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westmoor · 3 years

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the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @justjess94 @fontegagrilledcheese @dani-dandelino @honeysuckletook @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

#post before i chicken out #the fox #the hare #the hart #geraskier #the witcher fanfic #shapeshifter!jaskier #geralt #jaskier

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wishingforatypewriter · 4 years

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More of the fantasy AU please🐉

Summary: Erina and Souma meet once again in the days before he leaves on his quest. (Original fantasy au post here, previous sorina fic here)

Erina sat beside her grandfather in the throne room, back straight and face impassive as a parade of weary farmers came and bowed and begged for alms or a deferment of taxes because their crops had failed. All of their stories were the same—an auspicious growing season and the promise of a strong yield suddenly thwarted by a rotting of the crops, as though the soil itself were blighted.

When she was younger, Erina had often wondered if her father truly understood what he had done when he sent his curse, whether he had meant it. But now she knew with certainty that he had. If her grandfather had even a shred of weakness inside him, he would have relinquished land and title to put an end to it years ago. And if Erina herself had been any less proud, she would have begged him to.

When the day’s last supplicant, a widow, came in, flanked by two small children without shoes and begging for grain to feed them, Erina was reminded of her burden once again.

“Lady Arato,” she whispered to her friend once her grandfather had finished his last audience. “I wish to ride out to the fields. Will you accompany me?”

Hisako had always possessed the ability to read her mind, and today she seemed less than pleased with her thought process. Her eyebrows knit together in the way they always did when she worried. “My princess, it is highly inadvisable,” she said. “You’ve only barely recovered from the incident on the riverbanks. Overtaxing your magic again so soon—”

“Is my duty,” Erina said, sighing. “As the future queen, I cannot allow my people to starve when I have the power to prevent it.”

Hisako sighed heavily, and Erina knew that she was taking mental stock of her potions inventory, weighing the benefits of her various healing charms. “Still, you know that this isn’t sustainable. You need to consider your health. If it hadn’t been for that fool merchant, Yukihira, your people would be mourning you right now.”

Just the mention of that upstart peasant set Erina on edge, but she hadn’t a thought to spare for him today.

“My health will recover, as always, as long as I have you with me.” The princess clasped her lady’s hands between her own, and by the flush spreading on Hisako’s cheeks, Erina knew that the argument was won. “Will you ready the horses?”

“Of course,” she said. “Just be careful, please.”

“I will,” the princess promised. “For if I am not, you will never let me hear the end of it.”

By sundown, all the agrarian fields of Totsuki overflowed with golden wheat and vegetables, and the people drank and danced in town and farmstead, singing the praises of their princess with the power of the gods.

“You’re so unfair, Erina,” her cousin Alice whined, riding up to her and Hisako on their way back from the last field. “How on earth am I to become the favorite if you’re always pulling stunts like that?”

“Simple. You aren’t.”

“So prickly,” the Princess Alice said. “It’s almost enough to make one forget how softhearted you really are.”

“Who’s soft?” Erina snapped, then paused, taking a sip of the restorative tonic Hisako had made when the fatigue started creeping up on her again.

“Do not provoke her today, Alice,” Hisako chided as they approached the center of town.

The people threw roses and shouted praises as the trio as they rode into the town square. Alice waved and blew kisses at them, while Erina offered dignified half-smiles and Hisako kept watch for potential assailants.

“Oh look, there goes your champion,” Alice said to Erina, pointing at a particular head of spiky red hair.

“My champion?” Erina scoffed. “That person is grandfather’s pet project. He has nothing to do with me.”

“Hey, Saiba!” Alice called out to him, completely ignoring her cousin’s denial. “Saiba! Doesn’t he hear?”

“He doesn’t answer to Saiba,” Erina said before she could think better of it. “He goes by his mother’s name, Yukihira, for whatever reason.”

“You know an awful lot about him,” Alice said, smirking. “Hey, Yukihira! This way!” She waved him over to them, all smiles.

“Oh, what’s up, Nakiris?”

“You will address the princesses with more formality,” Hisako quipped, scowling.

“Ignore her. Alice is fine,” the white haired royal assured him. “What are you up to today?”

“I’m actually looking for a blacksmith,” he said. “I need to get a sword made.”

“Oh, then you need to go to Ibusaki’s place. It’s not too far from here. We can take you if you like.”

“We can?” Erina repeated, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Of course. We all have errands to run, anyway. Lady Arato has to visit the apothecary shop, and I’ve been meaning to check in with the seer, so you’ll take Yukihira to the blacksmith, right Erina?”

And because her cousin was absolutely impossible, and Hisako actually did need to visit the apothecary, Erina somehow ended up alone with the commoner.

When they reached Ibusaki’s shop, Yukihira helped her down from her horse as a gentleman would, and she was begrudgingly grateful because in her current state she might not have be able to manage the descent on her own.

“You sure you’re up to this?” he asked, taking a good look at her. “That stuff with the wheat probably took a lot out of you.”

“Keep your voice down,” she snapped, watching as he hobbled her horse. “What you’re speaking of isn’t common knowledge.”

“So they don’t know that pulling off miracles makes you sick?”

“It’s not a matter for commoners to concern themselves with,” she said. “Least of all foreign ones.”

Yukihira shook his head at her, laughing a bit as he opened the shop door. “I almost forgot about that part of your personality.”

“Next time, don’t. It will prevent you from becoming too familiar. And what does a tradesman need with a blade, anyway? You don’t expect to open casks with it, do you?”

“So you’re capable of humor after all,” he said with a broad grin, one that Erina found slightly less irritating each time she saw it. “I figured that if I’m going on a quest, I should probably have something more than a knife.”

His words made Erina’s blood run cold. “You’ve accepted it then.” She sighed. “You helped me once before, so I feel I should warn you. You may be Lord Saiba’s son and heir, but from what I can tell you’re no warrior and have no magic to speak of. If you try to oppose Lord Azami, you will die—needlessly and without honor.”

“I’m touched,” he said dryly.

“I’m serious,” she replied, crossing her arms. “My grandfather means well, but he is blinded by his memories of your father and the kingdom’s golden age. He does not realize he’s sending you into a situation far out of your depth.”

Yukihira gave her a long look, and for a moment Erina hoped—more than believed—that he would see reason. “I appreciate the advice, princess. But you’re wrong,” he told her. “The way I see it, your grandfather is just another customer, and this talisman is a highly coveted product. The Yukihira Trading Company has never failed to deliver before, and it won’t this time.”

Erina had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from returning his smile. “You’re either brave or simple,” she said with a sigh. “But I guess it can’t be helped. If you insist on seeing this through, you’ll need proper armament.”

With that, the princess walked up to the front of the shop and addressed the owner’s son. “Ibusaki the younger,” she said in curt greeting. “This one needs mail and a longsword. The blade is to be made in the claymore style with a good grip. It should be finished in a week’s time, all charges posted to the royal account.”

“Yes, princess,” the blacksmith’s son said with a small bow.

“One more thing.” Erina reached for the crystal attached to her necklace and placed it down on the counter. Then she took the dagger at her belt and made a small slice across her left palm. After a few drops of blood touched the gemstone, Erina whispered the words of old and the clear stone turned red. “Put this in the pommel.”

She looked up and saw Yukihira glancing at her incredulously. Once he had recovered himself, he ripped a piece of cloth from his tunic to bandage her hand. “Blood magic?” he asked, once he had finished.

“Protection. It will save your life one time,” she said. “Be sure not to waste it.”

#shokugeki no soma #sorina #soueri #food wars #fantasy au #alice loves to meddle

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whatarubberchicken · 5 years

Text

Play Me a Tune (Make Me Smile)

Because @galahadwilder and his prompts are bad influences... (probably not exactly what you were thinking, but it’s a start...)

Play Me a Tune (Make Me Smile)

“I love my job; I’m living the dream,” Marinette recited to herself. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. Everything hurt from gritting her teeth through that last meeting. Not only had it been a long night, but their current client was turning out to be impossible!

She just needed a breath of fresh air. She was going to eat her bagel, then go back in her office and completely blow this project out of the water! Yes!

She rounded a corner and stopped short.

Great. More musicians. Exactly what she DIDN’T want right now.

Two boys to be exact: a blond with a keyboard and the other on guitar who obviously dyed his hair blue on a regular basis. She was just about to walk the other way….

Except these two were everything her client was not: bright and happy as they sang together, instead of dark and brooding like XY as he tried to cultivate his emo phase. They were also kinda cute. (No offense to XY, she knew a lot of people liked his look, but it just wasn’t for her.) And (full offense to XY) actually talented in music. Their instruments and voices blended together perfectly.

And it made her feel things.

In fact, it made her blush deeply when they grinned at each other and kissed mid-song.

Marinette quickly finished her bagel and fled back to the safety of her office.

Get it together, girl! she scolded herself. You’ve seen people kiss before!

But… none of them had made her want to stand up and cheer for the couple before. Those two boys were obviously in love.

Her afternoon was spent sketching new designs in greens, yellows, and blues. She scowled when she realized they all had little hearts in them somehow.

………..

The next day was just as bad; meetings ran late, clients had to be rescheduled, “Where’s the mock-up, Dupain-Cheng?” “You said you needed it next week!” “That was then, we need it now!”

Luckily, she’d already been half-done with it anyway, but it still hadn’t been easy to whip the rest of it up in half a morning when she was supposed to have a whole week…. She sighed, staring down at her muffin in disgust. She missed Papa’s croissants. Maybe she should go visit?

No. No, she couldn’t go running back to them now! She’d never leave!

Before she’d realized what’d happened, her feet had carried her back to that same street corner. And, surprise, surprise, the two musicians were there, entertaining the crowd by racing through a rendition of some pop song as fast as they could.

Marinette snorted in laughter as the crowd cheered at their big finish. Not just young, beautiful, and obviously in love, these two were playful and fun too!

She wished she had time to meet them.

…………….

The third day was cold and wet, and as dark as Marinette’s mood.

Rejected.

Her designs had been rejected.

After all that hard work, all the revisions that had been fully-approved and accepted, the client had completely done a 180.

“These are too whimsical and colorful!” XY had complained (even though he’d been the one to commission a brightly-colored suit from them in the first place). “What?! Do you think I don’t take my music seriously or something?”

You shouldn’t, she’d wanted to snark back. You’re just a synthesizer with a bad haircut.

Luckily, her company was well-established enough that were still going to be paid for their hours, but it still smarted that someone thought she wasn’t good enough.

She sighed. Taking a walk around the area to clear her mind was just what she needed. She’d get over it easily enough; she just needed to recover from that initial sting.

She wasn’t even surprised when her feet automatically carried her back to where the two boys were playing. She WAS surprised that they weren’t playing around and laughing like the past two times she’d seen them. Instead, they were sitting underneath an awning, keeping their instruments out of the light drizzle, and playing softly to each other.

Still, however soft and slow, it was a good melody, and Marinette felt herself drawn closer, in order to hear them better. To her chagrin, however, the blue-haired boy noticed her.

“Well, look at what we have here, Adrien,” he said cheerfully. “A princess in the rain!”

“That’ll never do,” the blond agreed, standing up and opening an umbrella with a flourish. “Would you like an umbrella, my lady?” he asked, giving her a courtly bow.

“Oh! Uh, no, that’s fine,” Marinette stammered, blushing. “You—you’re going to need them later for your instruments.”

“Actually, our cases are waterproof,” the blue-haired boy pointed out, patting the hard case beside him. “And Adrien here likes to cuddle with me under one umbrella anyway.” He winked at his boyfriend.

“I am but a simple man with simple tastes,” Adrien stated dramatically. He turned back to Marinette. “And, right now, I’d really like to see a princess’s smile,” he added, much more gently.

She was sure her face was on fire as she took the umbrella and tried hard to give the boys a strained smile. Judging from the look on the blond’s face, he wasn’t impressed.

“S-sorry,” she finally said. “It’s… been kind of a bad day so far.”

Adrien’s eyes lit up. “A mission!” he cried, darting back over to his keyboard. “The Quest to Make the Princess Smile!”

With that, he started up a jaunty little tune, the other boy following him immediately on the guitar. It was carefree, and upbeat, and ordinarily, Marinette would’ve loved it. Today, though, she just gave them a small smile, and dug into her wallet to throw them a tip.

“Thanks, guys,” she said, tossing them her biggest bill. It was just about time to go back and face her failures at the office—

“Luka,” she heard Adrien whine. “The princess is trying to pay us, even though we didn’t make her smile!”

Oh my God, he was so cute! He actually sounded heartbroken that he couldn’t cheer her up!

“Hmm,” Luka said thoughtfully. “She said she had a bad day, babe. We know how that can be, right?” The blond hummed in agreement, leaning his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder as Luka strummed a quiet, mournful tune. Absently, the blond followed him on the piano.

Marinette felt her shoulders relax at the gentle melody. Soft, sad, hopeful—it kinda sounded like rain, actually. The tension in her jaw lessened as well and she sighed in relief.

Yes. This was what she’d been needing. The two boys continued for a couple of minutes before Luka stopped and smiled at her knowingly.

“Better?”

“It was. Thank you,” Marinette said honestly. She held out their umbrella. “But I still don’t need this. I’m just going back inside there,” she said, gesturing to her building. Neither of them made any move to take it back, though, (Adrien was actually pouting at her again and he was seriously, so cute) so Marinette made to put it by the hat they had out for tips (a derby hat. What a strange choice!).

“Hey!” Adrien exclaimed, standing back up and stomping over to her. “Are you trying to insult my chivalry?!”

“No,” Marinette said, startled.

“Adrien…,” Luka said warningly, chuckling a little bit. “Sorry about him. He likes to think he’s some sort of white knight or something.”

“Uh, hello? The Black Knight is infinitely cooler,” Adrien argued, hands on his hips as he argued with his boyfriend. “And besides, a real knight would insist on walking his lady home—which I won’t!” he quickly added, noticing Marinette took a step back, “because in this day and age that’s considered creepy—but I can insist you take the umbrella, my lady.” He gave her another bow.

Marinette felt a little laugh escape her. He was just so over-the-top!

“There, good sir, you’ve made me laugh,” she said, dipping into a tiny curtsy. “You mission has been accomplished. Well done.”

Adrien’s eyes brightened and he fist-pumped the air. He and Marinette both laughed when Luka played a quick Final Fantasy victory fanfare.

“Thank you. Both of you,” Marinette said warmly, feeling better than she had in days. She stepped closer to Adrien and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There. A token of my thanks.” Then, before she could lose her nerve, she walked over to Luka and gave him a kiss on the cheek too.

He beamed at her. “Best tip all day.”

Giggling, she waved goodbye and headed back to work, already planning her schedule for tomorrow so she could come back here for lunch.

…

Luka watched her go, seriously considering going after her to beg for her phone number. He glanced at his boyfriend, still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a dazed expression on his face, his hand touching the cheek she’d kissed.

He chuckled. Adrien had had a crush on her since they’d noticed her a couple of days ago. His boyfriend was so gone.

Mischievously, Luka fingered out a quick, “Another One Bites the Dust!”

That seemed to snap Adrien out of it, and he whirled on his boyfriend, blushing deeply.

“Sh-shut up!”

Luka just laughed. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

#lukadrien #Lukadrienette #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #luka couffaine #dang these prompts that inspire so easily

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crasherfly · 4 years

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What I’m Up To

Taking a brief pause from my fantasy screenplay to talk a bit about what I’m playing/reading/listening to these days.

VIDYA GAMES

Cities: Skylines- Still working on my shithole city in all its glory. San Cruz has expanded to over 100k residents and in the past week I’ve built a level 3 park, extensive monorail system, and even extensive helicopter pickup lines. It’s still a terrible place to live, but it’s also fun to grapple with the challenges of a desert map.

Yakuza 0- I’m gonna post this take here, since we’re not on twitter and I’m safe from the mobs- Yakuza 0 is the experience everyone promised me Witcher 3 would be. Thrilling combat, a fascinating game world, and lovely, meaningful side quests. If this sounds like I’m digging at Witcher 3, I promise I’m not. I personally didn’t enjoy that game. But obviously, many, many people did and would disagree with my critiques. That’s totally fine! I’m just saying I’m enjoying Yakuza 0 for merits similar to what I’ve heard in connection with the Witcher franchise- and I could also see people having similar gripes, too! I’ve been on a well documented single player drought over the past couple months. Yakuza 0 finally broke me out of that, and it’s been a thrill. Getting out of the COD grind cycle has been a joy. This is a lovely experience that rewards curiosity by sparking yet more curiosity. I can’t wait to see how it continues to open up. Expect my Twitter account to go on about this for a while.

Mario 64- I have 8 stars! I’m told I have like, 113 more to go, a number which makes me groan. So far, Mario 64 has felt like an obligation that is occasionally fun. It’s very dated, but it has the DNA that would go on to make later games like Odyssey an absolute joy. Games like these feel more like an exercise in filling in my gamer history gaps than they do labors of love. Like most retro games, I have a hard time getting into Mario 64 for longer than 20 minutes at a time. So this will likely be a long-running project.

Star Wars: Squadrons- I probably should have known better, but I picked this game up ‘cuz the reviews were decent and the price felt right. Good news is that in the couple of hours I’ve spent with it, the gameplay is mostly solid and the graphics are beautifully rendered. It feels like both Rogue Squadron AND X-Wing, which is a hell of an accomplishment. Bad news is several of the missions appear to be badly broken, requiring numerous restarts. The game is generous with checkpoints, so it’s not a huge deal, but it is annoying. Hopefully they patch that stuff. I also haven’t tried multiplayer yet. None of my friends have bit on picking this up, so I’m not sure when or if it will happen. Assuming I can power through the hammy story, I’ll at least finish the campaign sometime down the line, even if I can’t be bothered to care how any of this fits into the larger world of Star Wars.

Warzone- Still doing that Season 6 thing! Subways have been mostly a disappointment for me so far, and the new marksman rifle has made the current meta a veritable hell for anyone with underdeveloped quick scoping skills, but I still get a couple matches in every day.

ANIME

God of High School- To say God of High School moves fast is an understatement. True to form, it sprinted its way through the finale. It’s got some lovely sequences, and I can’t wait to get my hands on the OST, but beyond a couple of choice battles, it didn’t leave a strong impression on me. I’m glad I saw it, but I’m not thirsting for a new season.

Dragon Ball- I switched over to the English dub of this show. I don’t usually do that, but I was struggling to keep my attention. I think in a way it helped? The English dub actors are far more cartoonish and silly, which really plays to the absurd animation and story turns. I’m on S1E13, and the first summoning of the dragon just happened. I won’t spoil except to say...this show has a deeply specific sense of humor, and I’m starting to dig it?

Fire Force- Season 2 is finally taking off for me. I’m on ep 14, and the focus has shifted over to the mysterious Joker. The battles have been compelling, as have been the mysteries placed by his storyline. I was struggling with feeling invested in S2 thus far, but the past few ep’s have reminded me of why I found this show special in the first place- when it gets serious and stays focused, it’s one of the tightest active shonen stories.

Manga

I’ve been on a bit of a manga break lately. Today I did take time with another chapter of Fruits Basket, which continues to be a lovely delight. I also recently received Master Edition copies of both Fairy Tail and Berserk. This week, my goal is to finish both Fruits Basket and my latest volumes of One Piece so I can dive into my new Master Editions.

Music

I haven’t had much change in my music tastes lately. I’ve been listening to a lot of Kompany and other dubstep artists, mostly ‘cuz I find the deep bass and variety of sounds soothing to me while I’m writing and zoning out during sessions of Cities: Skylines. I also enjoy its tempo while I’m running. Anything that helps the time pass, really.

Tabletop Games

I played 6 hours of DND this weekend. It was mostly a free-form improv session where I let the players do basically anything they wanted to within the gameworld we established during The Lost Mines of Phandelver. It was very heavy on roleplay, without a single instance of combat. While I was personally exhausted after the session, the players expressed that they had a very good time. We’ll be looking to finish up what they started in a bonus session for October!

Wrastlin!

My WWF Discord group just finished 1999 King of the Ring. Mr. Ass won! One of our folks actually got her bracket right. I had predicted Kane winning, so I was obviously out of luck on that. In the last RAW, Stone Cold Steve Austin just won the Heavy Weight Title from the Undertaker in an unlikely win! We’ll see how long that stint lasts...

Streams

I tried streaming from my personal Twitch using a schedule last week!

It...had mixed results.

My Warzone streams were my most popular, which is funny, ‘cuz I’m not that good at Warzone. My least popular were my Dungeon of the Endless and Yakuza 0 streams, which is not a big surprise. Those games aren’t that fun to watch.

I wanted to do the schedule as a an attempt to see if I could get a small audience or find some new meaning in games I was working through by presenting them as content.

I found the answer to both was more or less “not really”.

And that’s okay!

I also learned streaming, even just for an hour a night, is hard work. We should all be kinder to our content creators and in awe of the friends we have who do it even when on one is watching. Content creation is so unforgiving. Maybe if I stuck with it longer I’d have found my niche, but honestly, I just enjoy games for the games, and turning them into content just isn’t my speed.

I’ve been doing the whole SpriteClub thing per usual. I’m a paid subscriber now! And I even am on a greeting basis with some folks. That’s been really cool. We had debuts this weekend too, where creators submit new fighters. The system matches them with other fighters to determine ratings. It’s a lot of fun, and the event always has this festival atmosphere to it.

I’ve also been watching a lot of streams from the gals over at hololive-EN. Specifically, I’ve been watching Gawr Gura, Amelia Watson and Mori Calliope. It’s become nightly viewing in my household. I’ll save the debate on V-Tubers for a different place, suffice to say I have enjoyed the games they’ve presented and the personalities they’ve developed, and I think the success they’ve found is well earned. There are some talented folks behind these projects, and I find the streams to be relaxing, enjoyable, and at hours I can actually tune in for.

Personal News

Lately, I’ve been feeling pretty down. This can be easily correlated with the shift in temperature, for sure. I know a lot of people really dig fall, and I used to be a SPOOKY SEASON guy myself, but as I get older, fall has shifted into this period of mourning as I recognize the shortening days and the coming winter, which has always played hell with my body.

I’ve been struggling with a number of phantom symptoms that seem to pop up this time of year- bad digestion, terrible sleep (likely resulting from mild apnea), fatigue and heart palpitations. In turn, my mental health has been seriously flagging.

At the suggestion of my therapist, I’ve started up a new vitamin regimen including a multivitamin and magnesium. I’ve also focused on finding potassium enriched foods and have cut back significantly on my drinking and caffeine. So far, this has actually resulted in me gaining weight ‘cuz I’ve been indulging in a lot of sugar as a coping mechanism, but I’m working through getting back to a healthy place where I can both track my intake but also be content with where I’m at. Right now I’m doing my best to try and fight the urge to become a Nap Guy.

Last week I took several naps, even on my off days, and I’ve had a hard time sustaining my energy throughout the day, so I’m doing a better job of getting the sleep my body asks for while also structuring my day with more purpose so I’m left with less time just lying around wondering what to do.

Last week I broke my personal best for a 5K, breaking 24 minutes. For today’s run, I plan to try and break my 7:30 time on my mile run to the gym.

For weights, I’ve gotten into a rhythm of 3 times a week, with Mondays and Fridays focusing on my core exercises- presses and curls, with Wednesdays focusing on pulls that are centered on working out my back, as well as bodyweight exercises such as dips and pull ups. This variation has given my limbs more time to heal up, which is welcome. Now if only I could be kinder to my body AFTER the gym, I might see some actual progress!

Work continues to be what it is. I’m at 30 hours now, which continues to be a huge positive. I don’t think I could keep at it with 40 hours. Change is a constant, and they seem to find new ways to make our jobs more convoluted every day. I have a quarterly review coming up with my new supervisor, but I have a feeling it won’t be nearly so traumatic as the last one, as I’ve done a good job of straightening up and flying right.

As I get more distance from August, I’m starting to recognize it- the events of my workplace disasters, my unplanned vacation, my off the rails spending and drinking- for what it was- it was a breakdown. And I’m still recovering from it. I was deeply unwell, and I took on some trauma- some of it wasn’t stuff I was looking for, some of it was stuff I brought on myself. I’m working through it. I wish I could say things like therapy have made a huge difference, but frankly, most of the work comes from stuff like this, where I’m just writing and being transparent with myself. That’s where I find the most healing work happens.

I still have a lot of my social media muted. When I need news, it typically filters through into my Discord, or Yahoo dings my phone or I see it on my Facebook feed. It’s fair to say that lately it’s felt like everything just Happens So Much.

I feel for my friends who are directly impacted- by the election, by the supreme court, by...just, everything. It all makes my own personal journey and endeavors feel...deeply small. At the same time, I just don’t have the emotional capacity required to house this perpetual crowd of events or constantly process everything in real time. I’m not sure when, if ever, I will have that again. I struggle to read ANYTHING- even friendly sites like Defector or The Discourse, without feeling an immense downswing.

I don’t know what the answer is. I wish I could just gut up and stay constantly plugged in for the sake of pals who might need to openly hash this out or draw attention to their causes or needs, but based on the past few months, I’m not sure I can take care of myself, let alone others. As I often tell close friends, my priorities these days are this small and in this order- Stay Healthy, Stay Kind, Stay Employed, Stay Productive- anything that goes right beyond that feels like a bonus in 2020.

At any rate, thanks for reading the update, y’all!

I’ll try and post these more regularly. I just wanted to check in with everyone and let y’all know how everything is going these days. Stuff like this helps me keep honest, as lately I’ve had a hard time sussing out what my direction is these days. Stay safe and well, and hit me up with what you’re up to, when you find a moment!

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kusunogatari · 5 years

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[ ObiRyū October | Day Thirty-One: Medieval AU ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Jiraiya ] [ Verse: Drake by Day ] [ Previous || Next ]

Making his way through the gates of the capital city, Obito peers out from under the hem of his hood to the castle at the peak of the hill. It’s taken him two weeks to reach it from where he first heard word of the quest. All he can hope now is that no one else has succeeded...and that the reward is as grand as the bulletin made it appear.

With a gentle nudge of his heels, he urges his mount onward through the main thoroughfare. He’s never been this far north, and all the tales he’s heard of the city are more than true, given what he sees. Never has he witnessed buildings so tall, streets so wide and cobbled. And like a proverbial crown, the castle sits above it all, gleaming in the sunlight.

It’s there he’s headed to take on the challenge offered by the king.

Already he can tell that there’s a lingering tension in the air. The townsfolk look nervous, faces drawn in the wake of the bad news. Obito doesn’t yet know how long this tragedy has weighed on them, but it must be quite some time…

Putting that thought aside, he continues upward until reaching the castle gate. Dismounting and taking his horse’s reins, he approaches a guard. “I’m here about the contract offered by the king.”

The knight, dressed in gleaming armor, seems to look him over skeptically for a long moment. Obito’s own garb is more akin to a rogue than someone like him, weighed down by strong but bulky plates. “...go ahead, then. You can leave your mount at the stables until you’ve finished your business.”

Nodding, Obito does as he’s told before taking the steps up to the main doors. Beyond them stretches a grand hall that draws his gaze to the vaulted ceilings. And at the far end, upon a lonely throne, sits the king.

Obito’s hardly the only person milling about. Staff, knights, members of court...all bustle around and look high-strung. Seems the anxiety is only heightened here...and for good reason.

When he approaches, the monarch is talking lowly to a courier, who disengages with a bow before letting his ruler eye his new guest.

“...and who might you be?”

Reaching into his hip satchel, Obito draws and unravels the parchment that had hung in the tavern he frequents. “I’ve come to offer my aid.”

Immediately, the man’s face falls as he sees the portrait upon the paper. Gently accepting it, he looks over the visage of his daughter. “...I see. Forgive me, but…” A hand spares to gesture to him. “You hardly look the part of a knight.”

“Because I’m not one.”

“...and yet you would attempt to bring her back?”

“If I may, your majesty...how many knights have you sent on this voyage?”

The man’s face darkens. “...too many.”

“And how many have succeeded?”

There’s a gusty sigh, considering the traveler. “...I see your point. But you did read the missive, did you not? The princess is not simply missing - she’s being guarded by a beast of legend. Have you any experience in fighting such a monster?”

“It doesn’t always come down to a fight. I’ll try my luck, if I may, your majesty.”

“...very well. And may I assume it is the monetary reward that tempts you?”

“...I’ll not deny it.”

“There’s no shame in seeking your fortune through honest work,” the king replies. “And it is more than worth seeing my daughter - my sole heir - returned whence she belongs. Very well...should you succeed, the money is yours. Bring her here...and you will have your reward. My steward will show you the map where she has been taken. There is no date by which you must return, but the sooner, quite obviously the better. My people fear having their future queen missing so long, for I am growing old…”

“I’ll bring her back. You have my word.”

“Either that, or you’ll perish trying,” the king replies dryly. “...go, then. And good fortune to you, for my daughter’s sake.”

With that encouraging send off, Obito is pulled aside and shown a map of the nearby lands.

“She is currently being held here, in these ruins of an old fort...it should take you three or four days to reach it. Are you…?” The man gives Obito a glance. “...sure you have what you need?”

“That and more,” Obito assures him, straightening from the table.

“As you wish, sir. Good luck.”

Route planned and permission given, Obito fetches his horse and leaves the capital city behind, taking an eastern road. He has a few days to finalize his preparations, and he’ll have more to scout and plan his methods. If all goes well...his stealth-based movements will get him in and out with the damsel before the beast even knows he’s there. So long as she doesn’t present any problems…

The trip is mostly silent, camping off the road come each nightfall and imagining ways to spend a mountain of gold. The rest of the proposed reward doesn’t interest him much: he doesn’t have any use for it. He’ll stick to his money, thank you very much.

On the fourth day, he finds the ruins near noon, picketing his horse a ways back as not to give him away. Peering out from the trees nearby, he neither sees nor hears the beast supposedly guarding his target. Perhaps it’s away feasting on another poor soul trying to find this damsel. Ever so quietly, he works his way around, eyeing the remains of the fortress carefully. It seems easy enough to scale - he’s climbed and traversed worse. But where is she being kept within is the question...and will she make getting back out any more difficult?

Only time will tell.

By the time he’s finished his scouting, it’s late afternoon, evening creeping up the horizon. And still no sign of the beast. Drawing his hood and pulling the fabric of his mask up to his nose, he begins sprinting from cover to cover. Reaching the outer wall, he digs the claws of his boots’ toes into the gaps of the stone, quickly ascending and kneeling atop it. Crouched and moving fast, he makes it to a crumbling section and descends into the yard of the fort.

...still nothing.

Huh...maybe someone has beaten him here. But he still needs to check the interior. The largest central tower - a great hole blown out from the top - is likely his best bet. But he nevertheless checks the rest of the fort first. Half an hour of searching shows him nothing, so he retreats and makes to start scaling the tower.

...but that’s when he hears it.

Ducking behind a section of collapsed wall, he watches as a winged beast soars over the fort, bellowing in warning before coming to perch atop the fore of the wall. White and silver scales shine in the setting sun, moonstone horns and spikes glittering.

...dragon.

Well...drat. Nibbling the scar on his lip, Obito looks up. Can he make it to the top before it notices him? And if he does...how to descend without being spotted, let alone once he’s got a princess to account for…?

Well...sitting around won’t get it done.

Creeping around his cover, he starts ascending, one eye on the dragon. Its back sits to him, seemingly watching the sunset. The climb goes well...until Obito’s split focus lets him grip a loose stone by mistake. Dislodged, it leaves him swinging for a moment, tumbling down with a loud clatter.

Ears flicking back, the beast turns a serpentine neck, eyes locking and pupils widening. Giving a roar, it pivots on its perch, wings flaring as Obito makes to finish his climb.

Shit, shit, SHIT…!

Reaching the lip of the shattered wall, he leaps up and tumbles behind a broken desk to hide. The room - a good twenty paces in each direction - is covered in a nest of blankets, pillows, curtains, and even tree branches. Eyes flickering over the space, Obito stills.

...there’s no one here.

Oaths threaten to spill from his tongue. Was he lied to?! Did someone beat him to his goal? Where’s the princess, she has to be -!

The tower gives a great shudder as the beast collides, half-landing within the open room. Talons screech and scrape against the floor as it hauls itself in with another ear-splitting bellow.

This isn’t good.

Still ducked behind his cover, Obito listens with a pounding heart as the dragon growls, nostrils flaring with breath as it tries to sniff him out. At one point, a hot breath flares over him, and it takes all his courage not to bolt. Looking around desperately, he spies a window across the room. If he can just make it there, and start descending the rear side…

But the sun is nearly setting, the light dying and bathing the tower in twilight. The beast’s paws start digging at the interior, sending all manner of debris clattering down several stories to the courtyard below. Each swipe of its limb cuts between him and his goal - he just has to -!

...wait…

Having pulled itself fully into the room, the dragon suddenly stills, head turning to look out to the night sky. A waxing moon throws the nightscape into sharp relief, and the beast gives a long, low...almost mournful cry.

...and then it starts to glow.

Daring to peek over his hiding place, Obito’s eyes widen as the dragon takes staggering steps forward, form beginning to blur...and then shrink. And then, with one last flare of light...it fades to show a woman just as she collapses atop the remaining blankets.

...wait…

Letting a long moment pass to ensure it’s not a trick, Obito stealthily makes his way out. Clearly unconscious, the woman is slack (and bare) within the tangle of fabric. And yet, there’s no mistaking it...she looks just as she did in the portrait.

...this is the princess…!

A bit boggled, Obito drops to a crouch, cupping his chin with a hand. So...she wasn’t being guarded by a beast...she is the beast! It must be some kind of curse, if he has to guess. A monster by day, human by night...and yet…

...he has to wonder how much of this the king knows. After all, orders have been given to slay the dragon if possible, in order to save the throne’s heir. But she has been that dragon all along! If someone had actually succeeded...they’d not have saved her, but killed her.

...whoever cursed her must have surely thought it through. They didn’t want her out of the way...they wanted her dead…! And by a knight of the realm’s own hand!

...and what is he to do with her, now? If she changes every time the sun rises, they’ll never make it back to the castle before she’s a beast once more! And he can’t know if she realizes it: if she’s a beast in both body and mind during the day. Was she actually trying to kill him out of bestial instinct? Or was she merely protecting herself, assuming he - like the knights - was bent on killing her?

Well...only one way to find out.

A bit awkward at her nudity, he first tugs aside a spare blanket to cover her before shaking a shoulder. “...oi...wake up…!”

There’s a soft groan, white lashes fluttering as she opens bleary greys. “...what…?”

“You’re the crown princess, aren’t you? Ryū?”

Clearly still addled, she clutches her cover and sits up, a hand at her eyes. “...yes, I...I am. Who are you…?”

“I’m one of many sent to rescue you, but...seems you don’t really need rescuing, now do you?”

Once her expression clears of sleep, her eyes widen with a gasp. “...you…! You saw…?”

“A bit hard not to. You were about to finish me off before the sun set. Is that how all of this works…?”

Looking to him in near horror, Ryū then softens, glancing aside in what looks like shame. “...in truth, I...I know very little. I was taken from home some months ago, and brought here...cursed...and left alone.”

“Do you know who did this?”

She gives a somber shake of her head. “My eyes were kept bound...and I only heard them speak the incantation in the old tongue. Beyond that...I-I’m just as blind as you. But yes...with the dawn I become a monster...and at night, under the moon, I’m human again. But with one exception: nights of the new moon, I remain a beast throughout. It seems tied to the lunar cycle.”

“Do you keep your mind during the day?”

“Aye. But I cannot speak...I’ve tried to evade those who come for me, but they...they…!” Tears brim along her eyes. “...I never meant to hurt them...but they had every intent to kill me! None ever last to the night, to see the truth...not until you. I didn’t mean…”

“Well...you had to protect yourself,” Obito mutters. “No shame in that.”

“But those men, they’re...they’re dead because of me…!”

“And would you rather be? Your father and your kingdom are stricken without you. This may sound harsh, but there are many knights...and only one princess. Besides, many meet their ends in other ways. If not to you...then some other quest. Try not to worry. Right now...our biggest obstacle is getting you home in one piece to tell the truth...and then finding a way to get you relieved of this curse.”

“I...I can hide during the day. There’s a route that follows the forest. It will take a few more days, but it should be enough to keep me hidden. If...if that is agreeable to you, sir.”

Obito waves away the title. “Whatever gets you back in one piece.” He won’t get his reward until then, after all - a few more days’ wait isn’t about to kill him. “And, er...I suppose we need to find you something to...wear.”

At that, her cheeks flush pink. “Ah...yes. I don’t think there are any garments here, but...I can improvise. And...thank you for preserving my modesty. Clothes can’t really survive such a change of shape…”

He manages an awkward chuckle. “...right. Well...let’s get you dressed, and down to the ground...then we can start our way back.”

She manages to craft a makeshift dress from a blanket and curtain cords. Hardly a gown of nobility, but...better than nothing. The stairs within the tower are half destroyed, Obito helping her climb down until they reach the ground.

“...it’s been so long since I’ve seen a friendly face,” she admits softly as they leave the ruins behind. “I was beginning to lose hope I’d ever been found. Though...you are not a knight, are you?”

“No...but I think that’s what made the difference.”

“...perhaps you are right.”

They find Obito’s horse where he left them, the princess pulled up behind the saddle as he starts directing them into the trees. “You must miss home.”

“Terribly...was my father well?”

“Beyond being worried, he seemed stout enough. But he’ll be even better once we get you home.”

She mulls that over in silence. “...and how do you plan to spend your gold?”

“...er…”

The princess gives a soft smile. “I feel that I owe you more than just money. You’ve quite possibly saved my life...and my kingdom. Is that really all you want?”

“I’ll be content with it. Besides, we’d best not hold our breath. We’ve several days between now and reaching the capital. Something may yet go wrong.”

“Oh, don’t say that…” Her steadying grip on his waist tightens, and he feels her bow her brow to his back. “...I can’t bear it…”

“...well, we’ll do what we can. We have a goal, we have a route...all we can do is stick to it. By week’s end, we’ll have you back where you belong.”

“My curse still remains.”

“...true. I’ve no skill in them, but surely your father employs a court wizard?”

...silence rings for a time. “...I yet wonder if it was he who did this…”

“What?”

“Many may refuse to see it, but I know he yearns for my father’s crown. There was a time he attempted to earn my hand...but when I refused…” Ryū sighs softly. “...what if this was his plan to take it by force?”

“...well, we can’t do anything about it now. I can always stash you and speak to your father privately. But that may mean finding another spellcaster. And curses are tricky, from what little I know.”

He feels her wilt behind him. “...my people will never acquiesce to a monster as their queen...if I cannot be cured…”

“Don’t dwell on it now. We’ll find a way.” Obito isn’t sure the king will agree to pay him if his daughter isn’t whole...this might take longer than he thought. But he’ll be damned if he came all this way to go unpaid. “For now...one step at a time. We’ve got a road to travel, first.”

“...you’re right. We’re already farther than I’ve ever gotten. I just...need to stay calm.” A long pause falls between them. “...thank you, by the way...for all you’ve done. I know it’s for your coin, but...you’ve saved my life.”

“...don’t thank me yet,” Obito murmurs, ignoring the slight guilt he feels at the mention of the money. “Thank me once it’s all said and done.”

“I can still thank you for what you’ve done thus far...I…” She hesitates. “I don’t yet know your name, sir.”

“Obito. Far better than sir...I’m not one someone would call sir.”

“...Obito...neither a knight, nor sir. And the only one able to rescue a princess in so many months of trying. How...intriguing.”

“...that’s one way to put it.”

From there, they sink into a companionable silence. They’ve a long journey ahead of them, but...at least this is a start.

;~; It's the last daaay, aww...I mean, I DO have MANY more stories to work on with these two, but...still. I'm sad. It's been a blast (and more than a little exhausting atop everything else) to do this ship month. But I don't plan on stopping writing them any time soon! ANYWAY! This is a plot I've partially written before in RP with another partner who's currently inactive, and...I've reallllly wanted to reuse it. No idea if I'll make a full story of it, but I love the concept: based rather heavily on The Swan Princess...I loved that movie as a kid, still do xD Only this is a little more...serious than that. Dragons and swans are a stone's throw apart, lmao! Who knows, maybe I'll write more...orrr maybe we'll RP it. We'll see! Buuut on that note...I guess that's it for this one. Thanks to everyone who stopped by to read beyond Meg, lol - wasn't really expecting that! But I do hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading! I'll be working on other series soon :D

#obiryū october #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #jiraiya #drake by day [ au ]

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silverseedthings · 5 years

Text

A classic tale of Absolute Good VS Absolute Evil (LIES, LIES, LIES)

There was once, in a faraway place and time, a Prince of a great nation who was powerful, and righteous, and good. His subjects adored him, his knights admired him and his father the King afforded him respect usually only shown to men twice his age.

He was also accomplished with the sword, with tactics, and with the most important attribute for any warrior of their nation: the Light Magic that the Primordial Forces of Good had awarded their lines so they could defend themselves from the evil fools that had prayed to the Primordial Forces of Evil in an arrogant, doomed quest for power.

He would have been truly perfect, people whispered, if it hadn't been for his one singular flaw: his really quite distressing tendency to ask "why".

So when the Evil People of the neighboring kingdom used Dark Magic to turn their forests to ash and to kill the people of their nation, the Prince asked "why". But he took his troops to do battle with the Dark King, and used his Light Magic to great effect in the battlefield, and didn't unduly insist when he was answered that it was probably just their nature. So nobody was overly bothered.

Many battles were fought, and many lives were lost, and everybody became more and more convinced that their enemies were truly foul people.

They showed no mercy and gave no quarter, and not even their own troops were spared in their massacres. Any soldier that hesitated or even looked like he was going to ask for mercy was pushed into their enchanted Light Spears by either the Dark King himself or his lieutenant.

Sometimes, they even summoned -or created, nobody was quite sure- terrible monsters made of Dark Magic itself and let them loose on unsuspecting villages.

Indeed, it would appear that the Dark King was as arrogant as he was cruel, since all of his soldiers seemed dull-eyed and grim, dying by the dozens for a man who never seemed to have any ideals or strategies beyond destruction. Only his lieutenant seemed to hold no fear of him.

Common wisdom was that that was the first -and only- proof anyone needed to realize she was insane.

A cheerful -if unhinged and cruel- woman, she rained death on the battlefield indiscriminately, never caring one whit which of her erstwhile comrades was in the crossfire. Nobody had her respect, and only the Dark King held her allegiance.

It would surely spell doom on the world, everybody agreed, if they were to beget a child.

That particular fear had come about after she showed a previously unsuspected fondness for children when she found the youngest warrior of their army.

It had been a sad necessity when, as most of their mages died, the recruitment for their troops dropped in age. The Prince, who had insisted on asking why, was forced to concede that they did need every drop of Light Magic they could find in order to protect their citizens and beat the Dark King back.

However, as a just and compassionate ruler, he refused to let the eleven year old set foot on the battlefield and instead insisted on using him as a scout.

It was a decision that would surely have cost the child his life, had the Dark King's lieutenant been even a mite more intelligent.

Fortunately, she thought him a lost child in the woods and didn't ask questions about his presence mere feet away from the Dark King's encampment. She scolded him for wandering, gave him food and water and merrily set him on his way, even after the child had insisted that he was a warrior.

"And a fine one you will be, too", she had obliviously answered, in the tones of one indulging a child. "But you must finish growing first."

That particular near-miss, along with the ongoing losses among his mages, forced the Prince to reconsider his decision and allow the child into battle, where he comported himself with bravery and skill, under the Prince's watchful guidance.

The battles were hard and bloody, and soon almost the entirety of the mages from both sides perished. While the child was safe under the Prince's personal protection, the rest of the Light Mages were not so lucky, and while those heavy losses cost the Dark King's lieutenant her life, the Prince himself had to use so much magic that a burn appeared on his arm and resisted every attempt at healing.

................................................................................................................................

"Such a useless fool", the Dark King declaimed. "Done in by a mere child. And because she didn't realize that he was a threat in the first place! Truly I'm better served without her".

The Prince's troops bristled but kept silent. None of them could face the Dark King, even if the disrespect was appalling.

She had been an enemy, and insane besides. But more than one soldier had lowered their head in shame when she had asked, surprised, how a child had come to wander into the middle of the battlefield.

The child himself still hadn't stopped heaving. It had been a necessary act, and to protect the life of their Prince, no less. Still, they understood. It was a first kill.

"Hey. Dark King", their Prince spoke. His arm still hadn't stopped bleeding, which might account for the baffling lack of agression in his tone. "You are crying."

................................................................................................................................

Even after such a decisive battle, which left both sides with a single mage, who was also the leader of what troops remained, the Prince didn't stop asking "why".

(The child never used Light Magic again after claiming the lieutenant's life. He claimed he was unable to. It was the first and last time everybody asked "why" but the Prince. Also the first time the Prince ever told anyone to stop asking questions and leave things as they were)

He left one day without telling anybody -after one too many questions were dismissed, it was said.

No one really knew where he went or what he discovered, if anything. He came back in the dark of the night, looking tired and angry. He apologized to the King, accepted his punishment without complaint and went back to planning battles the next day.

When he was finally asked if he obtained the answers he so coveted, he nodded.

"It's the curse of their nature", he'd said, grimmer than anybody could remember him ever being. "There's nothing to be done but kill them and hope we never see anyone like them ever again".

A week after his mysterious departure and return, the Prince and the Dark King fought in single combat, and it was said that the force of their Magics was so strong none could even come close to them. The Dark King was defeated, his body buried in a secret place known only to the Prince, and the people rejoiced.

The Prince, however, would forever be unable to use his Light Magic again.

It is said that after the battle, as soon as the Prince could get away from the celebrations he went alone towards the sea. It is known that he sat on the edge of a cliff, and that he crossed his arms over his legs, and that he buried his head in his arms. It is not known if he mourned, or if he wept, or what for.

................................................................................................................................

A week before

He was a prince, which meant he had a responsibility towards his people. It was the reason he always gone to the battlefield with the crown and the cape that symbolized his position, even if they were nothing but a hindrance there.

He was the biggest target. He should be the biggest target.

But he was also a man, and he hated doing things without knowing the reason why. And that's why he took an enormous -dangerous- risk and came alone to a place he only had the vaguest notion of, completely unprepared and ignorant of what could be waiting for him.

(It was the first time in more than a year that he was outside without the symbols of his position. Even if it was a bit of self-punishment for irresponsability, he couldn't deny that it was something of a relief to be nothing but a man once again)

The Dark King noticed his approach much later than he thought he'd take. Then again, few people mantained awareness of their surroundings when in front of a fresh grave. Even in enemy territory.

"What are you doing here, Prince?" His voice tried valiantly to be as arrogant and threatening as always, but there was a faint catch at the end that spoke of recent tears.

"Not a prince right now", he said, gesturing to his bare head. "I'm just Raymond in this moment".

"You think that will save you from your worst enemy?", he scoffed, his composure almost intact once more.

Raymond shook his head. "Didn't you listen? I'm just Raymond right now. Only princes have enemies. Normal people have acquaintances they get along better or worse with" He waved the bottle of alcohol he had brought with him demonstratively. "And all of them warrant a visit when they are in mourning".

"I'm the Dark King! I am not mourn-" his voice caught at the end, but Raymond kept talking as if he hadn't noticed.

"The Dark King can't mourn", he nodded, as if they were having a perfectly normal, civil conversation. He didn't acknowledge the gasping breaths the other young man was taking in order to recover his equilibrium. "But you are Jake at this moment. And Jake can cry over Rose as much as he needs".

Jake seemed to gape, then scrunch his face with the beginning of tears, then go back to deep and uneven breaths. He looked younger than he ever had in the field of battle.

Finally, Jake sat in front of the recently upturned earth, so abruptly that for a second Raymond had thought he'd fallen.

Raymond passed the bottle when Jake gestured for it and sat cross-legged by his side. Instead of pouring an offering on the grave before taking a sip, however, Jake took a long swig and then screwed the top back on.

"She hated alcohol. Couldn't stand the stuff, even the smell was disgusting to her", he explained softly. Or maybe he just wanted to talk about her to someone who didn't hate her. "She was like a sister to me".

Raymond just nodded silently. For all the rumours, he'd always thought she'd be more likely to mother Jake like she had Kyle than so much as hold his hand.

(Also, he'd started to suspect, after months of confronting the man in battle and catching glimpses of the person behind the Evil Dark King character, that Jake preferred the male form. But bringing it up at such a moment would be crass and insensitive even by Raymond's standards)

"She also liked children", he prompted when it looked like Jake was beginning to get lost in memory. He looked him in the eye as he continued talking at the lack of a reaction. "She knew Kyle was a soldier. There's no way she didn't".

Instead of the explosion of anger he'd been halfway expecting, Jake merely snorted.

"That why you came here? To try and sate your curiosity now that I'm vulnerable? Didn't expect that from the Great Prince". His voice had become harsh and bitter, but it was still a calmer reaction than he'd been expecting.

Raymond just shrugged unrepentantly. "Nobody else wants to even know. And you've never been exactly forthcoming before. Call me desperate".

Another bitter snort. "Desperate when you are a hairsbreadth from winning a war?"

Raymond narrowed his eyes. "We've lost almost all of our mages".

Jake gave him an unimpressed look. "So have I. But you still have foot soldiers. I'm alone and you have a kingdom".

"So why not retreat?"

Jake paled suddenly, then turned his head away, stubbornly facing the grave and not saying a word.

Raymond laid on his back, speaking in calm tones as if he was merely commenting on the weather. "Your soldiers only ever targeted mages. The mortality rate of my non-magical warriors is ridiculously low for such dangerous battles. Rose targeted mages of both sides but never so much as touched a normal knight. In fact, she tended to execute those of your side that actually attacked non-magical opponents more than anything"

Jake paled even more if it was possible, but still he said nothing.

"The abominations-" A twitch. The first telling reaction since Raymond started talking, followed by a swift glare. But Jake went back to looking at the grave almost immediately. "-were the only ones to be truly indiscriminate, but they only seemed to appear in towns or villages. And the one time I saw one of those on the battlefield, it came from where your soldiers were. There was no cage, or ritual to summon or create it. It just seemed to appear from where there were only people".

Jake finally looked at him, his mouth open in surprise and dismay. He was incredibly pale, and there was a fine tremble in his hands. He looked scared, but he didn't bolt or attack. And still he said nothing.

Raymond forced himself to talk through the bile clogging his throat. It came out as a whisper. "What am I going to find if I go to your country, Jake?".

"You mustn't!" The change from stillness to frantic animation was jarring enough that Raymond didn't think to defend himself from the hands shaking his shoulders. "They are clean! All of them are! Don't…"

As if realizing what he'd just said, the foreign -young, so very young- king closed his mouth, but it was too late. Raymond's worst suspicion had been confirmed. He closed his eyes and came back up to a sitting position.

"You really can't help it" His voice was thready and horrified, and he faintly wondered if Jake could even understand him. "What is it? A curse? A disease? And why commit suicide in such a way?"

Jake looked terrified. He trembled a bit more, then closed his eyes and laid down on the grass, staring fixedly at the clouds. His voice seemed both stronger and more resigned than ever when he finally started talking.

"There is no such thing as Primordial Forces of Good and Primordial Forces of Evil" Jake looked at him from the corner of his eye, as if expecting a protest at the heresy or a request for clarification. Raymond merely listened solemnly. "There is only one single Primordial Force. It is vast, and it encompasses good and evil, and everything in between. A great, terrifying, dangerous thing beyond humanity's comprehension"

Jake had sounded bleaker as he spoke, and had to break away and swallow after that description. Raymond waited.

"But humans don't need to understand something in order to covet it. Our ancestors desired that power. And worse, they managed to obtain a part of it".

A tear fell from Jake's eye. He looked at Raymond with a pleading expression. To be believed, maybe. Or to be understood.

"There's no taking only the good things. They are intertwined in a single Being. The lucky ones got the less harmful aspects, the Light. The unlucky ones got the Dark. And sooner or later it consumes us. So we were banished".

Raymond closed his eyes in pain. It fit. And Jake had always been a terrible liar. Everything he'd said was the truth as he knew it.

"My Light Magic burned my arm in the last battle", he offered.

Jake nodded. "It might be the least uncontrollable aspect, but it's still part of the Primordial Force's power. No human can truly wield it. As long as there's someone with the power of the Primordial Force, someone will be consumed by it. Be it themselves, their enemies or their descendants".

Raymond forced himself to choke down a sob. He didn't fear death in battle, especially if it was to protect his people. But this situation was hideously unfair. "Kyle…"

Jake gave a wan smile. "He's free. My people discovered how to take Primordial Force from others, it's how we ensured that none of our children would be burdened by it. But for someone that can control it to be freed of it, the one doing the taking must willingly, inequivocally and happily lay down their life for them".

Raymond looked at Rose's grave, and for the first time cried for the woman in it. It wouldn't be the last.

................................................................................................................................

"My lord!", the servant called from a respectful distance. They didn't dare interrupt the Prince's contemplation, but the festivities were winding down and the King would surely want to see his son before retiring for the day. "Is everything alright?"

Their hero rose his head, but he didn't rise. The servant wondered if he'd been asleep.

"…Yes. Everything is as it should be. Forgive me, I was… wondering about the future".

The servant realized then what their Prince must be worrying about. "Please don't fret, your Highness. I'm sure Light Magic will come back to you and to our nation. There are no more Dark Magic users to threaten us, and in any case I'm sure people will pray for it to come back in our final hour of victory".

"NO!" The Prince exclaimed, uncharacteristically sharply. "No, don't pray for it. That's arrogance, remember the old stories? And anyway," the Prince uncovered his arm, were that awful wound he sustained in battle had finally -miraculously!- become nothing more than a scar. "I'm sure that this is a sign that all is as it should".

The servant nodded frantically, awed, despite their Prince still facing away from them. "You are right, of course, Your Highness". They cast about for something to light the strangely sombre air of their Prince, who had stood up but didn't seem to be thinking of moving. "Were you then wondering about your future offspring, then, perhaps?", they suggested with a hint of slyness. "I'm sure it will be a fine warrior such as yourself".

"No", their Prince said, much more softly this time. "I hope my future offspring can love and never have to battle". The servant wondered if they had inadvertently said something wrong again, but their Prince seemed to have recovered his spirits somewhat, even if he still didn't turn around. "A motherly girl who can love every child she meets at first sight. And a responsible boy who would carry the responsibility for those he loves in his shoulders, and do it proudly. But who would only have to take responsability for petty pranks or pilfered sweets".

The Prince did finally turn around. He was sporting a soft smile marred only by the faintest red on his nose and high on his cheeks. The servant privately made a note to make sure their Prince wasn't coming down with a cold.

"That's just my ideal vision, though. Of course I would love any children I may have".

................................................................................................................................

On the years that came, the Prince became a just and fair King, much beloved by his people. He never revealed the secret of the Dark King's resting place, but rumour said that sometimes he would ride alone, stand before it, look at the sky and very quietly ask "why".

He had two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was an avid reader, and the girl loved singing.

He loved them with all his heart.

#my writing #angst #suicide mention #my hatemail toward Absolute Evil VS Absolute Good stories #I don't care if you want to write something where the characters ACT that way #but by everything holy and damned #make it MAKE SENSE #also this came about because of my favorite trope #namely the evil character dissing a recently dead person #and the righteous one interrupting with You are crying

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z-angseth · 5 years

Text

The Scenic Route

“West by Southwest is the scenic route to the ocean.” Botholomew recited as he gazed at the horizon through the trees. He hoisted his worn leather bag over his shoulder and placed his tattered hat on his head. His joints creaked as he stretched before setting off for the day. One foot in front of the other, he walked between the trees with the dawn light at his back.

Botholomew reflected on where he had been; about the sweeping planes, about the mountains with snow, about the short people who liked to celebrate every opportunity they could, but mostly he thought about the trees. Without missing a stride he reached down to grab a dry looking log and began to gnaw on it. There were many many different trees in the world, or at least what of it he could remember. An old man once told him how trees work a long time ago but Botholomew couldn’t remember exactly, only that the sun was important. He could remember that he wanted to see the ocean, and he reminded himself how to get there every morning so he wouldn't forget. He thought about how some of the the trees change and how some of them don't. Today the trees that change were on their way to being lush and green.

The gaze of a deer caught his attention mid thought but the animal scampered away by the time he noticed. There were also many kinds of animals that he could remember. Most of them are harmless but some creatures he should to stay away from. Bears came to mind but he was sure there were others. “Some kind of lizard, too?” He thought. Botholomew grabbed another log after finishing off the one in hand. A village came into view as he trekked, and the rumble of a storm warned of coming rain. He quickened his pace but the rain began before he reached the village. His hat did the best it could to keep him dry but it was largely in vain. Botholomew ducked his head under the threshold of the stable, nearly spooking the mare resting inside. While he wiped as much of the water off of himself as he could, a tall woman wearing a black cloak approached him. She came up to nearly his shoulders. Usually Botholomew was met with caution from strangers but this person walked up to him with a calm familiarity.

“The Mechanical Man of Stararige… you're an awful long way from home.” she commented.

“My name is Botholomew. I do not remember my home but I am traveling to see the ocean.” replied Botholomew as he hung up his hat to dry. He was used to his reputation preceding him. “I am taking the scenic route.”

“You certainly are.” The tall woman confirmed. Botholomew could see a smile from under her cloak but no more of her face. He took a towel out of his bag and began drying himself off. “Be careful to avoid the next few towns,” the woman warned “they won't be very friendly to you.” He was not expecting such advice but he appreciated it nonetheless. He looked up to thank her but she had disappeared. Botholomew looked around the corners of the stable’s entrance but he was unable to spot any sign of her; he couldn't see very far without getting wet again. He hung up his towel and resigned to sit down to look out into the shower.

He liked the sound the rain made and wished he could be out in it without worry. Sitting still with his thoughts, the mare warmed up to his company and approached him. Botholomew wondered if he was made to be a creature of work, like a horse. While he waited, he threaded fresh straw into his hat to patch the many holes it had acquired, stopping occasionally to pet the mare.

The rain let up before his hat ran out of holes. Botholomew returned his towel to his bag and his hat to his head. He said goodbye to the horse and continued along his way. The rain made the wood wet and harder to eat, Botholomew didn't like that about the rain. He traveled for three more days before he spotted another village. He remembered what the tall woman had told him and did not venture near. As he journeyed the terrain became increasingly rocky.

Another five days of walking brought another village into view on the horizon through the trees. Something startled a flock of birds, causing them to flutter out of the forest canopy. He looked up and saw a large, winged lizard soaring overhead. “That was it, winged lizards were to be avoided.” He recalled “Dragons.” Botholomew was pleased to have remembered something important, but the moment of satisfaction was brief as he realized the implication of what he saw overhead. He quickly crouched by the largest boulder nearby and stayed completely still, watching the beast circle above.

“You dared strike down my father, Leomaris, and so I, Eriloth, shall be the last thing you see; my voice the last thing you hear; and the terror I strike within you the last thing you feel!” The dragon menaced before swooping down in Botholomew's direction. He ran, panicked, as fast as he could and leaped out of the way, but the dragon did not seem to notice him. When Botholomew uncovered his eyes he realized that Eriloth was not interested in him, but was attacking the town; hot acid sprayed from his maw and ignited the structures of the settlement. Botholomew could not bear to watch idly and so he rushed to the village to help any way that he could. The people of the village tried to repel the dragon and extinguish the fires, but their attention turned to Botholomew when he arrived.

“It is the end of times!”

“Dragons and now soldiers of Hades!”

Members of the town guard lined up around him, trying to keep their eyes on both him and the dragon.

“Halt! Come no further!”

Botholomew stopped and brought his hands up.

“I am here to help, not to harm.” he said but the town guard did not appear swayed “I cannot fight.” he reassured. The captain of the guard weighed her options.

“If you cannot fight then help us with the fires.”

Botholomew nodded and dashed towards the nearest burning structure. He wrenched the barn's door open and lead the animals outside.

The villagers were less trusting of Botholomew than the guard was but they dared not stand in his way. He carried buckets of water to put out flames and carried people out of burning houses. It wasn't long before Eriloth was satisfied with the destruction wrought and left, but the village was in ruin.

As the dust settled, the people surveyed the remains and mourned their losses. The ash from the fires dulled Botholomew's fern colored paint to a more ghostly hue. The people kept their distance from Botholomew but the captain of the guard wasted no time to speak to him.

“Thank you for helping us. You saved many lives today, but you need to be on your way.”

“We shouldn't shun him because he's different” said a member of the guard who wore maroon

“He is a creation of witchcraft!” Shouted another in dark orange.

“He risked his life to save our families.” Defended a third who wore navy

The captain of the guard knew she needed to address the dissonance.

“Our visitor did perform a great service to us all, but my duties are to ensure the safety of our village, and our people will not be at ease so long as he is here.” She announced to the guard. “Brave sir,” spoke the captain softly and directly “I apologise for the circumstances you've stepped into, but you must leave.”

Botholomew nodded and continued on his way.

“West by Southwest is the scenic route to the ocean.” He softly recited to himself. Botholomew knew that some people didn't want him around, but that knowledge neither soothed his sadness nor help to put his mind at ease. He worried about the village if the dragon came back. He reflected on what the tall woman had said and he hoped for no more rain before he reached a friendly town. As the sun set on the eventful day, Botholomew set down his bag and his hat and took a seat on the ground as he did every night. As if the previous day made no difference, the next morning came like the many that preceded it. He continued his hike and ate more dry wood, but around midday he heard some rustling behind him. He turned around to look and saw the two members of the town guard that spoke in his favor.

“Brave sir!” called out the one in blue “What is your name, brave sir?” Botholomew stopped and introduced himself.

“My name is Botholomew.”

“It is good to make your acquaintance, Botholomew.” Said the one in red “My name is Millicent, and this is my brother Giovanni.”

“Your actions in our time of peril warrant our sincere gratitude in their own right, and the way our village mistreated you leaves us deeply in your debt.” Said Giovanni

“Would you have us on your quest?” Asked Millicent “We offer to you any aid we can render.”

“Friends are always welcome. I wish to see the ocean and I go west by Southwest because it is the scenic route.”

“The Sea of Nirut is not far, a week's journey at most.” Replied Millicent.

“That is good to hear, but I have spent most of my travels alone, so I must apologise ahead of time that I do not know much about making good company.” Admitted Botholomew as he resumed his hike.

“You need not worry about that.” assured Giovanni

“Will you two be in trouble with your captain for following me?”

”Probably, but good is more important than law.” replied Giovanni. Botholomew contemplated what he was just told for a long minute. He wasn't sure if he agreed with the sentiment, or disagreed for that matter, but he was thankful nonetheless.

“From what lands do you hail, Botholomew?” Asked Millicent, her question brought him out of his thoughts.

“I come from Katinopis, the capitol city Stararige specifically," Botholomew replied "though the only thing I remember of my time there was that I had to leave.”

“That is a long way to travel. You must rest well.” Remarked Millicent.

"I walk until I cannot see and then I wait until I can see again."

"You wait? Do you not sleep?" Inquired Millicent. Botholomew contemplated her question.

"I do not." He replied

"That is remarkable! Even those with the heartiest endurance need to rest. So it is true that you do not tire." Interjected Giovanni.

"I need to eat, I need to stay dry, and sometimes I need to mend myself, but it is true that I do not know what it is to be tired."

"You are a very remarkable man, sir Botholomew." Remarked Millicent.

The trio continued west by southwest, all the while sharing stories and good company. After a week's travel the sound of waves crashing in the distance became audible, later that day the team reached a clearing leading up to a cliff's edge. Botholomew approached slowly, the churning tides below filled his field of view with every step. When he reached the cliff he sat on its edge and basked in the scenery. The ocean's breeze played with the brim of his hat. His companions sat beside him and breathed the salty mist of the sea below.

“What do you plan to do now that you have taken the scenic route to the ocean?” asked Giovanni.

Botholomew thought about the question. The goal he had planned for so long was finally at hand.

“I wish to enjoy this for a while longer but I don't know what to do next.”

“You certainly earned as much time as you want.” said Millicent.

Botholomew gazed out across the horizon and felt a warm joy inside. He sat at the cliff and watched the sun set, which was the most beautiful sunset he could remember. Giovanni and Millicent remained nearby and set up camp. Botholomew did not move until after the sun finally slipped out of view behind the waves. He joined his companions by the campfire they had built and broke the silence.

"From what I remember of my journey here, there are plenty of places to see in this world."

"Well said, Botholomew." Nodded Millicent.

"If there are plenty of places to see, then there must be plenty more scenic routes to take to see them." Continued Botholomew.

"This is also true!" She chuckled. Botholomew leaned back and looked up at the sky. A particularly bright star caught his attention towards the north.

"Tomorrow," he declared "I think I will go that way." Botholomew pointed in the direction of the star.

"Another scenic route?" Asked Giovanni

"Another scenic route." Confirmed Botholomew.

"We'll gladly follow if you'll have us." Offered Millicent, Giovanni nodded in agreement.

"I would like that." Said Botholomew "The scenic route is better with friends."

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imagine-loki · 6 years

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Winter's Hearts

TITLE: Winter’s Hearts CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 33/? AUTHOR: nekoamamori ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine being Loki’s old friend/Lover in Asgard, but you left for Earth a long time ago. For all he knows, you might be dead, but you’re still alive and you’ve been working with SHIELD and/or the Avengers. RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: Also on AO3: Click here

“Victory or Valhalla,” he replied, horrified. He knew the grand trial was bad, but he hadn’t expected it to be thatbad.

You nodded. “Every Trainee must take the grand trial,” you reminded him and his expression dropped.

“Those ill-fitted, they’re killed by the ghasts,” Loki said softly.

You nodded again. “Not just those ill-fitted. Accidents always happen. The grand trial is brutal, which is why it determines our future,” you stopped there, not needing to disturb him again with things that might’ve been. He didn’t need to be scared for events that had taken place over 900 years ago. “We should leave her to her trial,” you told him, gesturing to the girl at the altar. “Dinner should be served soon,” you added. The Valkyrie overseeing the girl’s trial nodded her agreement.

You began to lead Loki from the hall of trials. “That Valkyrie is overseeing her trial, right? Surely she can help her if there’s danger?” he asked optimistically.

You shook your head. “No, the trial is alone. Completely alone. She’s only standing guard to make sure no one disturbs the trial. Even if a trial goer meets a Valkyrie in the land of the dead during her trial, they won’t speak to her or acknowledge her presence in any way. There are ways around it, of course. They won’t acknowledge the girl, but they willpay attention to anything she shows or tells them. There’s an… amulet… that all the trial goers carry which counts the number of ghasts the girl has killed as well as the number of days she has back. She shows it to any Valkyrie she meets so they can report on her progress to those worrying over her,” you explained as you led Loki to dinner.

You smirked when you saw all the trainees fawning over your husband. You took your place among the Valkyrie, sitting by rank with Loki taking the seat to your left. “I know I’m attractive, but…” Loki started, staring at the young girls who couldn’t take their eyes off of him.

You laughed. “I’ve told you before, Lohk. Almost every Valkyrie in training is trained here, not at the palace like I was. Most of them don’t leave the city until after the trials. With how few men ever appear here, they likely haven’t even seena man in real life before,” you teased him. He looked indignantly at you and nearly spluttered at being oogled at just because he was male and not because he was their prince. You laughed at his indignation. “You reallyhate Valkyria,” you teased.

“I really, really do,” he grumbled. “They tortured you here and the underage girls are staring at me, a married man, like a piece of meat,” he whined the last part.

You laughed at him and kissed his cheek. “Poor princeling,” you teased him. Dinner was served. It wasn’t fancy, though your meals were nicer than the trainees. The braver of the trainees came up to him to practice their courtesies. You tried so hard not to laugh as he tried to be polite to them, but you could see it grating further and further on his temper. You finally told the trainees to leave Loki alone and reminded them that they had studies to attend to. They pouted, but couldn’t argue with you since you outranked them and rushed back to their duties and studies.

“I could have done that,” Loki grumbled.

You just smirked at him. “Anywhere but in Valkyria you could have,” you agreed. “Inside these walls you have no power. The Valkyrie are free here, even from the oaths to the throne, even from following your Father’s orders,”

Loki gave you a look. “Why didn’t you come back here when Father exiled you?” he asked. “You could have hidden here in the city from his orders,”

You shook your head. “Remember, love. Remember that day. Odin didn’t give me a chance to make it here. He practically dragged me from that alcove straight to the Bifrost and I was forbidden to return to Asgard. None of the secret portals between worlds come out in Valkyria. Believe me, I looked,” you reminded him. You had searched and searched for a way back to Valkyria where your orders didn’t matter, where you could find Loki again and tell him what happened, but you’d never been able to find a way here.

The second you got back to your room, Loki’s nose was in your journal, devouring every scrap of information of the trials you had written down all of those centuries ago. You laid down to sleep long before he was finished reading.

You shouldn’t have been surprised when you had nightmares that night. You hadn’t thought of the trials in centuries, or at least had thought of them as little as possible, not as in depth as you had today when you had to explain them to Loki.

You stepped into the chamber for the grand trial as nervously as any trainee. You dragonfang blade was at your side. The Valkyrie in charge of the trial was waiting for you. “Are you ready to begin the grand trial, Daughter?” she asked you. Until you became a proper Valkyrie you were ‘daughter’ instead of ‘sister’ to the Valkyrie.

“I am,” you replied more bravely than you felt.

She handed you the amulet on its chain which you fastened around your neck. “Then kneel before the altar and let the trial begin. Victory or Valhalla, little one,”

“Victory or Valhalla,” you repeated. Those words would be a mantra over the coming weeks and what you had to keep reminding yourself. As did every girl who took the trials. The brave went to Valhalla. Those who died in glorious battle. If you died, it would be a glorious death. You would not mourn your death, but rejoice for you would enter the halls of Valhalla where the brave lived forever.

You were brave and would bravely fight the ghasts.

You would bravely die if that is what happened on your quest for Victory.

You did as she said, kneeling before the altar and drawing your blade, laying it naked across your thighs. You closed your eyes, concentrating and took one breath, then another before you stood out of your body, in the land of the dead. Your time had started, your quest had begun. You had a plan for how to tackle this challenge and were determined to stick to it. So you left the beaten path, the usual ways the Valkyrie led their charges to the different afterlives. The ghasts would be fewer there and it would take longer to find the hundred you needed to kill. You planned on killing the ghasts as quickly as possible, so you left the path and entered the wilds of the afterlife.

You ran into the first ghost just off the path and struck it down before it even had a chance to attack you. There was a method to your plan. Off the path, the ghasts were not only more plentiful, but were less expecting attacks. On the main path, they expected the Valkyrie to defend their charges. The further you got away from the paths, the less wary and ready to attack. They were just as vicious and brutal, but less wary. Any advantage against these creatures was needed.

The strain on your body to have your soul gone for so long was intense.

It hurt and you felt like it was going to pull you apart

But it was all part of the trial.

You cleared the hundred ghasts within a week, thanks to the couple of nests of them you’d found which had been brutal fights, but you’d taken out thirty of them in each nest. Very few Valkyrie would dare take on one nest, let alone two, but you had. You were determined to earn your place at Loki’s side and you knew you were skilled enough to take them. You were also confident, not cocky, and you fought with both magic and steel. You were determined to get a high score, to get out of this with your position at Loki’s side. You’d worked for it all of your life, but you had to earn it here and now.

So you slew the hundred ghasts in record time.

That was what was really scored during the trial, not how many souls you saved, but how quickly you slew the hundred ghasts. You killed them as quickly as you could, so you could win the position your heart desired.

After you slew them, you could focus on saving the souls. There were girls who made the mistake of searching out lost souls first, even though that wasn’t what they were being graded on. Their hearts got in the way. It was admirable, but they tended to be the ones who weren’t fighting for position. There were also girls who made the mistake of getting too tied up in saving souls that they neglected to kill the hundred ghasts in time.

What happened to them was even worse than what happened to the girls the ghasts killed. There was a limit to how long a Valkyrie’s body could survive without her soul. The limit was 31 days. The trial lasted 30. If the trial goer did not complete the trial in time, her soul and body could not reconnect and both would slowly die. Most of the girls who got to that situation found a nest to ghasts to fight to try to finish the challenge in time.

Victory or Valhalla indeed.

After the first week, you spent your remaining weeks ushering the dead to the afterlives. You passed quite a few Valkyrie in that time and always stopped to show them your amulet. Per tradition, they didn’t speak to you, but you saw the pride in their eyes. You were the pride of the Valkyries and you’d passed the trials, as long as you made it through the next weeks without an awful accident happening.

On the 30th day you were free to return home. You returned to your body the second the number on your amulet turned to 30. You were met with cheers of congratulations at making the high score. Draped between your mother and the training mistress, you were led to your room to recover from the trials before you went home the next day to swear your oaths.

#Loki #Lover #Imagine #Submitted fic #submission #nekoamamori #winter's hearts #chapter 33

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shardclan · 6 years

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The coronation of the new queen was underway. Flower petals waited in their baskets, the wine was chilled, and the Courtyard of Five Lights was filled with more noise than the clan had generated in weeks. It was a happy, but apprehensive chatter, and though the smiles were sincere, they were nervous.

Before she could face the clan as its new monarch, Rebis had to receive the blessing of Lightweaver.

"You come to me with a heavy countenance," said the honeyed voice in the light.

Rebis looked wearily up into the radiance filling the Beacon.

Her temporal sickness coupled with the vague but unceasing numbness where the white celestine pulled the arcane magic from her body had left her feeling detached detached and adrift. But Nayvadius had made her restless. His presence at her side had brought her rapidly approaching coronation into solid and terrifying focus, and suddenly nothing was right.

"I shouldn't be here," she whimpered.

"And yet you are," the Weaver said patiently.

The words made something burn in Rebis' chest. Heat rose, blossoming across her collar and prickling her skin under the elaborate silks that Pistis had clothed her in.

"I can't shed my glamour," she blurted. "I'm being poisoned by Arcane element due to my own stupid actions; the white celestine I wear to stay stable means I cannot approach the Arcanites in this clan, including the ones I am attached to. Lavi is leaving to fix whatever I broke at the circle, my protector is cursed by magics I don’t even fully understand. And the only godsdamned thing that brings me any joy is knowing I can still do advanced magic but I am terrified of the very real possibility that I wont have time to fully realize my desire to be an Archmage between running a kingdom and trying not to fuck up everything Telos has done the way I've fucked up the Circle and my and Lavi's bodies!"

Silence reigned in the open hall of the Beacon, save for the sounds of Rebis' quick and shallow breathing. Her hands had curled into tight fists at some point during her tirade, and she pressed them into her suddenly stinging eyes.

She was not angry, but ashamed. "It shouldn't be me. Lavi should be here. He was always better at this than me."

The light had gone still. Flat and without warmth. "Perhaps you are right, given you could not control that outburst even in my presence. But then, you are still young. Who would you confess to if not your deity."

"You are most gracious," Rebis sniffled. "I apologize for...for being so unsightly even though I'm here for your blessing."

"I am indeed," the Weaver mused imperiously, lifting Rebis into the light with scarcely a flick of her claw. "Which is why I will tell you this, Heiress Rebis: My praise was not an invitation for you to challenge me with your self pity, and I have little sympathy for you."

"I-I.. I did not mean to offend you, your Luminance."

"Silence."

Rebis remained stone still in the deity's grip, partly stunned and partly terrified as the light diffused from its blinding source in the center of the hall, closing in on her as if to examine her more closely.

"Everything that you feel is so unfair is or was completely under your control, and yet you seem to have a penchant for making choices and then complaining that the outcome is unfair without accepting your agency in the matter."

"You can choose to lay down the crown at any time. You can choose to make time for your magical pursuits regardless of whether you lead or follow. You can even choose to lay down the arrogance of your belief that you should be more important than the charges of the guardians you claim to love. Or, as you are wont to do, you can thrown yourself into situations that cause you distress in your astonishingly self-absorbed quest to win the acknowledgement of the very few people who haven't coddled you since the day you were born."

The light grew hot, and the celestine crown grew hot with it. Though Rebis eyes watered, she didn't move to soothe the tingling of her skin.

"You are inheriting a finished kingdom and happy people. Nothing to build. Nothing to mend. No cloud of death and loss hanging over you. No mourning to bear on your back. You took the crown so righteously and now you cry that it is heavier than you thought when it weighs not half of what it did when Telos first donned it. You are not half of what Telos was when she first came to me."

The light diffused again, pale and washed out. Rebis' feet touched the smooth, reflective marble, but for several seconds she remained frozen. When she finally found breath again, her words were a somber whisper.

"I am not worthy."

"How can you be? You do not know what it is to sacrifice or to do thankless work. You are used to being cared for, not caring for others."

"Then you will not bless me."

There was a slight pause, and Lightweaver's glow slowly seeped out to grace the stone once more. "I would not have given you a Truth if I believed you were beneath it. Perhaps I gifted it to you before you were fully mature... But there is no sin in your personality that cannot be corrected with effort."

The light gathered into a warmly glowing orb, and sank down, alighting on the top of Rebis head.

"You are not the first heir to doubt their aptitude on the precipice of power, and you will not be the last. My lands have their share of clans headed by utter buffoons while you are perfectly intelligent; and though it is for the wrong reasons, your wish to see Aphaster continue to flourish is genuine."

"Then you--?!"

"I give you my blessing," Lightweaver said in a firm tone that suggested Rebis not get carried away and interrupt Her again. "But know that if you accept it, I will have a sacrifice from you, that you may begin to understand the things you must work on in yourself."

Rebis immediately thought of Tau. Sweat slicked her palms. She wasn't prepared to sacrifice her wings, but if she said so, she knew it would only invite the deity's ire. Tau had defied her, while Rebis had merely...disappointed her. She wasn't sure where she had been trying to go with that thought, but it only managed to sour her stomach.

"It is your choice," Lightweaver reminded, somewhat impatiently.

"...What must I sacrifice?"

"I take that as your acceptance."

"Yes," Rebis murmured. She drew herself up, trying to put on a brave face. "Yes, please do. I accept your blessing. And the crown of Aphaster. What must I sacrifice to prove I am--or... that I will become worthy?"

The light went soft and warmly golden, and began to vanish as the Lightweaver imparted her words.

"When the young Imperator returns to the Isles to fix the ails of the Circle, you will send every dragon you are attached to with him. None may return here for greater than a day, and you may not see them at all. Thus will they be cut from your life."

Rebis was left alone. At first she did not understand. It seemed such a small ask. So simple. Sure they may not like it, their friends wouldn't like it. They had livelihoods that would need to be shifted, and the Isles were a whole new world for those that had never been to understand. But the more she stood alone with what it meant, the more her heart began to hammer in her chest.

She didn't believe a single one would hate her, but it was worse to her than being hated that they might resent her. And though she knew Lightweaver's words had been true from the moment they were spoken, it stung fresh to be faced with the proof.

But that had been her choice. She could take it back, perhaps. Deciding the price was too much to pay was also a choice she could make.

Instead, she left the Beacon and faced Telos. Her heart still wavered, and her voice followed suit, but at the very least she spoke the words in full knowledge that she was in control of her fate.

"I don't know what I'll say...but I recieved Her Luminance's blessing. I'm ready."

Telos glanced at the Beacon. Rebis was probably the only dragon she knew who had gone into the Lightweaver's presence twice and actually come out seeming better than before. But it was not her place to ask after personal matters between Rebis and her deity.

"Well then," she said warmly. "Let's go introduce you to your clan, Queen Rebis of Aphaster."

#C: Rebis #In which Lightweaver tells Rebis she is severely lacking in Big Dick Energy #Stars Rising #Flight Rising

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thievinghippo · 6 years

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Fic Update: Pragmatic Dreams (18/??)

Chapter Title: Reaching (Read on Ao3!)

Pairing: Lana Beniko/female Jedi Knight

Rating: Teen

Summary: When Darth Marr’s flagship is destroyed, the galaxy mourns the loss of a leader of the Jedi Order. And Lana Beniko mourns the loss of her lover. But when secrets are uncovered, Lana realizes that the only way to save the galaxy might just be to tear it apart, all for the woman she loves.

“It’s absolutely delightful to have you back on Zakuul,” Darmas said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the knee. The last year had not been kind to him, Lana could tell. It probably hadn’t been kind to her, either. But here they were, on Zakuul, doing what needed to be done to save the Imperial Empire, and by extension, the galaxy.

Lana didn’t particularly want to be on this planet. Not now, not when she had so much to do. Several of her Sith contacts had disappeared since Acina’s ascension to the throne. No doubt the Empress was trying to clean house. Especially after the rumors had started of a romantic liaison between Acina and Arcann. It wasn’t Acina’s style, at least, Lana thought it wasn’t. Hoped it wasn’t, really. While plenty of Sith, both men and women, used their sexuality to get ahead, on the whole, Lana found it distasteful. Any power she corralled would be earned by right.

But as their trip to Arron Prime went so disastrously sideways, Lana wanted to try to make things up to Koth. On the outside, he stayed the same Koth she had gotten to know, but she could tell how much she had hurt him with the rejection after the kiss. If figuring out a solution to what he called ‘the Senya problem’ helped fix things between them, then Lana would do her best.

She and Darmas were in his safe house, and for a time, she would again take up her role as one of his girlfriends. Tedious, certainly, but the role was already known. Less than a year had passed since she had been on Zakuul, after all.

“I trust you had no issues with your papers?” he asked, sliding a plate of cookies across the table. He man had developed a hint of softness over the past year, no doubt thanks to cookies just like these. Good thing she didn’t particularly care for sweets.

“None,” Lana said. “The security on this world is absolutely atrocious. I hope it never changes.”

“You and me both,” Darmas said with a chuckle. “Miss Temple is out this week. Some stars awful assignment for one of her classes, scouring about some old ruin. She’s been here long enough that she has to think of graduate school soon, believe it or not. As her dear old dad, I couldn’t be more proud.”

“I’m glad that cover is working out,” Lana said.

“Would have been far more enjoyable for her cover to be a female companion, but I guess I just have to accept the reality of my position. I’m getting old,” Darmas said somewhat thoughtfully. “You never think it’s going to happen to you until it does.”

Lana let out a soft laugh. “I understand that. I turned forty not too long ago,” she said.

Forty. An age only a third of the Sith actually manage to reach. Most managed to get themselves killed by her age. Lana supposed she should consider herself special, managing to live this long. Yet there was so much more she needed to do in this galaxy. Even if she lived twice as long, it wouldn’t be enough. Somehow that was a sobering through.

As if Darmas could sense her change, in mood, he said. “You should stop by the cantina while you’re here. My holdings have expanded since you’ve been gone. I now own the place.”

Lana laughed, sounding somewhat hollow, but appreciating the subject change. She picked up a cookie. One wouldn’t hurt too much, would it? While she generally tries to abstain from too much gluttony, every so often, one must give into temptation or one would go mad. She took a bite. Cinnamon. Not her favorite, so she put it down. If Lana was going to indulge, it would be on better cookies than these, thank you very much.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Lana said, picking up her cup of tea. “I’ll be on planet for a week. I don’t want to leave too quickly. Might arouse suspicion if I do.”

That, and she wanted to search more for Maebry. How was it that she seemed to have disappeared so entirely? Lana refused to believe the one sensible option, that she was dead. She absolutely refused to believe that. So where was she? Why wasn’t Emperor Arcann parading her around like a trophy, like he had with so many other people he captured. It simply didn’t make sense, based on what she knew of his profile, and if there wasn’t something she didn’t like, it was when things didn’t make sense.

“Plenty of time to stop by for a game of cards,” Darmas said and Lana was pleasantly surprised that he actually sounded genuine. But then he leaned forward. “So why don’t we cut to the chase, my lord? Why are you here?”

“Right to the point of it all, I see,” Lana said, breaking off a bit of the cookie and crumbling it inbetween her fingers. “I’m looking for someone.”

Darmas raised an eyebrow. “And you needed to come all the way to Zakuul to find them?”

“The military captain I had you prepare a dossier a while back? He’s being pursued by a Knight of Zakuul. I need it to stop,” Lana said. That was all she was willing to say here. How she would get this to stop was another matter. Assassination would be the easiest, yet messiest way. And if she decided to assassinate this Knight, she needed to be the one to do it. She could not risk Darmas’ connections here on Zakuul. They were too important.

The shift was subtle, but gone was the personable information broker who spent far too much time in cantinas, and in his place, a cipher agent trained by Imperial Intelligence. “I hope you have a name,” Darmas said quietly, drumming his fingers across the table. “I do so hate browsing through picture databases.”

“Senya Tirall.”

Darmas nodded, grabbing a nearby datapad. “Twenty-four hours and I’ll be able to give you everything you’ll need.”

Lana remembered her.

The woman she met just before running into teeseven. That was Senya Tirall. Lana remembered the day clearly, remembered the brief connection through the Force they shared. Somehow their futures were wrapped up together. But how?

Thanks to Darmas’ profile, it wasn’t difficult to figure out Senya’s schedule. Lana wanted the meeting to be on neutral grounds, some place where they might be able to have some privacy. After some consideration, she decided a visit back to the gym where she saw Senya for the first time would be best. Of course, Lana hadn’t known that was Senya at the time.

Lana wondered if Senya would remember her, would remember that brief bond their shared? Now that Lana knew the identity of the Knight chasing Koth, that bond seemed more important than ever. The Force was bringing them together, of that Lana had no doubt.

She walked into the training room in her workout gear. If Senya walked into the room when Lana was still in full armor, she might become suspicious, possibly even raise an alarm. Best to be seen just as someone dedicated to their training before she reached out to Senya. Lana started with a light workout, one with a lightsaber pole. Almost immediately, her muscles started to protest slightly - her regular workout routine had been in shambles the last few months - but she pushed through the discomfort.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Lana took a deep breath. This introduction would be crucial. If she messed it up, she might lose any chance for Koth. And if he was continually hunted, his work for the Alliance would be subpar, and she absolutely could not have that.

“Excuse me,” Senya said, her tone slightly apologetic. But the woman froze as recognition crossed her face. “I remember you.”

“Hello, Senya,” Lana said as she walked to the weapons rack. She waited for some sort of reaction from Senya as she put her lightsaber pole away, but received none. “I’ve been hoping to run into you.”

Senya glanced at the door, her mouth in a thin line. Gone was the woman from almost two years ago who had teased Lana about not speaking. This was a woman who wanted a weapon in her hand, thinking a threat before her. Well, Lana would do her best to not be threatening at all. While she was quite confident in her skills in the Force, somehow, she didn’t want to put them to the test against this Knight.

“So you felt it, too?” Senya asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “We were meant to meet each other again.”

“You believe in the Scions, then?” Lana asked. She had studied them extensively when she stayed on Zakuul and never knew quite what to think. They reminded her of the Mystics on Voss but she thought the Mystics were ridiculous. Any vision could be twisted by the right interpreter. She didn’t see how the Scions were any different.

Senya let out a snort that immediately put Lana at ease. “Depends on the day, really. I’ve had personal experience with them… and they were correct in the end,” She raised her chin slightly. “And I believe in the Force and the Force-”

“Brings people together,” Lana said, finishing the thought. How true that was, considering some of the people the Force had brought into her life. How the Force brought Maebry into her life. “That is true.”

“Well, I’m here,” Senya said. “Will you finally reveal your true nature?” Lana opened her mouth, but Senya continued. “I can already tell you’re a Sith, I sense the darkness warring with the light within you. Right now the darkness is winning, isn’t it?”

“I am,” Lana said simply, seeing no point in denying the statement. Senya didn’t make the word Sith sound like an accusation like so many other people. Just a statement of fact. “And I want to protect what is mine.”

Placing her hands behind her back, Senya started pacing. “Am I to assume that what is yours is Imperial Space? And that for some reason you believe that I might be able to help in your quest?”

There was a hint of annoyance in Senya’s voice. Lana would have to tread very carefully, lest the woman decide to leave. “I speak of life outside the Eternal Empire,” Lana said quietly. Sometime she couldn’t quite believe it, but she fought for Republic lives just as much as Imperial ones. Because that’s what Maebry would do. Her lover had fought to save all lives, both Republic and Imperial. Lana found she could do no less. “I look to protect that. Wouldn’t you, if a conquerer came into Zakuul and tried to destroy all that you love?”

Senya stopped walking and to Lana’s surprise, turned her back towards her. Normally, Lana would assume such a move to be an insult, but here, it felt like a step towards trust. “I understand completely. Sometimes it feels like Arcann’s reign is exactly that. A conquerer changing all of Zakuul, and not for the better.”

Lana’s heart fluttered. All she had hoped was to convince Lana to ease up on her search for Koth. But perhaps she found a potential ally as well. “I lived on Zakuul for six months, you know. Somehow managed to evade security that whole time. I want to love this planet and her people with their beautiful culture and traditions. But…”

She trailed off deliberately, hoping Senya would pick up the rest. “But Arcann.”

“But Arcann,” Lana repeated.

Senya turned back towards Lana, and said, “So you obviously took some effort to find me. What is it you hope to accomplish?”

Lana considered her words carefully. “I am part of an Alliance that looks to fight Arcann and his rule over Imperial and Republic space.”

“Somehow I doubt you want me to join your little group,” Senya said.

The truth was, now that she had met Senya, spoken to her a bit, she hoped exactly that. To have a Knight on their side, someone who knew the inner workings of Arcann’s security, maybe even knowing where important prisoners were held… Lana very much hoped to convince Senya to join the Alliance some day. But first things first.

“It’s a member of my Alliance I’m concerned with,” Lana said. Truth would be best for now. If Senya was as proficient in the Force as Lana thought she was, she would be able to sense any falsehoods. “Koth Vortena.”

Senya’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?” she asked, her voice cold. Gone was the woman who mourned Zakuul, replaced with one every inch a Knight who fought to protect her home.

“Koth works with us. His ability to do his job is hampered a great deal by having to evade you on a regular basis.”

“You’re asking me to shrink in my duties,” Senya said, raising her chin slightly.

“Surely you have other tasks assigned to you besides hunting the crew of one man?” Lana asked.

Senya snorted and walked to the corner. In one elegant move, she sat down on the floor, legs crossed underneath her. “I think we both know we won’t be killing each other today,” she said, patting the floor next to her. “Come. Sit.”

Lana tried to sense if she was being lured into a trap of some sort, but she felt no deception from the Knight, so she decided to take the plunge. Stars, how had she become so trusting? Maebry’s face lingered in front of her and Lana pushed the thought of her away. This was absolutely not the time. Lana lowered herself to the floor, sitting against the other wall, so only the corner was between them. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she said, “Why all the resources for just one man?”

“Because it’s not just one man,” Senya said softly, leaning her head back against the wall.

“Well, obviously, his crew, too, but-”

“Not them,” Senya said quickly. “Arcann is trying to show the people of Zakuul that humans are a liability when it comes to military matters.”

“Because Koth disobeyed orders,” Lana said, twisting her fingers together. “But he did because he felt the order unethical-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Senya said as Lana tried to hold back an impatient huff. Would the woman ever let her finish a sentence? “That wasn’t his decision to make. We cannot function as a military without rules and regulations and Koth flaunted both. First by disobeying, then by getting his crew to break him out of prison.”

Lana took a breath, trying to picture the Imperial Army as a soulless army of droids. It wouldn’t ever work. Someone needed to give those droids commands and without rising through the ranks, how would anyone get enough training and experience to make those decisions? “So do you believe that? That humans are a liability to the military?”

Senya looked away. “I believe that Arcann believes that they are. Skytrooper droids are more efficient, cost less, they never tire…”

“And are disposable,” Lana said. Though she wasn’t sure if she even believed that any longer, thinking of teeseven and HK-55. She would never simply throw one of them out. She couldn’t imagine wanting to do that.

“But most important,” Senya said with a sigh, “they don’t disobey orders.”

Lana decided to ask the question foremost on her mind, the answer determining how much she would truly want Senya’s assistance. “Would you have killed all those people, if ordered?”

Silence settled over them and Lana wondered if Senya even knew the answer to that question. Years ago, Lana wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have followed her master’s command without question. But now? Now she was far more interested in protecting lives, saving them. It would be unthinkable for her to do what Koth had been ordered. She’d like to think this Senya was the same.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Senya said. “But the chain of command…” She closed her eyes and shook her head and Lana sensed a hint of defeat in her posture. “Fine. I’ll lower Koth’s priority in my duties. I will still have to hunt him, though. I can’t give it up completely. I have my own superiors to report to.”

“I understand,” Lana said. “Perhaps we could stay in contact. You could let me know where you’re searching and I could pass that along.”

A wry grin crossed Senya’s face. “You know, you’re asking a lot for someone who hasn’t actually introduced themselves.”

Lana felt her cheeks redden slightly. “Oh stars, you must think me the rudest person alive,” she said, holding out her hand. “Lana Beniko, Sith Lord.”

Senya briskly shook Lana’s hand. Firm, like a proper handshake should be. “Senya Tirall, Knight of the Eternal Throne.” Leaning forward, placing her elbows on her knees, she added, “I have to admit, I’m curious. What did Koth say about me?” She straightened up almost immediately and added, “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

“Probably for the best,” Lana said with a tilt of her head. “You have been chasing him to the edge of Wild Space, after all.”

“I am nothing if not relentless,” Senya said with a laugh.

Lana’s heart started to speed up as she thought of what she was about to ask next, now that Koth’s situation had been handled. “Speaking of Wild Space,” Lana said, hating the slight hesitation in her voice. “I’m looking for someone. Desperately, really. The Outlander who killed Valkorian.”

“The Outlander?” Senya asked, eyebrows raised. “That’s an easy question. I know exactly where she is.”

Lana’s hands curled into fists as she tried to keep her breathing even. Senya had spoken the words so casually, as if Lana hadn’t spent the last three years of her life searching, desperately hoping for some sign that her lover might truly still be alive. She thought back to when she last felt that spark, that little essence of hope that had told her Maebry was still alive. Perhaps her hope hadn’t been in vain, after all.

“And where might that be?” Lana asked, attempting to keep her voice level. Senya didn’t need to know about her relationship with the Outlander, after all.

Senya gave her a long look, one that told Lana she could tell there was a personal interest at stake in the answer. But in the end, what did it matter? What mattered was that the Knight had the answer Lana needed, the answer the Alliance needed, and more importantly, the answer the galaxy needed.

“She’s in Arcann’s trophy room.”

#swtor #lana beniko #maebry hindemith #hippo writes fanfiction

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talesofealdancynedom · 3 years

Photo

Finally, The King of The Grand West! After being essentially a flat background constant, it’s time to actually get to know the guy.

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 9.1 - In The Moment 9/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

none

Though their daughter Odette was gone, Meriam wanted to give her king husband the winter solstice of his life. They were grieving the disappearance of child, needed to betroth their nephew, and were closer then ever; After over twenty years of a loving marriage. Together, they wilted for their princess each day. Meriam wanted her family to have a moment to feel alive again. She would do the thing she hated most to achieve this end: fulfill a gender role. Meriam was organizing a royal ball, for the nobles as their Queen. Ordering servants around, sending invitations, choosing fabrics, picking flowers, and decorating. However, Meriam had never attended a ball, as she was too busy in far off lands making peace, or spending time with her husband, daughter, and nephew. Meriam had no clue what she was doing, but as queen, no one contradicted anything she said.

Ornaments of blue glass, and ribbon tinsel, hung like drapes about the ceilings and balconies; decorating the tall main hall. In magic, the blue quadrant of the table of fours is winter; So, a winter celebration requires blue. In Anglia, the people like things grand and glittering; so, the decorations must be dazzling and lustrous. Meriam decided she would wear her light periwinkle dress; the one her husband loved. Meriam hated wearing court gowns. She could barely move in those layered skirts. This dress, though bought for her as a gift years ago, made Meriam disgusted. The only part she anticipated wearing, was the string of pearls she brought with her from Francia; she never wore them, out of fear of judgment.

The next order of business, was sending invitations to all their ealdormen, and all eligible noble bachelorettes. The young ladies could be of Anglia, but to give her nephew the best chance of true love, Meriam sent invitations to all the lands at the Grand West’s boards: Daneia, Celticia, and Francia. She didn’t tell anyone about the Francian invitations though. This wedding trial run, put Meriam in agony for a whole month.

At last, the day of winter solstice arrived. Meriam spent the mourning getting herself, and her nephew Eatheltwein, properly dressed. The sight of their mage queen without makeup, and in a proper gown with colour, was shocking to the palace staff. Even her knights were confused. There was a fair lady under all of that magic, khol, and politics. Everyone was quite polite about it, as they knew full well of the princess’s disappearance, and thus how it might have effected Meriam. Maybe their queen had finally lost it. Anglia was without an heir, and they knew Meriam would die before producing another. Which made Eatheltwein, next in line.

To the king’s surprise, not a single young lady, of good standing from Anglia, arrived. The same could not be said for the many lovely daughters of other lands, who wished to consummate their countries peace with the Grand West. Meriam, not by chance, had informed no one but the king about the foreign guests. Some of those girls may have learned Anglian just to flatter a prince. Eatheltwein would be busy all afternoon, and well into the evening. Meriam and the king wore pretty smiles and stood side by side, greeting the guests who bowed with respect at their rulers. Meriam wished she could flee.

If romance, parties, and being in a room of strangers who respect you for some reason, wasn’t terrible enough, the king loved music; Meriam ‘forgot’ to hire a bard. No worries; The King had hired the ‘finest’ musicians of Anglia. Meriam did not like song and dance. She didn’t even charm spells if she didn’t have to. A good fiddle was fine; but Meriam loathed poets.

“Fredrick. Dance with me before I murder one of those minstrels.” Meriam said to her husband.

“Oh, why I would love to. We have not danced outside of the privacy of the garden in midnight; and those are informal and uncoordinated. I would never ask you to take part in such a ritualist bore, such as Anglian traditional dancing. Nobles will be watching, my dear.” He scoffed. Anglian dancing, was admittedly, dryer than The Fields of Fire of Indonia. They took each others hand to start the next dance, with many eyes on them. Except the young ladies, who pouted when Eatheltwein refused their offers to dance. He accepted the Danian princess, but only because she was persistent, and called him by his first name.

The poets held their tongues, as the strings and woodwinds began to flutter, starting the dance. Nihten perched in Meriam’s hair for the dance. As a familiar, she was just as emotionally exhausted as her master. Yet, also made a good fancy hat; Being a pretty kestrel. The King was holding back laughter.

“I love the flow of that dress, and how it compliments your eyes and hair. Nothing brings out yellows and peaches like a pale floral. And it goes wonderful with your Francian pearls.”

“Ah, yes; a colour that enhances my eyes, which strike fear in my enemies. And did you mention the pearls my late father gave to me as a wedding gift; That I can’t wear because ‘Francia’?”

“Yes. Also, isn’t it nice to dance? Though, we are two feet apart to mimic each other’s steps, with the grace of walking on hot coals? I bet they will clap anyway.”

“Oh yes. I love this part; I just tripped over our true love anklets. You dance so well my king.” Meriam giggled.

“We have so much fun together, I want you to take me on your next quest! Which land have you not yet seen?” He smiled, as the dance finished.

Vieticia. The Eastlands, sandwiched between Indonia and Sinonia. The only way there, was through the shadow veil. Meriam’s face went pale with fear. Her knights survived going dark, with a good change of colours, but Meriam and her husband Fredrick were not young anymore. She could not guarantee his recovery after going through the shadow veil, in a far-off land. Feeling anxious, Meriam began to pant and tear. Fredrick took her aside, and asked for some water and privacy.

“Why you went grey, Merry. Why can’t I go with you?”

“Because you would need to go through the shadow veil. And you saw what it did to my men. That place is not for common folk. It may give me comfort and wonder, but it will terrify you to the bone.”

“Then I will focus on the wonder instead of the fear. I want to give Eatheltwein practice at the helm, and time to properly court a lady. Mostly, I want to actually spend time with the woman I love, doing something that she loves. We can’t let our daughter’s death defeat us.”

“She is not dead, Fredrick. She is wed to the Raven King; and thus, safe and eternal in the shadow veil. As long as the Raven Gate is guarded anyway...” Meriam gasped. She hadn’t told anyone. Though her husband was happy their girl found a good happy life, he felt betrayed Meriam didn’t say anything.

“I am happy I do not have to burry a child, but livid my wife withholds such important information.”

“I don’t have any control over our daughters’ heart, and to come home and see her gone… I had no idea what to do or say; forgive me. Instead of a normal son, I bare you a mage that fell for magic itself. My one obligation, and only child; There are too many words.”

“Rubbish. Odette is perfect. Considering we never wanted children, she was the best possible outcome. I can’t possibly hold a grudge against you, after everything that’s happened. Now where in the world will we wander? I am getting quite grey, and tiered of these walls. I want to feel that awe and joy you and the knights speak of!” Fredrick gleamed. “I will withstand the veil. I do not fear magic. As I do not far you.” He said, kissing Meriam cheek. He was right, most people who met her, feared her like they feared magic. Meriam wore black, had unnatural colours, and barely emoted. Not to mention the intimidating title of Mage Queen of The Grand West. But her husband treated her like a real person. Not a pawn, fragile lady, or mage. Meriam would love his company on any quest. She was only held back by fear of loosing him.

Meriam wanted to let go of fear, and make memories. They weren’t getting any younger. She humored her husband.

“I have not visited the Stag Gate in Vieticia. Whilst in Sinonia, and Indonia, I found out that due to the desert, Francia wasn’t the only country lusting for good land: Sinonia was attempting to annex the Eastlands. A mage named Seiph Blugimm of the Sinonian court, said he’d give a good word for both VIeticia and Anglia. If Vietica is still intact, it means we have allies in the east; as it means the Emperor choose trade over war with other lands. If this is so, we will encircle Francia. If Eatheltwein, favors their princess when get back, Francia may surrender. Their military has drained their already weaning supply of winter grain, and they must be low on men after years of war and poverty. No one wants to fight anymore. They want to have a warm meal with their loved ones. Though, the wizards do concern me…” Meriam explained.

“That sounds wonderful, Merry! As for the wizards, why should they worry you? Eathel is quite a good wizard. With his canary being his familiar no less! I think those that are willing to dedicate their lives to magic, must love it dearly, in order to do so.” Fredrick contested. “The dust has finally begun to settle; Do you not await rest and my company, Merry?” Fredrick asked. She smiled. Meriam, saying it all out loud, realized she had accomplished all her goals. She had won. But Meriam still struggled to find joy, while she held onto her past. As her husband held her, she felt a little less feint, but still tiered. Meriam leant into his chest, nodding. Her soul did in fact, want rest and his companionship.

A week after the ball, the arrangements for the king and queen to venture to Vieticia was arranged. Wisely, Meriam’s men did not follow, nor attempt to dissuade the king. Eatheltwein was given stewardship; or kingship, if his uncle did not return. Many of the foreign noble ladies, had stayed around hoping to enchant Eathel. One from each borderland. The Celtican lady wanted money, the Danian girl wanted honour for her nation, and the Francian princess wanted love. For Francia, in spite of its youthful promiscuity, and great love of theater and art, it crumbled before a singular word: romance. To hold, dine, and whisper to a one and only. The way that young princesses gazed at Eathel, remined Meriam of her long dead friend, Felin. Felin could dream of nothing less then a kind fellow, and three children; preferable the eldest daughter named Odette. Eathel, completely oblivious to the ways of lust, innocently missed each of the ladies attempts at flirting. Before the king left, he joked with the court about making bets on which girl he would friend, befriend, or best friend. Meriam gave him a good elbow.

In front of the Raven Gate, they shivered with uncertainty; Meriam was scared her husband would not withstand the shock, while he wandered what made the shadow veil so scary. If you are a seer of magic, show me the wonder you see. The king thought. They stepped forward, onto the Raven Gate, and into the shadow veil. Meriam stayed calm, holding her husband’s arm, and pointing to the fey, and asking him what he thought. He felt flustered in panic, and hot like in summer sun. the absence of what makes the day veil vibrant and full, was confusing and unsettling in its unfamiliarity. But this place, the shadow veil, was full of magic; for any other sensation would distract from the ether’s treasures. The fey had colour, song, laughter, and ageless joy, when you saw them in their kingdoms. Here, a nymph looks even more ethereal than a pristine lake, and a phoenix even more golden then a crown.

“This place shakes me. But I see the serenity in it’s silence, and its ability to hold wonder. It is as if magic has no sense of time, hue, cold, pain, or sound; it knows no judgment. There is nothing like this, Meriam; It is like experiencing nothingness. Is wonder, if that is why it is scary.” Fredrick said, as they entered a meadow of tall grass. It was a pasture full of unicorns, pegisi, war horses, uncatchable deer, and golden sheep. Meriam and Fredrick walked, arms still linked, to a stone shack built in the middle of the field. Inside, they found the platform of the Stag Gate, and walked back into the day veil’s ambiance. Fredrick had never noticed, how dry, bitter, and overstimulating the world he knew was. There is comfort in nothing, if one does not run from its unfamiliarity.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealdan cynedom #fantasy #short stories #meriam #eatheltwein #seiph #nihten #viola

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quicksilversquared · 6 years

Text

Plagg and the Butterfly Costume

Chapter 1

Plagg is willing to do a lot in order to get more cheese. When he's spotted one too many times en route to the kitchen, he decides that a disguise is in order. One purple costume later, and Plagg is free to flit down to the kitchen without people thinking that he's a rat.

And then he gets caught.

(AO3) (FF.net)

"Eeeek! A rat!"

Plagg groaned and zipped into the wall as the shriek reached his ears. He could hear whatever Agreste staff member that had spotted him rattling around in the hallway, trying to figure out where he had gone. Plagg waited until they had finally given up and left before phasing back through the wall and continuing on his way down to the kitchen, still disgruntled.

Seriously, a rat? They thought he was a rat? He was a god, and gods shouldn't have to sneak while heading to the kitchen for a bit of a snack! That wasn't even the first time someone in the household had made that mistake, either. Plagg had been spotted probably five times overall, including this time, and every. single. time. their first impression was rat.

It was truly unfair. If almost any of the other kwami got spotted, people probably didn't think rat.

"Seriously, did you go out again?" Adrien demanded as soon as Plagg got back to his room, after munching his way through several wedges of Brie in the kitchen. "I give you plenty of cheese! Someone is gonna get a proper look at you someday and put the pieces together, and then my father won't let me out of his sight ever again."

"I'll be more careful next time," Plagg grumbled as he settled into the bottom of the trash can that he had claimed as his own. "And there's no such thing as enough cheese."

Adrien just groaned and went back to his homework.

Still, Adrien's words did give Plagg something to think about. It would be bad if Adrien's secret identity was discovered. His father had already noticed Adrien's ring once, and it would just take a few reports of a "mouse" in the hallways between Adrien's room and the kitchen for Mr. Agreste to put things together. If Mr. Agreste decided that it was too dangerous for Adrien to be fighting, then he might even try to take the ring away or keep Adrien from going out. But Plagg didn't want to give up his extra cheese snacks.

Plagg spent several days puzzling over the problem. The best idea he could think of was some sort of disguise, but he was 100% positive that a small bush shuffling through the hallways of the Agreste mansion would be about a million times more noticeable than one very small kwami zipping around in his quest for quality cheese.

He was stuck. And he stayed that way for several days, until Adrien went over to his pigtailed friend's house for a study session. After the last of the cheese bread that they had gotten for a snack was polished off (Plagg had gotten the wrong Chosen, obviously- cheese bread? He was in heaven), Plagg wandered off. Adrien was studying with his friends in Marinette's living room, so Plagg headed upstairs to explore.

What he found was a disaster zone full of fabric scraps in all colors and a half- made quilt draped over the desk. Apparently Adrien's friend had been in the middle of raiding her fabric stash for more colors to use when everyone came over. Plagg poked through the piles of fabric curiously, rolling around on a particularly soft and fuzzy swatch before continuing. He'd never had a kitten that liked making things, really, so he had never been surrounded by so many scraps of fabric.

He had definitely gotten the wrong chosen. Cheese bread and his own bed padded with little pillows and scraps of fabric and he would be in heaven.

After a few minutes, Plagg went back to burrowing through the piles of fabric, occasionally popping up to toss them in the air like confetti. He draped himself in a scrap of red silk and made faces in the mirror for a while, amusing himself by pretending that he was a vampire. Then he draped himself in blue knit and imitated Duusu for a few minutes. Impressions of Tikki, Wayazz, and Pollen soon followed, and then Plagg finished up with a rousing impersonation of Nooroo while he was wrapped in a scrap of purple fabric that matched the butterfly kwami's color perfectly.

Suddenly a burst of inspiration hit him and Plagg paused, paw still raised in the air mid-gesture. He glanced over at the mirror, then wrapped the fabric more securely around himself and posed a few times.

Huh.

He had grumbled only a few days ago about how the other kwamis wouldn't get confused as rats if they were spotted. They just weren't the right color for that to happen. But if he was dressed up as Nooroo, then no one would think rat, or cat. They would think butterfly, and they would just smile and continue on with their day, because how would be bothered by a pretty little butterfly?

No one, that was who. And it wouldn't be at all suspicious, since it was spring now and there were all sorts of butterflies out and about, so Plagg could go to the kitchen as often as he wanted for extra cheese.

Excited, Plagg started gathering up fabric. There was the purple cotton that he was wrapped in, and then some mesh stuff that would probably work well for wings. Plagg stored away a length of thread and a needle with his cache, and then very, very carefully smuggled the entire bundle downstairs before Adrien left. Once they were home, Plagg started his work.

It was harder than he thought it would be. He couldn't freehand draw himself onto the fabric so he could cut it out, so he had to resort to trying to trace his outline while laying down on the fabric itself. Once that was done, he had to cut it out (Adrien's scissors were not designed for kwami paws) and then sew it together, all without Adrien noticing.

Plagg had thought that it would be easy. He had wondered how hard it could possibly be, just sticking a needle in and out of some fabric. The answer was very hard.

The thread knotted endlessly. The fabric shifted out of place while he was trying to sew. Some parts of his purple onesie were a bit too tight, while other parts were baggy. The hood for his head had to be made entirely separately from the rest of the outfit and then attached so that it would fit around his head. The edges of the fabric frayed.

Plagg found himself frantically gluing some parts of the fabric so that they wouldn't fray and the seams would stay together. It wasn't pretty, maybe, but from a distance it probably would look fine.

Probably.

He copied the swirl on Nooroo's forehead with a purple marker that he swiped from Adrien, and then soaked the mesh in glue to make it stiff for the wings. Those got tacked on the back of the Nooroo onesie with a couple large, crooked stitches, and then Plagg was done.

Maybe his cheese-stealing suit wasn't perfect, but Plagg thought it looked amazing. He slipped it on (then had to tug a bit, because one of the legs was tight), pulled the hood over his head, and did a little twirl. His disguise squished his ears and his tail a bit, but if that was the price he had to pay to get cheese, then so be it. It wasn't that annoying.

During the next several weeks, there were no yells about rats during any of Plagg's excursions. He had been at least glimpsed during one of them, though, and the only response was a confused "Huh?" from the cook that had spotted the brief glimpse of purple.

Plagg preened, proud of himself. Problem solved, and he did it all by himself. He had earned all of that extra cheese that he got.

And then one day, everything went wrong.

Plagg had been cheerfully headed through a dim hallway towards the kitchens when he heard the muttering. At first, he ignored it. Adrien's father had had to go to the eye doctor that morning (apparently he had injured one of his eyes somehow), and whatever had happened during the appointment had put Mr. Agreste in an even more sour mood than usual. The muttering had been going on pretty much all day. It was background noise at this point.

Plagg paid more attention when the muttering suddenly cut off and then, after a pause, there was a sudden and very close "Ah-ha! There you are!"

Then hands that were decidedly not Adrien's grabbed Plagg out of the air. Plagg gasped and wriggled, but the hands only tightened around him.

"Stop wriggling, Nooroo! I am your master and you will obey me!"

Plagg froze and then promptly went limp, curling in on himself to try to hide his face as his mind raced. The man who had caught him knew of Nooroo and had called himself Nooroo's master. That meant that he was Hawkmoth. For some reason, he had actually been tricked by the outfit Plagg had made. He wanted to look up, to see who Hawkmoth was so that Adrien and Ladybug could track him down and surprise him, but he didn't dare. He couldn't risk looking up and having Hawkmoth see his definitely-not-Nooroo face peering up through the purple hood.

"We have work to do. Perhaps I cannot see as well as normal, but that does not mean that I can't akumatize someone and defeat the heroes!" Hawkmoth continued, stuffing Plagg into his jacket (Plagg wrinkled his nose; Hawkmoth, it turned out, wore cologne. It stunk like a sewer, overpowering and musky and seriously why did humans douse themselves in the disgusting stuff). He started walking, headed away from the kitchens. Plagg briefly mourned the loss of his mid-afternoon snack before remembering that there were more important things going on at the moment. "And you- I told you to stay put when I left this morning when I left for the doctor's office! There will be consequences for wandering off! I've wasted hours looking for you, and now my eye hurts more than before and I have a migraine."

Plagg burrowed down into the jacket nervously. They were crossing the atrium now, and Hawkmoth wasn't bothering to sneak at all. Clearly he was comfortable being in the Agreste household and wasn't worried at all about being caught. On top of that, now that he thought about it, Hawkmoth wouldn't have any reason to be looking for Nooroo in the Agreste mansion unless Nooroo was likely to be there, and Nooroo was only likely to be there if Hawkmoth himself normally was.

This was bad. But maybe there was an explanation that wasn't the one that Plagg was fearing.

There was the sound of a door opening and then clicking shut. Plagg tried to prick up his ears to get a better sense of where they were, but then remembered that his ears were pinned against his head by his outfit. A second later, it didn't matter since another voice spoke up, close enough for Plagg to hear clearly.

"How are you doing, sir?"

Hawkmoth snorted. "Awful. The doctor said that you were right and my cornea was scratched, and it could take weeks for it to get fully back to normal. Right now, it hurts and I can't see out of that eye, which meant that I couldn't put my contacts in the other eye so I can't see as well as normal out of that eye either."

Plagg's eyes widened in understanding. Clearly he had (sort of) gotten lucky with when Hawkmoth spotted him. His problems with his eyes meant that he couldn't immediately see the differences between Nooroo and Plagg in his butterfly outfit, when he normally might have. The dim hallway that Plagg had been in when he was spotted probably had helped, too.

"And now I have a migraine," Hawkmoth continued. "I can't possibly get any work done today, so I'm headed up. I might as well try to make something out of the day."

"Do you want me to get you some medicine for your headache, sir?"

"I've already had some," Hawkmoth responded. "But I might need more later. Have something ready for when I return, Nathalie."

Plagg froze. Nathalie? Oh no, oh no, oh no...

There was an affirmation, and then Hawkmoth was walking again. He paused and reached out, and then the floor moved.

Plagg hastily muffled his squeak of surprise as the floor moved downwards. Hawkmoth stayed eerily straight and still as the floor kept moving, downwards and then sideways, and then up, up, up.

This was ridiculous, if nothing else. Ridiculous, excessive, overly dramatic, absolutely stupid...

The section of floor slowed, then came to a stop. Hawkmoth stepped forward, and then reached into his jacket to yank Plagg out. Plagg hastily grabbed onto his hood to make sure it didn't slip. If he got discovered now...

He was in danger. He should have run while he had the chance, even if he would have gotten Nooroo in trouble because of it. But now that he was here, he just had to confirm who Hawkmoth was and then he could scram.

"All right," Hawkmoth- Mr. Agreste, Plagg confirmed with a careful glance to the side, oh crud- said. He adjusted his tie, enough for Plagg to spot the Butterfly Miraculous hidden underneath it. "Nooroo, transform me!"

There was a squeak from a corner of the lair- because that was the only thing it could be- and then a blur of purple zipping towards a clearly befuddled Mr. Agreste. He squinted red, puffy eyes towards the sound, and Plagg took the distraction to zip towards the closed window as fast as he could. There was a little more resistance than normal as he phased through the window because of the butterfly outfit, but then Plagg was free. He took a moment to pause and catch his breath once he was free of the lair, and then he zipped downwards as fast as he could go while staying hidden. He burst into Adrien's room with a gasp and a cough, spiraling through the air to land with a small thud on Adrien's couch.

Adrien's father is Hawkmoth. Holy crud.

I just discovered something actually useful. Holy. Crud.

"Plagg, what were you doing?" Adrien asked, not even looking up from his homework. He looked so normal, like his entire world wasn't about to be shifted on its axis. He glanced up, and caught sight of Plagg sprawled out on the back of the couch in his purple Nooroo outfit. "What are you wearing? Where did you go?"

For a moment, Plagg considered lying. He knew full well how much Adrien loved his (stupid, evil, neglectful) father, and Plagg knew that his Chosen's heart would be broken if he knew that his father was actually Hawkmoth and had nearly gotten Adrien killed several times. But he couldn't lie. It was far too dangerous for Adrien not to know. If Mr. Agreste put things together and assumed that Plagg was Adrien's kwami and not just a random person's kwami sent in to scout things out, then Adrien was in serious danger.

So Plagg made a decision. They had to go talk to Master Fu and get some advice on how to keep Adrien safe when he shared a house with Hawkmoth.

"You remember where we went when I was sick?"

Adrien nodded, clearly puzzled.

"We need to go there. Now."

#Miraculous Ladybug #My writing #Plagg and the Butterfly Costume #Adrien Agreste #Plagg #I'm so excited about this one

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an-anaemic-pen · 5 years

Text

Project Phoenix Chapter 15

The Whole Truth

The Manifestation || The Power Play || The Green-Eyed Fly || The Middle of The Night || The Alternative || The Attic || The House || The God of Mischief || The Kill || The Night || The Collar || The Training || The Week Without A God of Mischief || The Routine

Summary: Kate’s a normal teenage Midgardian girl; except there’s a Loki in her attic, and now S.H.I.E.L.D.’s after her, and also, she has powers. Apparently, she’s meant to save the world.

She just wanted to finish school and maybe fall in love—at least she’s accomplishing one of those.

Relationships: Gen, F/M (Loki/Original Female Character)

Rating: M (Graphic Depictions of Violence, Underage if you squint bit—nothing occurs while characters are underage, Sexual Content)

Mood: Blizzard, SkyWorld

“I must tell you something.”

Kate looked worried. Damn her grey eyes. Damn her grey eyes straight to Hel.

“What is it?” She looked worried—no, scared, as she stood up.

Loki opened his mouth. He knew she wouldn’t have worked with him if he told her right away. He’d told her before, and it resulted in her killing herself. No, him killing her, even if he hadn’t made her jump off the bridge that night. “It is about S.H.I.E.L.D..”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not in the way you are probably thinking.” Loki didn’t know how to say it. He’d said it before, and it had made her commit suicide. Knowing it was a heavy burden, a burden of not only responsibility but also one that he knew would hurt her beyond repair. “It’s important, and you need to know it if we are to continue on.”

“Oh… okay.”

Norns, he didn’t want to do this. All he wanted to was to lay beside her on their bed back in Asgard as they had before. He particularly liked it when she thought he was asleep and would reach up and touch his face, trailing her finger along the skin and bones in exploration. There was something… curious about her when she did that, not childish, but inquisitive.

He could trust her, he always could, but she couldn’t trust him, and Loki knew she wouldn’t after he told her. “Perhaps you should sit down.” He began to move forward whether she wanted him to or not.

“Why?” Kate caught herself when he grabbed her by the upper arms and sat down on her bed. “Is it really that bad?”

“Yes.” Loki crouched down so he was on-level with her, even slightly lower than her.

Her worry only increased. He could see it from her posture—how her arms twitched the slightest bit, and her shoulders naturally rose to be held higher. Her face turned from concern to determination, but he could see the anxiety in her gaze. “I can take it.”

He doubted her. He knew what she would do; she would either shut him out and pretend to be unaffected or act as though he’d never said anything and not digest the information. Whichever was the outcome, it was bad.

Loki mentally took a deep breath. “S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t exactly what I told you it was.”

She cocked her head the slightest bit like her little companion did when asked if he wanted a treat. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed. How was he supposed to put it into words? No amount of silvertongue could help him now; he’d wormed his way in and out of thousands of situations, but when he needed it most, it was gone. He’d trade those thousands of consequences for just a bit of help on how to break it to her. “I’m not who you think I am.” He shed the glamour and revealed himself. He didn’t exactly like that appearance, but it was how the ancient Norseman had pictured him, so it was how he’d shown himself to Kate.

He stood and paced the small room. “This is who I truly am.” He couldn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t watch her die inside again. He’d done it too many times. She’d hide it with a smile just like the rest of the ill adolescents on Midgard.

Kate scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. You just happen to look exactly like a Midgardian celebrity.” Her hands sat in her lap, picking her nails.

Loki stopped. He looked at her chin. It was close to her eyes, but far enough away that he didn’t have to see them fade. “No, Kate, I am him.”

She smirked. “Well played, Loki, well played.” Her whole demeanor relaxed, and she casually leaned against her headboard. “You actually had me there for a second.”

He swallowed and closed his eyes. “I know my reputation, but I am telling you the truth.”

When he opened his eyes, her face had fallen. She sat up straight and put her bare feet on the floor. “What?” She shook her head. “Now I’m confused.”

“Now I’m confused.”

“I know it’s hard to explain—”

“Well, you better start right now.”

He could already feel her growing turmoil. “I am… supposed to be off-the-radar. S.H.I.E.L.D. is working on taking Asgardians out of the main view of the, as you call it, franchise, in order to stop from having to travel between realms for needed filming.”

Her own gaze fell to the floor. She blinked far more times than necessary. “So why are you here?”

He paced some more and opted not to answer her question. “After you were captured, your memory was wiped, and you became S.H.I.E.L.D.’s liaison between Midgard and Asgard. For the ease of the Asgardian people, we were married.”

She simply repeated what she’d said before. “Why are you here?”

He couldn’t possibly look at her, so he kept his head down. “I want you to remember who you truly are.”

“Then why’d you make me have powers?”

He noticed how calm she sounded—as if he wasn’t about to rent apart her entire reality—and he paced faster. “This is a controlled environment. I can train you to keep your abilities restricted unless use is necessary.”

She swallowed. “So… you lied to me?”

He stopped in front of her, crouching down again and taking her hands.

She pulled them away, and he let them slip from his grasp. “Yes, but I had to, otherwise—”

Her gaze snapped to him. “Look me in the eyes.”

He couldn’t.

“Look me in the eyes, and tell me you lied, Loki.” Her voice dripped venom.

She knew he could not look her in the eyes and lie.

Slowly, his gaze met hers. He’d expected rage, but he found instead a begging sort of hope. His heart—wherever it had come from—twisted in pain. It had not been venom on her tongue, but hope.

His lips created the words, but Loki did not understand what he was saying.

Then, there it was, the unadulterated fury, as hope shattered into tears. “I trusted you.”

He spoke with a tongue of lead. “I know.”

Why was she crying? He was the God of Lies, she should have expected it. And Kate was even beginning to miss him when he was gone. Dumbass, she scolded herself.

“Please, leave.” She’d meant to say it harshly, but her voice cracked, and she sounded more hurt than anything else.

“I will come back next week.” His hand reached up for a moment, almost as if to brush away the tears that were just about to fall down her cheek, but he hesitated and pulled back. He stood and walked out of her line of vision. When Kate picked her head up, he was gone.

She threw herself down on her pillow and let out a little sob. God, she was supposed to be an emotionless rock. She felt the same ache in her chest as she had when she’d seen herself die in Loki’s memories and it hurt.

She curled up. She didn’t know what to do with herself. What was she supposed to do? Nobody had betrayed her like that.

Nobody except Micheal, her unhelpful inner voice reminded.

Kate almost considered contacting him in spite of Loki, and it took her a moment to remember the predator was dead. She stood and hurled her pillow across the room in frustration. It deftly hit the wall and the light green barrier, still in place, glowed slightly.

Maybe she could overexert herself using her magic, and just die. That sounded nice. Heaven didn’t have any betrayers, did it?

There was some sort of twisted satisfaction at the idea of her death making Loki start his quest over again and, not being in her right mind, she opted to satisfy the urge.

Kate took a deep breath and focused, just like Loki had told her to. It was much easier to call upon her powers when she was experiencing such intense rage and, she realized belatedly, grief as well. She hadn’t known she was partially mourning the brother and kitten she’d never known.

The sound barrier was still up, so Kate screamed, releasing the most powerful blast she could manage. It left her palm with enough force to jettison her back into her desk. She hit her head against the wall rather hard; hard enough for her vision to shutter briefly, but not hard enough to knock her out.

The side of the room she’d fired at was now covered in a clear sheet of ice. It was almost like the way the world looked after getting blanketed with heavy snow, it melted a bit in the hot sun rays, then froze overnight to create a layer of slippery ice.

Kate stood, ignoring the throbbing in her head, and fired another blast. This one was noticeably weaker and her knees buckled under her own weight. She wiped away the tears on her cheeks and shivered in the sudden cold. The chilling ripple, which had been a stormy sea before, was now a trickling creek. As she cleared her eyes of the blur, Kate realized her fingers were blue.

They did not feel cold, or at least, not that cold.

She summoned the last of her strength and disregarded the blood dripping from her nose to her chapped lips. When had it become so dry? Kate realized she was panting quite heavily, but it was just another thing she ignored as she let the last of her energy creep into her fingers. She watched the frost form over her palm, light-headed as she made a tower of slush. She barely felt her half-numb body hit the floor as her eyes rolled back.

Her tower had been pretty.

#fanfic #fanfiction #loki #loki fanfic #loki fic #Loki Laufeyson #loki (marvel)#marvel #marvel agents of shield #marvel fanfiction #S.H.I.E.L.D.#Project Phoenix #Project Phoenix Chapter 15 #The Whole Truth

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rizuno · 7 years

Note

Write me a ficlet about Stiles finding random love poems/notes written on little scraps of paper stuffed in weird places, like between the seats in the Jeep, in the pockets of hoodie he swore he just washed so how could there be intact paper in there, in his shoes, under his pillow. Who is writing all these notes and how do they keep randomly appearing on Stiles person!?!?!

This is unbeta-d, and I am subjecting you dear reader(s?) to poetry written by me masquerading as English!Major Derek Hale. BASICALLY I’m SORRY ABOUT THE CRAP POETRY OK. also im really fuckin pissed off about the spacing of the poems but tumblr is adamant about pretending to not know what the fuck im trying to do when i try and reformat it i need to stop before i just delete this whole post in a fit of RAGE

For RachelBBY

Scraps

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think anything of it. He figures he just wrote it himself in English and then forgot. It’s just a neglected scrap of paper hiding amidst other papers under his desk, sacrificed on the altar of a weekly allowance with everything else he throws out as he cleans his room. He only really glanced at it anyway, he was preoccupied with being pissed off at Derek for being Derek, thinks it said something about heartbeats and irregular spaces. So that was the incident, he supposes.

The second time he’s got his hand stuffed in the crease of Roscoe’s passenger seat in a desperate search for just one fucking quarter, just one, and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper instead. “How long has that been there?” Stiles asks himself as he de-crumples it to read it. He snorts. Obviously quite a while, it’s a poem, and Stiles knows he didn’t write this one, which means it’s circa the Scott/Allison Era.

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

“Not half bad Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, not bothering to finish the rest of it as he tosses it aside and resumes the quest for one measly quarter cause he just wants a burger. Out of life, all he wants is to eat a burger right now. It’s not so much to ask? Right?

He bitches and moans to Scott about his inability to find a quarter and thus eat a burger, but forgets to ask him about the poem thing. The next time he sees Derek, Derek flips him a quarter with a smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but pockets the quarter and eats him that fucking burger later that night, after they have all managed, miraculously, to not die. “Victory comes in all forms,” Stiles informs Scott sagely in between mouthfuls. So that’s the coincidence, in all its glory.

The third time has Stiles paying the fuck attention, because he’s digging around his back pocket for the quarter Derek gave him, and just as he remembers he spent it already, his fingers close around what must be a receipt. Stiles heaves a grunt of disgust, no curly fries for him then, and glances at the scrap of paper uninterestedly, out of habit, as his arm moves to toss it into the trashcan across the hall. And then he freezes. It’s not some forgotten transaction, it’s a fucking poem. What the fuck. Stiles unfolds the paper and reads the words in their entirety this time, standing in the middle of the hallway as other students stream around him as they head to class. It’s not very long, but it feels like Stiles takes several hours to read it. He reads it like it was meant for him. It must be? Right?

I think

you don’t think of me

all that often

but I think of you

quite often

I’m thinking of you now

I think of you in the morning

I think of you in my bed

at night

I wonder

if you’re thinking of me now

Stiles swallows. His mouth has gone dry. He feels like he just walked in on someone watching some really hot porn. He feels…intimate. He feels…like he’s now late for science. Stiles whirls around in a flail of limbs and pelts to the science lab. But that scrap of paper he doesn’t toss aside. That scrap he keeps. So there’s the pattern.

Stiles was sorta expecting the next one but he wasn’t prepared to find it lying on his keyboard; not there when he went downstairs to grab a soda and now there when he returns.

He tells himself his fingers are shaking with caffeine intake as he reaches out to unfold it, where it lays so innocuously.

He licks his lips, then reads.

I know you’re thinking of me now

will you think of me tonight

in your bed

with your own hands upon yourself

gasping

flushed

and undone

“Ffffuck,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. There is no way he’s gonna make it to tonight. He’s got a really great jerk off session going, standing there right in front of his desk at 3:30 in the afternoon, pants only pulled down the bare minimum. He’s like feeling it, he is totally ready for this, ‘makes his knees weak’ orgasm he’s coming up on. And then of course, Scotty has to burst in freaking out about supernatural crisis 3B or 6A or whatever number letter combo they’re on now.

“Come on, man!” They both yell at the same time, Scott throwing up his arms and facing the wall as Stiles fumbles to stuff himself back inside his pants. Scott feels the need to ask why. Stiles rants that it’s the privacy of his own fucking room. Scott mutters something about how Derek thinks they need info. “Since when do you listen to what Derek thinks,” Stiles says petulantly as he tosses Scott a bag of Doritos and moves to sit back at his desk. Scott eats the chips on Stiles’ bed as Stiles furiously looks up shit to the best of his ability. The moment is already forgotten. That sort of awkwardness has happened before, and will probably happen again. Which come on Scott, werewolf, use those supernatural senses for once. After Scott is gone Stiles wonders what four times means. Also he mourns the loss of one of the greatest orgasms he never got to experience.

He finds the next one two nights later, under his pillow as he stretches out on his bed. He’s so relaxed and he’s in bed at a decent hour. Derek did not manage to piss him off when they came across each other briefly earlier in the evening and Stiles is ready for some nappy naps. When his fingers brush the edge of the crinkled bit of paper the first feeling he gets is surprise. It’s quickly followed by a quick dip of excitement in his gut. He doesn’t bother to switch any lights on. Too much effort. He reads it by the light of his phone.

I whisper your name to myself

after you’ve left

it’s fairly pathetic

but then last week

you trapped yourself inside your own hoodie

so at least I’m not alone

And Stiles knows. “Derek,” Stiles whispers furiously. He chucks the paper as hard as he can away from him. Which, it being paper, isn’t that far. It flutters down to rest on the bed beside him. That fucking asshole has been laughing at him this whole fucking time. So that’s what comes after a pattern. Epic fuckery.

Stiles sees Derek first thing the next morning; he’s having like, a pre-game huddle with the Erica-Isaac-Boyd triumvirate in the back parking lot behind the gym. “Stiles,” Derek greets him, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You are pathetic,” Stiles snarls at him. Derek’s jaw clenches and his expression turns cold and distant. Stiles whirls around and marches off in righteous fury. Stiles has enough fucking going on in his life without that kind of shit. Stiles thought, he’d thought…it doesn’t even matter what he thought. He was stupid and a dumbass for thinking it.

So naturally he finds the next poem sandwiched in between the pages of this month’s Great English Novel during 3rd period of that day. Stiles isn’t sure when or even how Derek got it in there, but it certainly wasn’t after this morning. He almost doesn’t read it, doesn’t want to give Derek the satisfaction, but he’s Stiles. He must fucking know. He can’t not.

I dreamed of you

it was warm

and bright

and we were safe

you took my hand

and my heart blazed brighter

when I woke

I pretended that it was the future

and if I am patient

that it will be

any day now

“What,” Stiles whispers. His own heart is sinking fast within his chest. His hand clenches down on the poem. “It was all real,” He realizes out loud.

“What?” Scott whispers from the seat behind him.

Stiles whips around in his seat to face him. “Cover for me,” Stiles begs.

Scott doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Go,” he says.

Stiles slips from the room, so preoccupied he doesn’t notice that he doesn’t trip or smack into something once.

Derek won’t be at his apartment. Instinctively, Stiles knows this. He jumps in Roscoe and heads straight for the preserve.

The burned out husk of the Hale house looks as tragic and decimating as ever, but that feeling is especially poignant for Stiles at this moment. He gives Roscoe’s wheel one last squeeze, for luck or bravery or whatever, and steps out of the jeep. He tries to repress a shiver as he looks at the charred and broken edifice before him and fails. This had seemed so much simpler, less complicated back in 3rd period. No, Stiles can do this, he absolutely can. He leaps up what’s left of the front steps and barges through the door. “Derek,” he calls.

A few moments of silence, and then a resigned sigh. “What?” Derek asks, voice flat as he materializes out of wherever he was.

Stiles waves the hand that has not once unclenched on the poem in Derek’s general direction.

“You’re serious?” He accuses.

Derek’s stone face takes on a look of frustration. “Yes, Stiles, I’m serious.”

“I…I mean…why?”

Derek sighs like it’s obvious. “I wrote you poems Stiles.”

Stiles seizes upon a detail he has the mental facilities to deal with at this moment. “Why poems though?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m an English Major, Stiles.” Which rude because, like,

“How was I supposed to know that,” Stiles says defensively.

They stand in silence. Derek doesn’t seem inclined to word anymore today and Stiles is furiously thinking.

“You wanna,” and his left hand, the one not still grasping the poem, makes an abortive movement towards Derek, “hold hands?”

After a moment, Derek uncrosses his arms and says, “Okay.” He reaches out, and then they’re holding hands, bridging a gap between them. It’s kind of…awkward. But it’s only awkward in that Stiles suspects feelings are present kind of way, because Derek’s thumb strokes gently along the back of his hand and Stiles feels kinda like, heart blazing or whatever.

“I think of you pretty often,” Stiles admits. “Like, a lot.”

Derek swallows. “Okay.”

BONUS:

First Poem

your heartbeats are

irregular spaces

I dwell there

and refuse to meet your eyes

when you glance my way

Second Poem

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

I have kept it

for myself; that laugh

longing

for your real

and intransigent

presence

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #ficlet #drabble #fanfic #FOR RACHELBBY

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withickmire · 7 years

Text

this is your heart (can you feel it?)

Fandom: Deltora Quest Characters: Sharn, Endon, Barda, Prandine (mentions of Jarred and Anna) Pairing: Sharn/Endon Summary: As the dust settles in Del, Sharn wonders what wrath this new and terrible world will bring upon her family. Pre-canon, post-prologue. AO3. FFN.

The screams that had filled the evening air finally drew to a close. It was hard to tell where they had come from, but they were not far. Had the victim found aid? Or were they dead? In any case, Sharn wondered how long the silence would last. It had been nearly a week since the Shadowlord had claimed Del, but the skies were still filled with inhuman cries, and the laughter of looters carried high above the walls.

Sharn sat perched on the edge of the hard and narrow bed that she now called her own. A book lay flipped open on the bedside table. Who had it belonged to? Had Jarred put it aside before he went to sleep that final night? Or had Anna picked it up as she waited for her husband to return from the palace, desperate for a distraction from her fears? Sharn could not bear to close it. Horror and guilt prickled at her skin like the points of sewing needles. Anna’s clothes, uncomfortably tight against Sharn’s longer limbs, smelled of the woman’s skin and sweat. Mine, mine, mine, the cottage seemed to breathe.

Supper had been a quiet affair, as it had been each of the five nights they had spent in the Forge. The pantry was poorly stocked, a testament to the city’s poverty, and neither she nor Endon had ever prepared their own meals. They had mostly sustained themselves upon hard cheese and increasingly stale bread. The palace guard, Barda, did not always sit with them for meals, but when he did, he ate only at Sharn’s utmost insistence. They had just eaten, and Sharn knew she should be full, but the meagre meal had done nothing to satisfy her, nor the baby who seemed more eager to join them with every passing day. She sat on the edge of the bed, at a loss. The warmth of the blankets called to her. It was too early to sleep, but what else was there to do?

Barda dozed in a chair in the corner of the little room, untroubled by the noises of the streets. He slept often, and when he woke he spoke only of his failures. Sharn wished she could comfort the man, but did not know how. She knew how he suffered; every day she awoke to thoughts of her parents; her sisters; her friends. How had they died? Had they felt much pain, or had their deaths been swift? She had been too shocked to mourn them properly the first two nights in the Forge, but on the third she had sobbed out her broken heart into her pillow.

Now, there was nothing for them to do, but sleep and eat and grieve, for stepping outside would surely mean their deaths.

Endon stood in the kitchen, a hunched and lonesome figure. He scrubbed at the supper dishes with a ragged cloth, well away from the window. When he had finished, he set his cloth down and stepped away; Sharn watched him closely. He walked gingerly through the cottage, as if he did not belong. He met her eyes as he crouched by the cold fire place.

“I wish I could light it for you,” he said miserably. “But I do not know how.”

“It is warm enough already,” she promised him, soft enough to not disturb Barda.

Endon shook his head and wandered aimlessly to the opposing shelf. He trailed his fingers lightly against the worn spines of books, and paused to smell a pot of little white flowers that sat on the shelf. His lips twitched in a half-smile. Curiosity had clearly bested his hesitance, for he then pulled a battered tin box from the shelf. Sharn watched with some interest as he opened it with a frown. He pulled out a small roll of paper; thick and creamy, in great contrast to the shabbiness of the Forge. The design of the paper made Sharn’s heart yearn for home. Endon unfurled the paper, and froze, his face twisted with anguish.

“Endon?” Sharn exclaimed anxiously, and hurried to his side. She pulled the paper from his hand as he clasped the box to his chest. A small sob escaped his lips.

The King thanks you for your message, Sharn read with growing dread. He will attend to your request when time allows. Endon.

“I did not write this,” he whispered. His face was bloodless.

“I know,” Sharn told him.

“I did not,” he repeated, hollow with shock, as if she had not spoken. His hands trembled, and she gently pulled the box from his hands. She looked quickly inside: the letters were more of the same, signed in different names. She shut it tight and set it back down.

Oh, Endon. My good, gentle husband. This is not what you deserve.

She could sympathize with his guilt. While she had eaten sweets and danced and laughed, the people, her people, had starved and suffered. But Endon had spent his whole life knowing that Deltora would one day be his to protect. She would never be able to truly comprehend his pain.

“It was Prandine who did this, who else could have penned such lies?” She said firmly. “There was nothing you could have done, my love.”

“It does not matter,” Endon’s face was a mask of bitter sorrow. “I have failed my people. I should have listened to Jarred, when I first had the chance. I have failed him, too.”

Sharn remembered the very first time she had heard Endon speak of Jarred. She had entered their bedroom in the palace, only to find her husband in deep discussion with Prandine.

“Good evening, your majesty,” Prandine always smiled like he was laughing at the person he spoke to. He shuffled his papers into a neat pile. “I am sorry to still be here at such a late hour. The king and I were just discussing some matters of the treasury, which I am sure you would find tiresome. I shall take my leave.”

“Yes,” Sharn laughed; a light and charming sound. She pushed aside the anger and shame that churned in her stomach. “I have never had much of a head for numbers.”

Prandine gave her a shallow bow, and shut the door behind him.

Sharn watched him leave, and turned back to Endon, who was staring at her curiously. “Why did you always do that?”He asked.

“What do you mean?” She responded carefully. It had not been so long since they had been married, and Sharn did not yet know what kind of man her husband was.

“You act… differently around him,” Endon frowned, searching for the right words. “It is as if you are someone else.”

Sharn tilted her head. She thought, for a moment, of lying, but did not know what she would say. Endon’s face was open and understanding, and it made her want to tell the truth. “There is something about him… I do not like him. I do not want him to think that he knows me.”

Endon said nothing, but a strange shadow passed over his face. Sharn wondered if she had said too much. Finally, he looked at her with an odd smile upon his face. “I had a friend once, who thought as you did.”

Sharn held her tongue. She had heard of Endon’s ill-fated friendship with Jarred; a bond that had nearly ended with his murder. Gossip and rumours moved swiftly within the palace walls.

“I must tell you, I have no love for Prandine,” Endon admitted quietly. “But it does not matter. I owe him everything, and I must trust him.”

Sharn nodded, although she had not agreed. Still, the smile she gave him was real. Until then, the only thing they shared had been their bed. But Endon had never been so open with her before, and it was that day that she began to realize that perhaps her feelings towards his had risen beyond what had been required.

Endon’s words may have held some truth; he should have listened to Jarred. But Sharn knew that there was no blame to be laid upon him, and wished dearly that she could make him see the same way.

And now, Sharn thought, as she took his hand and clasped it above her heart— Now we all know what was truth, and what was fiction. Now, Prandine is dead— and by my hands.

“No, Endon,” Sharn told him firmly. She placed her free hand upon his cheek, and guided his face so that their eyes met. His skin was so soft against her hand. “He would not have done this for us if that were so. He has faith in you, still. As do I.”

Some of the pain seemed to fade from Endon’s haggard eyes; at her words, at her touch. He raised his other hand so that it pressed against hers; his fingers were like ice, but they warmed against her skin. Sharn heard Barda stir, but she did not look away from Endon.

They would have to do what they must to survive. They would have to learn to be stronger. And they would.

Down the street, the screams rose once more.

---

Note: I wanted to explore a little bit of the survivor’s guilt that Sharn and Endon no doubt carried. The title is loving plucked from ‘Laura Palmer’ by Bastille.

#deltora quest #imagine being so young and so sheltered and then thrust into a world where showing your true self would mean your death #imagine having to run knowing that everyone you have ever met and everyone you have ever loved is going to die #imagine being given everything that a pair of strangers had and being unable to know what became of them #anyways... i love sharn #my writing #sharn

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