#i just thought it was neat that he opted for a smaller knife | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loveless-scribes · 3 years

Text

Lovely LS Art!

A lovely piece of art from the fabulous and talented @dags-sz for the story I’m currently co-writing, Angelus Mortis. A wonderful visualization of our secondary couple’s first meeting! Thank you so much Daguer for lending your fabulous talent to this story! Please check out her work, she’s absolutely amazing and a pleasure to work with! <3

You can find the story here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13642600/2/Angelus-Mortis https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736001/chapters/69569037#workskin And the scene here: The third day, the sky split suddenly overhead, releasing a downpour that drenched her to the bone. She went on wandering the streets, now with renewed desperation, cursing herself for not better informing herself on the workings of the mortal realm. Wishing she had thought to ask Jui what "money" was. She was accustomed to the conveniences of the Underworld. Hunger meant seek out the kitchens. Boredom sent her to the gardens, to Kayt's cheerful banter. Tiredness sent her to the servant's quarters. The mortal realm meant searching and searching without quite knowing just what she was searching for.

She was beginning to despair of her rash decision. Bitter tears lodged in her throat. Even if she were to be killed by pickpockets and die in the rain on this cold night, she decided, it would still be better than the humiliation of having to see Thanatos again. Of walking him back to the castle even one more time.

She paused, catching sight of the dim windows of an establishment that was clearly closed. A forest green sign overhead read Wings of Freedom in gold lettering and underneath that, in smaller cursive the addition, Tea Shop. She approached the locale to seek shelter from the rain under the overhanging awning. Peering inside the windows, she saw an impeccably clean little café, with tables and chairs furnished out of warm cherry wood. She sighed and turned away from the view. What she wouldn't give to be sitting at Jui's side by the warmth of the kitchen fire with a mug of tea in her hands.

A shiver passed through her as she looked down and watched the water snaking down her arms and dripping down the hem of her chiton. What was she doing here? What did she think she would achieve by leaving home? What was she hoping to accomplish? Surely, she was the most foolish nymph in all of existence to have attempted such an imprudent escapade. She was a half-witted, bumbling, poor excuse of a – the sudden tinkling of a bell roused her from her thoughts.

A young man stood in the doorway of the tea shop, a large bag of parchment paper in his left arm as he opened the large, glass door to the locale with his right. His black hair was parted in the center and damp from the rain. His expression was one of annoyance that seemed characteristic rather than provoked. Cool, icy blue eyes were hooded by narrowed eyelids, his annoyance emphasized by his furrowed, thin eyebrows. He held the door open with his foot as he ran a hand though his wet hair, pushing the strands back from his face.

He seemed then, to notice her. Drawn, perhaps, by her own gaze. He looked her once over and Slayte was suddenly uncomfortably aware of her appearance. The flower garland Kayt had adorned her black hair with had long since been removed. Her hair was a wet, tangled mess. Her lavender chiton, ridiculously out of place in the mortal realm, dripped water like a wet rag. Try as she might to stand up tall and meet his eyes confidently, she could not banish the shivering of her bare shoulders. All in all, she knew she made for a pathetic picture.

He looked over his shoulder up and down the abandoned roads to confirm what he already knew. No one in their right mind would be out in this weather.

"We're closed." He told her. His tone was brusque, but his voice surprisingly calm and gentle, in contrast to his expression. It was oddly pleasant, Slayte thought. A voice she should like to hear again, when she wasn't soaking wet and being looked down on.

"I am aware." She answered quickly, avoiding his gaze, "I seek only shelter under this awning until the storm passes. Pray, pay me no mind."

The man blinked at her odd manner of speech. He turned his eyes heavenward, as if already regretting the next words to leave his mouth.

"Come in, it's better to get out of the rain inside." He wiped his shoes on the mat before stepping inside, holding the door open only for the fraction of a second it took her to make up her mind. She followed quickly, catching the door before it closed on her.

He switched on the lights and Slayte got her first, good look at the quaint establishment. All of the surfaces were polished to a gleam and the lighting was warm on the dark wood furniture. The chairs were lined with green cushions that seemed to be a trademark color of the little shop. Beyond the counter she could see a neat line of appliances, along with shelves that lined the entire wall filled to the brim with various assortments of tea, each labelled neatly in careful handwriting.

The kind stranger gestured vaguely to a table to her right and she pulled out a chair to sit down, glad to finally be off of her feet. The warmth of the room settled in slowly, and she soon stopped shivering. Although it was embarrassing to be dependent on the kindness of a mortal, it was the first such kindness she had been shown in the last three days and she was grateful for it.

She looked down on her leather-sandaled feet that had gone blue from cold and wondered if perhaps she would be able to survive in the mortal realm after all. She looked up as a cup of hot tea was placed on the table beside her and watched the steam rise from the dark liquid, spellbound.

"Drink that." The man commanded with the same careless expression before turning away.

"Oh! But… I'm afraid I don't possess any of the required money," she protested, hoping she was pronouncing the foreign word correctly.

The man in question gave her an incredulous look before answering, "it's on the house."

Slayte took this to be a reassurance of some sort, that it was alright to drink the tea. She breathed a sigh of relief, thanking the gods for listening to her prayer. How badly she had wished for a cup of tea!

"Thank you," she whispered, "That is truly… most kind of you."

She closed her hands around the teacup reverently, allowing the warmth to seep into her fingers before taking a long, indulgent sip.

"Did the rain wash your brain out of your head?"

She sputtered at the rude comment, swallowing quickly so as to avoid spitting out the precious tea. "I beg your pardon, my sir?" she asked, wondering what she could have done to warrant such a response from her benefactor.

"The way you talk. It's bizarre." He added, watching her with that same devil-may-care expression.

She flushed. She had taken notice that the mortals seemed to speak quite differently than the Underworld dwellers but had not had time to adjust to their speech.

"I…" she stammered, "I will take care to speak more appropriately."

"Eh?" he looked disgusted by her response. "Who cares? Just do what you want." He turned away from her and headed instead to the kitchenette behind the counter. She watched as he unpacked the groceries, washing the vegetables with care and laying them to the side. He set a pan on the stove and turned a dial. A faint click was heard before the stove burst into flame, heating the pan.

"Sorcery…" she whispered, spellbound.

The man pulled a knife from a block, and tossed it into the air, seemingly without thinking about it. It glittered in the lamplight before he caught it and flipped it between his elegant fingers before setting to work chopping up the vegetables. Salt wondered if it was normal for a mortal to be this adept with a knife. Even the robbers that had attacked her a day prior were fumbling with their knives in comparison to this man. She had narrowly escaped them by slipping into the shadows themselves, a skill she possessed by virtue of being born from them, but the fear they instilled in her had been very real. Their words had been deceptively charming and flattering. In contrast, this man's rude and brusque demeanor made her feel very safe.

Soon, her teacup was empty, and the delicious smell of spices and cooked vegetables wafted over to her nose. She was fearful of outstaying her welcome and her eyes darted to the window, wondering if the rain had let up enough for her to take her leave.

"Where do you live?" The stranger asked over his shoulder. "I can drop you off, if you want."

She had seen any number of city signs over the last three days but could not now recall a single one. She needed to say something, but she was oddly tongue-tied. What if he caught on that she had no home?

"That's quite alright. I'll just go on foot. It isn't far from here." She lied awkwardly. Only an entire world away, leagues beneath our feet.

"If it isn't far, why were you shivering out there in the rain?" he tossed back, unconvinced. His scowl making apparent that he knew she was lying to him.

She opted instead for silence, not wanting to make it worse. He walked back over to her table and placed two plates of noodles and mixed vegetables down. Had he cooked for her? A stranger? She had always heard that mortals were cruel and amoral creatures and although she had seen nothing the last three days to suggest the contrary, this man was swaying that belief. Warm and with a meal set out in front of her, Slayte was beginning to see that mortals were not all the same.

He took the chair opposite from her and began eating without preamble. Salt whispered a thank you and did the same, glad to finally be eating real food. It wasn't Jui's cooking, but it was delicious all the same.

"If you have somewhere to go, then go home after this. If you don't, there's a room for rent upstairs. I'm looking to hire someone anyway, if you want the job, I'll just take the rent out of your pay."

Overwhelmed by the number of words she didn't understand. Rent? Job? Pay? Slayte merely looked on mutely. "You will give me a… a job?" She queried, nonplussed.

He looked at her as if she were particularly dim-witted. A justified impression, she reluctantly admitted.

"You work. For money." He deadpanned.

"Oh." Slayte thought hard. Money was apparently a form of currency required for transactions, not unlike the coins she used for passage over the Styx. Only in the mortal world, money was required for nearly everything imaginable. Including resources required for life such as food and water. In her short time in the mortal world she understood that money was essential for survival. It was something everyone had asked her about. That, and…

"I'm afraid I don't have any identification." She admitted. "That will be a hindrance, will it not?"

The man chewed his food slowly as his mind worked. His expression somewhat softened, he answered, "Then we'll just make do with a verbal contract and I'll pay you in cash. That works out, right?"

"Does that mean…" Her eyes went wide. "I can stay here?"

"Yeah, sure, if you want the job." He rose to clear the table, and Salt jumped to her feet, unable to contain her excitement. "I do! Very much so!" She was close at his heels and followed him into the kitchenette, ignorant of the way he winced as she tracked footprints over the clean floor.

"I'm Levi." He introduced curtly. "You?" he asked, tearing his eyes away from the dirtied floor.

"My name's Slayte." She announced, extending a hand in greeting.

He looked her in the eye with that same irritated expression, ignoring her outstretched hand altogether before commenting, "That's a shitty name."

#levi ackerman #oc #Angelus Mortis #snk

18 notes · View notes

littlemisslol-fic · 3 years

Text

Summary: Two years after the events of Barviel Keep, Varian has tried to adapt to the expectations brought by being a King’s Ward, with mixed results. Haunted by ghosts, Varian is forced to face the demons he tried to leave behind in Bayangor when his abdication is forcibly stopped by a third party, out for revenge against the Bayan Royal bloodline. On the run, with few allies left to turn to, Varian finds himself chasing a ghost through a series of tests that only a true heir of Demanitus could ever hope to pass.But the shadows are ever present, looming and dark, and not everything is as simple as it might seem.

Notes: We've reached our destination! But things are never quite that simple.

The open sea was miserable.

The boat Rapunzel had bought (and yes, bought, seeing as the last boat she’d rented had wound up burning with Barviel Keep) gently rocked from side to side, the ocean spray bursting up over the side. The boat was named Oracle, a nice enough little sailboat with a small underside and a deck painted bright blue. She was sturdy, reliable ship, one that had carried them across the sea, directly toward the Wildshore Isle.

Varian sat on a crate that had been left on the deck, wincing as Eugene slowly worked on stitching up his arm. The boy was tense as a bowstring, trying to put on a brave face. The man noticed him pulling a face, and smiled in sympathy.

“C’mon goggles,” he said, pulling the needle through the cut Cerise had left. “You’ll be fine, everyone needs a few good scars. Makes for a conversation!”

Varian tried to smile, but it came out a grimace. The feeling of being sewn back together, while not unfamiliar after so many lab accidents, was unpleasant to say the least. He winced when Eugene pulled tight, his bare fingers tight against the wood of the crate. Varian flinched as the ache flared with every stitch, a burning fire he forced himself to sit through.

“Almost done,” Eugene soothed, his movements oddly quiet and methodical. There was a bottle of sterilizing alcohol next to him; Varian had already been subjected to that particular joy already. He winced at the feeling of another tug in the skin.

“Can we be done sooner?” Varian couldn’t help but ask. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Eugene made another loop with the thread, but a grounding hand on his shoulder kept him from moving.

“Just have to tie off, kid.”

Varian finally relaxed at the quiet snip of scissors. He risked a peek down, ignoring the small roll of his stomach at the sight of blood. Eugene had done good work, the stitches clean and even along the two-inch line of the wound.

“See?” Eugene asked, “There. Now you’re gunna want to keep it clean, and don’t go getting into any more knife fights for at least a week, young man. And next time you get hurt, please actually tell me before it’s been sitting for three days.” He tossed Varian his shirt, the boy pulling it over his head with a laugh.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Varian agreed, “No knife fights, got it.”

The Oraclerocked again, a little more noticeable this time, and Rapunzel’s voice drifted down the ship from the bow.

“Guys! We’re here!”

Varian and Eugene paused, looking at each other briefly before going to join her at the steering wheel of their little ship. The wheel was on its own level, up higher than the rest of the deck, so Varian had to struggle up a ladder to stand next to her. Eugene, bless him, didn’t comment, instead opting to lean against the wall and save the boy’s ego as he tried to climb the ladder with only one arm. Eventually he got there, trying to ignore the way Eugene scaled the ladder with a natural ease. Varian pouted, his gaze shifting toward where Rapunzel was pointing.

Sure enough there was a large island in front of them, covered in trees. It was easily the size of Corona’s own capitol island, if not less habituated. Varian could see, even from the boat, a long expanse of soft beaches and rolling waves, the bright sun catching the water in a way that nearly bided him. Rapunzel gestured a little down the shoreline, where a small village was embedded into the lush forest and spilled out into the beach.

“I think there is a good place to start,” she said, looking to the boys for any argument. When she didn’t get one, she turned the wheel, altering the Oracle into a gentle turn. The sail caught a little more wind, the ship cutting through the water at a brisk pace.

Varian watched the scenery go by, the thick trees and dense foliage of the woods making it nearly impossible to see through. He caught sight of people on the beaches, going about their daily business- a few fishermen throwing nets, children running up and down the shore, a few people doing their laundry in a pool of water, it all seemed peaceful enough.

A perfect place for his mother to hide.

He felt the nerves beginning to creep up as the village got closer. If this was where his mother had been hiding, she’d certainly picked a great place. Quiet, out of the way, unassuming, it was a perfect place to lay low and keep your head down. And if she were here… what did that mean, really?

They’d been on the Oracle for three days. Varian had spent all that time so focused on finding Aisha that he hadn’t really contemplated what he would do once he finally did. And now that it was right in front of him, the very real possibility that today could be the day…

Something in him wanted to run from this, too.

What would she even be like? Ever since Bayangor Varian had always felt trapped between the two ghosts Aisha had left in his life; the first was the loving mother, the one who had run from an abusive house and left Varian in the arms of a man she knew would raise and love him… the second was the one he’d seen in the hall of portraits, a warrior queen, the conqueror of lands, the woman who had left villages smouldering ruins. Demanitus’ heir, Aldred’s bride.

A queen of blood and ash.

These two impressions had sat next to each other on a shelf in Varian’s mind for years. He knew which one he wanted to be real, but he never knew for sure which one was right. He never knew how to feel about the idea that she’d been… well she’d been just as bad as Aldred, thanks Rapunzel. It was all skewed, everything he’d ever heard about her. Quirin wouldn’t have told Varian about the worse aspects of his mother- but nor would Aldred have mentioned her better parts. All Varian was left with was two extremes on the spectrum, and it made him feel disconnected to her in a way that ached.

He knew the truth must lay somewhere between these two images. A history of evil didn’t an irredeemable person make, as Varian would know, nor did one good turn make someone a saint. Varian wasn’t sure how to parcel the two versions into one person, into one image in his mind. He, at the end of the day, had no idea what she was really like, if the image in his head was even close to who he might be meeting on the isle.

It made him nervous, the idea that today might be the day he’d finally get to see that image, meet her. A million thoughts raced through his head, countless avenues and ideas that he could barely keep track of without getting a headache. His stomach was filled with nerves, twisting and churning until he felt sick.

Varian startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned around to lock eyes with Eugene, the man smiling sympathetically. Varian realized he must have had more of his emotions showing on his face than he thought, and forced himself to return the grin. Eugene didn’t seem to buy it, patting him on the shoulder.

“You’ve got this, kid,” Eugene said brightly, “We’ll find her.”

Varian’s smile fell. “I’m nervous,” he admitted, “It’s been almost twenty years… would she even recognize me?”

“Well, you can tell a lot by looking at a man's eyes,” Eugene said. His voice was distant, quieter. “I’m sure your mother will know you once she gets a good look at you.”

“My parents recognized me,” Rapunzel added. The way she kept her distance made Varian’s heart pang, but he knew he still wasn’t ready for her to act like things were normal again. Rapunzel seemed to know this, focusing instead on the sea in front of them. “And Edmund knew Eugene.” Her face was carefully blank, controlled. Flat. “It’ll be alright.”

Varian bit his lip, looking out over the water. The nerves hadn’t died, but he shoved them down deep enough that he could ignore them for the time being. Varian’s hands tensed on the railing of the ship, watching the village growing larger on the horizon. If his mother were there, after all this time, he’d finally know her as she was, not how others saw her. He grit his teeth, shaking the whirling thoughts from his mind.

He had so many questions.

>>>><<<<

The village was… cute. The Wildshore Isles were small, barely even a speck on the map, and the capitol, the itty-bitty village of Harling, reflected that. It was even smaller than Pincosta- hell, from Varian’s point of view it was nearly smaller than Old Corona- but lively. The town was maybe a hundred buildings, most of them houses, though around the shoreline there were a few shops and businesses scattered around. There was a soft undertone of salt in the air, not oppressive but definitely noticeable as Varian, Rapunzel, and Eugene entered the town on foot. They’d ditched the Oracle at the main dock, tying her off and letting her bob in the waves without too much preamble.

Harling was made of cute little cottages, it seemed, with neat little flowerbeds and old, massive stones to make up the streets instead of cobblestone. People milled around, mostly fishermen and women from what Varian could tell, as well as what seemed to be a few traders and other salespeople. Everyone seemed mostly friendly, save for a few more grizzled, older men who glared at the newcomers. A few people stared, but it seemed strangers were a rarity in these parts, so they shrugged it off. Varian looked around the square, at a loss.

The alchemist paused, unsure, before looking back at his companions.

“I, uh,” he said, “I don’t really know where to start.”

Eugene came to his rescue, holding out his hand. “Can I see her note?” he asked, “Maybe she left a clue of some kind.”

Varian passed it over, unable to shake a weird feeling. He looked around, but was unable to see what was causing the feeling of eyes on the back of his head. He shook himself- probably just paranoia- before turning back to watch Eugene scan the paper.

“Well, here,” Eugene said, “Obviously there must be a secret code or something, right? She’s a nerd like you, so that would make sense-”

Varian snorted, taking the paper back. “Ha, ha,” he said, voice flat as a board, “You’re very funny. I’ve been looking over this thing for days, there’s no sign of a cypher or a clue. I think we’re stuck doing this the old-fashioned way.”

Eugene groaned, and Rapunzel wrung her hands. “Are you sure?” she asked, “Maybe we should just go back to the boat, try looking again.”

Varian felt his face do something funny when she not-so-subtly tried to get him to give up. It wasn’t even a scowl, more like a grimace, but it was more than clear how he felt about that suggestion as Rapunzel deflated.

“Or we do this the old-fashioned way,” she muttered. Eugene pat her on the back in a show of support, before turning to Varian.

“Alright, split up and ask around?” he asked, “We’ll meet back here in an hour and figure out if anyone’s seen her.”

The old-fashioned way, it turned out, was boring and tedious, and generally unsuccessful. Varian, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, wandered around the town, stopping by every small shop he could find to ask after any sign of his mother. Every single one had come up negative; none of the citizens of Harling had ever heard of a woman who matched her description, nor did her name ring any bells. He wasn’t surprised at the last one, when he’d been planning on going into hiding after the battle of Old Corona, Varian had already had false names ready to go.

It was nearly mid afternoon by the time he met back up with Rapunzel and Eugene, the two of them having no luck either. Varian huffed, frustrated, before looking around the square once more.

“Maybe we should break for lunch,” he said. “We’re not getting anywhere if we’re hungry.”

Eugene nearly wept, squishing Varian’s cheeks between his hands with a dramatic sob. “My boy,” he cooed, “Thank you for this.”

Varian snorted and shoved at his friend, pushing the hands from his face. “I’m hungry too,” he admitted. The alchemist ran a hand under the hood of his dad’s cloak, trying to shove his hair under it but only succeeding in making his bangs flop forward for a second. Rapunzel made a concerned noise when she caught sight of the stripe, miming for him to push it back under the fabric. Varian rolled his eyes, but complied.

“So, back to the boat, then?” Eugene asked hopefully, already turning around at the promise of some lunch. Rapunzel nodded, offering Varian a small smile as she turned away to follow Eugene. The boy moved to follow, but paused for a second. The air to his left seemed… strange.

Like it was rippling-

A pulse of panic raced up Varian’s spine, the boy scrambling back with a shriek as the air split in twain, a large crack following as a figure appeared right next to him. They were covered head to toe in a black cloak. Varian barely got a scream out, startling his friends, before a hand clapped over his mouth, another arm wrapping around his middle in a tight grip.

Arms pinned, he was only able to kick as the figure dragged him close. Varian could see Rapunzel and Eugene spin at his scream, eyes going wide when they saw what was happening; Eugene reached for his sword and Rapunzel her frying pan. The blond woman was quicker than her husband, running forward with an arm outstretched toward him.

“Varian!” she screamed, reaching for him with desperation before-

CRACK.

He was gone.

Varian’s whole world shifted sideways, his stomach jumping up into his throat before jumping down into his feet within a second of each other. He slammed his eyes closed with a scream, the noise muffled by his attacker’s hand. For a second gravity was both non-existent and too heavy, everything pushing and pulling and rotating in ways he definitely didn’t like.

The world snapped back into focus with another sickening crack.

Varian shuddered shaking roughly at the sudden return to normalcy. He kicked into the air again, though this time the heels of his boots connected with wooden floors instead of dirt and stone. His eyes shot open, the boy screaming again at the sight of a cabin’s interior. He struggled harder, bucking back against the person’s hold roughly.

They grunted- it sounded like they were male, but Varian couldn’t tell for sure with the pounding of his panicked heartbeat filling his ear. He shook once more in the grip, and finally resorted to drastic measures. With a snarl, the alchemist ripped his face away from the person’s gasp and opened his mouth, biting harshly into the meat of his attacker’s hand.

The person yowled, and the grip holding Varian fell away. The boy dropped to the ground, scrambling forward along the wooden floor of the cabin. He grabbed the first thing he could, a vacant chair that had been sitting alone at an empty dinner table, and held it above his head with a battle cry- though Eugene would probably argue it was more of a screech than anything else.

The person was holding their hand tightly, making weird noises as they ripped the glove off their hand. They shook it, whining, and dropped the glove to the wooden floor.

“You bit me!” they yelped, looking up to Varian. The boy wasn’t able to see their face, the skeletal thin man (because yep, definitely a man from the way their voice was a semi-deep whine) was covered in a large pair of dark goggles and a bandanna, with a mop of greasy, choppy, black hair peeking out from under the hood. He didn’t seem too old, maybe in his early thirties, but it still set the boy on edge. Varian paused his scream at the familiarity of the man’s outfit, reminded of his own Saporian getup, before hefting the chair higher and snarling at the man.

“You attacked me!” the boy bit back, not feeling badly at all.

“Yeah, and then you bit me, you little goblin!”

The man took a step, waving his injured hand, but backed off when Varian swiped at him with the chair.

“Where the hell am I?!” the alchemist demanded, refusing to get sidetracked. “Where did you take me?”

The man paused, seeming to weigh his options. “You’re in my house,” he finally said, “I needed to… needed to- something. I needed something, just give me a second...” The man trailed off, muttering something.

Varian looked around quickly, seeing that he was indeed in a small, single room cabin. It was cluttered, filled to the brim with loose papers and books, stacked to the ceiling in some places. Towers and towers of random literature were scattered across the floors. Varian could see the end of a bed poking out of the pile near a fire, unkept and messy like the rest of the cabin. The table to his side, the one he’d taken the chair from, was covered in dirty dishes, some of them looking nearly ancient from the way old food had crusted over. Varian wrinkled his nose at the sight, shifting away.

The man in front of him snapped his fingers, bringing the boy’s attention back. “I remember!” the man said, “I needed to warn you!”

The chair in Varian’s grip dropped a fraction, the alchemist tilting his head. “Warn me?” he asked, “Of what?”

“Well, you’re a crow, aren’t you? Though, not old enough really. More of a hatchling,” the man asked, cackling at his joke. He brought a hand up to his face, removing the bandanna first and showing a scruffy, black mess of a beard. He then moved again, shoving the goggles up onto his forehead, and the cloak back. Varian felt the fear come jolting back at the sight of the man’s face and electric green eyes, hefting the chair higher again.

He wasn’t Merrick, too old, but they could have been twins-

“Ah-ha,” the man awkwardly laughed when he saw Varian tense up. “So I’d guess you’ve met my siblings, then?”

Ah, that would explain it. How many of these bastards are there? Varian wondered to himself, glaring at the man in front of him.

“Sure, we can call it that.”

The man paused, bringing his hands up awkwardly. “I really do just want to talk,” he said, “Since you’ve met the others, I can’t blame you for being worried, but I promise I’m not here to hurt you.”

He took a step forward, but flinched back when Varian took another swing with the chair.

“Oi,” he yelled, “Watch it! I just want to talk-”

“You have a funny way of showing it!” Varian snapped at him, scowling as he tilted his head in agreement.

“I needed to talk to you without the Coronians trying to stab me! Don’t think I didn’t see that frying pan lady!” He took a step forward, Varian flinched back into the table. He paused, arching a brow. “You really are scared of me, huh? Strange, very strange…”

His voice was quiet, questioning. Almost confused. Varian looked away, unable to lie, but unwilling to tell the truth. The man looked all the more puzzled, taking another step. Varian allowed it, but the chair stayed up in the air in silent threat.

“You’re a crow,” The man insisted, like that solved anything. Varian’s face twisted, looking at him with a bitter expression. He paused, looking at the boy like a skittish animal. “You’re Aldred’s son, his heir, the monster’s flesh and blood-”

“I’m not his anything.” The alchemist cut him off. “He’s dead anyways, what does it matter?”

The man paused again. Tilted his head. “You really don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. When Varian shook his head, still refusing to look at him, he let his hands drop. “How do you not know-”

“Because I only knew the man for a month,” Varian said, a cool anger in his voice. “And it was the worst month of my life. Care to ask any more stupid questions?”

Something seemed to click in the man’s mind at that. “I… hm,” he trailed off, scratching at his beard. “This changes things. I was hoping you’d know the basics, but if you’re this in the dark… did my siblings ever explain anything to you? They’re chatty still, right?”

Varian didn’t reply, but the chair dropped another few inches. The man sighed, nodding. He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning once before slapping his own face with both palms. His face split into a grin, his spine straightening into a peppy jump. “Alright!” he chirped, “In that case, I’m making tea. All awful conversations need tea, don’t you know, always makes things easier-”

He shuffled around, still talking to himself and giving Varian and his chair a wide berth while he went to the kitchen part of the cabin. The boy kept the man in sight, refusing to do more than blink as the stranger bustled around. The man scooped up random jars that were scattered around the area, and a kettle that had been haphazardly perched on top of a stack of books. Varian watched as his odd host filled it with water from a nearby pump, before scuttling through a think path through the mess and setting it over the fire near the bed. He turned to Varian then, waving him forward with an excited grin.

Varian finally set the chair down gently, pushing it into place under the table. Though he knew better than to be lulled into a false sense of security, the manic energy of the man in front of him made him pretty confident that, should things go south, Varian would beat him in a run for the door. That, combined with the tantalizing offer of answers at long last… well, how could Varian say no?

The man jumped onto the bed with a grin, swinging his legs. He pointed in front of him, to an old chair in front of the fire. Varian took the hint and sat, trying not to wince at the way the flat stuffing did nothing to cushion the seat. He looked at the man expectantly, pulling a face when the man grinned. The boy huffed, holding his arms out in a well? kind of expression.

“So?” he asked, impatient. “What’s the warning?”

The man cocked his head, “Warning?”

Varian sighed, frustrated. It was easy enough to pick up that his host wasn’t all thereto say the least.

“You said you wanted to warn me,” the boy said, “And you said you’d explain why your brother and sister hate me s much.”

The man paused, blinking, before nodding. “Ah, yes!” he cried, “Right, right, that’s what you’re here for. I knew it was for something! My old mind is a little rattled, I had a bit of an oopsie with teleporting as a boy, scrambled my noggin pretty good.” He rapped on the side of skull with a knuckle. “Makes it hard to remember things sometimes.”

Varian wanted to remind the man that he’d literally snatched Varian off the street, but held his tongue. The man hummed to himself, uncorking a jar and pulling out a handful of dried herbs. He lifted the lid of the kettle, tossing them in, before wiping his hand on his cloak and turning back to his guest.

“I’ll start with my name, Oriellos, as that is what I’m called,” the man said, “Though, that’s more syllables than any good man should have to himself, so most just call me Ori- the village coot in training.”

“Varian,” the boy grit out, shifting away when the kettle made an angry, grumbling noise. Ori paid it no mind, scratching at his beard.

“Odd name,” the man mused, “from the Dark Kingdom, if I’m not mistaken. Not Bayan, to say the least.”

“My dad named me.” Varian hunched low in his seat. “Neither of my birth parents did.”

Gods that was bitter on the tongue. Ori seemed to pick up on the boy’s mood, and let it drop.

“Interesting,” is all he said. Varian refused to meet his eye, watching the fire instead. He didn’t have time for this- if Ori had answers, Varian would very much like to hear them, thank you.

“You were going to tell me why your siblings- oh by the Sun-” Varian cut himself off, suddenly clicking. “Your- Cerise, she-”

“Dropped like a stone and died, hm?” Ori cut in, “Yes, I felt it. Merrick would have as well.”

Varian went slack jawed, blinking quickly. “You… you know?” It was a stutter, but Ori simply nodded.

“Of course,” he shrugged, “Magic is an energy, like any other. When you connect to it, you receive feedback. When a connection’s severed it makes for a rather bad shock for everyone else. Like getting slapped with a wet fish.”

“I’m so sorry,” Varian whispered, electing to ignore the odd rambling. “I tried to pull her up, I swear I did.”

Ori shook his head. His toxic green eyes were distant. “We all have to die of something- in our family, you expect these things,” he muttered. “Crow, you have to understand-”

“My name’s Varian.”

Ori paused, dipping his head in agreement. “Varian,” he acquiesced, “There’s so much blood, buried in the books. Crows and Weasels, always biting at each other.” He scratched his beard, picking out what looked to be a crumb of bread. Ori shrugged, popping it into his mouth. Varian gagged a bit, but forced his face into something neutral. Even if Ori didn’t seem violent, Varian was quickly learning that appearances weren’t everything.

“The first King of Bayangor, Geldam, betrayed a long-time friend of his, named Cyrillus, who’s family line ends with me, as it does my siblings. Geldam nicked a powerful artifact called the Novis Staff.” Ori rolled his eyes, as if bored by the thought.

“Our family retaliated against yours, who got revenge on us for that, who then got back at us, and continue ad-nauseum until death. Back and forth and back and forth.” Ori slumped on the bed, kicking up his feet. “It never ends!”

“When Geldam and Cyrillus bit it, their feud refused to die with them, and the staff was lost to time. I assume if you’ve met the terrible two that you’ve already had a bit of a taste of how things are currently going between the families. Aren’t blood feuds fun?”

Varian picked at his gloves, thinking. It made sense, and the names lined up with those he’d heard in the past, but something still didn’t add up to him.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, “Why were Merrick and Cerise on their own?”

Ori huffed a tired breath, poking at the kettle. “Didn’t want it,” he said. “I wanted out, couldn’t do it anymore.”

When Varian remained quiet, the man looked to him. Ori sighed, shrugging. “We were raised as killers,” he admitted. “We were the champions of Bayangor, after all. Bunch of trollop. I was the oldest, five little whelplings following me. So many born, so many dead.”

“Five?” Varian breathed. He’d only met three.

“We started with six, including yours truly,” Ori had that faraway look again. “King Crow hit us hard after I left. Lost two that day, and dear old dad.” He paused again, scratching at his face. “You already know what happened to my little sister. Dead, dead, dead, bunch of corpses in a row.”

Varian felt a rock settle in his gut, a cold shock of ice. “F- Aldred did that?” he whispered, breath stolen. Ori paused in his rambling, smiling vapidly. The boy sighed, already recognizing another tune-out from the man in front of him. Sure enough:

“Did what? Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

Varian bit his tongue again, trying to think his way through.

“Aldred. Attacked your family.”

“Ah, yes, yes he did. We were enemies, you know. Our families.”

Varian flinched. “He wasn’t my family,” he said, trying to keep his tone from being aggressive. From the way Ori focused on him, a carefully neutral expression on his face, he must have failed.

“Aldred was my father’s enemy, those old bastards,” he said, “And you, me, and any others were going to continue the bloody tradition until the Queen Crow disappeared with you. The day Aldred decided you two were dead, my family were dolling out champagne.”

“You thought it was the end,” Varian said. Ori nodded.

“We did. But Aldred wasn’t done. Neither was my father, the stubborn asshole. There’s one thing you have to understand,” Ori leaned forward, his eyes focusing again. “There comes a time when blood for blood becomes blood for blood’s sake. I tried to convince them that, with you and your mother gone, King Crow was refusing to take another wife. His bloodline was going to die with him, and our feud could finally be put to rest.”

Varian flinched when Ori mentioned his mother. “I feel like it didn’t go so well,” is all he said.

Ori smiled, something bitter. “Not so well at all,” he agreed, back to being flippant. “I wanted it over, no more, I thought! No more crows, no more blood! So, I left. Two weeks after that the King Crow hit our home harder than he ever had before. I was seventeen. Cerise would have been around eight. Merrick was three. Did you know he used to have a bowlcut? He was the ugliest little baby-”

Varian shuddered. Looked into the fire. “I’m sorry,” was all he was able to pull from his aching chest. Ori only shrugged.

“Such is life. You had nothing to do with it, even if my siblings don’t understand that.”

The alchemist forced himself to look at Ori once more. Something in him tugged, a dark part he’d been keeping locked away. A niggling doubt that hadn’t left in all the years since Barveil Keep.

“I’m… still connected to him, though.” It was more a whisper, like he was afraid to even voice it. “You said it yourself, I’m his blood. Whatever made him… like that, it could still be in me. Waiting for me to slip up again. I’m- I’m scared of it. I hoped leaving Corona would make me feel less connected to everything, but I think it’s just made things worse.”

Ori nodded. His eyes were sad, but Varian could tell that the man in front of him understood exactly what he was saying. “There are some things we can never leave behind,” Ori said. “Things like where we come from. Who we’ve loved, and lost. These are things that we carry with us no matter where we go.” The man paused, seeing Varian’s face fall. “A long time ago I would have said that your family defines you as much as mine did me. And I supposed it still does, since the two of us aren’t currently trying to kill each other!”

Varian snorted at that, wiping at his eyes to chase off a small spring of tears. Ori smiled at the laugh, sitting up properly for the first time since Varian had met him. He caught the boy’s eye, serious.

“I think that, even if you can’t leave it behind, the past is just part of the puzzle. Where you come from is just that, but it doesn’t tell you where you’re going, my young friend.”

Something in Varian felt seen, a sudden connection clicking in his mind. In Corona they’d all told him to forget the past, to leave it buried. Never to think of it as a part of him, just a blemish on his history to be painted over and left to rot. It made him want to run, run, run, until it was a spot on the horizon behind him. But here was someone who, like him, had tried to shuck the trappings of his bloodline and had found his own place, his own joy.

It gave him hope.

“Thank you,” Varian said, trying to get through how awkward he still felt, only to see Ori had zoned out.

“Come again?” the man asked. Varian only huffed something of a laugh.

“Forget it,” he said, settling back into his chair.

Ori smiled when the kettle began to scream, taking it off the fire and holding it tightly. He stood from the bed and shuffled over to the kitchen, bustling for a second. Varian ignored his manners for a second, content to puzzle over the strange wisdom that had been dropped in his lap. When Ori returned, it was with two steaming cups.

“It’s bergamot peel and ginger,” the man declared, setting the cups down on a stack of books that lay between them. “Good for-”

“Good for magical protection and luck,” Varian finished for him. Ori smiled, toasting his cracked cup in recognition.

“Correct!” he crowed, “And here I thought you weren’t of the magical sorts!”

Varian felt his face heating up, taking his own drink and reminiscing. The last time he’d spoken to Arianna they’d shared this drink together, it made him melancholy to see it again without her. He hoped she was okay, that Merrick hadn’t hurt her too badly.

“I just know a few tricks,” he said, taking a sip and wincing at the bitter flavor. “Learned them from a friend.”

Ori smiled knowingly. “The arcane arts are a dying breed,” he lamented, “Hard to find anyone who knows the less aggressive side of magic. Especially after Cyrillus’ time, with the thousand-year feud. Anything that couldn’t be used in battle tended to fall by the wayside.”

Varian couldn’t help but feel curious. Supposedly this whole thinghad been happening since the time of Demanitus and Zhan Tiri, but-

“Why for so long?” he asked, “Didn’t anyone ever, I dunno, try and make amends?” His gaze shifted again, this time to the floor. “Revenge doesn’t make anything better, it just causes… problems. Nothing ever gets any better.”

Ori’s face split into a grin. He brought up his cup, toasting before taking a drink.

“You and I, young sir,” he said, “Seem to have a very similar philosophy.”

Varian huffed a laugh into his tea, but stopped when he heard a commotion outside. Both he and Ori looked towards the door of the cabin as it burst open, books and different knick-knacks going flying in every direction. Varian shot to his feet, hiding behind his chair even as Ori sat still. The boy watched as the man took another sip of his tea, ignoring as a wave of people entered the small room.

The first person he noticed was Rapunzel, her frying pan held high as she weaved around towers of books, scanning the room. The second was Eugene, sword held high as he went in a different direction from his wife. The third was a tall, stocky woman, with a large brimmed, black hat and a long brown coat. She looked furious, scanning the room like a falcon looking for a mouse.

“Ori!” she barked, “Get your sorry self out here, you degenerate!”

“Right here, constable!” Ori hollered, waving a hand, “We’re just having a lovely chat!”

Varian poked his head out from behind the chair, quickly catching the eye of Rapunzel. The princess sprinted toward him, wrapping him up in a hug and pulling him close.

“Oh thank the Sun,” she murmured, pressing kisses into his hair, “We thought we lost you, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Varian assured her, patting awkwardly at her arm. “I’m fine, he’s a… well, a friend, I guess.”

He caught sight of Ori offering him a pair of thumbs-up, and grinned back. The constable drew closer, sidestepping Rapunzel and Varian. She was a middle-aged woman, maybe in her fifties, who looked tired and cranky. She grabbed Ori by the ear, dragging him into a standing position as he whined.

“You cannot,” she began, “Be doing your weird magic shit in my town, Ori. You scared these poor people half to death!”

Ori whined again as she shook him by the ear. Varian got the impression this wasn’t his first offence, but wasn’t able to pry himself out of Rapunzel’s death hug quite yet.

“Now, you’re going to tell them that you’re sorry,” the Constable hissed, “And then you are going to promise me to stop snatching children off the street! The bloody hell were you thinking?”

Ori babbled something unintelligible, the constable shaking him like one would a stubborn jar that refused to give up its contents. Varian pushed himself out of Rapunzel’s arms, quietly approaching.

“It’s okay,” he said, ignoring when Eugene spluttered behind him, “He just wanted to talk to me. Our families are… old friends.”

The woman stopped, eyeing Varian. “You sure you don’t wanna press charges?” she asked, her gruff voice nearly concerned.

“No, thank you,” Varian mumbled, “He was just trying to help.”

The woman sighed, letting Ori’s ear go. “You lucked out on this one,” she griped, jabbing a finger in the man’s face. “But don’t think I’m okay with you popping in and out of thin air. You’re going to give someone another heart attack, and the doctor’s already made a complaint.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ori said sheepishly, “No more, I promise.”

“Damn right.”

The Constable turned to Rapunzel then, nodding once. “Sorry about him,” she said, “He’s a bit of a loon, but he doesn’t mean any harm.”

Behind her, Ori plucked one of his books down from a tower, and tore a page from it. Varian winced at the sound of tearing paper, but the Constable ignored it. Rapunzel hugged Varian to her again, holding him tightly.

“It’s alright,” she said, “If Varian’s okay, then it’s fine.”

The boy grimaced a little, but plastered a smile on when the officer shot him a look. Ori had taken his page and begun to fold a hat from it, holding it up with a grin.

“If he gives you any more trouble, let me know,” the Constable said roughly, before turning and leaving the cabin. In the silence that followed, Eugene approached, cupping Varian’s face in his hands. The boy didn’t fight it, letting his friend inspect him.

“You’re alright, kid?” he asked, “No bumps or bruises?”

Varian shook his head. “He wanted to warn me about his siblings,” the boy said. “He’s related to Merrick and Cerise.”

Rapunzel tensed, eyeing Ori once more. The man took his paper hat and placed it upon his head with a delicate motion, like one would a crown.

“I am sorry,” Ori said, “But I wanted to talk to the crow without you two trying to run me through first.”

He tore another page out, folding it as well. Eugene seemed unimpressed, pursing his lips, but looked back to Varian. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

Varian snorted. Ori had finished his other hat, passing it to Varian without preamble. The boy took it, placing it on his own head with a grin.

“I’m good,” he said.

Ori cleared his throat once more, holding the book tightly. He flipped a few more pages, showing a hollowed-out center.

“I have one more thing,” he said, “I know you’re not here by chance, and I know what you’re looking for.” He took a small stone from the book, covered in runes with a large hole in the center. He held it out to Varian, who took it gently. It was barely large enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and smooth, almost like glass. Varian wasn’t sure if he were imagining it, but it almost seemed warm to the touch.

“It’s an adder stone,” Ori explained. “It’s good for pointing your way to lost things, or helping see past illusions. It’s not much, but I hope it helps.”

Varian held the adder stone tightly, bringing it to his chest. He grinned, grateful.

“Thank you,” he said again. He hoped Ori knew it was for more than just the gift, but when the mage’s eyes glazed over once more, the boy sighed in defeat.

“For what?” the man asked, “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Yeah, you do.” Varian replied. He thought for a second longer how to elaborate, at a loss, but eventually settled with something he thought was close enough to the truth for now. “We’re friends,” he said, smiling when Ori’s little hat fell off his head.

With new information, context at long last, something in him finally began to settle.

#varian #tangled the series #tts #set the kindling strike a match #fic #we past the halfway hump now lads

6 notes · View notes

pixelatedrose · 4 years

Text

Brilliance Part One

Brilliance Of a Dying Star

Part 1 | Next Part

Pairings: Roceit, background Intruality, eventual background Analogical

Word Count: 2,577

Warnings: uncensored swearing, break in, knife mention, panicking, if there’s anything I missed please please tell me, and if there’s anything you would like me to tag, don’t hesitate to ask!

Summary:

Roman Prince lives in a world where the population is split between super powered people and normal people. These super powers were soon named Flaire. And even though he desperately wished he had a Flaire of his own, Roman lives life working in a cat cafe alongside his coworkers, a few of which have Flaires. His life is fairly normal and tragically mundane until a local superhero crashes into his apartment.

Chapter 1

Roman Prince walked along the side of the street in the brilliant red and purple light of the quickly dying sun. His guitar slung over his shoulder and the people in the streets dwindling. His yellow converse he had drawn leaves and flowers on, now starting fade. A particular scuff mark on the toe of the right foot encased with a fond memory.

Above him, a young girl with wings for arms flew scarily close to his head. “S-Sorry!!!” She yelled behind her, her flight wobbly.

Roman turned and called back, a smile on his face. “It’s fine!! Keep up the good work, Auri!!” He kept walking before he heard a crash and a rustle of leaves a ways behind him, followed by Auri's yelp. He smiled at the ground and shook his head.

He walked on as a boy with four sets of eyes passed him by. He walked on when a person made entirely out of rocks sat watering his plants. He walked on when a girl with hooves and spiraling horns sat playing hop-scotch with her little friends.

He only paused when he reached the door to the small, beat up apartment building.

“Home sweet home!” Roman smiled, opening the pale and faded green door. He walked around to the stairs, shooting finger guns to the man at the front desk. Roman climbed the steps to the third and top floor, trying not to internally complain about the elevator being broken. Only two rooms on this floor, roman turned to the one on the left and put his key into the lock.

He greeted his house with a bright smile, knowing no one was there to return it. “Hello, house…” He whispered, throwing his keys into the bowl near the door. He pulled off his jacket and slung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he made his way to the solemn couch in the room, flopping down on it over the arm, letting his feet dangle off the edge. He removed his earbuds from his pocket and took out his phone, selecting spotify as he plugged in the buds.

Pressing play on his playlist, Roman sat and took in the last of the day.

~~•~~

The world where Roman lived was an exciting one. Or at least it had been. Things had much lost their glamour after the first age of powers showing up.

In this world, the population was at a fairly equal split between people with Flaires and people without Flaires. No one quite knew who first started calling the powers popping up ‘Flaire’ but it was clear why. All these new people surely had much flair, so the world thought it was clever to start calling the powers Flaire.

Flaires worked and presented themselves in many different fashions. A few of the kids in Roman’s neighborhood had physical Flaires, like Auri. Roman knew of more that had Flaires that let them shoot lightning from their hands or could bend light with their hands.

Roman though? He didn’t have a Flaire. He was okay with that, but it did make him upset from time to time. As a kid, he’d always wanted to be a hero. He wanted to help and save people so badly it almost crushed him when he found out he didn’t have a Flaire. But he managed. He was happy. He liked where he worked, he'd come to terms with his financial situation, and he was alive. He was alive and alive was good.

~~•~~

It had been a few minutes and Roman was starting to drift off into sleep when he heard something shatter from his bedroom. He tore off his earbuds and bolted upright, his heart pounding.

He listened closely as he heard someone curse from the room, the door only barely cracked open, so small you couldn’t see in.

Roman quietly got off his couch and moved into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the counter and swiftly slunk behind the cracked door. From outside, he could hear something else- something big- moving around. He tried to ignore it and crept up behind the door, holding his breath and calming his heart, gripping the handle of the knife till his knuckles turned white, he threw open the door and swung wildly.

“WHO ARE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” Roman shouted, his voice cracking slightly. So much for a manly approach to this… he thought with fear latching onto his heart.

But after seeing the intruder, he had to reevaluate everything.

The intruder was dressed in an elaborate costume, a black and yellow hood thrown up over their head and a yellow scarf wrapped around their neck and obscuring the lower half of their face. They wore a loose yellow shirt that tucked into their black gloves, over the shirt they wore a baggy, sleeveless black top that tucked into their pants. In fact, everything about the outfit seemed loose and baggy, including the black pants they wore which tucked into their knee high black boots. They almost looked like some sort of fantasy assassin.

The intruder was on the ground, ducked behind Roman’s bed. When Roman had barged in loudly yelling, they bolted upright and grabbed Roman’s wrist, twisting it and forcing him to drop the knife. They put a hand over Roman’s mouth before he could scream and pushed him hard against the wall, still holding his wrist.

The something big moved again outside, it sounded almost mechanical. The intruder slowly sunk to the ground, forcing roman down with them. As they shrunk, a grey sheet seemed to materialize over them. Roan could see through it though, the way you can see through normal cloth from one side, but not be seen from the other.

If Roman’s mouth had been free, he was sure he would have shrieked when a bright shining light, reminiscent of a large eye, peered in through his broken and tattered blinds.

The intruder moved in closer, pressing up against Roman, making them smaller. It seemed they were like that for forever, the tension so thick you could spread it on bread and eat it.

Finally, finally, the thing passed and the two listened soundlessly to the thing retreating. And finally, the intruder got up, the grey sheet vanishing.

Roman stayed on the ground, in shock. He silently watched as the intruder peered out the broken window before sighing and starting to climb back out.

“W-wait!!” Roman shouted, finally getting a hold on himself. “You can’t just leave!!”

The intruder stopped and turned, their golden-amber eyes not quite matching one another, the cold venom string out at Roman. “Yes.” They said, their voice slightly husky and rough. “I can.” And without a warning, they leaped back out the window.

Roman rushed to try and catch them, but found himself watching as the intruder ran on the air as if it was as solid as the ground below them.

And in a moment that only someone that lived in Newflower City could experience, Roman huffed to himself. “That fabulous bastard broke my window!!”

~~•~~

Roman woke up shivering. He had placed cardboard sheets over the broken frame and taped it, but that wasn’t going to help much with the cold. He sighed and rolled out of bed, thinking of the obvious hero that had crashed into his apartment the night before. I hope they caught whoever they were trying to fight...And I hope no one else was hurt by that thing… Roman thought as he got ready for the day. He shook off any anxiety he had in his heart and glanced over at the clock before panicking. He was going to be late for work.

Roman rushed out the door, and started running. He only just caught the bus when he texted his boss and coworker.

Hey, Vee, I’m running a bit late today. Tell Logan to save me a muffin or something for me, will ya?

Roman let out a puff of air before remembering something.

Oh yeah, I have one hell of a story for you later, don’t let me forget.

A few minutes passed before his phone buzzed again.

Emo Nightmare: Ight, I’ll make sure specs saves you something. And what could possibly happen between last night and now that merits ‘one hell of a story’?

Roman closed the chat with his friend and hyped himself up for the story he was going to be able to tell.

He walked in the door of the Catfé and quietly rushed himself into the back to put on his apron.

“Hey! You’re late, Prince!” Roman’s coworker, Alice, hissed. “You were late last Saturday too! Why don't you just set an alarm?” She asked, handing him a blueberry muffin.

“It messes with my beauty sleep! If I’m awoken by that horrible beeping, I’d never look good again in my life!” Roman said, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t had time to brush his hair that morning, instead opting to take a bite of his muffin. “God, this is good…” Roman said under his breath. “Hey, Lo!! You’re the best baker ever, you know that!!” He called to the baker who was taking bread out of the oven.

“I know, now if only you could manage to get here on time.” They said, sighing and pushing their glasses up.

“Hey!! A man needs his beauty sleep! It’s hard work to look this pretty!” Roman said, heading out to the front to begin his shift.

“Oh, is that right, Princey?” A teasing, smooth voice asked from the counter.

Roman huffed. “Hey there, Virge. And yes. It is right.” Roman watched his friend laugh softly before yelling back to Alice to get Virgil’s coffee.

“So what’s this story you have for me?” Virgil asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

Roman smiled. “Well-”

Someone on the other side of the counter cleared their throat. A woman with a neat hair bun and slim suit stood near the order counter, her prehensile demon tail flicking back and forth in impatience.

Roman sighed. “I’ll tell you during break, I gotta run. Besides, don’t you need to let the cats out?” He asked before sliding over to take the woman’s order. By the time he was done, Virgil was gone.

Soon, little feline figures began to file out of a cat door in one of the back rooms. Five, six, seven- ten!! Eleven cats poured out and around the area, climbing on cat towers built into the structure and flopping down into cat beds on the ground. One particular cat wiggled his butt and launched himself onto the counter towards Roman. That is before being caught midair by Virgil.

“Sorry, Ro! Merlin missed you yesterday, you know how it is.” He apologized.

Roman laughed and reached forward, petting the grey ragdoll. "I missed you too, buddy!"

~~•~~

Roman loved his job working at the cat cafe. It was owned by a nice man who had a big heart. And even though Roman was just a small time barista, him and Thomas got along splendidly. Thomas had known Logan for a very long time and wanted them to be his baker and Virgil had gotten recommended by Logan, Roman however, had only known any of them for two years.

Of course in those two years he’d gone camping twice with Logan and Thomas, gone to the aquarium twice times with Virgil and once with Logan, and spent every break they had sitting on the counter in the back talking, laughing and teasing one another as Logan baked raspberry thumbprint cookies for the three of them and the golden haired boy they obviously had a crush on.

And on the weekends, Virgil and Logan and sometimes Alice and Thomas would agree to let Roman drag them to the gay bars he played at with his small time band. And when everything was all over, they’d all relax and have a few drinks before parting ways. They had started to become a tight knit family of sorts.

Roman couldn’t be happier with his friends and his job. He had left his desires for a Flaire behind him. He was okay being normal if normal meant his friends.

~~•~~

“So,” Virgil started, pulling himself up onto the counter in the back with a blackberry soda in hand. “Tell us about this crazy thing that happened to you last night, Ro. What was it? You broke a plate? Your neighbor is actually ten giant bees in a trench coat? Oh oh oh!! I got it! Aliens!” Virgil began laughing as Roman swatted at him.

“Har, har.” Roman said flatly.

“Honestly, Virgil, the only mystery here is how you manage to find the strangest flavored drinks. Last week it was mint.” Logan said, amusement twitching the edges of their lips as they dodged under Virgil’s pitiful blows. “Roman? Do tell what happened to provoke such a dramatic reaction from you.”

“Thank you, Logan!” Roman flourished and jumped onto the counter next to Virgil.

He relayed the break in and his encounter with the hero, embellishing a bit here and there.

“Wow…” Virgil said, crushing his soda can and tossing it at the recycling can across the room, cursing when he just barely missed. “What a bitch...See this is what I’ve been talking about,” He jumped off the counter and picked up his can. “Heroes are just stuck up bastards who have no consideration for everyday people like us…” He tossed the can away and turned back toward Roman, leaning against the wall. “You should sue for property damage, Ro. Find out who they were and sue.”

Roman waved his hand. “Honestly that just sounds like more trouble than it’s worth. And they were kind of hot though…” He said dreamily.

Virgil snorted. “Your pansexual ass is attracted to literally everything that’s ever breathed in your general direction.”

“And what’s wrong with that when everything is so pretty?!” Roman huffed.

Logan checked their wrist, smiling fondly. “Roman, Virgil, it’s time you two get back to work.”

“Awh!! But the cookies!!” Virgil whined. “They’re not done yeettt!”

“And they won’t be for another ten minutes, Virgil. I’ll make sure to set some aside for you and Roman once they are completed.” Logan reassured their friend.

“Fiiine.” Virgil relented. “But I expect one free drink as compensation tonight!!”

“Expect no such thi-”

“Thanks, Lo!!” Virgil stuck his tongue out at Logan and left with Roman.

As the two came out to the counter a familiar bubbly voice caught Roman’s attention. “Hello!!”

“Ah! Right on time!” Roman said to Virgil, not needing to face the counter to know it was the cute golden haired boy that Logan had a crush on. “The usual-” Roman started, turning around to face him before abruptly stopping himself.

“For me, yep! What about you, Dai?” The boy said.

The reason Roman had cut himself off so violently stared at him with the same cold gaze and golden-amber eyes, one not quite matching the other. He wore a beanie with a yellow and grey hoodie. His ears were pierced multiple times and he now had a nose ring where it had been absent last night.

Roman bristled and so did the stranger. And at the same time they yelled, the stranger’s voice making it all the more clear it was the same person from the night before.

“It’s you!!”

Tag list:

@iwillsithereandtrytocontribute @gattonero17 @soupgromlin @melodiread @septiplierdantisanders @just-a-hufflepuff @themagicheartmailman @awesomefanderhufflepotato @lofinnfish @dabookwormcat

(I kinda tagged everyone that said they wanted me to write this fic, (As well as my general tag list) is that okay? if you didn’t want to be tagged, please let me know!!)

Edit: I’m so fucking sorry I forgot to add the warnings

#Brilliance Of a Dying Star #deceit sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts deceit #ts logan #ts roman #ts virgil #thomas sanders #sanders sides #ts sides #sanders sides fic #ts sides fic #super hero au #roceit

66 notes · View notes

dunmerofskyrim · 7 years

Text

In Simra’s mind the days lined up. They passed by, lined off and behind, becoming hazy — at least as hazy as his sober memories ever grew with time. But the plains of the Northern Deshaan were good for that. Nothing to stand out save what did, and what did loomed large as idols in amongst that ocean of nothing.

In the landscape, a standing tree, or snarl of scrubland shrubbery. A patch of brown groundwater that mirrored the sky in sepia. In the distance once, a shining line in the afternoon sun: the arm of a stream bending tribute to the River Dathan. Crossing the latter would mark their halfway point. They’d find it either way, but opted towards the stream, to follow it, so at least they’d have fresh water until they did.

And that was good.

It meant no thirst.

It meant fish sometimes that Tammunei caught, sitting by the streamside and just waiting, humming at intervals, as the minnow-skinny smallfry came to the shallows to be snatched up into an open-mouthed pot. They would’ve been better dredged in flour and fried – the crunch of their tiny bones indistinct from the crunch of the golden crumb on them; Simra had had them that way in Narsis, and enjoyed them pretty well – but as soups with forage-greens and lengths of succulent reed they staved off hunger.

It meant having a kind of road to guide them. The stream always by them, to judge progress, keep their bearings.

It meant being able to steal away and wash. Face, hands, hair, with leech-lily scented soap, til at least the parts of him the sky and wind saw felt scoured clean. For the rest he had his cantrips, and water to cast them with.

In two batches, Simra had laundered his clothes in Bodram. Or rather he’d had them laundered for him. And that was something new. An expensive novelty to which he’d like to get better used.

A shirt in morning-blue scribsilk, folding diagonal across the breast to fasten in a line of brass buttons. Two were crescent-shaped, one was missing, and replaced with a toggle of polished wood. Band collar, trim shoulders, both embroidered in dark thread with a beehive pattern of hexagons. Launder it as he might, fond and sour memories both clung to it like a lingering scent. He’d bought it in Suran, all but four years ago.

Longer years still hung on his woollen Riftfolk tunic, and yet it held out. Well-made, but it ought to’ve been for the price — or how steep it had seemed at the time. Beasts ran in black-stitched thread around its bottom hem; red-stitched curls of foliage and flower petals around its wide deep collar. A freckling of faded red-brown stains still dappled its front after all this time. He wore it over the other, loose fit over slim, layered against the cold.

Deep-brown leggings too, close-cut and made from kreshwave. The fabric was combed til soft and supple, but teeth-pulling-hard to tear, and in trousers that was a blessing. At the back, attached at the waist, was a kind of train made from netch-leather. Hanging down like coat-tails it could flutter at the backs of his knees, but these days he wore it in front, buttoned around his hips in a lopsided kilt.

Body clean, they all kept mostly clean too, save for the dust. Those and the others. Ragpicker’s patchwork scarf. The once-gift of his goatskin mantle, napped smooth with wear and age and rain. Strange, but his jacket – his sister’s jacket – seemed to keep clean by itself, worn between his capelike mantle and shirts.

His boots were the exception, but weren’t they always? How many pairs had he had down the years? Ruined? Things were simpler – cheaper – before he wore shoes, but by now there was no going back, was there? These ones were two-toed native-made things, made from guar-leather and rising to just over the knee. There they led into a pair of quilted-leather kneepads – scuffed, gashed open, restitched – and tied in at the rear of his legs with bows of red-dyed ribbon. Those were pretty at least. There were plenty of times he liked them better than the boots themselves…

The soles and heels though would need mending before long. But why should that come as a surprise, when his feet did so much work of late? When he’d had them – what? – eight months now, and since had run them ragged. It was only fair that they’d beg for a break. Just like it was fair that he’d ask them to wait a while longer. Stockings, leggings, shirts — he had bone needles, a little redware thimble, and could darn them well enough if never good-as-new. Cobbling was different. Boots were expensive. Making and mending them took skill he lacked.

Soon, Simra thought, without knowing when.

The days formed stanzas. Same rhythms, same shapes, and struggling along with the same trudging theme.

But the grey had ended as it always did, and by contrast everything shone, everything sang — until there’d been shine and song enough to take them both for granted again.

The sun began to set.

Noor was singing again. Birdsong, wolfsong — a drone down in her throat that rose up by and by, offering high head-notes to the wind.

Tammunei had caught an eel. Better that by far than the smallfry they usually landed. With the fire already lit, Simra began filleting it, the way Tammunei had taught him.

He had a knife for it: a skinny fisherman’s filleting blade with an uptrailing point, living as part of a pair in a pocketlike sheathe that hung from his swordbelt. Almost funny how he’d had it two years and only just began to use it for its actual-made purpose. Almost.

Simra set to work. In behind the gills then round in a slit circle. Tugging away the mottled skin from head down to tail. Teasing along the spine, blade flat to bone, freeing a long strip of fatty meat from each side. It was meditative after he’d gotten past the constant urge to wash his hands.

“Got any idea what she’s doing?” he asked Tammunei, nodding at Noor. “Or’s your guess good as mine? Is it the same thing every night, or different songs? I can’t tell.”

They sat by the streamside, perched on a flat dry rock. Catkinned reeds rose around them, downy heads bobbing. The water whispered as it journeyed by. Tammunei looked at home by water, Simra reckoned — at ease.

“Herding-songs,” Tammunei answered, cutting away two stiff green skewers of reed with a use-knife and passing them to Simra. “I think that’s what they are. Sort of.”

“‘Sort of’..?” echoed Simra. He remembered the stories his father used to tell, of whistles and songs to call his guar together across the Grazelands in the evening. A moment later it came clear. “Dust and bones, she’s not hurrying along some herd of invisible guar I don’t know about, is she? No. It’s them!” He lowered his voice. “The ghosts she tied together in Bodram. What was it she said? A whisper of them’ll come with her? She’s herding them along. Calling. Making sure that whisper knows where to find her…right? Is that right?”

His voice was eager, wolf-paced, like this new curiosity was a hunger that he was scoffing answers to sate. Tammunei was neutral, voice small and flat, less certain though in sureness they knew more about this than Simra could hope to.

“They’re with me too,” Tammunei said. “She helped them grow and get strong, but I’m still there at the roots…”

Simra pierced and threaded the fish, switchback onto the lengths of reed. Neat work. Satisfying. He held them over the flames to roast. As the fire-warmth seeped into his bones, a fever-itch set into his right hand, beneath the dirty bandage he couldn’t bring himself to remove.

“I can hear them,” Tammunei continued. “Quiet, but I can hear if I listen.”

Simra frowned, both not-knowing and half-knowing how that might feel. When memory overlayed the present it put faint ghosts in everything. “What’re they saying?”

“Mostly they’re happy. They think she’s bringing them home…”

Tammunei was frowning too. Their tongue pointed brief and red over their lips. A hand rose to the long line of their neck, stroking, then gripping uneasy at their throat.

Something in this sat ill with them, Simra reckoned. Strange, when keeping ghosts happy had been all Tammunei wanted for so long…

Noor stopped her singing and went over to her baggage where it was heaped outside the yurt. She travelled light. Just a covered basket strapped to her back and the pockets in her robes. But now Simra watched over the fire and the skewers of sizzling eel as she opened the basket and reached inside to bring out a leather drawstring bag.

She hummed under her breath again as she walked a ways from their camp, through the grasses of the plain until she was out of earshot and almost out of sight. Her hand went into the bag. Came out in a fanning fling of motion, scattering something — like planting seedgrain.

“What’s she doing?” Simra whispered. She couldn’t hear them now, surely. Not at a whisper, and too far off for them to hear her.

“Bones,” came Tammunei’s thin voice. “She’s seeding them. So that those who weren’t Vereansu will be bound to the plains as much as to Bodram. More maybe. Like she is. Like her ancestors b—”

They stopped abrupt. Noor was walking back. New lines crossed her brow, it seemed, and sweat stood out on her face. When she reached the fire she had eyes for neither of them. Mute like her tongue was still elsewhere. She only slumped down beside the fire, a pile of rags and bones once more.

She’d spent herself, that much was clear, but on what great change? Her ghosts, Tammunei said, thought she was bringing her home. All of them, when so many had lived and died in Bodram. She was starting to change what home meant to them — where home was.

Simra set his lips and tried not to think anymore. About it, or Noor, or where the limits of her power might lie. Or of the drawstring pouch in his gathersack, smaller than Noor’s but with almost the same rattle.

They ate the eel, shared off the skewers. Its fatty white-grey flesh roasted well, and had turned red-gold in the heat. Simra imagined it with sticky saltrice, the fish glazed in black mazte vinegar and sprinkled with crushed pink pepper. The snap and crunch of pickled vegetables. But remembering them only made him taste their absence, bitter in each mouthful.

The stars came out. Tonight there was nothing to hide them.

Tammunei offered first watch.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Tammunei Ereshkigal #Noor Jedhredzuk

6 notes · View notes