talk about being prepared!

Takayuki shrugged.

“I pay a textile shop to make more material, in case something like this happens. And this isn’t the first time.”

The explanation was spoken in a matter-of-fact tone. And yet, Akari looked in Takayuki’s eyes and saw a softness in them. Rather than reflecting like a cold, harsh metal, his eyes shined like soft moonlight at the moment. The fact that he even had the fabric made at all spoke more of the bond that the two men must’ve shared.

The fabrics were passed from Takayuki to Akari. She caressed the fabric, held the sentiment that it represented.

“Fukushima-san… Did you want to repair Giyuu-san’s haori instead?”

A light chuckle left the man.

“While I’m used to Giyuu asking me to take care of repairs, I’m not bitter to see someone else take over instead.” Takayuki patted Akari’s shoulder. “And if Giyuu’s words are anything to go by, you’re just as, if not more skilled than myself. After all, I’m not involved in uniform production in the Corps.”

“Oh! I’m glad that Giyuu-san speaks highly of me!” Akari replied with a soft giggle. “And uh, thank you for providing the fabric. Giyuu-san must mean a lot to you.”

“He must mean a lot to you too, if you went out of your way to follow him on this chore.”

“Ah… Yes, that’s true…”

Akari smiled at Takayuki. His lips quirked into a faint grin.

Their white hair. Their skills with a needle. And their fondness for Giyuu. There was little that Akari and Takayuki shared but it was the little things that made way for the beginning of understanding.

…..

Giyuu and Akari left the Eagle Manor, walking side-by-side. It was quiet for a while until Giyuu pulled a small, paper-wrapped item from his pocket.

“What’s that?” Akari asked, glancing at the parcel.

“Something from Shizuka. She said it would help on missions,” he answered vaguely.

Akarai raised a brow. “Did she not say what it was?”

“No.” Giyuu glanced at Akari then returned his attention to the item. “I doubt it’s anything dangerous.”

Very true. It was unlikely that a lower ranked slayer would give anything that would sabotage a Pillar. Besides, if Shizuka was so aggressive about healing (which Akari didn’t quite get), then it didn’t make sense for her to give something harmful to someone.

Unprompted, Giyuu ripped the paper. Underneath was a block of a beige substance. Giyuu rubbed the surface with his thumb.

“Soap?” he whispered, having recognized the feel. “How would that help?”

After staring at the strange gift for a moment, Akari noticed a faint aroma. She leaned in and gave a sniff.

“Wisteria?”

It was unlikely that the soap would be as effective as wisteria incense. Still, Akari could imagine that the presence of the flower in the soap might make slayers smell a bit less appetizing to the demons they fought.

“Why didn’t she just say what it was?” Akari asked no one in particular. “That way we could’ve thanked her at least…”

“You can always give your gratitude the next time you see her.”

“If there is a next time.”

It was a melancholy thought but given their line of work… Of course it would cross Akari’s mind.

There was no telling if Akari would cross paths Shizuka, Takayuki, or Suzume ever again…

#demon slayer #kny fanfic #giyuu tomioka #demon slayer oc #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #akari takahashi #takayuki fukushima #suzume hayashi #shizuka hisasue #unni's oc #steph's oc #soda's ocs #heh heh heh #added a new scene for the posting of this fic!

6 notes · View notes

gerbiloftriumph · 4 years

Photo

Captive Crown

(also on ao3)

Someone wanted the newly crowned King of Daventry and all his friends dead. Someone got close, once.

(warnings for the whole thing: kidnapping, bruising, starvation, nightmares, healthy dosage of angsty musing, sicfic, story-coherent vehicle for all my favorite ch2 headcanons)

~*~*~

6/7

(1: to steal)(2: to hide)(3: to seek)(4: to find)(5: to break)(6: to mend)

~*~*~

The goblin ropes were hard, scratchy, and tight. He clutched at the arms of his throne, twisting, but he couldn’t free himself, no matter how much he struggled and pulled and fought. He was alone in the throne room, bound to his own seat of office, ropes biting into his wrists and arms and shoulders, and he yelled for someone, anyone, to come, please.

The far door creaked open agonizingly slowly, and though the ropes kept him at attention already, he stiffened. His fingers curled into fists and he swallowed, trying to slow his panicked breathing, to stop the little thrills of fright shivering across his skin.

Wente edged into the throne room, bowing and scraping and anxiously tying and untying the knot holding his apron in place.

Graham sighed, relieved, and sagged against his restraints. “Wente! Stars, Wente! I am so—” But he hesitated, a twist in his gut warning him that something was wrong.

“Your Royal Highness, most noble sir, I, I don’t mean to intrude, but, ah, it’s…oh dear.” Wente kept ducking and bowing, not daring to look at Graham for more than a fraction of a second at a time. Why? “Please, Sire, I’m sorry, but I can’t. The shop. I can’t. Taxes. Er. I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I know it’s for the kingdom. But I can’t. Sorry, I know I shouldn’t even be here. Um.”

“Wente?” Graham tried to lean forward, but the ropes had no slack at all. “What?”

“I can’t. I don’t. That is. Maybe an extension. I know you’ve given me so many, but maybe just one more. I can make it work with one more. Definitely.”

“Wente, please!”

“Bramble’s pregnant, you see. So, it’s. Not. Not her fault. The guards said it was for her safety. Until the taxes were paid. Not that I, uh, think it’s a lie. I would never doubt. But she can’t be locked up, sir. Not because of me, and the money. I promise, you’ll get every coin. I just can’t…now.” He edged closer a fraction of an inch, head low.

“Wente, release me this instant!”

That finally broke through the nervous chatter, but it didn’t help. Wente flinched back and collapsed onto the carpet in a low bow, nose pressed against the floor, and said nothing more, and didn’t move again.

Graham stared, dread settling over him like a suffocating blanket. “Wente? Can you hear me?”

No response. Wente shivered in terror. If Graham held his breath, he could just hear the baker muttering, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” endlessly.

And then, slowly at first but suddenly an inferno, he melted into ash and smoke, like he’d been struck down with dragon fire, and there was nothing left, nothing at all—one moment Wente was there, and the next he was gone, forever.

Graham shrieked, rocking back against the throne, but the ropes wouldn’t let him move, wouldn’t let him look away, wouldn’t, wouldn’t—

But almost immediately he froze, scream bitten off, as Amaya stumbled forward, her hair half burned away. She yelled that the dragon was at the gate, that he needed to hurry up and do something about it, but not send her back, no, gods please don’t send her back, she would do anything, anything he wanted, just please, she’d just escaped, don’t send her back.

“I would never—”

The Hobblepots clamored for attention, wailing that there was nothing they could do, that the fields were burned up and that they had nothing to give, and then they were gone too, and the royal guards scattered, and the whole room was going up in smoke and flame, embers flying off the curtains in blazing orange and yellow, and Graham struggled against the throne but no one could hear him.

“No, wait—”

Bramble cowered in chains, and the Merchant huddled in a corner clutching his unicorns close, and the light was fading from Triumph’s eyes, and Daventry’s citizens were clawing at the smoldering carpets, asking him to let them live, and Graham pleaded with them, and apologized again and again and again for not helping them, not doing what they wanted him to do, but no one heard him, and he couldn’t free himself, and the throne room continued to fill with smoke and ash, and he heard the dragon roar.

“Please, I don’t know what to do!”

His voice echoed in the sudden perfect silence. The room was empty except for gathering smoke curling around the pillars.

He could feel a presence next to him, and he twisted but he still couldn’t see, and out of the stillness he heard Manny’s low chuckle and a whisper, “Ahh. You’re not doing a very good job, are you?”

Manny slipped from behind the throne and stood before him, taller than expected, taller than he should have been, armor streaked with dragon ash. He stepped closer, studied Graham, and then punched, his gauntleted hand driving deep into Graham’s stomach and forcing all his air out in a wheezing gasp. He jabbed him again in the chest, high and hard, and Graham coughed and spluttered. Again and again, harder and higher, whispering, “All hail the king” with each blow.

The last jab blazed through his throat, ice cold and burning hot at the same time, harder than even an armored hand should have managed, and Graham couldn’t breathe at all, and he looked down, and found a purple-shafted arrow sticking through him, pinning him to his throne, and he looked up, frantic, as the ash and shadows pressed around him, vision blurring with tears of pain and terror, and he couldn’t make out the details on the shape in the door, not really, but he knew who stood there. Knew the slope of disappointment in those familiar broad shoulders. Knew the disappointment dripping off the arrow, like blood. Like death.

He screamed.

~*~*~

He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and the nightmare shattered like glass. He found himself lying tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, staring up at the royal bed’s canopy. His throat burned, and his chest ached, and he tried to free a hand to rub where the arrow had hit (no, there was no arrow, it was a dream, stop, breathe, please, breathe), but his arms were twisted and pinned to his sides. He’d tossed and turned so much that the sheets had bound him up, and he was too weak to fight them back.

The door slammed open, bouncing against the bookcase behind it, and one of the guards skidded in, boots sliding along the wooden floor. “Your Majesty! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” No3 stared at him for a second, then whirled back to the door and shouted, “Distress! Someone get in here! Distresssss!”

More aches and pains started announcing their presence, like they’d been anxiously waiting for him to wake up to be acknowledged. He tried to sit up. Couldn’t. His lank, sweaty hair was in his eyes, and he tried to toss his head and achieved absolutely nothing but a sharp stab of agony in his neck for his trouble. There was no hiding this, no pretending everything was fine. Not now.

“Help,” he whispered, ragged. His voice sounded wrong, deep with fatigue and pain. “Please.”

No3 was talking to someone he couldn’t see. “Are the Hobblepots awake?”

“It’s four in the morning,” No1 said doubtfully.

“Check the kitchen first,” No3 said. “Be willing to bet anything. Get them in here, quick!” A brief pause, the sound of clattering footfalls fading down the hallway, and then she said to Graham, overly loud in her fright, “Your Majesty, we’re getting help now. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.”

Graham tried to acknowledge her with something dignified, but it came out like a choked sob.

“What can I do?” She hovered nervously at his side. He shifted his shoulders deeper into the pillow, squirming and trying to free an arm. “Here, let me.” She gently started unwrapping the tangled sheets.

He sighed and instantly regretted it; his throat burned, like he’d eaten firepeppers raw by the handful.

“Is everything okay in here?” Larry asked from the door.

Kyle peeked over his shoulder. “Thought we heard a distress call. Graham? Er. Your Highness, I mean. Highness Graham? You…you look awful.” He rushed in and tripped over the bed pedestal, overbalanced, and bounced on the mattress.

No3 glanced up. “If you’re going to be in here, you’re going to help!”

“What can we do?” Kyle asked. “He looks near death.”

No3 had managed to pull Graham into a sitting position to untangle the sheets tied around his chest, but at that remark, everyone froze, even Kyle, and No3’s nerveless hands let go of Graham, and without her support he collapsed helplessly back into the pillows with a squeak of surprise.

“No no no no no, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound like it did, I’m sorry,” Kyle wailed, clapping a hand over his mouth so that everything he said sounded muffled.

Larry desperately tried to fix things, touching Kyle’s shoulder and saying, “Of course you didn’t,” in an uneasy falsetto. He kept babbling, “But, I mean, it’s all okay. If we needed someone to rule temporarily, Whisper could d—"

Every head snapped in Larry’s direction. Larry paused, realized what his mouth had gone off saying, and backpedaled with a lame, “—efinitely not do it. Definitely not.”

“I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere,” Graham managed, propping himself up on one elbow. For a moment, anyway, before his elbow wobbled and gave out, dropping him into the pillows. He tried to speak again but was interrupted by his own terrible, damp coughing. He scrabbled at his aching throat, wheezing.

“Yeah, for now,” Kyle mumbled distantly, and then, eyes wide, pressed both hands over his mouth again.

No3 bristled and flung a pillow at Kyle. “If you’re going to act like this, you’re going to leave. Both of you.”

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me, I’m so sorry Graham, I don’t mean it to sound like that, you know I don’t, I’m sorry—but,” and this was a hastily muttered aside to No3, “I mean, look at him!”

“I am. That’s why I sent for the ‘pots!”

“Oh. Um. Do you…think they’ll actually be helpful?”

Graham’s throat moved from firepepper-burn to swallowed-several-cups-of-broken-glass, and he could feel a headache kicking up on top of everything else.

Nos 1 and 2 were next in, saying that they’d found the Hobblepots and that the alchemists were on the way and what could they, the royal guards, do to help in the meantime? Tea? Coffee? Pancakes? Fluffed pillows? A teddy bear? A large and well-meant hug? They crowded around the bed, and all went rather quiet when they saw their pale king awash in sweat, laboriously drawing breath and clawing at his own neck. No one seemed quite sure what to say or do, and everyone stood around helplessly, eyeing each other with increasing apprehension while Graham shivered in fever-soaked blankets.

Muriel came bustling in, fire and fury, Chester a few paces behind. She seemed to be in the middle of a long, angry rant to the air: “—and you didn’t say anything? Do you have any idea what could have happened? That noble attitude you’ve got is going to get you killed!” She quieted when she saw the little crowd at the bedside, but only for a second. “Everyone back up, let the poor thing have a moment to himself.” She started pushing people aside with more strength than a little old lady starved in a cell for a week and a half ought to have. “King boy, tell me. How are you feeling?”

“Not fine.” His voice cracked around the words as he fought back another cough.

“Little wonders. What’s wrong, specifically?”

“Everything.”

She clicked her tongue and put her hand against his forehead. Frowning, she caught the skin under his eye with her thumb, pulled, looked at his pupils, and said sharply, “Open your mouth and say ‘aaaaaah.’”

“Gaaahhrgh.” He winced and clapped a hand to his throat.

“Mm-hmm. And deep breath, deep as you can,” she said, pressing her hand to his chest.

He tried, but it felt shallow. She didn’t look pleased. “Again.” After the second, equally pathetic try, she went for his wrist and felt for a pulse. “Chesterrrr,” she trilled.

“Hang on. You wouldn’t believe the books in here! This one shows how to catch a dragontoad without getting burned! I’ve never been able to do that!”

“Chester Hobblepot, are you reading? Get over here now!”

“Yes, dear.” He shuffled forward, stuffing the book into some unknown pocket deep within his robes with a perfectly innocent smile.

“Double check my work,” she said, inspecting Graham’s fingers for swelling.

Chester started to reach out to rest on Graham’s forehead but pulled back sharply. “You could fry my breakfast egg on your face, my lad!” he said cheerfully. “Might we get you to hold a teapot for a moment to boil it? I’d love some chamomile. You might, too.”

Graham groaned and stared pleadingly at the canopy above him for some divine intervention.

“All right, all right, just a joke,” Chester said, doing much the same motions that Muriel had a moment earlier, though with more poking and prodding around Graham’s ears and nose. “Interesting,” he said to his wife under his breath. “Could get ugly.”

“Could get ugly?” Kyle said, leaning over Graham’s prone body. “You mean this isn’t ugly?” His hands pressed into the bruises on Graham’s legs. Even through the blankets, the sharp pain made Graham yelp. Kyle shrank back, apologizing frantically (though without understanding why this time).

“You haven’t seen anything in my sick room if you think this is as bad as it can get,” Muriel said, darkly. She eyed the spot where Kyle had pressed against Graham with suspicion. “When did this start?”

Graham swallowed. “Yesterday…? Before helping Bramble. Didn’t hurt. Just a little dizzy.”

“Well. You’re lucky, at least.”

“Lucky…?”

“Imagine if you were still locked away when this fever kicked up properly.”

He blinked, horrified realization clicking into place.

“Those stressful conditions. You said your cell was constantly wet, yes? It’s a miracle it didn’t start earlier. Now.” She looked at him, shaking her head. “We need to move you, for just a minute. We can’t leave you in these damp sheets. You all should have gotten fresh linens out already,” she added, glaring at the guards. “Haven’t you ever tended someone before?”

Graham tried to get his elbows underneath him so he could sit up, but his body had dealt with more than enough in the last week and refused to listen to him. Every sprain, scrape, and bruise clamored for attention.

Impatient, No1 scooped him up with ease, and Graham dangled in his arms like a melodramatic painting subject. The guard’s armor was cool against his skin, and Graham leaned his feverish cheek against the man’s breastplate with a sigh of relief.

Around him, though, the room took on a decidedly tense atmosphere. Guards 1, 2, and 4 had seen and gently washed the scrapes and cuts from the tips of his curls to the bottom of his toes and were unaffected, but 3, Kyle, Larry, and the Hobblepots were staring, openmouthed. Graham cracked open an eye and blearily considered what had them rattled.

His bare legs hung over the guard’s arm; he realized that his men had, rather than dressing him in his usual nightshirt and trousers, gone for just a long nightshirt. Which…okay, fair enough. He wouldn’t want to force an unconscious deadweight into anything more than that either. This shirt just reached his knees. Wouldn’t have normally raised any sort of comment but for the fact that his shins were covered with finger shaped bruises. Like he’d been gripped tightly by dozens of rock hard hands. Flipped upside down. Shaken. Nearly every night. For a week and a half. He deemed them less unpleasant than they’d been earlier—many were fading off into a rainbow of green and yellow instead of that awful purplish-black color. But the flickering firelight did sort of emphasize them a bit more than expected.

Muriel clicked her tongue angrily and pressed her own finger along some of the fresher marks. Graham sucked in a startled breath and she drew back. “Add some salve to the list,” she said to Chester. “We can get these healing faster, if we pull out a touch of that green ice scale.” She turned and clapped her hands. “Come on, it’s not that interesting. Get those sheets replaced, now.”

~*~*~

Graham sat on the edge of the freshly sheeted mattress, slumped against one of the royal guards sitting beside him for support, while No2 gently wrapped his legs in bandages to keep the green-tinted salve in place rather than staining the bedclothes. The icy medicine numbed the aches in his legs the moment it was applied, and he felt like he was floating away from his own bare toes.

No2 laughed quietly to himself as he knelt there. “Do you remember addendum 867530? Daily foot rub?”

Graham hesitated—it felt like months ago—then grinned. “Light touch, wasn’t it?”

In the corner of the room, Chester and Muriel were debating, checking vials, crushing leaves, mixing up gloppy looking ingredients. After a while, Muriel turned to No3 and said, “I need a cup of strong chamomile tea for His Majesty.”

Chester nodded sagely, muttering, “Told you all so.”

She glanced at him and added, with a trace of a smile, “And also a cup of hot chocolate for Chester.” Chester licked his lips and reached into his pocket. “Just hot chocolate,” Muriel snapped. “Not including whatever he’s about to hand you.” Chester withdrew his empty hand.

The guards folded Graham under fresh bedclothes, being careful not to jostle bruises and scrapes as they did so. Once the tea arrived, Muriel took Graham’s mug and turned her back to the room for a bit with it. Meanwhile, Chester accepted his hot chocolate with magnanimous grace and clambered up on the bed to drink it, bumping Kyle out of his way.

The chamomile didn’t look all that different once it was passed to Graham. Whatever Muriel had done to it hadn’t changed the look of it, though it did taste ever so slightly stronger of lavender than he would have liked. Too floral. He drained it, and the heat soothed his throat.

“And that will help you sleep,” she said, mostly to herself, as she took the mug back.

It took a beat before he realized what that meant. Panic swept in, sharp and hot. “No, wait!” He grabbed her hand, clutched it tight, knocked the mug away; it shattered on the floor, pieces rocking back and forth. “You can’t! No, please don’t let me sleep again. I don’t want to sleep. I can’t! You have to stop it!”

“Graham!” Startled, she looked to the others. No one else seemed capable of doing anything, afraid of speaking against a monarch no matter how sick he was. It just wasn’t something a royal guard did. The tips of her fingers were turning dark beneath his wretched grip. “You must sleep. It’s the best way for your body to heal.”

“But if I sleep…if I sleep…what if he comes back?”

“He?”

“I dreamed…” Graham forced the words past cracked lips, “I dreamed about Achaka.” The room seemed to grow perfectly still. “Please, I can’t. Don’t let me sleep. I can’t face him again.”

Muriel’s face softened, and she sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you? What happened?”

“He was so disappointed in me. I let him down. I failed. I couldn’t protect…I couldn’t protect anyone, and he, he shot, he shot....” His voice broke off.

“You didn’t let him down. You couldn’t ever let him down.”

“Because he’s dead, and I got him killed. It’s all my fault. It’s always been my fault.”

“No! Never think that. You have done more in these last days than anyone could imagine. He would be proud of you. He would never want to hurt you because of what you did to help us survive, Graham. He would be proud.”

A wave of dizziness washed over him in spite of his frustrations and fear, and Graham collapsed back into the pillows. The world was splitting apart into filmy, iridescent soap bubbles. They popped gently one by one, and the room dimmed with each lost bubble. He sank deeper, fingers slackening, but she caught up his hand in hers.

“Never, ever think that you let him down,” she said gently, rubbing the back of his hand. “No one could act with more bravery and compassion and wisdom in those caves. No one but you.”

Everything was going blurry, his friends fading off into ridiculous colors and shapes and disappearing, but he forced himself to focus on her, to bring her back into real shapes and real colors. He had to be sure. The Hobblepots were very old and very judgmental people, he remembered. They would tell the truth. “Muriel,” he whispered, desperate, slurred, sleepy. “Did I do all right?”

“King Edward could not have done better, Your Majesty. You protected Daventry magnificently. Now, you have to rest. We still need you, but right now, you’ve done enough. Sleep.”

And he did, slipping down beneath sheets and stars, and the nightmares held their peace.

~*~*~

She sank into the rocking chair. The last few weeks had taken their toll on her, and now that Graham was unconscious again, the flurry of activity over, she looked just as sunken and nearly as sick as he did. Chester was snoring already, snuggled against one of the pillows. Kyle and Larry were whispering if they should wake him or carry him to his own bed.

Muriel listened to the whistle in her monarch’s throat as he breathed. “I’d bet he’s contagious,” she said, as casual as an afterthought. As one, every single guard took three steps back from the bed. “We’ll need more of the frostleaf, sooner rather than later. Just under his tongue. It’ll melt. It’ll help with the wheezing.” She stretched. “Lots of it. Bramble’ll want some, too.” She rubbed her own throat. “And me, if I’m to be tending him.”

“Muriel, we can take care of him from here,” No1 said, gently.

“No, I don’t think you should. You mean well, but unless you get another healer in, I’m the best way to beat that fever before he goes delirious. Just bring in the rest of that list from the shop; I expect we’ll need it all soon. Delicately, now. Don’t go bruising leaves before it’s time to bruise ‘em.”

She eased herself to her feet, wobbled, and No1 took her arm to steady her. She smiled at him, but the smile disappeared again as she thought. “Someone’s got to stay and keep watch. If he starts to wake, you get me. He should be out for a few hours, but he’s a fighty little thing. Gonna be a pest, especially if he decides he can use them kingly orders to make you all let him out of this room before I say so. Which you won’t do. Matter of fact, you’ll not even let him get out of that bed before I personally and explicitly say it’s okay. No matter what he threatens, you’re going to keep him put because I can make threats too, and mine have more interesting consequences.” She eyed each guard in turn. “Think frogs and Chester,” she growled.

In unison, every guard agreed, stiff with terror.

“Fine,” she said, mostly to herself. “We’re all fine.” And the kingdom would be…well, more than fine, truly, with this man wearing the crown and leading them forward. They would be wonderful.

#King's Quest #kings quest #King Graham #he's fine #ch2 #fic'ing

2 notes · View notes

wardencommanderrodimiss · 7 years

Text

I’m poking at the Witch Hunt fic again and I posted an excerpt of 2k of the beginning last September. it’s up at 12k now and here’s another excerpt because I’m bored and this is honestly one of my favorite fics that I’ve written.

I apologize in advance that my Mahariel is named Avrian and the elven companion from Witch Hunt is named Ariane. it hurts my eyes, too.

The Brecilian Forest is empty of any clans at the moment. It has been two years since he last saw it, much longer than he ever went before; Clan Sabrae did not so much wander endlessly but make a rotation of several sites, until they ran from the blight. The Wending Wood has many of the Brecilian Forest's spirits, murderous trees, and other assorted mysteries, but it isn't home.

Stepping back into the thick trees that make the sun green on the moss below feels like home, somehow even more than returning to his clan outside of Kirkwall did. "Do you know where the ruins were?" Finn asks. Avrian shakes his head. He thinks that in this moment, if he opens his mouth to elaborate further, he might vomit. Home is not empty of horrors.

Ariane has a map showing the Brecilian Forest in more detail than Finn's, and Avrian can make a circle of the section of the forest that they will most likely have success searching in. "So, uh, should I expect that we'll be attacked by anything?" Finn asks nervously, squinting through the mists that cling to tree trunks like vines.

Avrian and Ariane make a game of how long they can keep going naming potential threats. He says darkspawn, she says bears, he says bearskarn and has to explain the tainted twisted monsters that he and Tamlen found in the ruins. His voice still shakes on Tamlen's name. He thought he had let go.

Eluvian. It’s the old elvish word for ‘looking glass’.

He had. He had, but the grave that he finally set his grief down in is a shallow one, too easily scratched open to display its bare bones to the world. "Ir abelas," Ariane says, mournful eyes watching his trembling shoulders, clenched fists. "I can't imagine how this must feel, to go back."

"We had no idea." He closes his eyes, trying to stir up the feverish memories of what the forest looked like around the ruins, the pathways and gullies where the clan camped as they had so many times before. How had no one ever found the cave until he and Tamlen did? Did it awaken with the blight, stirred up by the darkspawn or was it just chance when the Dread Wolf decided to open his jaws, Mythal's grace that kept any of the clan from stumbling in sooner? "That this was where everything would change, that... that he'd already walked away from the clan for the last time, that I'd never see him again healthy, whole."

"My clan passed yours on our way back to Ferelden," Ariane says. "They told us of their losses. There was a new baby, named Tamlen. They remember him, too."

What did Morrigan name their child? If he could have gone with her - if their child was a boy - would he have, would she have let him, name him after Tamlen? Or would that be a sure way for Avrian to never live free of the ghosts of regret? "I never told anyone I found him," Avrian confesses. "I thought to spare them that."

Fen'Falon presses against his hip. Avrian rubs his ears. Ariane and Finn say nothing, letting him close his eyes and listen to the wind rustle the leaves, the stream babble against rocks down in the ravine. Something itches in the base of his skull, a pulse down his spine, a twitch like a compass point spinning, an arrow on a map drawn in tainted blood on his brain. He knows it is the cave, as surely as anything, sensing it as clearly as darkspawn or archdemons. "This way," he says, turning and leading them off the path, over tree roots and shifting soil. Finn calls for them to wait up and Avrian leans against a tree, remembering the first days after Ostagar, as he and Morrigan so easily picked their way through the wilderness while Alistair stumbled behind them. That was the second life he has left behind.

"Are you sure?" Finn asks after he has caught up to them and disturbed every bit of wildlife in the area. "How do you know?"

"I can sense the blight," he says. "I know."

Finn stares at him like he isn't sure if he should be afraid or concerned or simply accept it as fact. Avrian starts walking again and almost doesn't answer, but he stops, one hand resting on the tree next to him and says, without looking at Finn, "It's part of being a warden."

"Oh," Finn says, his tone suggesting that he really doesn't know what to say, that he really sort of regrets asking. He doesn't say more, nor does Ariane, and the silence that falls is the unnatural stillness of a blighted area, the way Avrian remembers returning to the cave with Merrill and Fenarel. Do you hear that? Merrill asked, and that was nothing.

He leads them down the path and then off of it, through brambles and dead leaves that cover the ground so thoroughly that they will never all finish rotting away. The sensation of the taint tingles down his spine, churning over and over in his stomach now as they draw closer. Every heartbeat is followed by a sharp jabbing sensation, a muscle spasm in his chest, like his blood is trying to tear free of his body and join what else of the taint lies nearby.

"Here," he says, stopping, and for a moment he wants to fall to the ground and bury himself in it, give in to the calling a decade or two before it will become unbearable. Simpler, if he were to now. Of all the world, the Brecelian Forest, home to the paths he grew up on and the tombs of his long-ago ancestors, the trees within which Tamlen's ashes were scattered, would be a good place to die.

"Here?" Finn repeats in disbelief. Avrian pushes through the brush until he finds the sudden drop, easing himself down against the cliffside as far as he can before he drops the rest of the distance. Without turning he knows that the cave mouth gapes open behind him, waiting for the unwary to descend down the gullet of the earth into the cold stone where tainted beasts await.

"Here," Avrian says. Here, a lifetime ago, he and Tamlen stood.

I don't like this, Avrian said, slinging his bow back over his shoulder and resting a hand on the dagger at his hip. We need to be careful. There has to be some reason we've never seen this place before.

We should at least check it out, Tamlen said. He still had an arrow nocked to his bow in case the humans came back around again. See if there's anything interesting before we go running back to Keeper. Don't want to drag her out here for nothing because you're scared of the dark and won't go in first. How dangerous can it be?

If he closes his eyes he sees himself, only two years younger but also so much more, hair pulled back in tight braids that Ashalle's deft fingers could weave faster than he was ever able to. He wears his hair loose and curly now and some nights fumbles trying to braid it the way he never practiced enough because long after he received his vallaslin, Ashalle was still willing to help him. His eyes were still brown back then, eyes he got from his mother like he took her name, and now he only has the latter, the taint having stripped the color away even long after his veins stopped looking like charcoal lines drawn against his sickly skin.

He sees Tamlen, clear skin and bright eyes and the lines of his vallaslin sharp on his face. The taint took that all from him and from Avrian it took the ability to remember him solely as he was. He sees again, unwillingly, rotting gray flesh and empty eyes, replacing the image of him alive, quick and curious and angry and affectionate and everything he was. How dangerous can it be, Tamlen asked, and the Dread Wolf grinned his terrible grin of a thousand bared teeth and said, now you will find out.

#yells HEY WOLF. HEY WOLF.#generic wip tag #i've played with my writing style a lot for this fic and i personally think it's going great

4 notes · View notes