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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 3 - ao3 -

The closing ceremony of the discussion conference was dignified and serene, as appropriate for an event hosted by the Lan sect, and after it was done everyone milled around to chat a little more before starting to break off into groups to leave.

The leaders of the Great Sects naturally gathered together.

They were an unusual mix. Wen Ruohan was the eldest by an entire generation, technically hailing from the generation of Lan Qiren’s grandfather even if his extraordinary cultivation made him seem as young as Lan Qiren’s brother; after him there was Lan Qiren’s father and the Jiang sect leader, Jiang Menglin, who themselves were a generation above their younger counterparts from the Nie and Jin clans – Jin Guangshan especially, having only inherited his position in the past year.

Lan Qiren’s brother stood beside them, speaking with them with his head held high. Their father planned to slowly transition sect leadership to him over the next half-decade so that he himself might be allowed to retire from the mundane world to focus on cultivation, as Lan An ultimately did. In accordance with that plan, he had allowed him to take the lead on hosting certain small events at the discussion conference, like the night-hunting.

Lan Qiren was there, too.

He was lurking as far to the back of the platform as he could get, trying simultaneously to perfectly reflect his sect’s expectations for proper behavior while also doing his utmost to remain beneath anyone’s notice – Lao Nie had caught his gaze at one point and winked, a friendly older man’s indulgence of a junior, but that was in large part unavoidable given the man’s gregarious personality – and enjoying the rare moment in which he could see his father at something other than a distance.

He usually only saw his father when he was brought before him to report on his achievements, typically once a month. When he was younger, he had been accompanied by one of his teachers, who would report on him while Lan Qiren anxiously examined his father’s face for signs of approval; now that he was older, he went by himself, dipping into a deep salute as he recited anything of interest, and sometimes if he really exerted himself his father would reward him with a word of praise.

Lan Qiren was only allowed to stand with the rest of them on the basis of a technicality – his father hadn’t officially transferred power to his eldest son and wouldn’t for a while yet, so he had brought along both of them on the transparent excuse that they could provide company for Jin Guangshan and Lao Nie as members of the same generation. It was very much a technicality in Lan Qiren’s case, given his much younger age; he fell on the very tail end of their generation on account of the circumstances of his belated birth.

Lan Qiren’s birth was very late to allow him to be considered a peer to those a decade or more older than him, in fact, but that was the way of things.

He was a child of duty, rather than pleasure.

His parents had been very much in love, as was the Lan sect’s way, and together they had had two sons and a daughter within six years, each one of them deeply beloved. But perhaps their joy had been too complete, because the heavens had not permitted it to last: they lost their younger son and daughter both – one to an unexpected illness, the other to an accident. Their eldest, Lan Qiren’s brother, was still there, but it would have been irresponsible to have only a single heir to a Great Sect. Accordingly, under great pressure from the sect elders, they had sought to have another child, only to fail time and time again, enduring countless miscarriages and stillbirths alike.

There had even been some debate as to whether such a situation permitted the sect leader to take on a concubine, regardless of custom or even his own wishes. Desperate to prevent such a result, Lan Qiren’s mother had inadvisedly taken certain drugs to encourage conception and at last Lan Qiren had been successfully born in a slow and bloody labor that had sapped his mother’s already poor health. She had died a few years later, suffering a recurrence of the infection left behind from his birth. Lan Qiren had been too young to really remember her, but he knew that his brother had blamed him for her loss ever since.

He sometimes wondered if his father did, too.

Of course, unlike his brother, his father had never said as much. As the Lan sect leader, he was graceful and refined, educated and reserved, a venerable and venerated cultivator; it was widely agreed that he would never have planned to retire so early if it hadn’t been for losing his true love all those years ago. Perhaps he might even have been another Wen Ruohan, seemingly ageless, striving for immortality – at any rate, he would never be so petty as to mistreat a person due to the circumstances beyond their control. It was something he had heard that his father had said from one of the other Lan sect juniors, and at any rate it was in the rules, and Lan Qiren believed in the rules.

Besides, it wasn’t a surprise that Lan Qiren would be an afterthought in comparison to his brother, the already famous Qingheng-jun, who his father treasured like a pearl cupped in his palm. His brother was the much-anticipated first child of his father’s happy youth, the reminder of good days gone by, a child who had survived the misfortunes that had taken his siblings, and Lan Qiren’s brother repaid his father’s adoration with strength, intelligence, and endless potential. He was a cultivation maniac, yet good at managing the other juniors; he was cold and aloof, elegant, yet capable of being personable and even charming when needed. He was one of the shining stars of his generation, already a powerful cultivator and a respected gentleman even though he’d only just passed twenty-one. Even the name which he was commonly called, Qingheng-jun, was a rarity, a personal title unusual in this peaceful day and age.

Lan Qiren, in contrast, was slow and clumsy, with only average cultivation skills and positively dire social skills. While his teachers praised his strong academic skills and musical talent, the Lan sect followed first and foremost the orthodox path of swordsmanship; once his weakness in that area had been discovered, many of his sect elders lost interest in him as anything other than the inferior back-up plan that he was.

Undoubtedly that was why, when Wen Ruohan turned to Lan Qiren’s father and said, “Your son is a credit to you,” everyone assumed he was talking about Qingheng-jun.

“Sect Leader Wen does him too much honor,” their father said, clearly pleased despite his deprecating words. After all, Wen Ruohan, Sect Leader Wen, was well known to be extraordinarily sparing with his praise for any who didn’t share his bloodline or surname. “My unworthy son is still young and foolish. His eyes are always fixed upon cultivation, never straying – he doesn’t even spare time for girls, despite his advancing years!”

The other sect leaders were smiling, and Lao Nie already opening his mouth to say something teasing, when Wen Ruohan said, “I meant your other son.”

Lan Qiren wasn’t prepared at all for all the sect leaders to turn to look at him.

He shrunk back.

“Qiren?” his father said, almost as if he were checking to confirm that that was the right name, a trace of doubt in his voice even as Lan Qiren’s brother’s face went white with humiliation. “I didn’t realize you’d had a chance to hear him play.”

“Regrettably I have not yet had that pleasure,” Wen Ruohan said, a slightly strange expression on his face. “We merely exchanged some charming conversation, that’s all. Is that his most notable skill?”

“His accomplishments as a musical cultivator are sufficient to rank him among the adults of his already talented sect,” Lao Nie volunteered when there was a brief pause, and Lan Qiren’s father was quick to smile and nod along. “You missed out, Sect Leader Wen.”

“Perhaps another time,” Wen Ruohan said, his return smile still strange and almost subtly displeased, though Lan Qiren would hardly trust himself to know for sure.

At that point, Jiang Menglin spoke up, changing the subject, and most everyone joined in, all of them evidently relieved – not least of all Lan Qiren himself, who had started wondering if there was some way he could become invisible or else fall into a deep chasm that might conveniently open up beneath his feet.

Nothing more was said on the subject until the ceremony was done and the last of their guests departed, when Lan Qiren’s brother tracked him down and hissed, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Lan Qiren cried out. “We only talked!”

“You mean you talked at him the way you always do – ”

Their father cleared his throat, having come up behind them, and they both turned at once and dropped into deep salutes.

“Do not think about it too much,” he said, voice distant as the cold wind on a winter night. “Sect Leader Wen sometimes likes to make trouble for the sake of making trouble, especially if he thinks he has found a weakness. You will need to be on your guard against that when you are sect leader.”

He was talking to Lan Qiren’s brother, of course. Lan Qiren could count, and had, the number of times his father addressed him directly in a given year, but it was only reasonable – he wasn’t the heir, doomed to take on the burden of leadership, and so there was much less his father needed to say to him.

“Yes, Father,” his brother said. “I’ll remember.”

“Do not trouble your younger brother over nonsense.”

Lan Qiren felt his brother’s angry gaze like a flame against his skin, even if it wasn’t anywhere as weighty as Wen Ruohan’s. He did not understand what he had done wrong, whether to Wen Ruohan to decide to make trouble using his name or to his brother now that had made him angry, but that wasn’t so much different from the usual.

“Very well, Father,” his brother said. “I won’t.”

#mdzs #lan qiren #qingheng-jun #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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atomsmoon · 3 years

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Dsmp Olympus be like:

DreamXD

Most recognized and old god on the server, at first because of his powers and protection of the Holy Land... then he started showing up just to simp for the British Mushroom guy and he lost all of the intimidation factor.

Has a creepy voice lately does anyone know wassup w that?

He's around fairly often.

WILL show up if you try to set up a table on an ancient looking portal OR if you call him a homeless teletubby.. go ask Techno about it.

People are either chill with him or don't want him to show up cuz that means trouble.

Drista

Definitely the most powerful AND most chaotic.

Dream's (and DreamXD's?) sister.

Shows up once every three months to wreck havoc and hand out a couple of impossible blocks.

She built an invisible staircase to fool people into thinking they can reach the sky (and mostly to make them fall down)

Signed her name in obsidian to assert dominance.

Her and Tommy are actually good friends (their allyship first started to piss off Dream, now they enjoy messing around on the server together c: )

Probably has a good relationship w Foolish, Olympus God buddies share shulkers c:

Foolish

Totem of Undying, the new guy on the block.... unless?? He's been around long enough to have a tragic past as the Totem of Death.

He can pew pew lighting.

Apparently him and Eret go way back? Either that or he knew Herobrine 👀.

He's oddly letting himself be pushed around by two minors with a piglin child but hey at least they will pay him.. right? Guys? gUYS?? (Oh also don't comment on the chandelier it's a sore subject).

Is the tallest mf on the server reaching 27ft.. no wonder his builds are so massive.

Has recently entered a love triangle between Ponk and Sam... someone pray for him, he needs it.

Callahan

Probably the most elusive god on the smp.

He never talks. Ever. Everyone loves him nonetheless.

Sometimes reaches out as <Server> in chat or he shows up with his Captain America and Reindeer outfit.. (i like to imagine him binging Marvel movies in the Olympus when he's got nothing else to do, which admittedly is most of the time)

Was at the site of Tubbo's nuclear test.. sightseeing?

He's the one to call when something's wrong

Generally the best

Deserves the world

Ok we love him moving on

Philza Minecraft

Was called the Angel Of Death once upon a time

He lost his wings to protect Wilbur from the L'manberg explosion... dearly misses flying.

Oooold friend of Techno, some stories say they ruled an ice ridden land called The Antarctic Empire

He's technically NOT immortal but Ageless aka he can die but he's always been too cool for that

His vibe is being done with everyone's shit, just don't mess with the people he loves.

People say he's the creator of the game. They are right. This is the truth now.

He's also the person everyone yells for for IT Support... ?

His only weakness are Baby Zombies, do not ask him about it.

Egg

Egg (evil)

Now onto the: GODS *?*

Technoblade

People chant "Blood For The Blood God" but his story is very confusing and complicated, is He getting the blood for the blood god or is he the Blood God himself? Nobody's sure but Everyone knows not to fuck with him.

He actually hybernates for several weeks on end, trusting Philza to look over him.

Has a thing for wither skeletons

Possibly old as hell (see long ass friendship w Philza)

Confusing and conflicting information about his nature, some say he's a straight up pig, some say piglin, some say he's a hybrid or wearing a mask... more info needed

He can and will kick Dream's ass

... still owes him a favor tho rip.

ERET

Immortal person too??

Herobrine/ Herobrine's descendant???

Idk fam everyone just thought "this normal dude has weird eyes" then Foolish rolls around and now the questions rise in number by the second

Is a Queen nonetheless

BadBoyHalo

Demon guy

Once said he's immortal till his best friend dies... now... he took one of his lives... *it's complicated*

Actually a nice dude before he got possessed by the evil egg.

Can fix weird problems with the servers cuz console access making him another person to yell for.

Mainly just hangs around in the main area talking about muffins.

Now...

I imagine Callahan and Drista mainly chilling up there, only occasionally swinging by to check what's going on. Foolish and Phil always enjoyed hanging around on the server, building and travelling respectfully. Eventually they all ended up in the same place, who's to know if they ever met eachother in their long lives.. (yes phil and foolish give us crumbs please it is an invitation).

Everyone else is more of a demigod entity to me (apart from bbh because i do entertain the thought that everyone who has op on the server is secretly a god BUT that would make Awesamdude a god which hMMMM, but also philza would be a demigod which kINDA MAKES SENSE because he ISN'T in fact immortal- imma stop myself)

Ah and DreamXD just followed Dream around till he got stuck in the prison... oh well.. more time to simp ig ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#dream smp #dreamxd #drista #foolish gamers #philza #callahan #technoblade #badboyhalo #eret #dsmp olympus #awesamdude #dreamwastaken

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kurosakikai · 3 years

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. xx1 . Urahara's Return

Find me on AO3 Find me on Ko-Fi Also available to yell at on Twitter

As promised, tagging one @mysteriousshopkeeper with the finished result!

There are few things that stop or startle an ageless, nigh-immortal former spy-turned shopkeeper.

The sight before him is one of them. He’d merely intended on visiting Ichigo-kun, see how he was doing, only to be startled by the sight of eyes so green and so vivid that his mind immediately thinks to Kaien himself.

A single blink, and the overlaying visage returns to that of a young little boy, his head tilted in question.

“...” Someone should have warned him. Kisuke should have known, especially, what he was getting himself into, and he has to take a few shallow breaths, shaking a little inside. They say nothing, the two sizing one another up, before the boy unbends enough to offer him a small, shy smile.

It’s like getting slugged in the face a second time, that soft expression bringing him sharply back to sweeter days, to memories of thrown flour and laughter, joyful expressions of happiness and sunshine promises, and Kisuke barely snaps out of it in time to see the flicker of confusion, and hurt, that covers the little boy’s face.

“I… Sorry, sorry,” Kisuke apologizes with a rub against the back of his head, kneeling down so the youth can see him better. “It’s okay little guy, really. It’s just… been a long time since I saw your dad - I didn’t even know he had a kid.” The child relaxes a little, tiny, clutching fingers loosening from the bottom of his shirt. “What’s your name?”

“Papa calls me Kai - but Momma calls me Kaien, sometimes.” Intelligent blue-green watch him, the little boy still a little tense and anxious, but slowly relaxing.

Meanwhile, Kisuke wondered what cruel trick of fate had left this boy with such a name that would evoke such strong memories of the man he’d bonded with, in another life.

“... I can see why...” Kisuke allowed himself to be led by the little boy to take his shoes off, but the pursuit of making a guest comfortable has been waylaid by the quest for knowledge, which was truly adorable on such a young face.

“Really?” The boy looks hopeful, tugs upon a hand gently. “Can you tell me who he is?” Kisuke carefully tucks his geta away - the scolding Ichigo had given him for scraping the floor of his clinic was not a lesson he was willing to put up with more than once - before considering his answer.

“He was your dad’s second cousin,” Kisuke says dutifully, slipping on the house slippers his little host had brought for him - in a rather fetching green color, he might add. “I suppose that would make him your...” Pausing, Kisuke took a moment to count on his fingers. Family trees were always so complicated. Give him a genome sequence and he could tell you if people were related, but the genealogy charts never failed to send him in a tizzy.

Tch.

“Ah-ha!” He says, triumphant. “Second cousin once-removed.” Pleased, Kisuke nods to himself. “Your mother was very fond of him.” Sometimes, Kisuke thinks she might have been in love with him. Of course, that was not a thing said to a little boy who looked like Kaien so much it could physically hurt him.

Tiny fingers find their way into his hakama, and startled, he looks down. “Was he nice?” The boy asks, childish curiosity written all over his face as he gently tugs on the fabric in his hands. “Did he like riceballs like me? Oooh, did you know him?”

Kisuke had forgotten - with Jinta and Ururu now adults and off to their own life - how persistent, how curious, children could be. Paired with those eyes, and that coal-dark head, Kisuke allowed himself to soften a little.

“Oh yes, very well in fact. I was actually quite fond of him myself, you know.” Looking the boy over, he adds with a smile, “You actually bear quite the stunning resemblance to him, I must admit.”

The boy’s eyes - already impossibly coinlike and round - widen even further. “Can you tell me about him? Daddy doesn’t know him, and Momma just gives me bunches of chores to do when I ask.” Those big… green… eyes…

Good grief. He clearly needed to work on his resistance to puppy-dog eyes if he was contemplating standing there the whole time rather than taking a comfortable seat! A little pang reminds him that he has no children at home to aid him in his endeavor.

With a sigh, Kisuke says, “Mind if I sit down?” It’s actually rather cute, to watch as the boy goes from intent curiosity to embarrassed realization at the knowledge that he’d been interrogating him in the entryway, a hot pink blush dusting his ears and the boy lets go of his hakama to take his hand instead, sheepishly guiding him towards the comfiest seat in the room.

Kisuke should know. He used to have that very armchair in his house before Ichigo had absconded with it as payment. (He really should take it home with him, just to be petty.)

“Sorry,” the boy mumbles, looking a little embarrassed as he seats his guest. “Don’t tell Papa, but I sometimes sleep here at night. So what’s your name? I’ve seen your picture, but every time I ask, Papa calls you Hat-n-Clogs and Momma calls you Basketcase.”

Kisuke snorts violently. If he wasn’t so amused, he’d almost be offended.

“I’ve answered to both of those names often enough,” Kisuke says, tone wryly amused. “But if it pleases you, feel free to call me Urahara-san.” No matter his behavior and his… stunning looks… this little one was still a child, and barely knew him aside. No matter how much he resembled Kaien…

Shaking his head, he refocuses on his very young host, who is fussing around him to ensure he - and Benehime (how thoughtful!) - are nice and comfortable before he climbs up to an armrest.

“Okay Urahara-san!” The boy is very amiable, and quite obviously happy to know his name at last. “Do you want some tea?” the boy asks, eyes wide. “Momma always says good tea means happy visitors.” He’s obviously trying to be polite, and Kisuke smiles, charmed.

“If you’d please,” he says with a little chuckle, offers his hand to allow the small boy to climb down safely. “Of course, your mother did always have the better manners, out of the two of your parents.” Shaking his head with a chuckle, he continues. “If you can, I’d love a cup of green tea with honey, if you’re offering. How old are you, Kaien - ah, Kai?” He immediately corrects himself, and feels a flash of guilt at the sight of hurt in those green eyes.

Dammit.

“Kaien’s okay, Urahara-san,” the boy says, the hurt vanishing into the ether as though he’d never experienced it. But Kisuke had been a spy and had made a living being able to read people. The mistakenly given name was not something the boy was unused to, and he bites his lip, upset that Kai would take such dismissal of himself so lightly. Firmly secure on the floor, the boy adds, “I hear it often enough from Momma when she thinks Papa or I aren’t able to hear her.”

Kisuke’s heart breaks a little.

The boy trots off towards the kitchen door, peering over and beaming. “Yay! Momma and Papa left the tea set somewhere I can reach, so I can make you tea!” The boy refocuses on him after a moment, beaming as he adds, “and I’m seven! But, like, an old seven,” he says, making Kisuke’s lips twitch upwards at the innocent, joyfully cute way he said such a thing. Trotting off, Kai goes after his targets.

He can see how the boy assembles his tea set, fetches the finest green tea in the tea cabinet, and gets the candles.

And of course, the honey.

While watching, Kisuke allows his mind to wander. He’s… well, he’s not sure how he would have taken the situation even forearmed, he thinks. Of course, with Ichigo being a Shiba, he’d resemble Isshin’s side of the family no matter what, and with Rukia having such dark hair, well, genetic dominance was certainly a factor.

But those eyes… Silently, he considers. What did happen to souls that passed on? Obviously, human souls reincarnated. That was merely the way of the world, but he’d never known for a pure soul to reincarnate into the human world. That was far more unusual.

Of course, Kaien’s soul had been through quite the conga line, having been hollowfied, reformed into an Arrancar, sent to Hell, and then purified again.

Not to mention the unique physiology of both parents. Ichigo, of course, had his feet in both camps, a son of Quincy and Human on one side, and a son of a Soul on the other, no matter his choice of living full-time in the human world.

Putting that aside, Kisuke allows for a rare moment of pride.

Damn his gigai were fucking good - this was proving to be the second generation capable of reproduction, Ichigo being the prime example of the first.

Of course, that made other questions come to mind, though he sets it aside when his young host finally approaches, setting the tea down with a bubbly smile and childishly overeager hand gesticulations that are a truly uncanny reminder of Kaien himself.

Tuning into the boy’s words, he cannot suppress a smile at the realization that the boy is telling him all about his first attempt of making tea all by himself - he understands the pride a child feels at such an act - and all of the silly shenanigans that had come from that.

He could see their reactions now - Rukia, with a hand over her mouth to hide her embarrassed smile, and Ichigo, laughing himself silly at his son’s childish whimsy.

“... Momma tried to pretend she couldn’t hear the teacup crashing, even though it landed right next to her foot!” The boy rambles, a freshly prepared cup of green tea and honey in hand as he shyly - and a little clumsily - climbed up to the armrest, presenting his tea with the same pride Ururu had, so long ago. “I hope you like the tea,” the boy says shyly, suddenly nervous. “I don’t normally get to make tea for guests.”

Kisuke takes the tea, smiling warmly all the while, even as his mind races. That storytelling, the way he gestured as he told his little tale… it’s almost uncanny, and not for the first time, Kisuke wonders which parent was responsible for Kai’s name.

Of course, a little pang strikes at his heart - he can almost see Ururu there, the little girl he had raised so proudly displaying her first cup of tea for him that she’d made on her own - and he mourns, yet again, having an empty home.

Things simply weren’t the same without a child around to liven things up.

Graciously, Kisuke takes a careful sip, smiling the whole while. He’d not expected it to be very good, but to his great surprise… It's quite decent, for a child his age. This blend has a bit of ginseng in it, he notes, and the inexpert - though lovingly done - cup has just the faintest hint. It’s a little sharper than he prefers, but he dutifully drinks it all the same, so as to allow the little one his joy.

“You did an excellent job,” Kisuke praises, watching Kai beam enthusiastically at his praise. “I’m honored that you found me worthy of such good tea-making skills,” he adds, eyes crinkling with amusement.

Green watches him avidly, before their owner beams, a full megawatt smile so similar to Kaien’s effusions of praise as the boy curls up on the armrest like a small kitten.

Perhaps he should bring Yoruichi around, just for a little bit. It’d be fun, he thinks, to see how the boy treated her.

“Really?” The boy knocks him out of his fond musings, Kai looking delighted. A tiny hand adjusts his hat, and he allows the boy to do so, surprised he simply didn’t take the hat off entirely, merely readjusted it. He’s grateful, however, that the boy didn’t remove it in its entirety. “I’ve practiced lots and lots when Auntie Yuzu’s visiting, but I’m not as good as Momma or Papa yet,” the boy sighs, despondent. “They’re real tea makers.” Kisuke’s lips twitch up into a smile at the wistfulness.

“Well, they are older than you,” Kisuke says, wondering if his words were true, or an unintended falsehood.

Which brings him back to Kai’s curious question from earlier. Leaning back, he suppresses an amused smile as he continues on, “You do remind me of Kaien very much. We were in the military together, for a time. I was a Captain, and he was a Lieutenant - He would have made Lieutenant straight out of the academy if he hadn’t been so determined to not be.” Chuckling, Kisuke remembers how often Kaien had turned down Ukitake-taichou, fondly indulgent.

“We met at a party, of course, and became best of friends during them. He was quite the joker - I never knew if I would need to stop drinking my tea because he would deliver the perfect punchline at the worst personal timing for me, or if he’d taunt me into a drinking game.” Grinning, Kisuke adds fondly, “And he was always waving his hands around - sometimes, he forgot he was holding things, and he stained so many uniforms,” Kisuke says, chuckling. “Of course, Captains wore white, so I was always such a tempting target. People would take one look at me and go ‘ah, you were with Kaien-kun again’.”

Kai giggles shyly, hands pressed against his mouth. The boy clearly admired him, and knowing his upbringing, he probably thought the military to be a very respectable job. Kisuke was looking forward to tarnishing that reputation.

“You didn’t invent on the spot cleaner?” The boy asks curiously, and Kisuke takes in his small host as he speaks. “Papa said you make lots of neat inventions,” Kai says, and Kisuke smiles, amused and fond as the boy adds, “Couldn’t you have done something to keep your coat from getting dirty?”

Ah. A quick glance shows the house is spotless. He hadn’t taken Ichigo as the type to be a neat-freak, but he supposed being a parent would change such priorities in life.

He nearly spits out his tea however, when his mind catches up to the boy’s words, swallowing hastily so he can answer his young guest. Certainly, he could have, but he was often in the pursuit of science - a few measly messes was but a small price to pay for his experiments.

“I think it’s only fair to admit that I didn’t really keep the uniform clean,” Kisuke says with a smile. “You see, clothes were not very important to me compared to my work. I’m sure given time, I could have invented such a cleaner, but truthfully, I spent far more time in my lab making messes than I ever did cleaning them up.”

Oh. Whoops. He was probably confusing the poor child - the idea of the military was a rather strict one, but the moment he chose to tell a tale weeeeeell… he always did enjoy teasing children, and watching them try to figure out what was true or not was always so much fun.

Kisuke wondered if that was a little mean.

Kai is frowning a little, looking thoughtful. “How did people know you were near Kaien then? If being messy was your usual look, how was anyone supposed to know when you were messier because of him?” The boy looks at him, all wide-eyed, eager innocence. “Besides, Papa said you have kids. Wouldn’t you have invented a cleaner by then?”

Kisuke can already see it - as the inheritor of Kaien, poor Kai probably attracted dirt like a magnet, even if he did nothing more special than homework.

Amused, he listens on.

“Did he make special stains or something?” Kai sounds deadly serious, and he’s glad he’d finished his cup of tea. Spitting it out would have been funny, but incurably rude. Chuckling, Kisuke reaches out to ruffle dark hair.

“I was only referring to parties, Kai-kun,” Kisuke managed with nary a trembling lip to show his amusement beyond a chuckle. “I did at least try to arrive to meetings in a clean -” Kisuke clears his throat rather than allow the words to leap from his lips. “... Uniform.” Damn. He’d almost said haori - despite how long it had been. “Kaien and I were in different divisions, you see, so we rarely saw each other on duty. When off-duty, we wore uniforms at the get-togethers.” Here he winks. “That’s when people realized that we were spending time together. But when we were out on our own...”

Quickly, Kisuke glances at his small host. The boy’s eyes are shining with interest, and he gives the boy a little smile.

It was rather obvious that Kai was living a rather sheltered life, if he didn’t know what his parents truly did on the side.

“Mmm… when we were out on our own, we’d wear whatever we liked.” There. That was simple enough. Kai was only seven, after all. He didn’t need the whole kit and caboodle. “I didn’t have children until much, much later.”

The boy wiggles a little in his seat, visibly pouting, and Kisuke can’t help the amused smile as it grows on his face.

“Oh.” The disappointment is palpable, but the boy rallies fiercely, to Kisuke’s amusement. “Did you like wearing the uniform? How often did you get to see Kaien? Do parties happen often for you guys?” The boy bounces a little in his seat, eager. “Papa says you invented things for a living, so did you get to meet people more often than other Captains and learn all sorts of things, right?” At the puppy-like radiance, Kisuke leans back, just a smidge.

My. It seemed that a certain pair of someones certainly didn’t talk about the Gotei, with these rapid-fire questions. In fact, there was a certain… lack of noble graces that he was quite surprised about - he’d have thought Rukia would have drilled manners into her little boy.

Though, looking at Kai, he had quite the niggling suspicion as to why the boy was so graceless. If so, there were words to be had with Miss Kuchiki.

But for now, he supposed a little mischief was in order. It’s been a while since he’d had such a young audience. “Well, I can’t say I ever cared very much for the uniform. To me, it was just a place where I worked. But Kaien… he took such pride in his work, and he was excellent at it. He took it so seriously that often, he didn’t have much free time, but when he did, he loved to have fun and go to parties.” A sly grin crosses his face. This outta be good. “It’s true, of course, that I was - and still am - an inventor. But that wasn’t how I got to know all sorts of things.”

Kisuke leans in, and his young host does as well, eyes wide.

“Before I became a captain, I was a prison guard. And a spy.”

Kai blinks. Once. Twice. Then, his round eyes gleam like Yoruichi spying unattended fish on a counter. A little gasp, and Kisuke knew he had the little one hooked. The boy takes his tea cup, brimming with questions.

“Really? What was it like? Were people in the prison interesting? Did you meet Kaien being a super-sneaky spy? Where did you travel?” He’s a fount of questions, even as his good manners insist upon refreshing his tea, to which Urahara accepts with a little chuckle and nod of thanks to the little boy. Kai quickly clambers back up, and he smiles down at the boy. He was quite the little extrovert, wasn’t he?

At this point, the parallels were simply… uncanny.

“Oh, I travelled all over the countryside, hunting down deserters, mostly. Of course, a good spy never works alone, when you’re going after capturing dangerous people,” Kisuke sips at his tea, radiating enjoyment. “Of course, not everyone allowed themselves to survive being captured...” A wicked grin, and Kai gives him an amazed little squeak.

Ah, he missed telling stories so much! Perhaps he ought to babysit more often. Orihime and Ishida’s little ones were about three or so now - they’d likely be glad to have some time for themselves in exchange for him babysitting them.

Plans, plans.

Lowering his tea cup, Kisuke chuckles. “The prisoners were some of the most interesting people I’d ever met, of course, being such dangerous minds,” Kisuke really shouldn’t tease the little boy, but he was a perfect audience, expressive as he was, little squeaks and wide eyes. “But no, I didn’t meet Kaien until I became a captain. Of course, there was always no shortage of places we needed to get in - or out of - in a hurry, places we weren’t supposed to be, and times we weren’t allowed to uh… technically, leave. Being a spy came quite in handy for that,” he says, grinning.

Ichigo was going to hit him with a bucket of soapy water, he could already tell. He was quite the corrupting influence on the youth of today.

Kai lights up, as he should when faced with a fun, relatively light-hearted story.

“Dangerous minds?” The boy wiggles off of the chair to go fetch some tea sweets, offering him one to his amusement. That boy was just like Kaien, trying to stuff people full of food. “Does that mean you had the most dangerous mind of all?” Kai asks, nibbling on his own tea sweet, swallowing, and then continuing on. “So you and Kaien got really good at sneaking? Papa used to say Auntie Kuu would complain lots and lots about him sneaking out of the house at night.”

Looking around, Kai leans in, and amused, Kisuke does the same. “Can you teach me your sneaky-spy skills? Momma and Papa are always super protective. Once I get home, I can’t stick a nose out of the door without them finding out,” he says, drooping.

Kisuke smiles a little, pets the fluffy mop of hair with a gentle encouragement for the boy to eat his sweet. He wasn’t sure, of course, how that part of the conversation had gone… the most dangerous mind of all… Did he really deserve such a title? He suspected it really belonged to another, though he wouldn’t deny he was a strong contender.

“I think, if you asked anyone back then, they would have whole-heartedly agreed and said so,” was the mused statement. “I was accused of a crime, in the end, and had to leave - I gave up being a captain, and then moved here.” A little smile. That had spelled the end of the best of times with Kaien, though his friend had been nothing if not determined to make him smile. “After that, I didn’t get to see Kaien much, though he snuck off to see me as often as he was able. It was always good to see him when he did.”

The two of them sit in somber silence for a moment, before Kisuke perks up. Now, Ichigo was definitely going to smack him one, but oh, the possibilities… “I think it runs in your family,” Kisuke tells the little boy, who perks up at his cheer. “You see, your grandfather snuck off once and got mixed up in the worst sort of trouble. That’s how he met and married your grandmother, you know.” Grinning, he continues, despite knowing Ichigo would most certainly be giving him grief, as well as Rukia. “Of course, I can’t count the number of times I helped your Papa sneak off too. If you’re determined, I’ll teach you when you’re older.”

Oh, now he’d done it. The child had been a little skeptical before, but now he was incredulous, eyeing him with the same hefty skepticism Ichigo had, all those years ago when they first met.

“No way.” The boy lunges forward to hug him, nice and tight, and Kisuke really appreciated his warmth, how generous the boy was - that clearly hadn’t changed between lifetimes. “Are you serious? Papa would never sneak off!” The boy says, and Kisuke smothers a smile, though the boy perks happily at his comforting having helped, clearly. “There’s no way Papa would have snuck off - Momma would be so mad,” he says, wide-eyed.

It was really so funny, to learn what kind of married couple Rukia and Ichigo had become, though he supposed their marriage dynamic was still more or less the same as when they’d simply been friends.

Oh yes, they were going to kill him, but what could he say?

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Oh? Did I forget? Silly me,” Kisuke says with a grin. “Your mom snuck off too. Got herself in tons of trouble and ran away from home.” Oh yes, Kai was enraptured now, eyes wide as dinner plates as he followed along, increasingly incredulous. “She stayed with your Papa, even. Now, don’t tell your mom I said this, but she hid out in your dad’s closet.”

Oh am I a dead man, Kisuke thinks in amusement. But it was worth it, just to watch his surprise and amazement.

“So, tell you what,” Kisuke says, and Kai’s head swivels towards him. “If we keep this conversation a secret, next time I come by, I’ll teach you some sneaky spy tricks, okay? And maybe a few more stories about Kaien.”

The boy’s practically vibrating, and it’s cute.

“Okay!” he bursts outs, lifting his pinkie up with all of his childish enthusiasm. “Do you want to make a pinky promise with me? Auntie Yuzu showed me how! That way you know for sure I won’t tell anyone!” Kisuke’s heart melts a little bit.

What a cute kid. Chuckling, he allows himself to be coaxed through the ritual, the two hooking their little fingers together and tugging.

Almost unknown, something shifted, an old, worn connection that had frayed with absence lacing together once more. There was simply nothing to it - just like Ichigo, Kisuke would have to keep a weather eye on this precocious child.

Smiling, he allows the boy to hop of the armrest and scurry off to make him yet another cup of tea, an amused, fond indulgence.

(In the depths of his heart, the forged connection of a soul revived glows)

#BLEACH #SHIBA KAIEN #KAIEN SHIBA #KISUKE URAHARA #URAHARA KISUKE #BLEACH AU #BLEACH FANFICTION #. oo1 . STORY #STORY

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

Note

So because I also have been reading your stuff on ao3 (it's good and wonderful thank you) and on here (i couldnt believe they were both you) (like how dare you be such an amazing writer). Thank you so much I have all the emotions reading your fics. I cannot thank you enough. I dont have the words to. So here have a bunch of purple hearts! 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💛

Purple hearts!!! Of all the colours to pick, you’ve managed to choose my favourite

Time was a funny thing,Geralt mused. He wasn’t affected by it like humans so it held little meaning to him and he forgot how humans aged. Jaskier, on the other hand, was painfully aware of it and the longer Geralt spent time with him, the more he realised Jaskier was rather vain. The various creams and lotions in his bag grew and he spent more and more time each morning to get ready. Not that it made much of a difference in Geralt’s opinion. There were still wrinkles and bags under Jaskier’s eyes. Only once did Geralt make the mistake of pointing out grey hairs on Jaskier’s temple and he was greeted to a full blown, rather dramatic wail.

Still, nothing stopped the marching of time and Jaskier started to be more shy around Geralt. It had been so long since he’d last seen his bard naked. They had enjoyed many an evening together but perhaps age had affected that too. The doublets Jaskier had been so fond of looked a little tighter. So perhaps time wasn’t as kind to Jaskier as hoped and he was ashamed. Next to Geralt, no human really looked impressive but with age, a little more weight and maybe even a bit of sagging, Jaskier felt inadequate. Little did he seem to care that Geralt still loved him regardless of his looks. But his ageing lark seemed so self-conscious, Geralt was content to love him in any capacity he was allowed. Sometimes he wondered whether age had brought other, more embarrassing complications for Jaskier in the bedroom department too but it wasn’t a question he ever asked.

Over time, Jaskier had gone completely grey, had a little paunch but his voice was still just as strong and he kept up with Geralt on the roads. So even if Geralt wondered whether they should settle somewhere for Jaskier’s twilight years, he couldn’t find a reason to suggest it because outside of cosmetics, Jaskier didn’t seem any different. Except for if Geralt saw him before his morning ritual of what he called skincare, Jaskier screeched and ran, hiding himself. But that was just Jaskier’s brand of dramatics.

They were walking through the edges of Vengerberg when a disbelieving voice called “Jaskier?”

Geralt watched Jaskier freeze, face looking pained and obviously trying to think of a way to run away.

“I don’t believe it! Julian! What the hell have you done to yourself?”

“Valdo,” Jaskier ground out and turned. “Please don’t-” Whatever he had been about to say, it was silenced as Valdo Marx marched up to him and swiped a thumb over the swell of his cheek.

“What is all this? Why are you marching around like some old man?” Valdo licked his thumb and swiped again. It was like he was wiping age from Jaskier, where he touched, youthful skin peeked through. “And what’s this?”

Playfull, Valdo patted the small stomach and laughed brightly. “Pillows? Really my dear? What’s the meaning of all this?”

Jaskier’s gaze slid to Geralt and Valdo’s followed. A frown morphed into realisation before Valdo burst out laughing.

“It just got awkward to mention, okay?” Jaskier pouted as Valdo clutched his shoulder.

Now that Geralt looked, Valdo looked no different to how he had been all those decades ago when they met at a banquet once. Still as cocksure, ageless in a youthful way and dressed just as garishly. It seemed that time hadn’t just been kind to him, it had all but forgotten him.

“You’ve always been an idiot,” Valdo snickered and ruffled Jaskier’s hair, hand coming away a little white. He looked at it and laughed again, shaking his head. “This is priceless. I’ll be singing about it for a century, that’s for sure.”

Finally having enough, Geralt stepped closer, trying to figure out just what the hell was going on. Plus, Jaskier was looking and smelling more stressed and embarrassed by the minute. Id didn’t help that where Valdo had swiped a thumb over his face was dusted in a healthy pink.

“If we go to an inn with a bath, I can explain,” Jaskier mumbled, uncharacteristically quiet. It only made Valdo snicker.

“Well, nice to see age hasn’t brought you any wisdom. I’ll see you around, Jaskier.” With that, he flounced off, laughing to himself like an idiot.

Silence engulfed them and Jaskier looked rather miserable. Going to the inn was like taking him to the gallows. The bath was called and Jaskier waited for it to be filled, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his doublet.

“Just don’t be mad, okay?” he said and Geralt nodded, sat on the bed and confused. Slowly, Jaskier stripped. A few oddly shaped pillows were pulled from under his doublet, as he stripped, Geralt was struck by one thing. His body didn’t match his head. There were no wrinkles, no signs of ageing, his chest hair wasn’t silver like his head. In fact, his body looked no different to the last time he had seen it. After a moment’s hesitation, Jaskier stepped into the bathtub and dunked himself under with a deep breath, hands scrubbing at his face and hair. The water clouded white and when Jaskier resurfaced, his hair was back to its usual brown, face wrinkle free and youthful. On the bed, Geralt was perplexed.

“Surprise?” Jaskier gave an awkward jazz hands for effect.

“I don’t understand.” Geralt truly didn’t. One moment Jaskier was a grey haired, older man and one dunk in some water later, he was back to his ageless youthful looks. “Are you rejuvenated by having a bath?”

A bark of laughter erupted from Jaskier before he clamped hands over his mouth the stifle the slightly hysterical sound. “No. It’s easier if I show you.”

He climbed out of the bath, uncaring of his nudity and went to his bag, pulling out all the lotions and creams Geralt had watched him hoard like a dragon. There were powders, all shades of white.

“Watch,” the command was gentle and Jaskier began to apply the various things with a practised hand. Within minutes, Geralt’s old companion was back, minus the white hair. There were shadows highlighting wrinkles, his skin looked more weathered and aged. “I liked spending time with you. But you thought I was human.”

Walking back to the tub, Jaskier dunked his head under and washed all the make-up off with ease.

“You...,” Geralt was a little speechless.

“I made myself look like I’ve been ageing because I didn’t want to lose you. It got to a point in our relationship that I couldn’t turn around and say ‘by the way honey, I don’t get old’ because too much time had passed.”

“So, instead, you spent coin on things to make you look older. How did you think this was going to end?” Geralt frowned.

“I thought you’d get tired of me and leave me behind one day. Deem me too old to keep up with you. Thought maybe if we stopped having sex, you wouldn’t want me around but-” Jaskier broke off with a small, sad smile.

“But?”

“But you kept loving me. Kept me around, made plans to settle just for me. And I couldn’t figure out how to stop the charade. Valdo, as much as he is a blight upon this world, actually did me a favour even if he just wanted to mock me.”

There were so many things rolled up in such few words, Geralt was offended Jaskier had thought he could just leave his bard behind one day. Rather than deal with the big emotions, Geralt kept things simple.

“To get this clear, I thought you were a human, to keep up my belief in that, you made yourself look older through make-up and hair dye.” He watched Jaskier nod and look contrite. “We stopped having sex because you couldn’t disguise your body like you could your face.” More nodding. “Now that I know, does that mean we get to have sex again?”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #valdo marx #immortal jaskier #tldr: jaskier is an idiot and amazing at make-up

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pearlsephoni · 4 years

Text

When Immortal Meets Ineffable

Can also be read on AO3

Rating: G

Fandoms: Good Omens, The Old Guard

Pairings: Joe/Nicky, Aziraphale/Crowley (ofc)

Summary: Nicky's love for books has introduced him to many wonders, but he never anticipated meeting a pair of men whose existence seems just as impossible as his own. Or: a gay, immortal couple walks into an old bookshop owned by a gay, angel/demon couple.

A/N: The sign on Aziraphale's bookshop door is real, I copied the text from here lol And I owe my life to this 3D recreation of the shop Also this is my first time attempting to publish a fic on here, so pardon any formatting weirdness. More author’s notes can be found on the AO3 page!

Immortality was exhausting. It was impossible to build a normal life and settle down without sparking suspicion, so no single place could be “home” for very long. They couldn’t build a family, or climb the ladder of a career, or even build many friendships outside of their core group.

Without the more…“standard” goals available to them, each member of the Old Guard ended up setting their own personal quests. Andy learned every language and style of martial arts she could. Booker challenged himself to try a new whiskey at every bar they visited. Joe was close to completing his goal of visiting every possible art museum in Eurasia, and would soon be expanding his scope to the world. And Nicky was determined to read as many of the world’s books as possible.

But that wasn’t the only reason why he and Joe ended up seemingly visiting every bookshop in Europe. Living forever meant you had an infinite amount of time to lose and find things, and unfortunately for Nicky, his list of lost items included a near-first edition copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Books didn’t hold the same appeal for Joe, but he was still always willing to join his life partner in his visits to bookshops. What caused him chagrin wasn’t the visits, but the seemingly futile quest to find such a rare copy of a classic book. So when Nicky immediately tugged his jacket back on to head into London, Joe was a bit more reluctant than usual.

“Hayati, wouldn’t we have better luck looking in museums for something so rare?”

“I’m not just looking for La Commedia, my heart,” Nicky reminded him with a small smile. “I need a new book to read, too.”

“Of course, and that’s why you are going to Waterstones and not another small, old bookshop?” That small smile turned guilty, and Joe couldn’t help letting out a sigh. “Do you have a destination in mind, or will you be wandering again?”

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?”

It wasn’t fair of Nicky to use his rare, broad smiles to win their smaller bickers, he knew it. But even a relationship with the love of his life wouldn’t have lasted almost a millennium without the occasional cheap trick. And it was so hard to feel guilty when his little tricks resulted in Joe’s hand warmly wrapped around his as they walked through London.

As it so happened, he did have a destination in mind: A.Z. Fell & Co., an old bookshop that he remembered seeing on a random street corner in London. It had been closed the first (and last) time he tried to pay it a visit, all those years ago, and the sign on the door detailing the store hours simply raised more questions than answers for Nicky:

Bookshop Opening Hours:

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays.)

-A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

“It’s a miracle this place is still running,” Joe muttered now, squinting at the wordy sign. Nicky was more interested in the sign hanging next to it, blissfully simpler and blessedly flipped to read, “Open.” The door was unlocked, and rang with a cheerful jingle as the immortals pushed it open.

“Hello there! Welcome to A.Z. Fell & Co!”

Nicky had barely been able to fully take in the warm, crowded space of the bookshop before his attention was pulled to a small, pale man dressed in a white suit. He seemingly appeared out of thin air from behind a small desk next to a bookshelf to the left. He had a bright, welcoming smile, and looked positively cherubic with his light blonde curls and rosy cheeks. “How may I help you today?”

“Oh, I-”

“We’re just looking,” Joe cut in, giving Nicky a gentle nudge. It was a reminder enough not to draw attention with their unusual search. “Wanted to see what we could find in such a unique shop.”

“Lovely! Well, if you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to ask!”

“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a smile, before wandering over to the cluster of bookshelves on their right, pulling Joe with him.

He always lost track of time in bookshops. Even Joe, for all he insisted that Nicky was the reader, could get lost in the trinkets and random findings to be seen in an old shop. Maybe that was why, for all their battle-honed instincts and attention to detail, they didn’t realize someone else had entered the store until a new voice broke the comfortable silence.

“Angel!”

“Ah, Crowley! What a pleasant surprise! What’re you doing here?”

“Just wanted to see what you’ve got in stock.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not, I was going to ask you to lunch.”

“Oh! Well...that’s very kind of you, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just close my shop in the middle of the day!”

“Yes you can, it’s your shop, if anyone can, it’s you.”

“But I have customers! Like...like these young men!”

Nicky, with a thousand years of life behind him, never thought of himself nor Joe as “young.” No matter how ageless they were, every year weighed on them, a burden that was only bearable because they didn’t have to weather it alone. So it didn’t occur to him that they were the “young men” the shop owner referred to, until the small, pale man suddenly appeared at his elbow. “Hello there! May I help you with anything?”

A Genovese curse flew from his lips, followed by a grunt after Joe gently pinched him. Nicky smiled apologetically at the owner. “Sorry, ah...we’re alright, just looking.”

“Yes, well…” The shop owner had a confused tilt to his eyebrows, at odds with his kind smile. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy, but...was that Old Genovese you were speaking?”

“You recognize it?” Nicky blurted out before he could stop himself. It had been centuries since either of the immortals had met someone else who knew the language.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s been a while since I’ve heard it.” A pink tint had risen to the small blonde’s cheeks, and his eyes now had a proud glint to them. “That’s very impressive, I didn’t think anyone spoke it anymore!”

“No...neither did we.” He glanced at Joe, and was met with eyes that looked as disconcerted as he felt.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Please let me know if you need help with anything!” The shop owner cheerfully strolled back to the counter, where his friend - Crowley, Nicky remembered - was staring at him and Joe with what felt like suspicion, even through his sunglasses. The redhead murmured something to the blonde that made the latter glance back at them with another smile, one that Nicky returned before he quietly urged Joe behind another bookshelf.

“What the hell?” Joe hissed as soon as they were out of eyeline of the shop owner.

“Language, tesoro mio.”

Joe’s words switched to old Maghrebi, but remained just as confused and indignant. “Nico, we haven’t met anyone else who speaks Genovese in decades, maybe even centuries, if we don’t count linguists.”

“I know.”

“So how does an owner of an old bookshop recognize it?”

“We’ve seen some books that are much older than what we usually see in a shop like this. Maybe he recognized it from a book?” Even as he uttered the words, Nicky knew the explanation was pathetic. The look of disbelief he received from his lover let him know he wasn’t alone in thinking that.

“He said it’s been a while since he’s heard it,” Joe reminded him. “And he recognized it as it was spoken, not written down somewhere.”

“What are you trying to say? That he’s another immortal? One we somehow haven’t dreamed of in all this time?”

“No, of course not...but…” Joe peered at the shop owner and his friend through a gap in the books. “Maybe there’s something different about him. Maybe immortals aren’t the only strange people in the world.”

“Even if that were true, Yusuf, don’t you think we would have run into one before? Our abilities have been noticed before, by people who didn’t know what to look for. We of all people would have noticed if there were other powers out there.”

“Unless they do as much as we do to stay out of notice.”

It was Nicky’s turn to peer at the odd couple through the books, except this time, the redhead, Crowley, was looking right at him. Or at least, in their direction. He jerked away from the bookshelf and immediately moved deeper into the shop, tugging Joe with him. “We can talk with the others about it later. For now, let’s buy something and leave.”

“Still determined to find your book?”

Nicky offered a sweet smile to Joe, but didn’t bother hiding the mirth in his eyes. “Of course, my heart.”

He didn’t end up finding the book he was looking for, much to his disappointment and Joe’s quiet amusement. But he did find an old, old Italian Bible that stirred distant memories of a classroom reciting verses, and that was enough to justify the visit.

Satisfied in his choice, he moved towards the cashier register, only to be pulled up short by Joe. Nicky furrowed his brows in confusion - for someone who had been so reluctant to come, Joe suddenly seemed very keen on staying. He glanced back at him to find those dark eyes trained on the men behind the counter, one finger to his lips. Battle instincts kicked in, and he obediently trained his hearing to the low muttering coming from the other men.

“Now really, Crowley, it’s simply not possible! Even if the Almighty really did send spies after us, I would at least recognize them. I’ve never seen those men in my life!”

“Then maybe they’re demons. We’ve always had better corporeal disguises anyway. Would explain why we don’t recognize them.”

“Have you ever seen demons behave like that with each other?”

“Like what?”

“Oh come now, you must have felt it. The energy around them is downright bursting with love! It’s just like…”

“...Angel, like what?”

“W-well...like two people in love. Nothing at all like you demons behave.”

“‘You demons’? Might I remind you of who saved the most valuable books here, Aziraphale?”

It could’ve been just another argument between an old couple, especially an old married couple. There was no mistaking the love and pure affection that drenched every bickering phrase between them. But where Nicky had thought “Angel” was a sweet nickname, the casual use of terms like “demons” and “the Almighty” stirred a deeper sense of suspicion awake in him...and a rush of exhilaration. The sensible majority of his mind told him there was no earthly way he was staring at an angel and a demon. Even if angels and demons were real, they wouldn’t own an old bookshop, or walk around dressed like a dandy or an aged member of a rock band.

But a small part of him, the part of him that had him wandering to a church on calm Sundays and uttering panicked prayers over Joe’s body in the middle of battle, felt a thrill at the idea that he was staring at proof. Proof that his centuries of faith, his short-lived livelihood in the church, wasn’t in vain. When he finally tore his eyes away from the odd couple to look at Joe, he was met with a small smile of understanding under an unsure gaze. Of course his love understood what was running through his mind, even without a single word uttered between them.

Nicky took a steadying breath before he finally nodded at Joe, giving his hand a light squeeze. The shop owner and his...friend (partner?) were still bickering when they approached the cashier, and Nicky caught snippets of something about a church, a bomb, a satchel of books, before the argument was cut short by their arrival at the counter.

“Ah, gentlemen, hello again! Did you find everything alright?” the small blonde man - Azira...phale..? - greeted them with a wide smile, while Crowley simply stared at them with an unnervingly straight face. His gaze prickled at Nicky’s awareness, despite his best attempts to ignore him and return Aziraphale’s smile.

“I didn’t find the book I was looking for, but you have many rare gems here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry you couldn’t find it!”

“Don’t be. We have visited almost every bookshop in Europe in search of it,” Joe snorted with a grin. “At this point it’ll take a miracle to find it.”

Aziraphale perked up at Joe’s response, and glanced eagerly at Crowley...who returned the blonde’s hopeful smile with a stony stare. A moment of silence passed before the redhead finally muttered, “Sounds like you won’t be finding it any time soon.”

“No, but that’s alright. Seeing all these wonderful little shops offers a special kind of joy,” Nicky murmured with a reassuring smile to Aziraphale. “You should be proud of this shop. It’s a lovely refuge in this city.”

The owner looked a bit crestfallen, but brightened at Nicky’s smile and words. “That’s very kind of you to say! I’ve had it for quite a while, so it’s turned into a home of sorts for me. I’m so glad it feels that way to my patrons as well!”

Crowley’s attention was back on Nicky, and even though he couldn’t see the redhead’s eyes, he didn’t feel as burdened by the scrutiny anymore. It felt somehow softer now, more of a mild annoyance as the transaction was carried out. Crowley had been so quiet throughout their visit that when he suddenly spoke up, the surprise nearly made Nicky drop the small paper bag containing his book. “Just out of curiosity...what book were you looking for?”

“Ah...an early edition of The Divine Comedy in the original Italian. First edition, if possible.”

“...Dante’s Divine Comedy?” Crowley repeated, skepticism practically dripping off his words. “You’re looking for a first edition from the late Middle Ages?”

Nicky could hear the rustle of Joe straightening just behind him, ready to defend his admittedly-futile quest. He shifted just enough to hook their pinkies together in reassurance while he shot a small smile at Crowley. “More just seeing if it’s possible to find outside of a museum.”

Crowley nodded, but he still had a small frown of disbelief on his lips as he wandered towards the bookshelves at the very back of the shop. Aziraphale watched him meander away with wariness and hope lining his eyes, a combination of emotions that made Nicky wonder what kind of history the odd couple shared to prompt that kind of response.

“Nicolo,” Joe murmured, pulling him out of his idle curiosity. “We should be going. Andy will wonder what happened to us.”

“Right...yes, of course.” Nicky smiled again at Aziraphale, who suddenly looked panicked at their impending departure. “Thank you again.”

“Oh, are you leaving so soon? A-are you sure I can’t help you find anything else? I have other first editions that might interest you!”

“Really, it’s alright-”

“Here we are.” Crowley was suddenly back at Aziraphale’s side, tossing a book onto the countertop with a carelessness that became alarming when Nicky realized what he was staring at: an old, worn volume, the cover made of what used to be red leather, but was now faded into a dull brown. Pressed into the leather, and traced with gold flakes, were the words “La Commedia.” Nicky reached out to brush the worn cover, gingerly lifting it to reveal the title page, where he could read the publication date: 1438. “This...this is…”

“Not quite first edition, but about as good as you’re gonna get outside of a museum.” Crowley’s voice was casual, as if he had simply found any old book. But his smirk was smug, the gravity of his achievement definitely not lost on him, especially when Aziraphale was staring at him in what could only be described as adoration.

“How...how did you find this?”

“Call it a little miracle. How much does a little miracle cost, angel?”

“Oh, ah...well, the best miracles are priceless, wouldn’t you say?”

Nicky’s gaze jerked away from the book to stare at Aziraphale in shock. “No, I’m sorry, I cannot in good faith take this without paying you.”

“No, really-”

“Please, I insist-”

The shopowner was strangely reluctant to give Nicky a price, but with Joe’s help, they were able to settle on an amount. By the time they left the bookshop, it was even later than they had planned on leaving, but Nicky was in such a daze of disbelief over his luck, Joe ended up being the one to call Andy.

“Boss, we know, we’re sorry, but you’ll never believe- no, trust me, even Booker will get excited over this. We’ll be there soon, it will be worth the wait, I promise.” He laughed as he tucked his phone away, shaking his head fondly at Nicky. “Well, my heart, I hope this find is worth Andy’s wrath. She is not happy with us.”

“Yusuf...who were those men?” Nicky was staring numbly into the bag, still not believing the impossibly old book he held in his hands.

“What do you mean?”

He finally looked away from his new treasure to meet Joe’s eyes. “Do you think...that maybe…”

“What? That an angel and demon helped us find a book?”

“Stranger things have been true.”

“Perhaps…” Joe’s arm wrapped around Nicky’s waist, tucking him against his body to drop a kiss to his temple. “Whatever those men were, they were kind. I hope the bookshop continues to do well.”

“Mm...thank you for coming with me.” Nicky’s smile was full of adoration, and earned him another kiss, this time on his lips.

“Of course, hayati. Anything for you.”

“Anything? Well, there’s another book I’ve been looking for-”

“Buuuuut Andy and Booker might not approve.”

After almost 1000 years, he should have been able to better resist the effect of Joe’s cheeky smile. But after almost 1000 years, Nicky wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the little joys to be found in life, especially when they came from this impossible man.

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hela-avenger · 4 years

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poison & wine- part 10

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1810

Summary: Prince Loki of Asgard is in need of a date to take back home. That’s where you come in with a task of your own to make the whole trip with an insufferable prince worth it. Too bad that things don’t always go as planned and you end up giving more than you can take. Fake-Dating AU.

A/N: A little backstory for ya which ends with a pleasant surprise! Shoot me a message if you’ll like to be tagged!

Hela-Avenger Masterlist

Loki takes you on a tour of the royal garden. You knew he wasn’t doing it out of the kindness of his princely heart. He wanted more than you already gave him and you wondered what it could possibly be. Loki knew that you knew something was up and so he decided to just get ahead of it.

“I have questions,” Loki states. “Questions pertaining to you and your half-immortal life.”

“Oh, so now you want to get to know me,” you sneer at him. “Funny how things change.”

“Now that I know you’re not completely mortal, I find you interesting enough to actually want to,” Loki remarks sensing your annoyance immediately. “So let’s start shall we? How old are you?”

“I’m sure that question is rude to ask a woman in every realm in this universe,” you point out, earning a scoff from him. “But fine, I’m… I’m about 198 years old.”

“And in Midgardian standards?”

“24ish.”

“Hmm,” Loki hums. You were young as he previously suspected you to be. “Does anyone else know about your true lineage?”

“Only Tony and Steve,” you answer. “Tony because he was told by Fury after his death and Steve because… because I knew him from before.”

“From the war? You were there with him?” he asks surprised. You nod and he tries to make sense of it. “You were there when they first found the tesseract.”

“Contrary to popular belief I never encountered the nuisance of an object,” you tell him. “It wasn’t until later that I found out that it even existed.”

Loki couldn’t help but stare at you wondering what else you’ve lived through. You were aware of his intense focus on you and you tried very hard to ignore it.

“My story is a long one,” you tell him as you let yourself get distracted by the flowers that seem to reach out for your touch. “It’s best if I start from the beginning and work my way till the end.”

Loki nods in agreement and prompts for you to begin.

“I was born in 1822,” you answer. “Grew up fairly normal and comfortable to my mother’s content, managing to hide her secret for the first twenty years of my life before it all came to a stop.”

“You stopped aging,” Loki comments.

“I did,” you sigh out. “After turning 19, aging seemed to have grown to a stop. I remained that way for another fifty years. I watched my mother age and die alone because she was afraid of what people might think if they saw me.”

You take a deep breath trying to relinquish the pain that had taken hold of your chest.

“I found her journals soon after her death,” you answer. “And I couldn’t… It took awhile for me to actually read them. Found some oddities in the entrances before my birth and that was just the first hint of many that I wasn’t normal.”

“I was on my own after that,” you tell him. “I left her estate to be taken care of by distant relatives and had to keep moving in order to avoid getting caught on this ageless lie. I managed to avoid all of the wars in my travels. Lying became second nature wherever I went and I avoided getting close to people because of it.”

You shake your head out of the thought knowing you were giving more than was necessary. You hope Loki didn’t notice but he did. He caught the emotion on your voice.

“Anyways, I avoided the first world war,” you mention. “I was helping out where I could and everything was in such a disarray that no one questioned my agelessness or my not having a husband or kids. Once the war was over, I was on the move again. Time was slipping by quicker by then that I didn’t even notice the change.”

You pause as you recall the horrors you’ve seen.

“Another war started up,” you continue. “It was more awful than the last that I couldn’t stand idle on the side anymore, I had to help. I managed to get my hands on some false documentation that allowed me to sign up to be a nurse.”

You couldn’t help but snort at your cluelessness then.

“I worked my way up the ranks so easily,” you tell him. “I didn’t know why I was so immune to the many diseases going around at the time, nor my inability to get gravely injured or healing as quickly if I did end up hurt. I felt invincible… I hadn’t realized then that I technically was. And because of this mentality, I volunteered to go to the most dangerous locations which then led me to…”

“The Howling Commandos,” Loki interrupts knowing this story from Thor. “The good old brave Captain.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “He was… He was amazing to work with. Not as much fun as…”

You stop yourself at the thought of him but he’s already invaded your mind. The sound of his laugh echoes in your mind. You feel the brush of his lips against your ear as he quietly sings the word of the song you’re closely dancing to.

Loki notices your pause and from the look on your face he recognizes where your mind has gone off too.

“You had a lover?”

“No, I mean… I…” you quickly stammer out a response. “We didn’t have a label on it but we were close. Bucky and I…”

“Wait,” Loki interrupts. “This Bucky isn’t the one they call the Winter Soldier, is it?”

You sigh at the label even though it was true.

“Yes, he is,” you answer.

“So he knows about your lineage too?”

“He’s aware there’s someone besides Steve from his past,” you correct him. “He doesn’t know it’s me.”

Loki glares down at you and you don’t comprehend as to why.

“Carry on with your story.”

“Well, from there it’s kind of all textbook,” you answer. “We were turning the tides of the war, releasing so many of our trapped troops, and regaining enemy territory but of course, nothing good ever lasts.”

“The Man of Winter plummets to his death and soon after the Captain crashes the plane to bury the tesseract.”

“Against all the rules I had set for myself, I managed to break them,” you sigh out. “I got too close to the squadron and I suffered the consequences of loss. I promptly resigned which in a way didn’t matter as the war had already come to an end.”

Amidst your walk, Loki had led you to a beautiful marble fountain. A bench was nearby and Loki prompted you to take a seat.

“I disappeared because I had to and I was on my own again,” you tell him. “And I returned to my family estate in need of some change. I repaired what was damaged in my home, updated it, and opened it up as a home for orphan children. I helped run it for as long as I could but had to leave it once the kids started to grow older. I left it with my trusted staff and checked in when necessary.”

You pause as you notice the figurines in the fountain shift into a different position before freezing up once more. You marveled at it in distraction amazed at the action.

“What happened next?” Loki asks snapping your focus back to him.

“Nothing really,” you answer as you turn to him. “I travelled the world like I always do until I was caught by SHIELD, most specifically Director Fury.”

You chuckle at the memory.

You had been in the middle of the frozen section at some grocery store trying to decide which pint of ice cream to take home. Nick had just plucked one and thrown into your basket making the decision for you. That was the only time you let him do as he pleased when it came to you.

“Apparently, Thor’s arrival on Earth prompted them to do some research which then made them aware of an incident two hundred years prior,” you explain. “And that’s when Fury found me, realized who I originally was, and made me aware of my true lineage. He tried to convince me into working with him but I refused. Threatened to lock me up and I laughed.”

Loki can’t help but join you in your amusement. Fury was not a man he was fond of and it seems you hadn’t liked him either.

“In the end, he let me go. Said he would keep an eye on me in case I tried something,” you tell him as your laughter died down. “But then he calls me up again, hoping that I would be able to help him with a private matter.”

“Steve Rogers…”

“Yes,” you answer. “And that’s how I got reunited with an old friend. I tried to help him acclimate to the modern world but it became disrupted upon your arrival. Fury tried to have me stay back and help but I feared for the aftermath of war and knew that my help was needed there. So I aided New York in recovering from the attack and that’s how I became acquainted with the rest of the Avengers. They all think I was a very brave civilian but Steve, and later on, Tony knew better.”

Loki nods happy that you skipped his role in your story. He did not enjoy being reminded of his failures.

“Things kind of blur together from there,” you tell him. “There was that mishap in London, Fury’s death, Hydra, Bucky being alive, Ultron… and a few bumps and bruises later here we are now. The end.”

Loki rolls his eyes at your conclusion knowing you failed to mention one very major detail.

“You wasted a lot of time on information that I could frankly care less about.”

“Alright, your majesty,” you mutter in annoyance. You had hoped your tale of woe would satisfy him but it hadn’t. “What is it that you want to know?”

Before Loki could ask the remaining burning question in his mind, he hears a chorus of laughter nearby. He seeks out the source noting the familiar dresses of his mother’s ladies in waiting from across the fountain. Loki didn’t enjoy their new audience and curious gazes on them. They were most likely gossiping already which after slight consideration could work for him if he played it right.

The opportunity for Loki to ask you about your father is gone but he was still able to gain something out of you.

“Loki?” you ask, gaining his attention once more. “What did you want to ask me?”

Loki’s grin makes an appearance again and you grow weary of it.

Your suspicions are confirmed right as he takes a gentle hold of your chin and sets his lips onto yours.

poison & wine tag: @damalseer @just-the-hiddles @jessiejunebug @nonsensicalobsessions @smollest-soybean @assassinoftheworld @readerbandit @doyoufeelikeayounggod @strangemcuvlogs @ha-tep @i-dont-know-eiither @gene-king @day-dreaming-fox @bn-studies @is-it-madness @sigyn-njorddottir @devilbat

Loki Tag: @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @thesilentbluesparrow @oddly-drawn-muse @josiehosiedaninja @hp-hogwartsexpress @sadwaywardkid @wolf-lover74

All Works Tag: @jmb959 @astudyoftimeywimeystuff @hellocookiecutter @steve-rogers-personal-hell @buckybarnesyard @not-zari-tak

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morganaseren · 4 years

Text

Human/Goddess AU

I swear, I’ll think of a better title later, but guess who thought of a new AU about Leliana and her female Cousland?! I ended up writing like 24 pages this time around because I have absolutely no self-control over my creativity anymore. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Things to know:

The premise was originally based off this short comic.

No Darkspawn or Blight threat.

Maker and Chantry don’t exist due to polytheistic God/Goddess system (with some inspiration taken from both Greek and Irish mythology). It’s broken down further into a multi-tiered structure of major and minor deities—a ranking determined by power essentially—but all the human and elf deities tend to get along fairly well with one another. Dwarves don’t have deities as they still worship The Stone, which they don’t consider a god, and Qunari don’t have them either since the Qun is more of a philosophy than a religion that follows any god.

The Evanuris don’t exist as we know of them canonically in-game, so Egghead never tore the Veil apart, and none of the Exalted Marches ever happened. Elves are still long-lived and have complete access to the Dales, which is essentially their kingdom of sorts.

No huge racial divides exist, but the dwarves (outside of surface dwarves) and qunari (outside of Tal-Vashoth and Vashoth) still tend to be rather reclusive.

Class stratification, however, still exists between the rich and the poor of Thedas.

Gods play a fairly active role on Thedas for those pious enough to worship them, but their work—stemming anywhere from simply helping crops to grow or even helping to turn the tides of a war—is often unseen. Very few among the faithful rarely ever get to see a deity in person.

Relationships with mortals and gods do occur—and children are born through such unions—but it isn’t considered official unless a courtship ritual is completed, where the mortal partner would be granted the same divine protection of the god and allowed access into the immortal world. That becomes relevant much later in the story.

In this AU, Leliana’s human (she’s 15 when she first meets Niamh, but nothing intimate between them happens until she’s well above age) while Niamh’s a goddess.

Like all my other AUs, this isn’t finished yet. There is a small intimate scene way down beneath the cut, but it’s nothing explicit. Still, if you’re interested so far, check out the additional content below!

Leliana had always been blessed, others had said, but it was not by simple chance.

She was born to a widowed mother—Oisine—who worked to provide for her child’s happiness so that she might one day have a better life than her. For such love and care, however, Leliana wanted to be able to return it one day. Perhaps beyond their quaint cottage by the sea, she could someday buy her mother the riches and luxury she so clearly deserved.

It was also—were she to admit it to herself—a wish of her own desires, for she had always yearned for more than just a simple life.

One day, Leliana wandered into the nearby forest out of simple boredom. She had played amongst its trees for as long as she could remember, and she knew the winding paths of it like the back of her hand. By chance, however, she came across a pair of black-furred wolves who stood upon a trail she had never seen before. The animals didn’t seem at all skittish, and as they turned to travel further into the woods, they looked over as if to beckon her into following. Leliana did, and she eventually found herself before an old, cliffside altar overlooking the sea.

It was remarkably humble in its appearance, Leliana admitted. Strangely enough, she felt more of a… presence to it than any of the ostentatious buildings of worship she had seen in the nearby city. The altar before her barely stood at chest-level, and beneath the light of the full moon, she realized the stone of its structure had been worn smooth by time and the elements.

She frowned when she saw the multitude of dead leaves and dirt gathered around the altar, however, and she wondered when the caretaker of such a monument had last seen to it. Leliana looked over at her two wayward companions, but one was already lazing about on its back in a nap while the other simply sat on its rump, revealing a maw full of pearl-white fangs as it yawned at her in boredom.

“Well, you two will clearly be of no help,” she murmured to herself before proceeding to clean up the various bits of debris around the altar. She began scrubbing at the top slab with a cloth to clean the dirt stain upon it, but she heard something akin to the sound of wind shifting followed by a person’s shadow falling across the stone surface.

Leliana looked up abruptly to see a dark-haired woman standing opposite of her and stumbled back in shock, especially given the path beyond the altar led to nothing but a sheer drop into the sea. There was no possible way someone else could have walked past her without her notice, so how had she gotten there?

Nothing in the woman’s posture indicated she meant her any harm. If anything, she seemed largely curious as she gazed upon the now clean altar while slowly walking around it to meet her.

Leliana saw that she wore an impressive silvery-white pelt over the shoulders of her cloak—a shade so dark that she couldn’t see any of the individual folds in the fabric. It seemed to simply absorb any light that dared shed itself upon it. To her continued amazement, the woman’s eyes were also gently aglow, and for a moment, she wondered if she had trespassed upon a ghostly specter with that pale grey gaze quietly regarding her.

For even with all the tales she’s heard and even told herself, the utter truth of the matter seemed far too outlandish even to her.

“It’s been quite some time since someone last visited my altar.”

The accent was one that Leliana couldn’t readily place. It certainly wasn’t Orlesian, Neverran, or Antivan. The woman’s tongue didn’t linger on the vowels and consonants in quite the same way, but the intonation wasn’t quite Free Marcher in origin either. Still, there was a calm, soft-spoken nature to it—calling forth the mental image of a downy feather drifting along the sea breeze—that she found soothing.

“This altar…” Leliana swallowed hard to gather the courage to speak her thoughts. “It is yours then? I-I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude—”

But the woman gently waved off her apology.

“Had my familiars found you unworthy, you would not have been able to find the path here at all.”

At the title, both wolves behind Leliana immediately jumped up at the woman—no, the goddess—and proceeded to nuzzle at her face. They whined insistently for her attention, which only caused her to laugh. On their hind legs, the beasts simply towered over her apparently immortal guest, but she held their combined weight easily against her as she ran her hands through thick fur.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to call you. I didn’t see a name upon the altar when I was cleaning it,” Leliana admitted.

“Hm?” Luminous silver eyes returned to her before glancing briefly at the stone monument. “Ah. Time tends to pass rather differently in your world. As such, I shouldn’t be surprised to see the text long eroded. If it pleases you to call me something, however, then you may call me Niamh.”

Leliana’s brows furrowed as she tried to place the name from the multitude of deities she had learned about over the years. “You’re the goddess of storms and the night sky, yes?”

Niamh seemed pleased at her knowledge, emphasized by the smile she gifted her. “Indeed I am. In any case, as you were kind enough to clean my altar, you are welcome to ask a favor of me.”

“Can it be anything?”

The goddess’ smile turned a tad more enigmatic then. “So long as the request is of equal value, then yes.”

‘Equal value?’ Ah.

Her mother had once told her to be wary of asking gods for favors, as they would always ask for something in return. It was their Law of Equivalent Exchange. If one didn’t word their wish carefully, a person could end up losing more than they gained, especially if the deity in question felt a mortal’s request wasn’t worth what was offered.

Leliana bit her lip. It would have been far too easy to ask for the riches to bestow upon her mother, but she couldn’t deny that she was curious about the woman before her. She’d likely never get a chance like this again, so she asked for something more manageable. Something that wouldn’t leave her with regret.

“Then, can I ask about you? About where you come from, and what all your powers are?” she asked, excitement soon superseding any apprehension she might have felt. “Are you the only goddess in the area right now, o-or are there more like you?” When those glowing, wintry-grey eyes simply blinked at her, she couldn’t help but blush, wondering if perhaps her usual curiosity and enthusiasm was too much for such an ageless being.

A dark head canted itself. “Just so I’m not mistaken, you desire nothing material for the task of cleaning my altar? You merely wish for my company so that you might ask your questions?” When Leliana nodded earnestly in response, Niamh released a small huff of laughter. “Well, this is certainly a first for me. As you wish then.” She briefly looked over her own shoulder, focusing on a point beyond the horizon, where it seemed impossible to determine where the night sky ended and the starlit sea began. “You have until the sun rises to sate your curiosity. Mind you, I might not be able to answer every question you have.”

Leliana nodded, understanding there might be secrets that needed to be kept.

Niamh then gently pushed one of her familiars away from her. The wolf—a male from what she could readily determine—had been resting his front paws on her shoulder to better lave his tongue over the woman’s cheek in continual affection. At being deterred, however, he uttered a low huff of disapproval before grumpily brushing his side against Niamh’s leg. He circled once around her form after she gave him a few solid pats before he slowly trotted back to Leliana’s side.

At such a close distance, she was better able to tell the difference between him and his female counterpart. While they both predominantly had black fur all over their bodies, the underside of his chin held silver coloring that trailed down to his chest whereas the other wolf’s grey patterning extended from chest to belly. Both seemed remarkably intelligent as they regarded her with aurulent eyes.

Niamh motioned for her to sit, and she did so without question. Leliana gasped softly when the wolf near her immediately laid himself down so that he could curl himself around her body, likely as a way to keep her warm from the cold sea breeze. His counterpart did the same for Niamh, who then began answering a few of the questions she asked earlier.

Apparently, some of the tales Leliana had been told as a child were true.

Niamh was one of three children sired by a mortal warrior that her mother Eleanor—one of the most renowned sea goddesses—had fallen in love with. Her brother Fergus was the eldest and was a god of protection, and her older sister Saoirse was a goddess of victory. Niamh then went on to explain it was entirely possible for there to be multiple deities with the same responsibilities in a given area.

“Even for us, it is impossible to be in two places at once,” she further explained with laughter in her voice—the sound of it as ethereal as moonlight shimmering across the sea. “If one mortal has need of us somewhere, then it’s simply more efficient for there to have other colleagues of similar gifts nearby on the off chance a similar request is made.”

“And there’s never been an issue with sharing an area like that?”

“It happens on occasion. A stronger god might be able to force others out to establish a claim over territory, but it’s generally considered… uncouth to do so, especially if it was done without provocation.”

Leliana frowned. “Then why risk doing so?”

“To gain more worshippers essentially. I’m sure you’ve realized that it’s rare for any one of us to be seen these days, yes? Our ability to linger within this world stagnates the longer we go without worship. If there is no one to remember or believe in us, then we lack… presence here for lack of a better word. Eventually, it means the end of our time here on your world. Some of us might choose to stay here for whatever time we are allotted and simply fade into the ether, or we return home from whence we came.”

“Does this have to do with your Law of Equivalent Exchange?”

Niamh tipped her head, impressed. “You’re well-learned. Yes. As powerful as we are, for us to be here, we need you just as much as the opposite might be true.”

Leliana hummed thoughtfully. “There are still people who pray to gods of the sea and sky for a safe voyage through turbulent seas. I can’t imagine you’d be in danger of being forgotten anytime soon.”

“For the time being. That might fade eventually. While the requests I receive aren’t fleeting, they are made with hollowed hearts. The sailors I help guide may yet one day feel they have no need of me—that my name is merely superstition.”

“Surely not!” She felt indignation rise within her on the woman’s behalf, but Niamh merely chuckled.

“Your world changes at so rapid a pace that it even takes us by surprise.”

“Does it? Is it so different on yours?”

“It… is something I cannot reveal to you unfortunately.”

Leliana had expected as much, but she found another subject to latch on to easily enough. “Well, you also mentioned there were stronger gods before, yes? Is that a common matter?”

“Not entirely. We have a tiered system to judge our respective power, and it’s largely determined by how much we can affect the world around us. Imagine Thedas as a leaf resting atop a pond, and then consider the water’s surface area to be the power of a Sixth Tier god. By that same principle, a Fifth Tier god would be synonymous to a lake while a Fourth Tier would be more akin to a sea, and a Third Tier would be an entire ocean.”

“Then the first two tiers…?”

Niamh briefly pressed a tongue against her cheek in thought. “Hm. It gets a tad more complicated after that. Essentially, a Second Tier would be any combination of seas and oceans, but a First Tier would encompass every body of water mentioned. Again, this is all an extremely simplified explanation of our system.”

“And which tier are you then?”

Surprisingly, the goddess seemed reluctant to state her rank. “Let’s just say I… can’t readily determine the difference in power between a Fourth, Fifth, or Sixth Tier deity.”

Leliana’s eyes widened. “Truly?”

Niamh shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Yes. The power discrepancy between them all is too subtle for me to notice.”

Leliana was stunned at such a revelation, for save for the glowing eyes and a presence that exuded gentle, soothing power, Niamh seemed like any other woman. She was calm, self-assured, and—she waited until Niamh turned her attention down to her wolf companion and began petting it before finishing her thought—wonderfully attractive.

But Leliana chided herself for admitting the latter fact.

What goddess would be interested in a mere slip of a girl after all? Leliana had only lived a fraction of Niamh’s entire life. Surely someone of Niamh’s status would have her pick of any suitor—mortal or otherwise—over such a long lifespan. She was thankful Niamh was kind enough to indulge her with her questions, and she did have many of them.

As expected of her title, Leliana got to experience how the goddess could manage to change the weather around them to her whims. With a simple wave of a hand, Niamh effortlessly wreathed them all in warmth when a stronger gust of wind blew in from the sea, never once pausing in her explanation regarding her other abilities. She could switch between them with nary a thought, allowing ice to gather at her fingertips like icy talons before a simple flex caused them to shatter, allowing lightning to dance between them instead—a living cat’s cradle.

“They also call you the goddess of the night sky, don’t they? Are you only capable of appearing during the evening then?”

“It’s more personal preference. I like the quiet the night affords me; there is a different beauty to be found under the cover of it. When mortals originally saw me in the past, it was always in the evenings, so I suppose the assumption remained, but nothing prevents me from appearing during the day should I wish it. Ah.” Niamh turned to look back out to the sea. “And it appears our exchange has run its course.”

Leliana turned her attention to the horizon as well, and was surprised to see daybreak just barely beginning to crest it. She had been enjoying Niamh’s attention so much that she hadn’t realized so much time had passed.

“I’ll have Eimear—” The female wolf rose to her feet just as Niamh did. “—and Cillian escort you home, young one.” (Note: Eimear is pronounced “ee-mur” and Cillian is pronounced “kill-ee-an”)

“Leliana.”

“Hm?”

“My name.” She smiled as she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. “It’s Leliana.”

“Ah.” Niamh nodded in acknowledgement. “Take care then, Leliana. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation this long with a mortal. It was a new but enjoyable experience.” From her smile, Leliana could see that she was sincere in her words, and she felt wonderfully dazed at the fact.

“Likewise, my lady.” She had the sense to curtsy gracefully before the goddess. “Will… Will I be able to find you here again?”

Niamh blinked. “Perhaps,” she replied, raising a brow at her curiously. “You would have to give something in return again however.”

“Would you be opposed to exchanging stories then?”

“Stories?”

“Yes, you mentioned how much Thedas changes each time you return. I could tell you stories of things that might have occurred while you’ve been away, and perhaps you might tell me stories of your own—the ones that might have been lost through the ages.”

Her request seemed to interest Niamh, for her lips turned up into a smile. “A sensible exchange. Very well. Should you wish to see me again, travel upon the path to this altar and press your hand atop its stone. I will know to meet you here.”

And once a week, Leliana returns to the cliff and that altar—always escorted by the guardian wolf pair—to meet the goddess who has very much become her friend.

As promised, they exchange stories and even songs—much to Leliana’s endless delight—but sometimes their evenings together are simply spent having meals together.

Niamh had confessed that foods of the mortal world provided no real sustenance for her, but she could still taste them all the same. As such, Leliana makes it a point to find new things for her to try, and she discovers the woman liked sweets the best. She can always tell by the way those luminous eyes widen by the barest fraction each time she samples something of interest.

The exchanges rarely last as long as that first night they met, but Leliana doesn’t mind. She enjoys Niamh’s company, and—from those little smiles that always send her heart aflutter—she thinks the reverse might also be true.

A year later, Leliana turned 16, and she went to Niamh one night in excitement. Her mother’s employer was taking them to Val Royeaux for a soiree!

“Can you believe it? Oh, it will be my first one ever!” Utterly filled with glee, she did a little twirl in place, and Niamh was the epitome of patience as Leliana explained how fortuitous an opportunity this was. “Val Royeaux is the crown jewel of Orlais, and there will no doubt be so many people there! Mother says there are always patrons milling about, looking for new talent. Perhaps I might be lucky enough to meet one, and I’d be able to sing for them and tell them tales, but…Oh. ” Her excitement then dimmed somewhat as her voice trailed off, something that Niamh noticed immediately.

“But what?” she asked, beckoning her to continue.

“But there must already be some aspiring minstrels there, those who have lived there their whole lives! How could I ever possibly hope to make myself noticed among them?” she asked plaintively, and she momentarily began pouting when Niamh laughed in gentle amusement.

“Leliana, your songs and your stories are wonderful. I have no doubt a true patron of the arts would appreciate your talents,” she reassured, but when Leliana tried to protest, the woman merely arched a brow. “A false sincerity—no matter how honeyed—is still a lie, and I would never be so crass as to do such a thing to you. However, if you feel that you truly need to give others further incentive to listen to you…”

Niamh paused as she reached into her cloak, and Leliana could faintly hear the jingling of metal before the woman pulled out a brooch so beautiful that it took her very breath way.

Multiple pearls of varying size were inlaid into a sharply-curved bed of obsidian, which emphasized the opalescence of the gems arranged artistically into the shape of a crescent moon. Tiny diamonds decorated the scalloped edge as they hugged each pearl, and bisecting the widest part of the brooch’s arch was a simple silver pin. When the goddess proceeded to hold the piece of jewelry out for her to take, Leliana was taken aback.

“But I can’t possibly take this!”

Niamh merely smiled. “I can always make another like it. When you wear this, simply run a finger across each of the pearls, and its magic will take effect. As you perform, those within hearing distance of you will have no choice but to have their eyes drawn upon you. I have blessed this brooch sparingly, however, so while it may help to draw an audience, it is up to your own skill to further keep them there, Little Bird. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but I didn’t even offer anything in exchange,” she said worriedly.

“When you return from this soiree of yours, tell me of it, and I will consider that payment enough.” The cold winds shifted then, and Leliana found that Niamh’s brows had knitted together in consternation. When she turned to her again, those glowing grey eyes were apologetic. “I am beckoned elsewhere, but I have faith that you’ll be able to be able to succeed in your endeavors. Farewell for now, Leliana.”

When Leliana returned to Niamh’s altar several weeks later, she was fresh-faced and beaming with delight, dancing in a gown of absolute finery. It was a gift from her patron Marjolaine—a wealthy, widowed woman, who had taken quite a fancy to her talents.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Oh, Lady Marjolaine is so generous! She’s been all over Thedas, and she knows so many things! She’s even teaching me how to use a bow!”

“‘A bow,’ you say?” Niamh frowned. “Any particular reason why?”

“For bard training.” When that only drew a further look of confusion, she hastened to explain. “It’s like… being both a minstrel and a bodyguard to your patron. Still, the world can be a dangerous place at times, no? Marjolaine wanted me to also learn how to defend myself.”

“I see.” If Niamh had any concerns, she didn’t voice them. “I imagine such training would take place away from here.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and an ache filled her then, causing her to slowly wring her hands together. “It is a wonderful opportunity. It is probably more than I could have ever hoped for, but it will also mean that I may not return here again for quite some time.”

“As expected.”

“You’re not... upset?”

“You are a young woman of incredible talent and determination, Leliana. I doubt there is much that even I could say that might deter you even had I wished to. Perhaps it was well past time you spread your wings from here and find what awaits you beyond the horizon. I will not keep you from it. Still…” She turned her gaze upon her altar. “I feel I must at least offer you a parting gift.”

The goddess flexed a hand, and Leliana was shocked to see that a broken corner of the altar’s foundation flew directly into Niamh’s palm. As pale fingers closed around it, energies of black and silver—the night and the stars made tangible—twined around the woman’s fist before disappearing moments later into the ether as she revealed her handiwork.

The stone had been reduced to the size of a coin, and upon its face was the image of a wolf’s head—noble and proud—set against the background of a raging storm. It was an icon often associated with Niamh, who wore two silver medallions of the same imagery on her cloak, which were connected by layered chains, fastening the fabric around her securely.

“Keep this upon your person, and should you find yourself in immediate danger, simply think of me, and you shall be protected,” Niamh said, presenting the gift to her.

“And…” She looked to her curiously. “What would you want for this in return?”

The corners of her lips turned up. “Clever girl… I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask me that outright before. Well. Would you be opposed to offering me a memory of yours?”

“‘A memory?’”

“Yes. I suspect you’ll make many more away from here, so I merely ask for one of your most cherished moments thus far. Would you find that acceptable?”

“Yes. What would I have to do?”

“Nothing on your end. Simply hold still…” Niamh reached out to press two fingertips gently against Leliana’s forehead, and she felt the warmth of a summer’s kiss gathered there for a brief moment before the woman then pulled away, blinking consecutively several times.

“Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yes,” Niamh said, looking at her with seeming consideration.

“Oh.” She didn’t feel like anything was amiss. “Which memory was it?”

Those lips parted briefly in an attempt to form an answer, but she soon shook her head, an enigmatic smile burnishing her features—one warm enough to ward Leliana against the cold of the winter sea. “It is irrelevant. Here.” She pressed the stone coin into her palm. “I thank you for the memory, and I wish you well on your journey.”

“I…” Leliana wet her lips as she clasped a hand against her chest. “I will miss you.”

“Likewise. Safe travels to you always, Little Bird.”

The woman turned on her heel and walked toward the edge of the cliff, and as she made to step off of it, her form simply dispersed like stardust scattering across the night breeze before simply fading before Leliana’s eyes.

Leliana learned and experienced much under her patron’s tutelage over the years, traveling from one corner of Thedas to the other, ever a faithful shadow. Beneath Marjolaine’s eye, her skills as a bard grew, honed well upon the battlefield and also in the depths of more private chambers.

Although she travels far at times, Leliana cannot keep her mind from the woman who is the night sky and storms made flesh. She dreams of eyes like moonlight—calm and ancient—watching her with warmth and then a smoldering fire of passion she wishes were true.

It’s a yearning that lingers in the back of her mind, and she finds that even with her growing infamy and riches, they bring her little joy. She begins to re-evaluate her life and proceeds to slowly distance herself from the Game—a fact that Marjolaine is too keenly aware of.

And from there, she learns of her lover’s final lesson: betrayal.

She returned to the stone altar by the sea a decade after she saw it last. Niamh appeared as promptly as always whenever she pressed a hand upon its stone, and Leliana saw those dark brows raised minutely in surprise upon seeing her, and she can’t help but smile.

Leliana was indeed much older than when they last saw one another although she feared she hadn’t grown quite as wise as she had hoped. Had that been the case, surely she would have learned of Marjolaine’s treachery much sooner. She explained as much to Niamh, who listened with quiet concern, as she detailed how everything went so terribly wrong.

“It was your coin that saved me,” Leliana revealed gratefully. “Without it, I would have been imprisoned and framed for treason by Marjolaine. If she is capable of committing such misdeeds against me—someone who she once saw as an ally—then she is capable to doing so to others. I cannot allow it to happen again. She will be brought to justice for her crimes.”

Niamh nodded in understanding. “And you came to me for help. Very well. Hold out your hands.”

Leliana did as instructed, and she saw Niamh’s dual-toned energy of black and silver forming before her, weighing down her palms. She kept them steady, and when the magic finally vanished, she found she was holding a new quiver full of arrows and a bow.

The latter was a thing of beauty, carved from ironbark so that it was lightweight but strong as steel. The grip of it appeared to have been made of white halla leather to contrast against the dark color of the weapon’s frame, and upon the widest part of the bow’s upper limb was Niamh’s personal icon engraved in silverite.

“Whisper my name upon the wind, and there shall be no manner of armor that your arrows cannot penetrate.”

“And in exchange?”

“A song sung under the night sky—one for every time you use the bow’s secondary ability.”

Leliana blinked. “Just songs then?”

“Yes.” Niamh smiled then. “I’ve found that I have missed them in all the time you’ve been away. Good hunting to you, Leliana.”

Leliana returns to Denerim to confront Marjolaine once more, and—with the blessings of a goddess on her side—she emerges victorious.

She takes a ship back to Orlais that very evening. While Marjolaine stews in fury below decks, Leliana is alone at the prow, quietly singing over a dozen songs up to the night sky. As the wind stirs to tousle her hair, she smiles, feeling like Niamh is there with her, listening in approval for the promise kept.

When she drags Marjolaine to the Orlesian embassy, Leliana informs them all of her former lover’s treason with evidence to back her claims. Marjolaine is consequently imprisoned—all titles and lands stripped from her name—and Leliana is hailed as a heroine. Empress Celene raises her name to nobility and grants her the title of Nightingale of the Imperial Court as her lead reconnaissance expert.

With the act, it becomes abundantly clear to the nobles of Orlais that while Marjolaine had once proven herself a consummate player of the Great Game, Leliana had bested her utterly. Some fear her skill while others hope to ride on the coat tails of her success, but whatever the case, Leliana is simply happy that everything is right with the world for once.

With her new title and riches, Leliana buys a new villa by the Waking Sea—closer to Niamh’s altar—and ensures her mother never has to work another day in her life ever again. Although her new profession involves a bit of underhandedness here and there, she does what she can to help and donate to various charities.

Even with such a busy schedule, she always finds time to visit Niamh, and they reconnect, establishing an old friendship between stories, songs, and meals.

Five years after revealing Marjolaine’s treachery, Leliana’s mother falls terribly ill. A combination of wasting sickness and cholera, the healers say. While Leliana assures them that money is no issue for any treatment they suggest, they regretfully inform her that with Oisine’s advancing age, there is little they can do other than to try and keep her comfortable over the next few weeks.

Distraught, Leliana turns to the one person she knows can help.

“And you understand the type of exchange this requires?” Niamh asked once more.

“Yes.”

Leliana had just neglected to inform the goddess she didn’t see herself finding another mortal to complete such a task. While she regretted her soon-to-be proposition hadn’t been made under better circumstances, she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about something similar over the years. Even after a decade and a half after they first met, Leliana still found Niamh to be as enchanting as ever. She was intelligent, gifted in more than magical ability, and was remarkably sweet and kind.

Surely, with such coveted traits, she wouldn’t object to siring the firstborn the Law of Equivalent Exchange required?

“Very well,” Niamh said, unaware of Leliana’s thoughts. “When you return home tonight, your mother will be in pristine health once more. It will be like she never fell ill at all, and even the memory of her suffering will fade along with the memories of those who had interacted with her since then.”

Leliana sighed in relief. “Thank you so much. She means everything to me.”

“I’m aware.” The woman’s glowing eyes turned apologetic then. “I only hope you won’t find the price of this all too steep, but I suppose only time will tell. Again, you needn’t begin this process right away. As the matter regarding your mother was quite serious, you’re welcome to see for yourself over the next few days that I spoke true in keeping my end of the bargain.”

“I know you wouldn’t betray me,” Leliana reassured, smiling, before mischief filled her. “So when do we begin?”

Luminous grey eyes blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said you wanted my firstborn, no?”

“Yes, and you agreed, did you not?”

“I did,” she reiterated, her smile still present. “As I’ve said, when do we begin?”

Leliana watched—amusement suffusing her—as realization then dawned over the goddess, causing those pale eyes to widen comically.

“Oh,” she uttered, baffled. “I—This was not…I don’t think…!”

Leliana had to bite her lip to keep her laughter from spilling out. In all the years they had known one another, this was perhaps the first time she had seen the otherwise unflappable goddess at such a loss for words. “Is there a problem?”

“Not necessarily…” Niamh grimaced, trying to regain her composure. “This is admittedly quite the first for me. As such, I need some time to prepare. I’ve every intention of keeping my word, but I want to be absolutely certain I won’t somehow hurt you in the process. Would you be willing to meet me in the forest tomorrow evening?”

“Of course.” This was an odd situation for them both after all. If Niamh needed time to assuage her own concerns, who was she to stop her?

“Thank you. Eimear and Cillian will escort you to my desired location for this once you enter the forest. I will see you then.”

Niamh’s siblings found out about her latest plight the moment she returned home.

“Can you believe it, Fergus? Why, I never thought I’d see the day!” Saoirse crowed smugly while her little sister glared balefully between her and their brother.

“Indeed!” Fergus reached out to tousle Niamh’s hair playfully. “A human woman managed to outsmart our usually quick-witted sister! And here I thought the mortals figuring out how to cultivate seedless grapes would be the last thing to surprise me.”

Niamh rolled her eyes when both her siblings guffawed heavily at that, and she ducked between them both to speak with Morrigan—the only person she had actually given permission to be in her quarters with her regarding this.

“You’re certain this is safe then? I won’t somehow manage to hurt her with my powers?”

“Yes, yes. ‘Tis a simple enough matter,” she drawled for the third time. “I fail to see your concern regarding this. You have exceptional control over your abilities after all.”

“I’ve never laid with a mortal before, Morrigan,” she deadpanned. “Pardon my concern over potentially breaching the terms of an exchange by accidentally killing the other party involved.”

“So long as you remember mortals do not have the same amount of endurance as we do, and you allow her to catch a breath every few interludes during the act, I cannot foresee any issue that might occur.” She sniffed dismissively, continuing to sift through the many tomes Niamh kept in her private collection. “Truly, given how fondly you speak of this Leliana, I doubt you would be able to do wrong by her.”

Niamh immediately winced at Morrigan’s statement, knowing the reaction it would have drawn from her siblings, and she was rarely ever proven wrong when it came to them.

“Wait, wait! It’s that human then? The very one she’s been talking about for the past five years?” Saoirse grinned, turning to her older brother. “Fergus, did you hear that?!”

Niamh sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with irritation as another round of teasing ensued. It was during such moments that she wondered—as she often did—why their mother couldn’t have just made her an only child.

The following night, Leliana’s wolf companions led her to a clearing deep within the woods, where Niamh was already waiting for her. Eimear and Cillian made themselves scarce once she had been delivered safely, but Leliana barely paid them any mind.

It seemed that Niamh had her comfort in mind, for in the middle of the clearing was a simple bedding of luxurious furs to lay upon, surrounded by gentle firelight. Bowls of fruits and other simple snacks laid off to the side along with bottles of various drinks to be sampled before or after the act. As she eyed the goddess standing in the midst of it all, Leliana was determined it would indeed be after as she took the hand offered to her.

Beneath the moonlight, they patiently explored one another upon disrobing together before proceeding to lay upon the furs and establish the beginning of their exchange.

Leliana was no the longer the bumbling, inexperienced child when they had first met. She had laid with others before in the type of hedonism that could only be experienced in a place like Val Royeaux, but as Niamh hovered over her, gently rolling her hips into hers, eyes aglow with such reverence like the full moon overhead, it was like she was experiencing such intimacy for the first time again. This time, however, it was with the woman—the goddess—she had always desired, who willingly worshipped her with caresses and kisses to flushed skin so sweet that it made her heart ache.

Her back arched as Niamh slipped inside her in gentle exploration. Like a musician, she expertly tuned herself to Leliana, testing rhythms and speeds to determine her preference, and when she discovered the perfect tempo, it was almost too much pleasure to bear.

She came undone beneath her, and Niamh swallowed her cries beneath tender kisses. As she was coaxed back down from her climax, all Leliana could wonder was, “How in the world am I ever supposed to let you go once the exchange is completed?”

Niamh proved quite the attentive lover.

Every few rounds, the goddess made certain Leliana kept herself hydrated and had a few bites to eat before continuing on. It was a long night of pleasure, however, and Leliana soon couldn’t discern whether the sweetness on her tongue was from food, drink, or more intimate flesh. For all of Leliana’s experience in intimacy, however, she couldn’t hope to match the immortal stamina of a goddess, but Niamh didn’t fault her need to rest. She merely encouraged her to curl against her side, which she did without complaint, resting her head on a slim shoulder. As she played with the pale collarbone beneath her fingertips, she sighed contentedly as lips pressed themselves against the crown of her head before one of the furs of their bedding was drawn up around them to ward off against the cold.

It had been a memorable night, and she had been sated, so she allowed Niamh’s warmth and the gentle crackling of the fire around them to lull her to sleep.

The light of morning washed over her, and as a warm beam of it crossed her face, her nose wrinkled with displeasure. She reached out beside her, but it isn’t fur, grass, or even another warm body that she felt.

No, it was cold sheets.

Leliana’s eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly to find that she was at home and in bed.

Alone.

Something within her proceeded to slowly break in painful increments, confused and bereft by such knowledge. Had last night been nothing more than an elaborate dream? She hissed gently as she shifted atop the sheets, attempting to rise from bed, and the sweet aching of her loins told her the prior evening had been no mere fantasy.

But then why had she been left?

For as much as she had heard about Niamh’s parents over the years, her mother Eleanor had elected to stay on Thedas for a time to raise her children with the man she loved. Was that not the standard among the gods at all then? Or did the exchange require a different perspective of what was to be expected of her?

“Lady Leliana?” a voice called from behind the door. One of her servants. “Will you not be joining Lady Oisine for breakfast this morning?”

She swallowed the lump down in her throat and wet her lips before attempting to speak, carefully making certain her voice didn’t shake. “No, I’m fine, Lydia. I’ve reports to finish. Please give my mother my apologies and have a plate brought to me later this afternoon.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Leliana heard the footsteps retreating, and she immediately wanted to bury herself in the sheets, but before she could begin to wallow in despair, she heard a caw at the window. She almost dismissed the sound. Ravens weren’t uncommon around the villa after all, but when she turned to shoo it away after another pointed cry, she paused immediately upon seeing the silver eyes on the bird.

It crooked its head, looking at her curiously. Whatever the raven was searching for, she didn’t know. It simply blinked once at her before turning toward the door, and—seemingly satisfied they wouldn’t be disturbed—it flapped its wings and proceeded to fly slowly toward her. As it did, Leliana watched in amazement as the bird shifted—the image of multiple animals flashing across her vision—before coalescing into the form of the goddess she knew.

Intimately now in fact.

Who was looking down at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” Niamh asked.

“You’re…” Leliana’s lips parted. “You’re still here.”

“Of course.” Dark brows furrowed, but she hardly seemed offended. Merely confused. “I wouldn’t have left you alone to carry our child for the next nine months without aid.”

“When I woke up, and you weren’t here with in bed with me after last night, I assumed…” she trailed off, remembering the dread she felt in her heart mere moments ago, wondering if she had perhaps been abandoned to carry the burden alone.

“Ah.” Niamh rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “I returned you to your villa just before the sun rose, and then I simply sat at your desk afterward, waiting for you to wake.”

“My desk?” she asked, voice raising incredulously.

“Yes.” Niamh seemed uncertain as she continued speaking. “When we made the deal for the exchange, it was agreed we would lay together to consummate the agreement. Nothing within our verbal contract stated that I would be allowed to lay in your bed, and I didn’t wish to seem rude by presuming otherwise, so I elected to just sit and read until you awoke. When I heard one of the other mortals come up the stairs toward your door, however, I made myself scarce so as to not be found.”

Leliana said nothing at first, her mind still trying to wipe the cobwebs of sleep from it amidst the rush of earlier fear, but Niamh seemed to take her silence as disapproval.

“I’m sorry,” Niamh said. “After so many Ages, it’s simply an ingrained instinct at this point. I normally don’t interact with mortals this close to their homestead, so I immediately just thought to hide myself.”

With belated shock, Leliana realized the other woman’s eyes weren’t glowing anymore in the daylight, but they were still such an amazingly pale shade of grey, which were filled with utmost sincerity. Leliana didn’t move when the woman reached out to cup her face, and when a thumb went to sweep itself across her cheek, she was surprised to see it come away wet.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying mere moments ago.

“I am new to relationships such as this,” Niamh continued, “but my need to prevent unwanted questions shouldn’t have superseded your comfort. I apologize. I won’t hurt you like this again. I cannot promise I’ll be perfect in every aspect of this, but I will do my utmost to do right by you.”

So—as expected—Leliana became pregnant after their night together, and Niamh inevitably gets pulled into Orlesian society while trying to keep the mother of her child safe. Every day seems to offer its own lesson as the goddess seeks to adapt to society without giving away what she is.

Thankfully, everyone tends to assume she is a woman of foreign nobility given how she dresses and carries herself, and Leliana doesn’t do much to dissuade such rumors. That those very rumors also pair the other woman with her in more romantic a fashion is much its own bittersweet pain, but if Niamh had ever been aware of them, she doesn’t voice them to her.

For beyond that first night, they hadn’t been to bed together. Niamh would hold her when she slept after discussing their respective days together, yes, and she’d still be there the morning after, but nothing intimate ever occurred between those moments. It’s... a comfortable enough routine, but Leliana always longs for more.

Before her pregnancy begins to show, she requests some needed vacation time from Empress Celene, who approves it without question, citing that while she appreciated her dedication to the empire, she worked far too much at times.

Leliana returns back to her villa by the Waking Sea before long, intending that to be where she eventually gives birth. Niamh, of course, is ever present at her side. Unfortunately, while the Imperial Court remained oblivious to the woman’s actual identity, her mother is not so keen to let the matter go…

“That woman…” Oisine began, looking at her daughter over the rim of her tea cup, “She isn’t what she appears to be, is she?”

Leliana’s first instinct was to lie, but her mother was always clever. Leliana had inherited the same brilliance after all. Still, she sighed.

“Her name is Niamh; that much is true. She is technically nobility—just not in the same way you and I would think of it.”

“What are you saying?”

“She’s the goddess of storms and the night sky, Mother, and she’s quite powerful even among her kind. She’s here to look over me since I made a deal with her.”

Oisine’s features immediately paled. “What? Leliana, I told you the dangers of entering into such things with them!”

“I didn’t have the choice!”

“Did she force you into this?”

“Mother, no!” Niamh was far too considerate a person—too tender a lover—to ever consider something so underhanded, but she could see that her mother couldn’t be readily convinced without more of an explanation. “I did it because you were dying, and there was no other option to save your life!”

“What?”

When she saw that she was only succeeding in confusing her mother, Leliana sighed, and did her best to explain the circumstances surrounding the relationship between her and Niamh, such as how long they actually knew one another, how the goddess had helped her over the years, and why she helped her again when she found her mother likely wouldn’t recover from her illness.

All factors that led to the culmination of her bearing the child of a deity.

“You’re with child,” Oisine breathed in shock.

“Yes.”

“And Lady Niamh…?”

“Is the other parent, yes.”

“Oh, Leliana…” Guilt filled the other woman’s eyes, but Leliana didn’t want it. She would have gladly made the offer again in a heartbeat to save her. “You could have lain with anyone else to have a child, and the exchange would have still been fulfilled. Why do it in such a way?”

“Because it has always been her, Mother. I wanted to know her in such a way even if it was only once, but I’m still mortal. No matter what else I am, no matter my accomplishments, she wouldn’t be able to stay with me forever. I’m under no illusions that when the baby is born, she may very well just leave with them once the promise has been seen through.”

Disapproval was evident on Oisine’s features. “Surely you don’t believe that. Mind you, I may have been curious as to her actual identity, but have you not seen how that woman dotes upon you? How her eyes search for you as soon as you enter a room? She would give you anything you desire if you’d but ask her to stay.”

Leliana turned her head away. “Mother, please!”

She couldn’t afford to hope for this.

It would hurt too much if it didn’t come true.

Of course, as Leliana and Niamh adapt to the idea of being parents together, they realize their feelings for one another may not be as one-sided as they both initially believed.

They catch feelings is what I’m saying here, y’all.

Their relationship, however, isn’t considered official until a proper courtship ritual is done. Niamh’s not allowed to say what that all entails due to some old laws on her world, but Leliana figures it out anyway due to some old story she dug up thanks to her spy network and because she’s simply brilliant.

There’s also some political intrigue back in the world of the gods who want to close off their world from Thedas entirely, which makes Niamh super unhappy. She’ll have to do something regarding that obviously. Who are they to keep her from her beloved Leliana after all?

Then, some other issues might also occur when some individuals in the Imperial Court learn that Leliana’s pregnant. Players in the Great Game can be merciless.

So there’s action, but there’s also plenty of romantic fluff to round it out. The important thing is that Niamh and Leliana work through it together, and they have a healthy baby, and they all get to live happily ever after for a very long time!

So that’s basically it.

Again, like my other AUs, this isn’t as polished as I would like it to be, but your thoughts regarding it are always appreciated! Like it? Hate it? Think I can improve upon it? Is this something you’d like to see me write along with all my other AUs eventually? Let me know!

Seriously, just leave a like, a comment, drop a message in my inbox or the Tumblr messenger, or simply just let me know in an AO3 review. Until next time, guys!

#dragon age #leliana #female cousland/leliana #lee's AU ideas #OTP: What If We Rewrite the Stars?#My writing #fanfic

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thegreatdeprussian · 4 years

Text

My Dearest is Out in the Crowd Tonight

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887546

Not only is Jaskier renowned for his songs and compositions, but he offers love and relationship advices as well. Unbeknownst to him, his witcher companion listens attentively.

Jaskier is a free spirit. He thrives in adventure and music. Though he charms the crowd in seemingly bizarre ways and ends up being thrown leftovers and scraps at the end of his performance, he’s still passionate in his craft.

It was a great contrast to Geralt, who may simply brood in one corner while drinking tavern beer. He’s content and finds no pleasure in chasing the spotlight. However, roads are mysterious and you encounter creatures of broad ranges—from wizards, revengeful humans, and beasts, to poets who would choose you to be their muse.

Journeys suddenly took a different turn. You spend decades travelling with a mare, but with a bard now strumming and humming occasionally, all that’s left to do is to be attuned to the new environment. Entering villages and being greeted with curious eyes was a routine, but music being a new addition bore fruit to wonder instead of horrid gasps.

This late afternoon was no different, apart from the occasion wherein Geralt acknowledges this (in his words) less obnoxious side of Jaskier.

“Alright folks! That shall be the last performance for this hour as I have to appease my hunger and not miss dinner. Any reviews?” The bard took his canister, counting and internally wishing that the coins are enough to last a few days, “comments? Anything will do?”

“You’re a poet and a musician. The songs you sing speak of ideals, and pain. I trust that you’ve experienced such emotions as well, yes?” A man sitting on a nearby table spoke to him. He was of average height, and his clothes reflect the occupation he practices. There was a certain level of weariness in his eyes, one that drives a person wondering what he went through.

“Of course,” Jaskier responded, optimism sparking in his tone. “Love and heartbreak are universal truths,”

“I see,” His voice was clear, but his words were hesitant, “but what if it’s been 7 years, and it no longer feels the same to you? You come home from a long day of mining and you’re more excited for dinner.”

Solemn whispers leading to prolonged silence now replaced the bickering and cacophony of conversations that hovered around each area of the bar. Eyes stared out of sympathy while others are drowning in their own personal thoughts. The light coming from the sunset continued to stream through the windows, but their minds are clouded in grey.

“You look at her and you see a friend, and not a wife.”

Jaskier stared at the man in the similar way a gardener stares at a wilting flower. It was a concern that needs a blanket of wisdom to fall upon it. He was younger and less experienced, but he has more journeys to learn from. He rummaged his mind for answers, but also acknowledging that he could only attest to what he is capable of.

“Well,” he began, with traces of reluctance in his voice but still earnest, “relationships are a process. It takes sacrifices, commitment, and even quarrelsome nights where you begrudgingly have to sleep side by side.”

His eyes shortly came across the corner where the witcher is seated, stunned that his gaze were pointing towards his direction too.

“Creativity is important too, in order to rekindle the passion.” Jaskier continued, “It’s something that is commonly forgotten. Tales always end in happy-ever-afters, but what comes after that? Will the zest in life that used to be there just vanish?”

The depth and the provoking uncertainty for the future which the question brought out also made Geralt contemplate. Even though a witcher can die from grave injuries, he was immortal in an ageless sense. He has lived for decades—witnessing change in societies and how conflicts unfold. He learnt about alchemy, medicine, herbs and elixirs, and how to lift curses. Albeit that, he lived in solitary means, preferring not to pick his nose on other’s personal matters. He has yet to learn more about relationships on top of that.

Age is not the only factor for maturity. Geralt is aware he has his own issues that he must solve to be at peace within. To hear Jaskier’s take in such matters piqued his interest and curiosity. After all, he is not as foolish as what people think social creatures ought to be.

Such was the reason as to why the witcher himself was flabbergasted when Jaskier’s stare seemingly asked the question “What would you do if it were you?”.

“Have you tried establishing a new routine? Maybe, a weekend away? Or reintroducing yourself, the same way you first met her?” Jaskier now sat beside the man, offering a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Flowers are still special no matter how old is the person who receives it.”

The man sighs, somewhat weary and somewhat enlightened, “I’ll try, and thank you for your time.”

“Then I shall be on my way,” Jaskier then whispers, “my dearest is out in the crowd tonight,”

Jaskier heads towards Geralt’s table, opting to steal some of his companion’s platter, a habit he developed after learning that witchers can go on longer than humans even in times where food and other source of vitality is lacking. Several times, he was met with annoyed grunts in response to his behavior.

“So, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf,” Jaskier starts, already picking up a mouthful of bread, “if it was you, what would you do?”

Here comes the dreaded, Geralt thought—eyes lost in the depth of his ideas and possibilities.

“I’ve learned from my past ventures is that if you aren’t actively building and maintaining a structure, it will actively fall apart.” Geralt continued, “Even though a relationship is already established, it doesn’t mean it’s over, and being too comfortable will cause more dullness and loss of spark.”

In spite of the myth that says witchers have no emotions, they lived by their own principles.

Jaskier lips curved softly, “If I knew you had that insight, I would have encouraged you to speak earlier.”

And like they still have more to learn about life, they also have a lot more to learn more about each other.

#geraskier #geraskierfic #geraskier fic #oneshot #geralt x jaskier #geralt x julian #geralt x dandelion #the witcher #thewitcher #also on ao3

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anteroom-of-death · 4 years

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Life, for Dummies p14

a/n: its wrapping up babes.....next??? epilouge and i can assure you...it’s gunna be, SPECTAULAR! yall....we LOVE a the great reference....so i did it.

Time passes slowly as you cemented in your immortality. Life became easier as you grew in confidence.

The Master was a great help, not just teaching you the in’s and out’s of being ageless, but educating you on how to claim your legacy as a partial Time Lord and the dynamite power that you were. Every day turning into every month, you grew in power and felt yourself harness the madness within your core. The intricate shifts of the universe?

At your disposal and yours to peruse through.

You became fluent in a very intimate way of speaking Gallifreyan and writing it that you never felt possible, despite all your previous studying. It was as if it were your native language, just not something you’d happened to pick up off the streets. You felt the Master’s declarations of love and lust moaning off his tongue as he spoke into your mouth, kissing you as you fucked each other deeply, penetrating each other’s mind as he went deeper and rougher inside you.

You weren’t so fragile anymore.

He could these days.

Of course.

Of course, things shifted dynamics wise.

You didn’t moan in awe of his mania or his various inconceivable actions. They were conceivable. Even as a human, you’d been a tad bit of an unorthodox thinker, but usually he’d leave you in the dust leaping to connect dots. As you now were?

The dots connected in shimmering patterns.

Your brain was both a million times emptier and a million times more crowded. You had new room for ideas and could carry a dozen or so different trains of thought at once.

No wonder the species perfected time-travel…

Space was yours and you and him, and your now shimmering, sharp mind waged war against all who stood in your way.

Even that pesky Doctor bowed to you, shocked and terrified of what a pet could become...if you let them recognize and upgrade their potentials.

They didn’t even take your flirting as a charade at their new tight body as a compliment.

They let you two slip and even resigned the control of the universe they felt entitled to unto you two.

It was fun to make your once awakening beg for mercy…

Perversely, you didn’t feel like good or evil for anything.

There really was no such thing.

Morals and meaning. Once you reached your first century, things started falling away. Bits and shards of your humanity, like old nail polish when drying your hands. What was right or wrong that you learned in various ethics and philosophy classes or even hands-on in life ceased meaning. Seeing good or seeing evil was for those who had a life and death cycle.

The Master and you did some research. He’d drift on in this form forever. Stymied to this body. Not that you particularly minded.

You’d be frozen in yours much the same way.

True immortality had been reached by you both.

Something he longed for so much for so long.

Ironic that the sacrifice of blood for the life of his beloved pet would bring it out in him.

He was truly in his most attractive form and he had you to thank for it.

You could leer at his form for years.

And years truly did pass.

Once you reached roughly three-hundred, you stopped counting. Counting birthdays seemed useless. An arcane tradition from an increasingly distant pass. A chant to the death and how to sparkle up the eyes and be optimistic about the inevitable.

One day, you happened to be on Earth and you noticed a calendar, and the distant memory of the day you were born startled you to a halt mid-scheme. A hot flash of twisting iron ground into your stomach as you started rapidly counting and flurries of years crashed.

“Pet?” He pulled you to his side, frowning as he assessed you physically. You could feel your mental bond being crossed as you sorted and he helped you pile yourself back into a redeemable sense.

You muttered something. He pointed to his ears, you muttered again. The dawning giving you your first reverie in centuries. You closed your eyes as the blood rushed into your ears and the thudding of your heart echoed dully.

“I’m five hundred andseventy five.” You finally hissed after you caught your breath.

You felt him hold you. “Oh, I know.” He pulled you back a bit and kissed your forehead.

“Why do you think we’re on Earth? Hmm?”

You shrugged. Another day, another fantastic wild ride through your universe.

No doubt about it, it was yours. You both controlled it completely in one way or the other.

Some of your old human density arose.

“Oh. That’s today in my timeline?”

“Yeah.” He smiled and ruffled his hair. “That’s the only birthday Time Lords really celebrated...half a millennia, then half a century, then half of that…” He clued you in, beaming. Eyes misting over...

You went on to have a lovely day physically torturing all of Reganite congress and then wiping the collective memories after fucking in a pool of blood, licking and laughing as you drank into each other. Having them be dazed and confused all naked and bloody and bruises flowing up to the surface…

All and all, a good birthday.

He took you back to the TARDIS, and the lights dimmed a soft purplish blue as he divested you of your panties and bra and picked you up gingerly and spread your legs. “I’m gonna do the alphabet now.” He tucked into your folds, voraciously licking and biting as he switched between languages and formats, spelling everything as you gripped his hair and toes curled inward.

He didn’t let you stop cumming for days.

Locked inwards and outwards until you were a goop pile of sex-crazed sleepiness. You finally passed out as you felt him carry you into the bedroom and crawl into bed with you and spoon you deeply.

Days passed on.

And that was befitting to you…

You were the Queen of All, and the Master, your Devoted King.

A powerful trip to give one former human.

But alas, it was the flavor of the life you lived.

You loved seeing him from across the room, whether or not it be disguised in plotting, and you’d take the role as the enslaver, or vise versa. Or even both at once. It was the thrill of the kill, and the pleasure of it all.

You’d even fucked beyond recognition 18th century Russia by him playing a sweet, naive virgin Count and you a scullery maid. Both whispering dissent and letting that dolt of a child Catherine think she was planning a coup.

You saw him as you were bringing in sheets playing the virgin card and you definitely had to lock yourself in her huge walk-in and scream for the scene for an hour. He found you after you both had gotten done with that day’s work.

“Heard you laughing at me…” He shoved you into the ground of the gardens and purred into your ear as he divested him trouser.

“Amethyst eyes.” You mocked the girl’s lilty voice in a nasally squirm.

You crossed your hands on your heart and changed your mocking tone to match his, “Are you seducing me?” You added some false tears, to blend in with your crying laughter.

That earned you a slap across the face and him turning you around, ripping your underthings away. “How dare you talk to your superior, I’m a Count, you filthy little maid.”

You snorted, “A nice little benefit package you're giving me?” You joked as you felt that familiar weight grab your hips and pull you down towards his thick prick.

“You know this is the 18th century and Russia. We don’t pay our help.” He explained.

“I’m unionizing!” You moaned and braced yourself, gripping grass and dirt.

He thrusted hard, proof that Orlo wasn’t a sweet bastard boy, but the universal bastard most knew and feared. He cupped your breasts and tore at your kerchief, ruining your bodice jacket in the process and reached into the stays, deftly stretching the front panel with his flexible hands and under your shift and massaging your breast and digging a nail or two into your nipples. You stifled a scream. Revolution would come. But not before you.

You went on like that for three hours, rutting in the Russian night like wild pigs out to stud. Eventually you came and went, talking about the next phase of awkward Orlo and the housekeeper starting a coup…

You rolled your eyes, “Whatever happened to the cigarette after sex?” You offhandedly muttered, watching the sky start to get light, “Humans found out pleasure kills?” The Master shrugged.

“Humans are dumb.” You observed astutely.

“Definitely.” He kissed your neck and bit it roughly and popped off, Orlo had a meeting and you had to ready that room of Peter’s.

He wrinkled his nose at you across the room, and you swore you would have died right there.

That adventure came and went, and you moved onto the next.

#personal #i wrote this #dhawan!master x reader #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x you #doctor who self insert fiction #master x reader #sacha dhawan #count orlo #oof to my braincells #yeet #lemon

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thenightling · 4 years

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Time will Crawl (a short Sandman fan fiction)

Time Will Crawl

This fan fiction was inspired by this illustration by @artwinsdraws

Disclaimer: This is a Sandman fan fiction. The Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC Comics.

Come! Come! Come!

He felt the words as surely as he heard them, faint and echoing in the void. Old magick. It had felt it like a tugging at his very soul. He was too weak to resist the pulling that dragged him down, down, down… Forcibly pulling at his essence.

He fell forward and slammed into hard flooring. He was disorientated at the sudden presence of gravity. He could feel the magick of the binding circle sealing him in, closing him off from all those who had a psychic link with him within his realm. He saw them, the mortal occultists, in their dark robes, as they moved to get a closer look at their prisoner. They moved like a swarm of insects. He blinked his completely-black eyes behind the tinted lenses of his helm. The tiny star pupils the only hint that there was more than mere darkness to be seen in his eyes.

He lay there, stunned and …and so very tired… He had never felt so weary in his long life… He had struggled so hard against the summoning magick and now he could barely keep his eyes open. Someone grasped at the helm he wore with both hands. Someone was raising his head, carefully. They were pulling the helm free of his head. He felt his own dark fall around his bone-white face. His cloak was taken. Now he actually felt the cool, damp of the cellar in English summer time. Never mind about the cloak. That could easily be replaced. He could conjure another… as soon as he was free he could conjure another...

He blinked. The ruby amulet was snatched and finally the pouch that he loathed to be without. He felt more naked without that pouch than without raiment. That he could not allow. He summoned what strength he had left and sat up to reach for the pouch. He stopped as if there was an invisible wall in front of him. He could not pass the edge of the magical binding circle, which was on the ground around him, and he knew it. His belongings were just out of reach…

So tired… So very tired… The room was growing dim and the floor was strangely inviting. He fainted.

Trapped. Observe. Threats. Patience. Patience… Patience…

It had been years since that first night. It was midnight though it might as well have been noon down in that dungeon. There were no windows. He hadn’t seen this world’s sun in almost twenty-three-years. The only reason he was certain it was midnight was because he had become too familiar with the times at which his guards were swapped out for two new ones. Their shifts were in six hour intervals. Sometimes only three hours. He could only guess at the circumstances that brought about the occasional change. Occasional holidays perhaps? It did not matter.

Mortals tend to have this lovely fantasy that time moves differently for creatures such as himself, being ageless and (for all intents and purposes) immortal. If only that was that case… If only he could blink and it would seem a century had passed. No. Sadly, this fantasy was merely that, a fantasy. As mortals age they perceive time differently from when they were children. In childhood summers would seem to go on and on. As adults, however, whole decades seemed too short and so they imagine that is how time must be for immortals, an ever increasing sense that this or that passage of time was nothing to them. If only that was the case…

No. He felt time. He felt time the way mortals do. Time moved no differently for his kind as it does for mortals. And in prison it crawled at a snail’s pace. Perhaps it was even worse for him because, as the living embodiment of dreams, he usually did not sleep. That meant the third of the day that human prisoners could escape their bonds by entering his world, he could do no such thing. There was no relief.

He sat on the floor of the crystalline cage they had placed around him. The curved glass around him reminded him of a goldfish bowl or crystal ball. How menacing the mortals managed to seem when looming over him outside of the crystal, where light and size were distorted from his quartz-crystal prison and shadows hung heavy over the glass.

Quartz crystal has innate power. It can contain and confine magick. It held him as surely as the binding circle around his cage. They were clever to make his cage out of crystal. Everyone knows most mineral and glass come from sand. Burnt and reshaped sand. The thing that he used to sculpt dreams now worked as his cage.

He was hungry. They had never thought to feed him and he was not about to ask. He was far too proud for that. And he would not give them the satisfaction to show them that he suffered for not eating. It would not kill him but he still suffered for it.

He tried not to think about the hunger, that empty feeling gnawing within himself. Eager to eat just about anything. Even a baked potato would have been nice. Do the English still bake potatoes? He wondered.

He could imagine the taste. The skin cooked so thoroughly that it was like parchment around the soft white inside that could be crushed by the pressing of a fork. Flavored with salt, pepper, butter, sour cream. Perhaps some mild cheddar cheese and crushed bacon. He wasn’t one for heavy meals but this simple one that he imagined seemed divine. He could practically taste it. No. He would go mad if he let himself think about the hunger too long. Try to think about something else…

He thought of hob. He thought of the smell of the Kerosene lamps and the candle wax in the late Victorian pub. The strange sense of warmth and that feeling that was the direct opposite of being lonely. He missed that warmth. That sensation of… not-lonely.

He missed Hob…

He thought of his own wounded pride. The anger he had felt when Hob had suggested that they (Hob and Morpheus) were friends. How foolish he had been to not return to Hob sooner. Would he ever see his friend again?

He longed to set things right- to do or say something subtle to admit Hob was right without actually saying the words that his pride did not want him to speak out loud. He thought of the clever ways he could acknowledge that yes, they were, in fact, friends without uttering an apology or acknowledgement of being wrong. He couldn’t dare admit, even to himself, that he was wrong. And it was Hob’s own fault, wasn’t it? He was the one who had to spoil things. He was the one who had to go and poke at the situation and demand confirmation. Why did he have to spoil it by making him have to call their situation a friendship?

He missed him so much…

Morpheus blinked. He was no longer in the pub, storming away from Hob. He could no longer taste the wine on his lips. His memories were as vivid and real to him as dreams are for most people. It was as close as he could get to dreaming… remembering…

He was back in his cage. Staring at the two guards just beyond the glass. Last year there had been a different set of guards sitting there at this hour. He had heard their names and he had known those previous guards as Bernie and Frank.

There were usually two guards at a time watching him but one night Frank had to leave early. And so Bernie started to talk to him, which was surprising and different...

Both men had been stocky. Frank had black hair while Bernie had sandy blond hair.

“Guess Velma’s finally popped.” Bernie had said as if the woman was an over-inflated balloon. He gave a short chuckle.

Was he talking to himself? Morpheus had wondered. He turned his head slightly at Bernie in a nonverbal acknowledgement of his presence.

“Don’t know if you understand me but… you don’t look like you’re dangerous. I mean no offense but you look like some scrawny kid. I don’t care if you are some sort of space invader, they shoulda at least given you a blanket. You’re human enough, even P.O.Ws get clothes.”

Space invader? P.O.W? He raised an eyebrow. The man’s accent was American.

“You do understand, don’t you? Look… I… Uh… I snatched the key from Burgess. I can get you out. I’d thought about doing it before just… I don’t know if you drink blood suck the lives outa people… I don’t know a damn thing about this… But you don’t seem threatening. I could let you out…”

Morpheus had waited for the inevitable catch.

“God, I hope you’re not like the aliens in Wells’ Radio Broadcast. I mean if keeping you here is the only thing stopping an invasion…”

Morpheus stared at the man blankly, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Ah, who am I kidding? You’ve been sitting in a glass box for decades. I’m sure if there are Martians or Venusians or whatever that are anything like you we could take ‘em. Just… Go back to wherever you came from, okay… If you try anything I know I out-weigh you. Hell, Old Roderick’s kitchen maid out-weighs you. Alex’s cat out-weighs you. The point is I could throw you down flat.”

There was a cat?

Morpheus stood up slowly. Was this a trick? Bernie slid the key into the lock of the cage and Morpheus saw the crystalline panel move for the first time.

“Come on.” He said.

Morpheus stepped forward but stopped just before he reached the open door of the cage. He couldn’t pass the circle. He looked down at it and then at Bernie.

Bernie looked confused. “What’s wrong? Don’t ya wanna-“ And then he let out an anguished groan.

Morpheus’ own eyes widened.

Bernie had clutched at his chest, staggering back as if on invisible puppet strings. The old magus, Roderick Burgess, stood at the entrance to the cellar chamber. As frail and aged as he was he still had magick. Burgess’ hand clasped as if crushing something invisible. Morpheus understood the magick involved. He was crushing the poor man’s heart.

Bernie fell to the floor dead. He almost looked asleep.

The new guards arrived a few hours later…

Morpheus blinked and he was back in the present and in the closed crystalline cage. And again he could feel the pain of gnawing and distracting hunger. He was suddenly curious about Delirium’s cuisine. He had never had a cotton candy soup before… or typewriter flavored marmalade. He tried not to think about his hunger…

These new guards barely acknowledged him. The novelty of his existence had long ago worn off and his strangeness helped stave away pity and help secure his non-human status. From his bone-white skin and sold black eyes… They could see no humanity in him and so they showed no humanity toward him.

How much time had passed? He could barely see the wristwatch of one of the two men watching him. They sat in folding chairs in front of the cage. One reading a newspaper, the other reading a pulp novel. It was exactly one minute after midnight…

Patience…

Wait…

Soon…

That patience and waiting would pay off on the night the wheel of a wheel chair breached the binding circle that held him. With the circle breached he could enter the dream of one of his guards. And then he was able to trick his keepers into opening his cage by pretending to faint within his cell. It had been a long, long time coming but he was finally free.

#Neil Gaiman's the Sandman Fan fiction #The Sandman #Morpheus #Dream of The Endless

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