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fox-moblin · 6 months

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And The World Ends Again

Prev/Next, Read on Ao3

A Linked Universe AU set in a post-apocalyptic Mad Max-inspired world.

Chapter 2

Twilight slips out before sunrise.

He doesn’t take anything with him - he’s not planning on running away - but the shadows in the corners of his room had only grown darker with each passing hour, his conversation with Malon repeating in his head louder and louder, and, by the time the first bird let its wild call echo out over the wastes, he had found he could no longer remain in the house.

So he finds himself walking along the dry river bed, passing Epona’s grave and making his way down the winding length of the serpent of sand and dust.

Just as the sun peeks over the distant mountains, Twilight reaches the mouth of the Valley. Despite the early morning, it’s already hot enough that he doesn’t regret his meager clothes; his nightshirt hangs loose off his shoulder and he relishes the cool breeze that brushes against his collar bone.

No matter how cold the nights get, the sun is guaranteed to scorch the world come morning.

Nearby, a desert sparrow is fluffing itself on a boulder. It shakes its tiny body with vigor and sends up a small plume of dust, before settling itself back down to preen.

A small lizard lays in the shadow of the boulder and presses itself into the ground, its tongue darting out lazily to taste the arid air.

In the distance, there’s some sort of beast loping along, too far away to make out its details. It stops every once in a while to inspect the various shrubs and stones that dot the landscape, a dark speck against the sand. When it raises its head, long muzzle pointed skyward, Twilight is reminded of cold nights and soft blankets.

Watch now, little wolf. Mama’s gotta trick. You lift your hands to your mouth like this… yes, just like that. And then you let out a long howl…

The beast’s mournful song rises up over the land and carries through the air with ease, reaching Twilight like a quiet plea. It calls twice more, before he finally lifts his hands in familiar motions and returns its cry. His voice cracks halfway, the notes jumping and falling away in an awkward finale, but the beast responds with continued fervor nonetheless.

Their conversation continues for a few more rounds; the beast never draws closer. Twilight remains where he stands.

Eventually, the beast must decide that the two of them have said all they can between them; it finishes its final call and, before Twilight can reply, simply turns away and walks in the direction of the rising sun. Twilight watches until it passes into the shadow of the mountains and disappears, its dark form blending into shade. It takes a while before he stops watching, his hands still poised and floating in front of his mouth.

The sparrow has flown away.

The lizard has gone underground.

Twilight decides to return home.

Malon is waiting outside for him. Even from a distance, he can see the moment she spots him; her shoulders visibly drop and she releases the bundle of her skirt she’d had clutched in her hands. She doesn’t say anything as Twilight approaches, but the way her eyes track his every move betrays her thoughts regardless.

When he passes her to go inside, Twilight doesn’t fail to notice the way she grimaces.

Their day passes in silence. Twilight goes about his normal business to the best of his ability; he feeds the cuccos, and then spends a good half hour just staring at the barrel of horse feed beside the house. His hands grasp at nothing until his mind finally catches up and he forces himself to move onto the next task.

Malon spends most the day in the garden, scraping through the dry dirt; when she brings Twilight some water late in the afternoon, her hands are blistered and raw.

She ignores him when he offers to help.

They eat supper in the same quiet that had pervaded the day; it’s a meager meal, little more than some undercooked grains and some sort of starchy root that Malon has attempted to season the best she can. Twilight chews slowly, staring longingly at the small mug of water sitting to his left. The surface glimmers with a sort of sheen, and the metallic taste beckons him with every mouthful of dryness he forces himself to swallow.

But the jug in the center of the table is nearly empty, and Malon has barely touched her own water. Twilight takes another bite and resents the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Across from him, Malon finally lifts her mug to her lips and Twilight eagerly follows suit, though the relief is as short lived as the sip itself. They put their mugs down together, the tap of clay on wood almost as damning as any condemnation.

He drinks when she drinks. He sighs when she sighs. When she rises from the table to clean their bowls, he does the same.

He hands her a tattered rag and watches silently as she scrapes what few crumbs are left into a bucket for the cuccos’ breakfast. When she hands him the bowls to stow away, her movements are stiff and she doesn’t look at him, only nodding her thanks before retreating to her room.

He catches a glimpse of the bed as she does. His brother’s side is still made.

Another quiet night becomes a morning filled with shadows and deafening thoughts, so Twilight slips out again before sunrise and makes his way to the valley.

There is no beast to greet him this time around. Only the rising heat of the day and another sparrow, intent on purging itself of any dust that has settled on its ruddy feathers. Twilight crouches nearby and watches its futile attempts with a sad smile, half tempted to take the poor thing into his hands and offer aid.

It flies away before he can, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. Twilight returns home once more.

Malon is not waiting for him in the doorway. Nor is she in the kitchen. When he checks the garden, her tools are stacked neatly against the house. The cuccos mill about, their feed scattered haphazardly across their yard.

“Malon?” He calls, his voice loud in the stillness of the morning.

He waits. He calls again, his voice hitching. He waits.   When she does not respond a second time, the panic begins to set in. He runs through the house, checking each room - even daring to enter Malon’s bedroom. Time’s side of the bed is still neatly made. Malon’s is not.

Her boots are still by the front door. Her cloak is hanging on the hook Time carved years ago.

“Malon!” Twilight yells, tearing out of the house and nearly tripping in the loose sandy soil. “Malon, where are you?!”

He spins around, eyes desperately scanning the horizon. The mid-morning sun beats relentlessly upon his back, taunting him as begins to circle the house once more; he hops onto the rotting fence of Epona’s old pasture, risking its collapse in an attempt to acquire even a mildly better vantage point. The wood creaks and groans beneath his weight as he scrambles for balance.

You’re Papa built it along with the house. He had a dream of raisin’ all kinds of creatures…

It’s as his mother’s words echo gently in the back of his racing mind that he sees Malon, far away atop his mother’s hill, sitting in nothing more than an old night gown. She’s faced away from him, her long red hair blown loose and ruffled by the dry wind. Beside her, his mother’s grave marker sits as a grim reminder of this world’s cruelty.

Malon doesn’t turn as he approaches, but her shoulders stiffen when he kneels beside her; his relief is tempered by the redness of her eyes, but she finally lets out a long hollow sigh and looks at him, her lips pulled into a thin smile that does nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says hoarsely and he can’t help but shake his head, dumbfounded. She laughs at him softly and lifts a hand to brush the bangs back from his sweaty forehead. “I just… needed a moment up here alone, to think.”

She glances back at the house. Twilight turns to look as well.

“It looks so small from here, don’tcha think?” Malon murmurs and he can’t tell if the question is directed at him or some other unseen being. Either way, Malon doesn’t elaborate, choosing instead to rise to her feet, waving his hands away when she stumbles on stiff legs.

“Malon-” Twilight starts.

“I’ve decided somethin’,” she interrupts, dusting off the skirt of her gown. She runs a hand through her hair as she straightens back up and, when she looks at him, it’s with a mixture of profound sadness and pride. “I’ve decided that… you’re goin’.”

“I’m… what?”

“You’re goin’. You’re goin’ to go lookin’ for him.”

“...I am?”

Twilight stands as well and presses a hand to Malon’s forehead. She rolls her eyes, but allows him the courtesy of checking to see if she’s just ill or actually out of her mind.

He decides it must be latter; she’s day-warm with the rising sun, but her eyes are clear when she smirks at him.

“I know,” she says softly and gently removes his hand from her face. “I… I know.”

“Why?” He whispers, almost afraid to speak against her sudden change of heart.

“Because I know you’ll go anyway… so this way there’s no runnin’ away.”

“I wouldn’t just run away-”

“And,” she cuts him off before he can finish. “And… because I miss him.” At this, her voice finally cracks and she turns away to wipe at her eyes. Twilight fumbles - he’s left his mother’s handkerchief in his room. After a moment of mild panic, he offers the hem of his shirt for lack of a better alternative. Malon blinks at him, eyes darting between his face and the offered cloth, before a sharp laugh finally escapes her crack lips.

She gently rejects his offer, pushing his hands away and instead using her own dress. Once she’s composed herself, she takes a deep breath.

“I miss him… I want him to come home…”

“You said he was dead,” Twilight says and winces when it comes out more reproving than he means it to. Malon, at least, doesn’t seem affected by his tone. She nods, looking back to the house and then to the far off village; its visage shimmers in the wasteland heat.

“I did… and… maybe he is.” She brings a hand to her chest, fingers alighting along the base of her throat. “But I’ve decided that if there’s any chance he’s not… that there’s a chance he still might be out there, then I want to hope he’ll come back.”

She huffs out a humorless laugh.

“I have a feelin’ he’ll need help though…”

“I ain’t gonna leave you,” Twilight says, taking her hand in his own. The callouses on her palms are rough against his skin.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs and squeezes his hand. “Yes, you are.”

And then she’s walking back down the hill towards the house, leaving him speechless in her wake. Twilight blinks at her retreating form.

“I- Malon! Malon, wait!” He yells and stumbles after her.

After that, it’s a lot of yelling (mostly from Twilight) and a lot of irritatingly calm rebuttal (all Malon), until the two of them are sat at the kitchen table, a mug of grey water between the two of them as they plan out the logistics of Twilight heading off his own to look for Time.

“I don’t like it,” Twilight says for the hundredth time and lets out a long sigh as Malon counts something out on her fingers.

“Tough shit,” she mutters, not looking at him. “I’ll survive. Especially now that I won’t need to be feedin’ you as well.”

“You won’t have me here to help out, or to run trade with the town.”

“I did survive pretty well on my own before I married your brother, y’know,” Malon says dryly. “Just because I took up gardenin’ and such when I came to live here don’t mean I don’t know how to make it alone.” For emphasis, she flexes a surprisingly muscled arm and pats her bicep, grinning like a wild animal. Twilight looks up at the ceiling, exasperation threatening to send him falling back out of his seat. There’s a fly getting dangerously close to the flame of the lantern, dancing just out of reach of the flickering heat.

“Time’ll kill me when he learns I just left y’here all alone…”

“And that’s a price you’ll have to pay,” Malon says sagely, nodding. Twilight eyes her suspiciously; gone is the grimace from yesterday or the tear tracks from this morning. Instead, she’s bold in her plans to survive until his return, speaking animatedly about the cucco eggs she’ll trade and the resources she’ll gather on her own.

The lines of her face, though, are drawn and deep, belying a sadness that cuts Twilight to his core.

“Hey,” he murmurs, interrupting a particularly passionate description of the many clothes she’ll no longer have to mend once he’s not there to ruin them. He takes Malon’s hands in his own, stilling them as he meets her gaze, searching.

He sees the moment she breaks; she pulls away from him with a sharp inhale and stands, immediately turning away to look out the window.

“I’m okay,” she tries, but her voice hitches halfway through.

“Malon-”

“I am!” She suddenly wheels around to look at him, eyes wide and fierce. She’s crying. “I am! I’m fine! I am completely and utterly fine!” She stalks around the table to stand in front of him, placing both her hands on his shoulders with a grip so firm he winces. “Listen to me - I know what I am! I know what I am and what I’m made for. I ain’t made to go gallivantin’ across the world, fightin’ others and killin’ to survive. I just ain’t… but you…”

She shakes her head.

“You’ve got it in you. So you’re gonna go and find your brother and bring him home! You’re gonna bring him back here, where I’ll be waiting with a kept house and warm hearth. And when you bring him back, I’m gonna beat his ass so hard for bein’ such an idiot that he’ll have no choice but to sit here for the rest of his life and never leave again!”

She’s laughing now, a strange hysterical sound that seems to fight with the tears still trailing down her cheeks. Twilight’s breath hitches.

“I can’t leave you behind…”

“Baby,” Malon whispers, suddenly quieted, and takes his face in her hands. “I am always left behind. My father left me, my husband left me, and now you will, too. But,” she smiles, soft and trembling. “You’ll come back. And I promise you, there will be a home here when you return. And I will be waitin’ for you.”

Twilight feels a sob of his own building in his chest and he pushes forward out of his chair to envelope her in a crushing hug, burying his face in her hair as a broken sound escapes him. She hugs him back just as tightly, grasping at the fabric of his shirt and openly crying.

“I’m gonna bring him back,” Twilight gasps, curling around her.

“I know,” Malon cries back.

“I will!”

“I know!”

“I will!”

“I know!”

They repeat the words to each other until it sounds less like a promise and more like a simple fact.

A part of Twilight wants to set out right away, but he makes himself wait, using the next two days to do as much as he can for Malon while she helps him prepare for his journey.

“You’ll be back within a year,” she says, repeating their confirmed timeline. She stuffs another handful of grain into a leather pouch. “If you can’t find him before then… you come back.”

When she says it, it’s with gritted teeth.

“Right,” Twilight says, grunting as he ties together a bundle of clothes. He’s packing as light as possible, already dreading the many months of walking ahead of him.

‘Find a horse if you can ,’ Malon had advised the night before, as they’d both stared out at the empty field beside the house. The wind in the dry shrubs had sounded like a whisper.

A day later, on the eve of his 22nd birthday, Twilight walks away from everything he has ever known, just like how his brother did over a year before him.

Malon walks with him until they reach the valley, following the same path that Time had last disappeared down. They don’t speak - all their words were said last night - so she only gives him one last embrace as they stand on the ridge overlooking the rest of the wastes.

Twilight holds onto her for a long time, until she finally pulls away. She isn’t crying, not the way he is, but she frowns as she straightens out the collar of his tunic and adjusts the hood around his neck. Twilight grips the strap of his bag.

Malon steps back, her gaze tracing over him with so much love that Twilight thinks it might be the thing that kills him. Her eyes are set and determined.

They stare at each other for a long time. Finally, Malon smiles.

“You look just like him.”

And then she’s gone. She’s walking away from him, back to the house and her cuccos. Back to his mother’s hill and Epona’s grave and the little village with the asshole Overseer. Back to Twilight’s entire life, all wrapped up and nestled in the heart of barren land he can’t help but know and love.

Twilight watches her retreating form until it disappears. Somewhere, behind him, a beast is howling, so Twilight turns towards the sound.

------------------------

“It’s not fair!”

Time stomped his foot and somewhere in the kitchen, Papa’s laugh was booming like the thunder that sometimes rolled out over the far away peaks.

“Oh, hush now,” Mama admonished, adjusting Twilight on her lap. Time’s baby brother kicked his legs, giggling and waving around his pudgy hands. “Not everything in life is fair, Time.”

“But… but!”

Mama raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth. Time braced himself for the lecture.

“I think you have a very good name,” Papa said, sweeping into the room and picking Time up from underneath his armpits before Mama could start. “Very bold. Very fierce!”

“It’s not good,” Time howled, struggling in Papa’s grasp. “It’s bad! It’s a bad name!”

Papa let him go, raising his hands in surrender when Time rounded on him with a growl. On Mama’s lap, Twilight tried to copy him, pawing at Mama’s arms until she placed him on the ground so he could toddle over to where Time was standing with his arms crossed. Time scowled when Twilight tried to reach up at him.

“Why does he get a good name and I don’t?!” He cried, pointing a finger right in front of Twilight’s nose.

“Time,” Mama said with a sigh, though she was smiling in that way that she sometimes did when Papa came up behind her at the table. “You don’t have a bad name. I think ‘Time’ is a very good name.” She turned to Papa. “Time is a very important part of life, right love?”

Papa nodded, his face very serious.

“That’s right.” Then he smiled real big. “That’s why we named you ‘Time,’ y’know!”

Time pouted.

“But yesterday in the field you told me you named me that cuz’ I was takin’ a damn long time comin’ out…”

Papa suddenly made a strange choking noise and turned away, his shoulders shaking. In her chair, Mama was covering her mouth with her hand.

“Don- don’t say that,” she said, her voice shaking with barely withheld laughter. Time scowled as Mama tried to school her expression. “Don’t go sayin’ that to anyone in town, y’hear.”

Papa was leaning on the kitchen counter, cackling. Time stomped his foot again.

“I wanna good name, like ‘Twilight.’ I don’t want one that makes you laugh!”

Next to him, Twilight was sucking his thumb, gaze going back and forth between Mama and Papa and Time. He slapped the ground in front of him, squealing when Mama leaned over to poke his belly.

“Baby, Twilight got his name because he was born right when the sun disappeared behind the mountains. You got your name because you… well you were takin’ your sweet time comin’ into this world.” Mama gestured to where Papa was still recovering. “Papa got his name from the tree he was born under.”

She shrugged.

“It’s just the way things are done here.”

“Malon doesn’t have a bad name! She told me she was named after her papa!”

Papa rested a big hand on Time’s head.

“Maybe that’s just how they do things where she was born.”

Time swatted his hand away and stomped toward his bedroom.

“It’s not fair!” He cried again, shoving his way through the door and clambering on top of his bed. In the other room, Mama and Papa were still laughing and calling for him to come back. Hot tears pricked at his eyes and he reached for the toy owl buried half beneath the blankets, clutching it to his chest and curling up into a ball around its under stuffed form. Its patchwork body was worn with love and age and, when he pressed his face against its cheek, he could smell the same salt and soot that clung to Papa’s work shirt.

It was a while before anyone came to get him; he expected Mama to call him for supper or for Papa to sneak up and tickle him until he squealed like Epona’s first foal used to.   

(“These things happen,” Papa had said when they found the little colt’s body, nearly torn apart by coyotes after a night of having gone missing. Time had been heartbroken, wondering how they were going to tell Epona. “She’ll know,” Papa had said. “Animals always got a way of knowin’ these things.”)

Instead of his parents, the uneven plap plap of his brother’s barefeet on the old wood floors of their house had Time raising his head from his owl and shuffling to make room for Twilight on the bed. His baby brother couldn’t quite climb up on his own yet, mewling in frustration as he pulled at the overhanging blankets. Time leaned over and grabbed Twilight by his chubby arms, hauling him up onto the bed and only resisting a little when small sticky hands reached for his stuffed owl.

“You got a toy already,” Time admonished lightly as Twilight begin to chew on one of the owl’s wings. Mama had said that some of his teeth were coming in and that chewing on things helped to keep his mouth from hurting too bad. Time didn’t want Twilight to hurt, even if his little brother was annoying sometimes and had a cooler name than him.

Twilight’s toy wolf sat slumped on the other side of the bed, its patchy fur matted where Twilight had chewed and drooled on it. Papa had bought it, along with the owl, from one of the caravans that passed through in the dry season, saying that they were based off of animals from ‘Before.’ Time didn’t really understand what Before was - only that it was some time before even Mama and Papa were born, but that Papa’s mother had told him that her mother had been born right as Before ended and that the world had been much different.

(‘More green,’ Papa had said. ‘Apparently the world was more green.’

‘Like… the sand was green?’ Time had asked and Papa had made a funny face.

‘Maybe,’ he’d murmured and then they hadn’t talked about it anymore.)

Time was pulled out the memory by Twilight, who had apparently decided that the owl wasn’t enough comfort for his liking; he was pushing his way into Time’s space, grunting softly in mild frustration as he attempted to climb onto Time’s lap.

Time was still quite small for his age,though Mama always said that, if he were anything like Papa, he wouldn’t be that way for too much longer. Still, it took a bit of finesse and readjustment before he could hold Twilight comfortably in the circle of his arms, ignoring how his brother’s weight sat heavy atop his outstretched legs. Twilight leaned against his chest, yawning and blinking blearily. He smelled sweetly of milk and Mama, and his skin was soft when Time ran a small hand over Twilight’s brow. His hair was finally long enough that Mama could braid it back the way she did Time’s, though Twilight always managed to end the day braidless, regardless of how tightly Mama did the ties or how calm the day had been.

“Crazy pup,” Time whispered, trying his best to imitate how Papa said it. “You’re lucky you got a good name,” he continued, though, by this time, Twilight was already snoring softly. Time didn’t care; Mama said Twilight probably couldn’t understand him much anyways, but that it was good to talk to babies. That it ‘helped them grow.’ Time didn’t really know how talking to a baby helped them grow, but Papa said Twilight would be able to play with him when he got older and Time wanted to make sure his baby brother got big and strong enough to play things like chase and seekers and rock hop.

“Papa’s gonna take me ridin’ on Epona tomorrow.” Time pressed his nose into Twilight’s hair. “Mama’s says you’re too little to come with, but maybe one day I’ll be able to take you with me. We can go the riverbed and race or catch lizards.”

Twilight sniffled in his sleep, reaching up to grab Time’s shirt with suprising strength, his stocky fingers digging into the old fabric. Time smiled and laid back against the pillow, bringing his brother with him. In the other room, Papa said something that made Mama laugh, her voice echoing through the halls of their tiny house. The sun was setting outside, casting the bedroom in golden hues. Soon Mama would be calling him for supper and Papa would tend to the hearth fire and tell them stories about the wasteland beyond their home.

For now, Time was happy to hold his brother and feel the light puff puff of Twilight’s breath against his neck, warm and soft.

------------------------

When he opens his eyes, dark stone and rusting bars are all that greets him. His wrists are still bound high above his head in cold metal and somewhere, down the hall and out of sight, someone is screaming and ranting incoherently. He shifts as best he can, wincing when the bruise along his thigh smarts at the movement, and does his best to stretch his neck out enough to see if the person in the cell to the left of him is still alive.

By the way they’re slumped over, legs splayed stiffly in front of them and their mouth hanging loosely open, he doubts it.

Grunting, he tries to get his legs under him just enough so that he can stretch out his back. His joints protest the movement, but he continues, sighing in relief as he feels a click somewhere in his lower back. Some of the ache eases and he lets himself sit back down. The stone is rough beneath him, bits of it digging into his bare skin.

They’d taken his clothes not long after they’d found him, leaving him only with a scrap of fabric tied at his waist for some semblance of modesty.

Down the hall, the screaming has stopped. He can hear the guards switching out, talking in low tones to each other and tapping their spears together in greeting. He waits, listening to their footsteps and hoping he’s not mistaken as someone begins to approach his cell. The cadence of their gate has become familiar to him in the past few months and he grins weakly when a figure steps out from the shadows of the hall and stops in front of his cell.

It’s face is covered in the same strange skull mask as all the others, but the dark blue fabric draped across its shoulders distinguishes is from the many guards that he’s seen during his stay here. The figure tilts its head, before unlocking his cell and entering without a sound. He doesn’t move as it approaches, watching quietly as it stops before him and crouches, checking over its shoulder before reaching into the bag slung across its chest and producing a small parcel.

“It’s not much,” it says, its voice warped by the mask. He suspects there’s some sort of filtration device beneath it. “But I managed to sneak this from the Body Man’s shop.”

It places its spear to the side and begins to unwrap the parcel, pausing every once in a while to make sure no one is coming. Finally, it produces a small clay bowl, filled with some sort of red salve; he licks his lips in anticipation as the figure takes some of the salve onto its fingers and begins to apply it to the bruise stretching on his thigh. Its cool to the touch and he sighs in relief as the pain begins to fade.

“You’ve got to stop disobeying,” the figure admonishes as it works. “If you just follow the rules, I’m sure the King will show more mercy.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response; he’s already said what he thinks of this ‘King’ and their so-called ‘mercy,’ and he’d been left so bloody by the other guards the Body Man hadn’t been sure he’d even survive the night.

“You have potential.” The figure is still talking. “That’s why you’re still alive. If you behave, there’s a chance you’ll be moved to the arena - you’ll be allowed to fight for the King.”

It says this like it’s some sort of great honor - like he’d be stupid to refuse such an opportunity. Again, though, he doesn’t speak. He’s learned his lesson. The figure finishes with the salve, giving him one more look over before standing. He can’t see its face behind the mask, but he can imagine a soft smile nonetheless.

“You’re lucky you were taken in from the Wastes,” the figure says and he can’t help but scoff a bit. “The King has granted you a chance at a better life!”

He had a good life, he thinks. He had all he’d ever wanted. Why he attempted to get more, he doesn’t know. Especially seeing where it’s landed him.

The figure picks up its spear and begins to walk towards the entrance of the cell. He watches it go with a mixture of contempt and gratefulness. Out of all the guards here, it is the only one that seems to have any semblance of kindness, regardless of how misguided its ideals are.

“Thank you,” he rasps as it closes the cell behind it. It starts, looking up at him. They stare at each other in silence for a moment, separated by the rusted bars of his cell, before the figure snorts and shakes its head.

“Don’t thank me,” it says as it walks away. “Thank the King for offering you this chance at redemption.”

It disappears down the hall and he is once again left alone. Sighing, he leans his head against the stone wall behind him. His thigh feels better, but the blisters around his wrists are beginning to really sting. It reminds him of the blisters he used to get at his ankles after a day of riding too rough along the riverbed.

The thought brings an ache to his chest so deep, he think it might tear him open completely.

Goddess be damned, Time thinks to himself and closes his eyes.

------------------------

While you were walking - Stumbling, really, because your legs are so frail and uncoordinated But we'll call it walking, for your sake - While you were walking, I was watching. You are so careful, Your path so deliberate in your mind, I must imagine it so, Because it weaves so dramatically Across the uneven ground here, As you clutch at my skirt Your hands are so small And your fingers so weak, Twisting the old fabric and grasping At the fraying edges of the many patches I have salvaged and sewn and stitched Time and time again. 'It is more patch, than skirt,' I tell you, as we sit in the shade Of a rusted metal Before-thing. You cannot speak, of course. Perhaps you never will. But you smile, And I love you all the same. - 'For My Tumbleweed' by Penance, Wasteland Trader

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blackberrywars · 1 year

Text

His Clothes

The result of me bingewatching atla/lok, falling in love with the middle aged anarchist polycule all over again, and being inspired by this adorable art of P’li in a tiny little top by @dalenino-art. All their appearances and ages are based on this awesome piece of art by @polapaz321.

Rating: T

Words: 3213

Relationships: Pre-Relatioship P’li/Zaheer, Ghazan & Zaheer

Tags: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Referenced Child Abuse, Referenced Kidnapping & Captivity, Trauma, Anarchy, Teenagers, Sharing Clothes, Size Difference, Awkward Boners

Summary: A newly-liberated P'li is in desperate need of something decent to wear, and Zaheer is more than happy to give her the clothes off his back. They don't fit at all, but they're clean and soft, and they help bring her feel human again as she slowly acclimates to their little ragtag group of teenage rebels. It would be a shame if Zaheer realized he was into it.

Read on AO3

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The girl —because she is a girl, no matter what those bastard guards with more fear than sense had to say about it— looks terribly out of place in the small, domestic safehouse room where he’d left her. It’s nothing special. A bed with sheets, a table with a wicker basket, a lamp with a shade, a saucer and a cup, but he remembers the cell where she’d been imprisoned. They hadn’t been there for more than a month, and P’li less than a week, though he’s seen her less than he’d like. She’d slept for the first four days. Healing, or so said Ming-Hua. Scanning the room again, he spots the tin basin by the wall, filled halfway with grayish water, and Zaheer looks at her face again, at the places where dark, wet hair sticks to her thin cheeks. She’d washed off as much grime as possible, and looks even younger for it, but he privately resolves to give her a comb, good soap, and oil as soon as he can. He steps closer, only for P’li to flinch away.

“It’s alright. I just came to ask how you were feeling.”

Tall as she is, she presses herself deeper into the corner of the bed even after he stops moving. He keeps his stance open, but small. It almost reminds him of trying to approach a sick animal, though he hates to think of her that way.

“You’re still injured, but I did not want to go back on my promises. If… if you still want to learn, you are free to stay. And also free to go.”

He adds the last part, ignores his own hesitation. Keeps talking, he’s good at that.

“I have medicine for where you were chained. It’s nothing like our waterbending healer, but I didn’t want to bring a stranger in here while you’re awake… Here, take th-” “I’m cold.”

Her voice is rough with disuse and deeper than most girls her age are, and it strikes him all the more for it. Huddled on the bed, she has her legs folded up as small as she can make them under her dress, trying to shelter against the spring draft. It’s the same dress she’d been wearing, and he could kick himself for not noticing sooner. Once, it might have been a burgundy, or even a dark red, but even in the daylight, it’s nearly brown, and patched over in enough places that he can see through the rough stitches. The hem barely covers her knees, even when she pushes her legs away from her body, visibly forcing herself to relax. She has no shoes. Of course, they’d liberated her in the night, when all she wore was this and her chains, but even still, there’d been nothing else in her cell. Either this dress was all she had, or all she had been permitted to keep.

Before he can think twice, he strips off his own robe and hands it to her, waiting for her to reach out with too-thin arms.

P’li stares, red eyes wide open, but pulls it to her chest.

“Put it on. I’ll be back in a moment with more.”

He raids his meager pack, and forgives himself for having to take a deep breath in the doorway, seeing how small she looks on the edge of the bed, clutching his robe closed over herself. It hurts to look at. He’s been in enough prisons and seen enough prisoners, but by all accounts, P’li had been a warlord’s weapon for nearly a decade. Slowly, with louder steps than he usually takes, he walks closer. His pants will be too baggy, but they have an adjustable tie, and they’re thick enough to handle hard travel. He can sleep without a tunic, if the two he’s brought can keep her warm. His belts were an afterthought, but she might need them to hold the clothes in place. Truly, he doesn’t need them anyway. His clothes are practical and useful, but are temporary possessions all the same.

“They won’t fit, but they are yours for as long as you want them. As soon as we can travel closer to a town, I can get you new things.”

P’li just stares at the stack in his arms. After a beat, and just as softly, she asks.

“Why?”

“Why?” Zaheer fails to keep the incredulity out of his voice, “You said you were cold.”

“These are yours,” she says, just as baffled and twice as dry, “This dress is adequate. It isn’t indecent yet.”

“Indecent? P’li, how long have you worn that? It belongs to a prisoner, and you are not a prisoner.”

“I haven’t left this room.”

The cold she feels suddenly settles into his spine.

“Then you will today,” he says, and his voice does not tremble, “If you want. You are not a prisoner, and you never will be again if I can help it.”

“Can you? Help it. You’re not a boy, just a target. You left when the lieutenant caught you talking to his artillery, and you weren’t there when he punished me for it.”

Firebenders shouldn’t sound like ice. Like the cold metal of the artillery that she isn’t. She isn’t. Ming-Hua hadn’t spent three long days healing the internal damage of a machine.

“I wasn’t. I regret it, P’li, but I cannot change it.”

“And if it happens again? I know there are others like my master, who want my power for themselves. You cannot stop them!”

“I can try,” he soothes, “The Red Lotus. My friends and I. Such people will always exist, so we break chains and kill the fools who call themselves masters. Your power belongs to you, Pli.”

“It doesn’t! It never has!”

Her voice comes out in a snarl, rough and biting. She clutches his robe tighter.

“It does,” he soothes, “It always has. If it did not, it would have died with him. You have your power, and the power to choose. I chose to kill him, and you chose not to run in the night.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face.

“It’s hard to believe in freedom, but it does not end with breaking chains and killing warlords. It is a necessity, like food and water. You have to keep choosing to take it.”

“So you choose to give me your clothes?”

“Yes.”

The way she blinks, slow and astonished, makes his heart clench. He holds out his arms again, and sighs when she takes them into her lap. She runs a finger over the hem of her filthy dress where it barely peeks out beneath his robe.

“Can I… can I burn this one?”

“P’li, if you want me to, I will hold it while you turn it to ashes.”

—

— — —

—

Zaheer ends up being right about his belts. Without them, P’li would never be able to keep his clothes up. Objectively, he knows she looks more than a little ridiculous —his pants balloon around her calves, and she still has no shoes— but he can’t help but smile when he sees her walking around the field. She spends every minute she can in the sunshine, stretched out on the earth in a puddle of fabric. She still goes quiet more often than he’d like, empty behind her red eyes, but on sunny afternoons, she’s as content as a cat in a sunbeam. When he comes to her room for the laundry, she tells him so, perched on the bed as she still is, most times.

“I did wear other things, you know.”

“Hm?”

Ming-Hua says he talks too much, especially when all most people want is for him to listen. He wants to listen to P’li. She rolls her eyes at him.

“You might have infiltrated the guard, but you only saw me in my room. I was never sent on a mission dressed like that, he would have never allowed it. I had a uniform and a metal chassis, like any proper weapon.”

He tries to imagine it. P’li as she is now, sixteen and painfully thin, in a soldier’s garb with armor over top. A weapon, not a girl. He looks her over again where she practically swims in his robe, and fails —how could anyone see her as anything but P’li? Mercifully, she keeps talking before he can ask.

“I would complete a mission and be locked in the bathrooms until I returned them —they didn’t belong to me, as a mark of the master. The weapon was cleaned and packed away, ready for the next fight.”

“And now?” Zaheer can’t help himself.

“I wear these clothes, and clean them myself. They’re much softer.”

She smiles, tugging at the hem of his pants. They drape awkwardly over her legs as she sits, and he can’t help but smile back at the way she wears and adjusts them. They don’t fit her, but he thinks they suit her all the same. It becomes a pattern, as she ventures further into the world beyond her cell.

When he brings her to their meal, she lights his sleeve up when the edge of it dips into the cooking fire. Only Ming-Hua’s quick reflexes save her from burns, and P’li spends the next hour picking char off the fabric while staring surreptitiously at their resident waterbender’s tendrils.

When he teaches her to read and write, she ties a belt around her bicep as a garter, and still stains the hem with ink. The end of his sash falls over the page. He barely notices the mark when she smiles so softly at her name scrawled into his journal, penned in her own hand. It could be his own imagination, but she stands straighter afterwards, tall and proud.

When she sits beside the field where they train, Ghazan —forbidden from lavabending since few things are more obvious— knocks his ass into the dirt with nothing but his fists. Ming-Hua cackles, loud and sharp, but P’li gasps sharply enough that his robe flutters around her.

She starts seeking out conversation with Ming-Hua, her voice raspy and soft, and then with Ghazan. It's more hesitant than he'd like, and as far as he's been able to glean, she only does it when he is somewhere nearby, but he hears her laugh out loud from another room and can't help but smile.

It's wonderful, right up until it’s terrible.

The spring had been mercurial from the start —one day providing biting winds, then bitter cold, then drizzling rain and flowers. On one such day, it brings the sun, and nothing else to relieve it. At just mid-morning, the sun beats down like an angry spirit, punishing anything and everything that dares be alive under its gaze. The air is still and painfully dry, scraping the moisture from his skin. Idly, he wonders if the airbenders of old had a technique to create breezes just for days this awful, before it gets too hot to even think. Zaheer wants to melt into the floor. Ming-Hua refuses to leave her room. Ghazan just smirks and takes off his shirt, wiping the sweat from his brow with a grimace even he can’t hide.

P’li is delighted.

So delighted that she strides out into the living room in nothing but his robe, sash barely holding it closed at the front. Zaheer had known P’li was tall. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed when the warlord had taken him on as a guard without doing a decent background check. Somehow, it hadn’t translated in his mind that her height was, at least in some part, due to the longest legs he’s ever seen in his spirits-damned life. They’re elegant, and he has to deliberately focus on that adjective because otherwise he’s going to settle on lickable, and that’s just…… unacceptable. Even if the robe —his robe— barely covers them. The only reason he doesn’t spit out his breakfast is because he chokes on it instead. She looks at him like he grew a second head, and then apparently decides his idiocy isn’t worth interrogating, because she walks out the door.

They’d closed the shutters against the sun’s rage, but a break in the slats lets him watch as she lays herself flat against the earth, content to bake herself to death. The knowledge floats somewhere in the back of his mind, that firebenders draw strength from the sun like plants. An apt metaphor, when P’li looks like nothing so much as a fire lily.

Behind him, Ghazan coughs.

Slowly, mechanically, he turns around. His friend just grins, an all too knowing look in his eye. He often pretends to be dumber than he is, a block-headed earthbender, but even Zaheer can admit that even if he’s a spiritual sinkhole, the bastard is more perceptive than he has any right to be. He nips it in the bud.

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Tch, so vulgar, Zahi!” Ghazan chuckles, tutting sarcastically, “And here I was going to congratulate you —it only took you a few weeks. Very impressive work.”

“It is not like that. She didn’t have anything else to wear but those rags, and no one here is her size.”

Not to mention the fact, first and foremost, that he should not be looking at her like that. Ghazan might call him a prude more often than Zaheer thinks is really fair, but he understands why the air nomads separated the monks and nuns by temple, meeting only in the winters. P’li is off-limits. She’s young, about sixteen by her measure, though he’d failed to recover any documentation. More than that, she’s under his, under their, protection. He’d leave the continent before he lets her think that it comes with a price. Ghazan interrupts that awful train of thought.

“I don’t think anyone’s her size, but I’m definitely closer. Your robe hangs off her shoulders like a laundry line, and it still doesn’t hit her knees. But here you are. Into it.”

“Says the one trying to hold Ming-Hua’s hand.”

“Low blow. But you admit you want her.”

Ghazan’s smile never leaves his face. He leans back, crossing his arms in front of his chest like he doesn’t have a care in the world, leveraging his height to smirk down at him.

“No.”

“You do. If you didn’t, you would’ve at least asked Ming to give her some underwear. Or at least given her something made of thicker fabric. I can see her bee stings from here.”

“Don’t look at her!” Zaheer hisses, poised to knock some tact into his so-called friend, “P’li was a prisoner! I am not going to take advantage of a girl who has barely seen the sun in six years. ”

“Then go buy P’li some real clothes, and try to look less smug every time she walks by wearing yours. If you’re gonna jack off, be quiet about it.”

With that, the bastard retreats back to either his room or to Ming-Hua’s so he can pester her for some ice again. Zaheer hopes she puts an icicle through him, and not in the way Ghazan would enjoy. Still, he resolves to take the advice anyway. P’li should have things that are properly hers. Not only would that get rid of his… inappropriate reaction to her in his clothes, it would be just the same as teaching her to cook, read, and fight on her own.

—

— — —

—

Zaheer hates Ghazan. He hates Ghazan so fucking much right now. As soon as they get back to the safehouse, he’s going to strangle the bastard with his uneven mustache. Again, he wonders if it’s a mark of her captivity or just typical firebender sensibilities that P’li had walked into the first store they found, immediately opened the folding screen, and stripped to nothing but her underwear and her headband. Without closing the screen. Zaheer spends the next half hour blindly handing her fabric while studiously watching the shopkeeper, Madam Tula according to her sign, search her stocks for shirts three times as long as they are wide. He also suffers. Copiously.

“Zaheer,” P’li says, his name almost as tentative as the soft request in her mouth, “Could you ask if she has more shoes? These are… too wide.”

She asks him that as though she isn’t standing there, towering over him in practically just the one boot. Still, he’s dutiful.

“Madam? Do you happen-”

“Oh, my ears aren’t gone yet, I heard your girlfriend just fine. Check those boxes, my son labeled them yesterday.”

It takes considerable resolve not to blush, which fails in the exact moment when he hands P’li another pair. She smiles, slightly. He tries not to wonder when she was last able to choose her own clothing, allowed to say that something wasn’t right, and he smiles back, keeping his eyes squarely above her delicate, freckled collarbones.

“Those look about right,” Madam Tula tuts, a measuring tape slung over her shoulder beside several chunky necklaces, “Now, dearie, if you don’t mind, let me see about measuring you. Bend down a bit for me, so I don’t need to get the footstool —there’s a girl.”

Bemused, P’li complies with the gentle tugging, and Zaheer quietly contemplates a nick in the ceiling beam when the shopkeeper winds the black tape around her body.

“37 marks at the inseam! And you’re still growing?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well. We had some tall, strapping soldiers running through a few years back. I’m sure we can find something for those lovely legs of yours.”

Zaheer exhales as quietly as he can. He stares resolutely at the ceiling as fabric rustles and the madam chitters. She’s being so kind to P’li, a gesture more valuable than any other, and he wishes he could thank her properly, torturous as this is. He supposes money will do, even as she brings out a brilliant yellow silk ribbon to take in the waist of a rather pretty dress.

“You’ll need to sew this down once you get home, but if you leave it with me, I can do it for a price. Of course I never got as tall as you, but I still remember growing out quickly enough to make my mother cry with all the clothes I went through.”

“Yes… it’s hard.”

“Ah don’t you worry about it, dearie. I’ll have you right.”

Somehow, between the shopkeeper’s matronly chuckling and P’li’s excitement about clean linen, he leaves the store with a modest pile of clothes in his arms and an incredibly inconvenient half-erection in his pants. He feels like a terrible person when P’li turns to look at him with a tiny, fragile smile on her face. The pants she’d found are loose around her endless legs, but the hems tuck nicely into a pair of tall boots. Her undershirt leaves just a sliver of her tan stomach exposed, but she doesn’t seem to mind, leaving her robe open and untied. She looks nothing like she did in his clothes, not that he’ll ever see that again, yet somehow it aches even better, when she looks so happy in things of her own.

Zaheer plans to meditate until he goes blind or starts levitating.

He never gets his clothes back.

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Extra Footnote: a not-inconsiderable reason behind Zaheer's ascetic monk aesthetic is that P’li keeps stealing his clothes. He only wears like 3 outfits ever, but it’s not his fault guys :/ The real summary of this fic is just this meme

Taglist: @hellinglasses, @halehathnofury, @wishingforatypewriter! If anyone wants to be added/removed for ATLA/LOK fics, send me an ask or PM

#legend of korra #lok #atla #avatar the last airbender #red lotus #zaheer #p'li #ghazan #ming hua #berry's fics

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makibeni · 9 months

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Ch. 67- An Unfamiliar Memory

A warm salty breeze carrying the distant cries of seagulls awoke her. She sat on the deck of a ship, an empty seat at the table beside, the afternoon sun creeping closer to her as it crawled it's way along the sky and past the meager shade she'd been provided. She wore clothes she didn't remember, yet knew as her own all the same, a white sundress and a wide brimmed straw hat covering her head. She shot a glance across the deck, it was large, larger than she'd been on, or at least in so far as she could remember, and as much as she could tell, empty. How she got here was unclear, and where here even was more so. Another look across the bow showed stillness, gentle waves slowly crashing against the unmoving ship, it's anchor sunk beneath them in the murky depths, and nothing but blue as far as she could see around her.

She felt an anxious touch scrape across her spine as her head filled with questions, all obvious and empty, having not the means nor even notion on how to answer them. She remained there for a while longer, in her shaded seat under the descending rays, pleading for an answer to come, and wondering if she could last long enough for one to come to her.

A distant melody began to fill her ear, one who crept with an inviting tone, beckoning her, and dissuading her worries. Like the clothes she wore she didn't recognize it, but knew it, the whispered notes like fingers plucking at the strings of her memory, conjuring forth feelings for which she had no faces, places for which she had no names, sights and sounds for which she had no sight, a life she knew but couldn't recall. An eerie, creeping dread settled in the pit of her stomach, a warning to reject the cloying symphony, but it's hooks had already dug themselves into her ear, reeling her closer to the sound.

She walked along, the tamping of her feet adding a resonant beat to the melody, the sound of ocean and distant birds falling by the wayside as disharmonious noise abandoned her with every passing step.

Her body moved on it's own, enthralled by the siren song enough to ignore whatever protests she may have still carried, but her mind was still her own, along with her sight. She spun her head around the halls as she walked closer, peeking into rooms and down corridors, searching for a thread to pull, but there was nothing. Aside from the conspicuous absence of people, everything seemed in perfect order.

Her body finally stopped as she reached a large door, a prompt, but one she had to act on, the rondo on the other side awaiting her answer. She thought about it for a moment, nothing about this was right, but it didn't feel wrong. She could hear a hum from the other side, a voice she felt familiar, and finally one she recognized, the first true comfort in this maze of questions. With arms outstretched she pressed against the door.

She sat across the way in a long flowing dress, her red braided hair draped across her shoulder as her fingers danced across the piano keys and a soft song escaped her lips. The girl made her way closer, each step bringing darkened clarity, erasing her confusion but offering no truth, as water slowly filled the room.

#makima x kobeni #makima #kobeni #kobeni higashiyama #chainsaw man #makibeni #yuri ship

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raxistaicho · 1 year

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Dorothea: The Diet Coke of nobility

You know, for a character who doesn’t do anything that could be called bad and isn’t even forced to be on Edelgard’s side like Hubert is, Edelgard Critical sure does focus inordinately upon Dorothea (when they aren’t focusing on Edelgard). Curious how they have such an issue with an assertive woman who knows what she wants and is willing to use her sexual power to get ahead in a world that would otherwise close its doors to her, isn’t it?

I mean really, what does Dorothea do that offends them so much aside from disliking the status quo of Fodlan? She’s not even that fond of Edelgard’s methods to getting her reforms through, just the ends.

So, when Three Hopes came along and started ripping anti-Edelgard talking points to shreds, her detractors picked up a line from Hubert and Shez’s C support (remember that? The Analyzer is involved in this one, surprise surprise) where Hubert remarks,

Hubert: Dorothea is a famed former songstress, well esteemed in the upper echelons of society. Your situation is vastly different.

This is taken as evidence that Dorothea is “quasi-noble" and thus not a commoner anymore. We’ll ignore that a big to-do is made about her being the only true commoner (Petra only counts by Fodlan standards) in the Black Eagles.

The purpose behind this attack is twofold, although usually it’s just an excuse for Edelgard Critical to engage in their favorite pastime: talking about how female characters who don’t like the state of things in Fodlan are dumb stupid girls who are dumb and wrong and misinformed and ignorant.

More sinisterly, this “quasi-noble” point is weaponized to take Dorothea’s status as the voice of the peasantry among the Black Eagles away from her;

So first off, saying that Raphael or Ignatz are more a commoner than Dorothea just exposes a load of ignorance. They’re both merchant class. Ignatz’s parents pay his way into the academy no problem, while Raphael gets in through selling off his parents’ old business assets. Dorothea was implied to have been forced to provide sexual favors to aristocrats to enter the academy.

Raphael manages to run a successful inn despite not... being the brightest guy around... (Sorry Raphael, I love you T_T). Ignatz’s family has a private military force and directly does business with House Riegan (as did Raphael’s before his parents died). In reality, the only character lower in class than Dorothea would be Leonie, who is the purest example of a peasant among the 24 students.

Anyways, let’s review Dorothea’s history;

So she was 9-10 years old when she was found by Manuela, 12-13 when she became a well-known diva, and 18 when the game began. The 3 years she spent before becoming famous, while almost certainly more comfortable than her time as an urchin, were most likely still a very meager existence filled with a lot of work and training.

Then, she finally becomes a songstress for the last 5 years of her life before coming to Garreg Mach, and the entire point of the Dorothea/Manuela support is to demonstrate that life as an opera star isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, and it’s heavily implied both were required to sell themselves sexually as part of their careers. I’m not at all anti-sex work, but Dorothea clearly doesn’t look back fondly on that part of it.

In summation, Dorothea is NOT a noble.

She was not granted opportunities just by the virtue of her birth. Over half her life was spent in abject poverty and misery, and the rest was spent in grueling work, including selling her own body.

Aside from her extreme fortune of having crossed paths with Manuela, everything Dorothea gained in life, she worked for. She wasn’t given the same opportunities to stand above the rest that Ferdinand, Linhardt, or Caspar did, but she pulled herself up there regardless. Disregarding her as a “quasi-noble” who doesn’t know hunger anymore and thus is out of touch with the peasant class due to having spent 5/18′s of her life in moderate comfort is a fucking insult.

No shade to Linhardt, but someone like him (IE, lazy) could only be at Garreg Mach because he’s a nobleman. Dorothea and Leonie are portrayed as extremely hard-working because it's inconceivable they would be there if they weren't.

Anyways, now for this nonsense that she’s a “quasi-noble” because the nobility have accepted her. That’s not her being a noblewoman herself, that’s being One of the Good Ones.

And coincidentally, Dorothea addresses this in two of her Houses supports, and she hates it.

Kudos to Allegra Clark for her incredible voice-acting in this support in particular. The contempt, bitterness, and anger are raw and palpable.

All the “acceptance” and “esteem” from the nobility is due to her beauty and voice. Much as she loves singing, being a songstress is not who Dorothea truly is. It’s all fake, all meaningless, and once she grows old the nobility will prove just how empty their acceptance really is.

Make no mistake, Dorothea is a peasant girl who was given the incredible good fortune to have the chance to work to rise above the station of her birth, but she never forgot where she came from, and she fights in a bloody war despite hating the bloodshed to help make a better world, where Dorotheas not lucky enough to meet their own Manuela aren’t forsaken.

#dorothea arnault #edelgard positive #edelgard discourse #dorothea positive #dorothea discourse #Fire Emblem Three Houses #fire emblem three hopes #The Analyzer

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nvrcmplt · 5 months

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loux knew better than to mess with any witch, let alone an - ah, tempestarii. they were on-par with sanguinaura in terms of power, gods unto themselves, some tall-tales and vagueries coming to mind. but being the foxy little bastard he was, transformed into a slender, ratty flurry of champagne fur and a piercing gaze, he'd slunk through nooks, crannies, holes, and tunnels for but another glimpse. she was beautiful, dressed to the nines, and he was taken, as if cursed by vayn's incessant need to inject himself into the upper crust. her voice reminded him of his mother's, in some strangely soothing way... so he tucks himself into her shadow, body shrinking, shrinking, shrinking until at last he'd become a meager fly, settling himself on her shoulder and waiting like a child to hear her sing once more. / rohesia!

Tingling in the winds, shifting of temperature and being, shadows tickle her hairs with a difference, but she felt no intention. No ill will in her direction - thus her gaze remained closed. Hidden behind bright red eyelids, shadowed well with slate grey and glitter. Her lips the same shade of the red, her favourite colour of course, as she stood centre place. Draped in the elegance of a midnight black - star decorated gown, the tail stretched for at least three feet from her placement, but it wasn't in her sights. Instead, her skin tickled with their new passenger, her lips curving only slight upon their closeness. Amused to the T, but she knew never to turn away a wanting ear. She barely turned anyone away that wished to listen, as the music began to form, to swell and creep into the silence of the large building of marble and age.

Her gaze slithered from behind dark lashes, shimmering with the storms within her very blood, as her lips part with a simple tone. A voice seeking out for a lost one, of hope, of fear. . . Amour. Her hands rose at her sides, slow and with intent, to beckon this Amour to her. To reach for this shadow, she was to speak too - or was she pleading to the unseen? Her features torn with worry, held together with pained hope. Answering back to the three men on their staged platform. But the words were with vengeance, after all - He left her. She was stuck here, seeking, waiting, desiring but ignored…

So, Rohesia's tones song with a low rumble, deep from her diaphragm, as she looked upon her audience with strength for them to understand her rage. Her sorrow. No longer will she wait, even though he was but the summer breeze in her hair and warmth upon her lips. No longer, will she raise her voice - telling the world as she sang on. Rohesia's frame moved little, no needing such to portray her intentions in the words of those long gone. Though as all tales, it came to an end - slow and almost a whisper, as she lowered her hands to her front and pinched the air with her voice as it lowered into naught but a wisp.

The music died with it, the sombre tale of a nymph left behind, seeking death to no longer feel love never returned. Still, her gaze remained upon her audience, though upon the lowering of the curtains with their applause, her gaze turned to her passenger. Humming low to not spoil the sight nor sound of emptiness in the building that would soon empty itself. "Little Dear, are you hungry?" Her hand beckoned her dress to grip, turning upon bare feet and heading towards the steps backstage. "I have a meal to share with you if you're willing to remain, little fly."

#astarablaze #« ( Rohesia ) » Answers.#rohesia vc; imma pop u in a cup with holes and keep u forever lil fly

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philtstone · 2 years

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but not alone

in a shocking twist i really was able to finish this on time for it to be a birthday gift to myself lmao -- done with 2 minutes on the clock

some background: i watched "why didn't they ask evans?", remembered i adored agatha christie novels, and immediately had to try writing this. depending on what you guys think and my Life schedule i may write part 2 because the potential latter half of this plot is so fun it really deserves to see the light of day -- but anyway. The Premise: bucky didnt fall off the train, steve still sacrificed himself, and a whole lot of characters were born multiple decades earlier than in canon. a big thank you to @firstelevens and @parlegee for their emotional support and plotting help and also to @flyinghome-againstthewind for their lovely encouragement and enthusiasm re the fic concept! i wrote more, as promised, and here it is!

the title is from fellowship of the ring because i am insufferable, and every little comment and kudos makes my year

Summary: After the weird-looking carpet cleaner has whistled three times the man says,

“You don’t look like a German spy,” muttered, like he’s really thinkin’ about it.

“Seriously?” splutters Sam. He says this so forcefully that the other guy has the nerve to look a little offended. But now, come on – come on, Sam thinks. It’s a fair question. Only Sam’s been having a really difficult forty-eight hours, so he doesn’t appreciate it.

It’s here that something big and important feeling clicks in Sam’s head. He’s seen that scowl before – just yesterday, ignoring poor Miss Dollie.

And just this morning, in the papers plastered all over his motel lobby.

“Oh,” says Sam, “you gotta be kidding me.”

But alas, there’s no kidding to be had.

“From the paper – they think you killed him, man!”

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes pales three shades under what little tan he has, but otherwise doesn’t react.

OR: Sam, Bucky, and a Post-War murder mystery that demands the power of friendship.

Excerpt:

The thing about Peggy is that she understands him, which is just a bitch and a half sometimes.

“You threw the weapon out.”

She’s repeating this, flatly, but with enough inflection that Bucky comprehends the are you perhaps a massive idiot implied therein. Peg would say it like that too — use perhaps and massive and arch her eyebrows.

Bucky presses his hands harder where they’re clutched at his temples and grimaces. “Look, I wasn’t thinking clearly, alright?”

“James.”

James, full name, not Jim like when she’s being chummy and of course Agent Margaret Carter of His Majesty’s Royal Service never quite got around to following Steve’s lead on the Bucky front. Bucky grimaces harder. Peggy will stare and be sardonic and, God help him suspicious until he explains.

“I dunno what you want me to say, Peg – it was there in the drawer and I couldn’t bear lookin’ at it anymore.”

Her resultant expression is just a touch too understanding for his taste.

“How the hell would I know that tossing a Colt into the Hudson in the middle of the night would get Howard killed?” Bucky adds, to move past it.

Minutely as possible Peggy flinches. Balls of steel, he’s always said. The other guys thought the same, but none of them had the guts to say it aloud. Speaking of other guys –

“Dugan’s coming over.”

“Like hell he is,” Bucky says.

Peggy takes an elegant drag of her cigarette. She’s sitting at the dull brown edge of his made-up bed and being careful enough that the ashes don’t spill. What difference that’ll make Bucky’s not sure. His apartment’s the definition of sad. Becca nearly cried last week when she visited, but then instead of crying yelled at him ‘til he relented and got a pillow.

“Evidently,” says Peggy, still on the topic of Dum-Dum, “he has not considered the double agent angle. His wife made you casserole.”

“Mm,” says Bucky, grim. He walks over to his meager kitchen, pulls a dusty bottle out from the cabinet and unscrews it. “Gonna get him killed one of these days.”

“Given my ongoing conviction that you are not in fact a spy –”

“Jury’s out on you though,” Bucky says, raising the bottle at her.

“-- you do realize that you are a prime suspect in the murder of our close personal friend.” She blows out. “If we can’t rely on our comrades, we’re rather fucked.”

“I am, you mean.”

Her mouth turns mulish and she looks away to the window then back. Maybe she did mean we, lumping the two of them under the tarp of some morbid umbrella. Steve’s dead and gone and sacrificed nobly, isn’t he.

“You didn’t kill Howard and he didn’t damn well kill himself,” says Peggy, steely. “I’d like to know which bastard did.”

Read More on ao3

#my writing #the falcon and the winter soldier #sam wilson #bucky barnes #captain america #the first avenger #agent carter #peggy carter #sarah wilson #howard stark #dum dum dugan #rebecca barnes #marvel #murder mystery au!!#tfatws fic #sam x bucky #sam x sarah #peggy x bucky #all platonic tho; this is a gen fic

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wives-natlho · 1 year

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Pearl Lane (Jaye Devale part 4)

CONTENT ADVISORY: Sexual assault, gore

She normally can’t feel it at all. The eye can see in shades of gray, but it’s almost as if she’s borrowing the eye from someone else, like she doesn’t know how to use it properly. The only time she can feel anything from it is when it hurts, and it’s hurting now. It starts off tingly, then becomes a warm sensation, making the sinuses and cavities in her head feel as if they are being filled with smoke. Both eyes begin to water in response. When the burning gets hot enough that she can feel it in her ears she can know for sure that Ikkobach is watching very closely.

The Sapphire Exchange is loud and filled with Eorzeans of any make you can imagine. Salesfolk bark their current pricing at any passerby in hopes for someone to stop and spend some of their meager gil. She knows it’s meager because she’s learned by now that nobody with any real wealth does their shopping here. Instead, refugees and Ul’dah’s own poor surround the stands with the last few vegetables and attempt to outbid each other with the little funds they have. Jaye witnesses one vendor sell their “last onion” for a three hundred percent markup, then pull out another “last one” once the crowd disperses.

The smells are a bit much for Jaye. She has learned to enjoy smells when they find her. Back in Garlemald her nose was mostly too cold to smell anything outside. When she was indoors, it was only the smell of her father’s expensive cologne mixed with brandy and cigars. She remembers her mother smelling nice, but it’s been so long now… What was that smell again? Lavender? No, that wasn’t it… what was it!? She remembers her mother’s smell, whatever it was, as much more pleasant than the cacophony of scents that now assault her sensitive olfactories. She smells cologne and rotting fruit. She smells the smoke of locals burning their herb of choice in pipes and cigarette paper. She smells dried flowers and fresh spices. She smells piss, somehow. She grips her nose with her left hand and moves on. She’s not here to shop. She’s going past here, to Pearl Lane.

As she walks up the stairs and crosses over into the Lanes, she moves her hand from her nose to her right eye, putting pressure against the outside of her skull, hopefully to quell a little bit of the pain. It helps some. She can open both eyes now, just in time to see a cadre of ruffians staring right at her. They chatter words to one another, snickering, whistling, and jeering. They remain seated and Jaye walks past them, pulling her cloak’s hood up over her head and ears. She dips into the shadows, looking for marks of the person she was told to meet.

The Lanes criss cross and connect, and they mostly look the same, filled with perpetually down-on-their-luck folks who like to hassle anyone who they think isn’t a regular. Jaye is shocked by the feel of a hand briefly gripping her left asscheek. By the time she looks up to see the culprit, the figure has blended in with the regulars. She speeds up, still not even knowing where she is. She begins to forget the markers she is even looking for. Was it a red bracelet? Or a red necklace? Or a BLUE necklace? She tells herself she’ll remember as soon as she sees him. Against her own advice, she doesn’t even bother looking at the people anymore. She lowers her head further and marches on.

The pain flares up in her right socket.

…

She tries to ignore the voidsent’s words that appear in her head, telling her that her plan won’t work. Her stomach growls. Her eye hurts. The smell of piss fills her nostrils once again. She pulls her hood forward and down, she lowers her gaze and continues. She walks past a man in a fancy blue suit, trying to impress some miners from the guild with foreign magics. She finds herself stepping onto a glossy marble floor. She looks up and notices a well-kept garden in the center of a huge room. Fancy waterfalls and plant life adorn various walls and surfaces. She finds a stone bench and sits down. She pulls off her hood and takes a deep breath, filling her senses with the relaxing environment. Ul’dah sucks, she decides, but this room is nice at least. Her grimace loosens into calm. A white-armored Hyur approaches and asks “Are you okay, miss?” She lies, with a silent nod.

She loses track of time, until the sky begins to turn orange. The open ceiling of the Gold Court is a godsend. She stands and pulls her hood forward once more, ready to give it another shot. She weaves through the connecting alleys, trying to retrace her steps. She keeps her head up this time, really looking. Maybe too intently. Right before she steps onto Pearl Lane, her momentum is reversed.

They pull her off her feet, as numerous hands lift her off the ground. She tries to scream, but a hairy hand jams a cloth gag into her mouth. She can’t count her assailants. There are too many, and she is too disoriented. She slips one leg free of its grasp and kicks it upwards, clocking a midlander woman in the jaw. One of the burly folks she doesn’t see brings a fist to her temple,and she blacks out.

--------------------------

“Wake up, Jaye.” The demon’s voice brings the Viera to consciousness. “You live. My bargain remains intact.” The being disappears into a swirling pool of darkness, leaving her alone with all of the corpses of her assailants.

Smells return. This time, blood, viscera, and sulfur.

Touch returns. She is cold, torn clothes expose parts of her legs and arms covered in dust from the long-vacant storeroom. She doesn’t feel further assaulted than a few cuts and bruises.

Sight returns. She tries to count bodies, finding sections instead. Sanguine innards cover large parts of the walls, still-dripping melted stone cast tiny bits of orange light into the windowless chamber. Smashed boxes lay in one corner, destroyed by the force of some unrecognizable body part, flung from across the room by Ikkobach a few moments earlier. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she spies more severed limbs and various intestine parts littering the environment. She decides the rest of the gruesome scene is not worth investigating further. She hurries out the door, shutting it behind her. She sinks to the ground, gripping her knees, and starts to hyperventilate. She’s becoming more familiar with this sensation than she would like. Too many walk past the crying and bloody girl than should happen in a functioning society.

She makes a decision. She can’t do this alone. Not anymore.

#ffxiv rp #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #prose #OC Fiction #oc fic #FFXIV OC #ffxiv fic #creative writing #writing #fanfiction #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv fanfiction #Jaye Devale

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astarab1aze · 3 months

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“What an awful kind of day.” Gure for Fuu

kim dracula lyrics

This was the first time Furie had seen Shigure like this - listless, lethargic, the look on his face cold and tired but not so of its usual sort of expression. Distant. Had he not already come to know the dog of the zodiac as half as well as he did then, he'd have let it lie, ignored it in the hopes it was a problem that could solve itself - one he wouldn't need to lend his voice to. But he did know him, better now, more fully, enough to know something was wrong - so clear in the sigh of Shigure's voice.

He didn't know the root cause, couldn't know what troubled him in full, but it must've been something important turned sour. There was admittedly much he hadn't told the dragon, perhaps too much that was painful enough to warrant hiding - but his defenses were down this time, worn down and easy to climb over in his stupor. So Furie did the unthinkable and, with all the wisdom bestowed upon him, shrugged out of his haori and carefully approached the stewing, brooding, miserable Shigure, gently draping white silk over his shoulders and slotting himself in beside him. A little boundary cross, the tip of his head and the curl of an arm around Shigure's middle, chin nestling into the ball of his shoulder.

At times like these, he wished he could speak, wished that he could offer some comforting words, tell him that whatever his troubles things would be all right. Strange to him, however, that he wouldn't quite have been able to say it with certainty; The closer he'd come to Shigure, the quieter and quieter the voidsong became, and the less effective he was at divination - Would it have been better that way, if the benefit of his talents had served him then? Would it have been as genuine, as meaningful coming from him, had parlor tricks and over-reliance on magic bought even a shred of certainty? He wished he could've helped, done something more than flail.

Iridescent scales shine in the hazy afternoon light peeking in through the screen door, prismatic colors dancing all around the room, and at first he doesn't notice; But the moment he does, he emphatically points all the shifting shades out to Shigure, carefully, gently hooking a few fingers around his chin and guiding his head upward, to follow the streaks of pink, violet, white, green--

And he inches closer, pressing his cheek to Shigure's, giving so bright a smile as he can manage, and prods with tender fingers each time he tries to look away. Sparkling, as if he were stright out of a shojo manga in all his glory, lashes fluttering little butterfly kisses against Shigure's skin, soft glow beneath the surface of his own. And he tries, he tries, voicelessly mouthing, [ "Shigure, look at the colors--" ]

This is a small thing, for wisdom he cannot offer, a pittance, a meager attempt at easing the agonies of an addled mind - but it was something, something that could bring Shigure back to the here and now, if only just, if only for a little while. This was all he could do to turn so bad a day into one that may yet still be enjoyable...

#☿ || Asks.#✘ // In Each Other We Find Absolution; Shigure.#long /#/ soft fuu for gure--

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akki106 · 9 months

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Common Mistakes to Avoid in Eyebrow Microblading

Over-plucking or Waxing Before the Technique

With regards to getting ready for your eyebrow microblading treatment, fight the temptation to over-pluck or wax your temples. Your specialist needs a current hair to work with for the best outcomes. Getting carried away with the tweezers or waxing can leave you with meager temples, which invalidates the point of microblading. Trust your expert to shape your temples during the interaction.

Disregarding the Guidance of the Microblading Craftsman

Your microblading craftsman is a specialist in their field, so it's significant to pay attention to their recommendation. They will give explicit directions on the most proficient method to really focus on your foreheads when using the technique. Overlooking their recommendation can prompt inconveniences or shoddy outcomes. Keep in mind, they maintain that you should have the most ideal result, so make certain to heed their direction.

Skipping or Inappropriately Adhering to the Aftercare Directions

Aftercare is a significant piece of the microblading system. Skipping or inappropriately adhering to the aftercare guidelines can prompt diseases, scarring, or untimely blurring of the shade. Find an opportunity to comprehend and carry out the aftercare routine given by your microblading in bangalore specialist. Your temples will thank you over the long haul.

Going Overboard with the blackness in the First Application

It's simpler to increase the blackness in a touch-up application than to lighten excessively dark brows. Keep in mind that the color will appear somewhat darker right away following the operation, but it will gradually lighten as the wound heals.

Not Having Realistic Expectations

Clients need to be aware that results can differ depending on lifestyle choices, skin type, and aftercare compliance. There is no one method that works for everyone.

Ignoring Patch Tests

Even if allergic reactions are rare, a patch test is essential to ensure the client doesn't react adversely to the pigments or other products used. Every skin reacts differently with the pigments, therefore it is said to do a patch test before microblading.

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kennyparrots · 1 year

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How To Take Care Of A New African Grey Parrot: The Best Tips

Parrots are on of the most pursued pets by virtue of their astounding ability to mirror and talk works. They attract different people with their bewildering tones and social characters.

One of the most dazzling kinds of parrots anytime found is known as the African Faint Parrot. This kind of bird has an amazing ability for sorting out some way to communicate human words. In all honesty, it is seen as the smartest understudy of talk of all parrot species. This sort of parrot can have better correspondence with its owner since it is so clever. Their abilities are for more developed than most various birds, which makes them so entertaining to have as pets.

The Cheap african grey parrot for sale available to be purchased comes in two particular kinds of species. The principal arrangement is the Congo African faint, and the second is the Timneh African Dim. The viewpoint that amazingly perceives these two from one another is the shade of their tufts. The Congo Parrot has a truly red tail and the body is a grayish assortment. The Timneh Parrot differs in that the faint on its body is substantially more dark and the tail is a faint maroon. The two sorts can grow up to 14 inches long.

The principal qualification in the females and folks is the way that they have an other body structure. The male have a greater head and a greater neck, while the females have meager and more modest features. The folks will regularly moreover turn out to be fairly greater than the females, notwithstanding the way that they every so often are exactly the same size.

These birds need a colossal obligation from their owners in case they will prosper like they would in nature. A fittingly centered around African Faint can live for quite a while in the event that the owner views it as a person from the family, as opposed to just some pet. The environment you put them in should be gigantic enough that they experience no trouble opening their wings, playing with their safe toys, and moving around. A parrot that has no space to move could rely upon pecking at themselves to keep involved. This could make huge damage the bird and it is another clarification that you should continually participate and play with your parrot so it doesn't get depleted. They need an environment that is incredibly natural and an owner who can understand how to manage their necessities.

African Grays are ordinarily extremely respectful pets, yet moreover with another animal, they need express planning and much perseverance is required. Now and again, they may be morose and eat at you or bite on things around it to keep involved. Since they successfully get penchants, you ought to be careful in order to show them sure schedules quickly and make a decent endeavor to leave out the tenacious indecencies.

These birds are phenomenally affable. They love to help out people and are extremely hyper once in a while. They will set you feeling perfect on even your most clearly awful day. These parrots love to be pet and scratched in basically the same manner as. Regardless, when they live in the wild, they love to team up with their gathering. The birds will moreover return the love by truly regurgitating or endeavoring to kiss you! Unwind notwithstanding, both of these exhibitions indicate veritable affection. Notwithstanding the way that, if your bird endeavors to kiss you it is recommended that you don't allow your mouth to near it as your spit can genuinely hurt the bird.

Comparably likewise with another animal, these parrots love thought. They will not live as extended without it, indeed. Guarantee you never ignore your parrot and treat it as you would a your family member. It will be essentially assuming everything falls into place and will reside to its most extreme limit. African Grays become miserable without companionship, so if you are apparently running low on time delighted in with your bird, you should ponder buying a second one to remain with it.

Also, this will keep your parrot away from doing fiendish things, for instance, chewing and gnawing.

The most ideal way to truly sort out how fantastic parrots are is by making them one more extension to your friends and family. You will not at any point regret the things learned and the new friend that you have. They are astounding animals and are so insightful, you may essentially end up bantering with your parrot more than the rest of your friends and family!

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delimeful · 3 years

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you cant go back (1)

BTHB: Locked Up and Left Behind

first in a new alien series! this one is completely unrelated to WIBAR :)

warnings: abandonment, violence, injury, mentions of death and starvation, mild cliffhanger

Virgil was screwed.

This was quite a familiar phrase for him. He most frequently utilized it while trying to haul Jan away from whatever batshit scheme he was joint-deep in before it blew up in their faces. Normally, however, even he could admit that his panic, fury, and/or despair was sometimes exaggerated for emphasis.

“I’m absolutely, massively, unbelievably screwed,” Virgil tried out in a low hissing whisper, and grimaced when it came out sounding like an understatement.

In the corner of his eye, his helmet’s display screen blinked an eye-numbing red, informing him that there was a breach in his suit, and the atmospheric pressure inside had been completely disrupted. There would normally be beeping, too, the shrieking ‘you’re about to die’ kind that made his shelling turn pitch with terror in simulations, but— well.

He’d been able to endure about two clicks of the racket before giving in and tearing through the audio speakers with his teeth, ruining them entirely. It meant he wouldn’t hear any of the vital organ failure notifications, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience a sickening play-by-play of his death on another planet anyhow.

The others had left him in some kind of dilapidated shack, hand-painted a faded red on the outside. It looked unstable, but it was apparently built sturdier than any of them expected, enough to not even creak as he thrashed around with all his free limbs. He’d been cuffed around one of the support pillars, which meant that even if he could break it, it would probably just immediately collapse and crush him to bits.

Considering there was an enormous crack in the glass of his helmet, he hadn’t really thought he’d get the privilege of worrying about how he was going to die. Aisleen— the one who had bashed his helmet against her elbow plate— had certainly agreed. She’d waited until after the others had left, granting him a quicker death the way her culture called honorable.

Janus would have disagreed loudly. Not just because Virgil was pretty sure his only friend didn’t actually want to see him choke to death on the probably-somehow-toxic atmosphere of a Deathworld, but also because that guy could go on about interplanetary ethics for rotations if you let him.

Virgil wrenched at his restraints for the hundredth time, ignoring the hot pulse of pain that came with the movement. His chitin had to be cracking by now, but the rawness of that was easier to focus on than thoughts like, ‘I’ll never get to watch him argue someone in circles again.’

The worst part wasn’t wondering if they’d fess up to abandoning him or not. No, the worst part was he wasn’t actually sure which option he preferred.

He could imagine Janus looking for him, searching for leads that didn’t exist, stubborn the way a starving shilsho would stay locked onto flesh. Never knowing what actually happened. Jan hated not knowing things, the way Virgil hated sitting with his back to an open entryway.

But if he knew… If Janus managed to wrest the truth from them— or if they bragged about it— he would blame himself. They’d left Virgil because he was just a weaker version of Janus when it came down to it, and because he backed Janus up no matter what, and because it was funny, leaving the twitchiest guy on the crew to die on a world where anything and everything could kill you.

At least Janus wouldn’t be tempted to come down and retrieve his corpse. The other Chelcera was all about self-serving scheming, and there was no way the benefits outweighed the costs. He had to believe that much for his own sanity.

Virgil closed his eyes, trying to push away the what-ifs and the mental flash-images of Janus stuck in his position. He had more than enough to worry about already.

Since the atmosphere didn’t seem toxic enough to kill him outright (for now), there was a surplus of possible ways he was going to bite it. Weather, wildlife, or withering into a lifeless husk due to lack of sustenance.

Alliteration, nice. He was funny when he was on the brink of deathbed hysterics.

For now, he was only in conceptual danger. The shack was sheltering him from any outside elements, being terrified had killed his appetite, and there didn’t seem to be any heat signatures nearby, though his vision was limited by the sides of the helmet.

It made his skin itch, not being able to see behind him, but his auxiliary arms were spread out and taut, waiting for even a wisp of movement. If anyone tried to attack him from behind, they’d strike quick and true.

Of course, then he’d probably be immediately immolated by a pissed-off Deathworlder, but at least he could go down fighting.

If he was vicious enough, they’d have to kill him, and he wouldn’t have to worry about being taken alive. Bitter venom welled up in his mouth at the thought, and he tried to breathe deeply.

He was thinking too far ahead. For now, he’d struggle and swear and watch his atmo tank dwindle down to nothing, see if it changed anything. Maybe he was going to asphyxiate, after all.

He made it through the night.

The sun was close to this planet, enough that he was warm even in the stripped-down version of his bodysuit and in the enclosed shade of the barn. He thought he might even get overheated if he tried to sunbathe here, which hadn’t ever been a concern back home.

Thankfully, the meager sun that spilled through the half-open window didn’t reach him, so he didn’t have to add boiling alive to his list of potential deaths.

Unthankfully, more and more heat signatures popped up as the dawn arrived, all small but still potentially life-ending. He’d heard more than enough horror stories about palm-sized Deathworlder creatures that could kill you with one bite. He wasn’t letting his guard down.

The noise that accompanied the day was welcome— he was exhausted, and every unfamiliar chattering call or whistle made his aux limbs lift back up defensively, keeping him from dropping off into sleep.

He was not falling asleep on a Deathworld. That was just asking for trouble.

The energy crash hit hard, though, and by the time the sun was overhead, he was warm and sleepy enough that he almost missed the slow creak of the door.

He definitely didn’t miss the bright splotch of heat that trotted in, though. He quickly flicked his sensor eyes closed, getting rid of the heat-sense overlay, and felt his hair stand on end as he met the slitted eyes of a small, furry quadruped.

“Mrow?” the creature chirped at him, tail winding back and forth in the air. Its fur was colored in abstract patches, and he could see the tiny fangs in its mouth as it yawned threateningly.

Virgil resisted the urge to hiss, wriggling his wrists desperately. There was no point in antagonizing a Deathworlder creature preemptively while bound and helpless, a voice in his head reminded him. It sounded kind of like Janus.

The creature stalked a little closer, predatory grace in every one of its movements, and paused to watch him again. It’s pupils seemed rounder now, ears flicked up attentively. Virgil resisted the urge to twitch his backlegs, keeping still like a terrified prey animal as it approached at a leisurely pace.

He’d had all of his bulky outer suit stripped from him by the others-- no point in leaving the soon-to-be-corpse with a pricy surface suit. They’d even taken the shoes, which had felt a bit like insult to injury.

Now, with the local fauna drawing close to his feet, it felt more like just plain injury.

As bad as the odds were, he was fervently hoping that he could make himself seem tougher than he was. Maybe having to work for its meal would scare it off? He grit his fangs and drew himself up in preparation to lash out as much as he could in retaliation for whatever damage the creature was about to inflict on him.

It trod directly over his feet and brushed its little head up against his legs, a low rumble beginning to emanate from it.

He stared blankly down at it.

“What?” he clicked quietly, and the creature chirped back at him, taking a tight turn to loop right back around and brush against him in the opposite direction. Still, not a hint of pain.

Did… Did it have contact poisons, maybe? There was a residue of shed fur building up on the ankles of his undersuit, but it seemed surprisingly harmless.

With another, louder rumble, the creature settled into a crouched position-- directly on top of his feet. Its eyes drifted slowly closed, the vibrations it was making rolling through him.

Oh, Seryl and all her stars. It was sleeping on him.

It seemed docile for now, but what would it do if he woke it? Even he threatened to bite people who interrupted his naps, and he wasn’t a tiny wild creature governed only by survival (no matter what Janus told people). His flimsy inner suit wouldn’t stop an Ampen’s claws, let alone Deathworlder teeth or claws.

The creature continued to be a warm purring weight on his feet.

He resigned himself to a very tense next few hours.

Patch, as he’d taken to mentally calling the creature, didn’t end up attacking him. When it woke, it stretched languidly, chirped up at him a few more times, and then departed shortly before the sunlight began to fade.

And then, the next morning, it returned. Despite Virgil’s many fears, it continued to show no interest in harming him. At some point in the day, he even accidentally fell asleep with it, and still, no surprise ambush.

Despite Patch’s yawns and rumbles and claw-flexing stretches that could all technically be threat displays, it seemed bizarrely… almost... fond of him.

There was the slightest hitch, on the second day, when he realized Patch could come in the other windows and approach from behind while he slept. Surprisingly enough, the thought of the creature sneaking up on him was less distressing than the idea of accidentally striking out at it while asleep.

The presence of a non-hostile creature keeping him company had been... surprisingly nice when he wasn’t busy freaking out about it.

Once he’d imagined that awful scenario, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility, and so he spent an inordinate amount of time using his aux limbs to fiddle with the sealing latch on his helmet until he could tug it free. The slick surface and broken glass of the visor meant that he fumbled it basically as soon as he got it off, letting it drop to the floor behind him, but the reserve power had already long died anyhow.

And then, when Patch returned a bit after the sun’s rising, they hissed viciously at him the moment he turned his head. They proceeded to refuse to come anywhere near him for a good long portion of the day, at first bristling and pacing back and forth, and then eyeing him oddly while pretending not to, and then finally approaching slowly-- in what Virgil struggled not to view as a predator’s stalk-- and deeming his feet a suitable resting perch once more.

He’d like to say he never had a friendship so exhausting, but his best friend was Janus, so this was basically different ditchport, same junkyard.

“You two’d probably get along,” he said to Patch after he’d been forgiven for the horrific crime of exposing his face. “How do you feel about schemes?”

Patch had imitated one of his double-click noises perfectly, which was somehow mostly-adorable instead of mostly-terrifying. He tried to make one of their little round chirp sounds and mangled it horribly, but thankfully the resulting look they gave him was more alarm than offense.

By the fourth day, he’d begun to keenly feel the effects of being completely without nutrients. It was really only thanks to his nature that he’d gotten this far. Chelcerae were sporadic eaters-- big meals sustained them over longer periods of time compared to other aliens. The downside of that, of course, meant that when his body finally realized that there was no food coming, the hunger pains were going to be all-consuming.

Working at Janus’s side, he’d gotten used to having food when he needed it, or even wanted it. It just figured that he was probably going to die the same way Janus had first found him: starving.

He fell into sleep more and more frequently. It passed the time, and being asleep made it much easier to ignore his impending doom.

Of course, if he’d been aware of the rude awakening he was in for, he wouldn’t have been so eager.

In fact, if he’d known what exactly was going to find him sleeping on that fourth day, he probably wouldn’t have dared to shut his eyes at all.

#sanders sides #ts virgil #alien au #you cant go back #ycgb #humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #my writing #writing #bthb #BTHB: Locked Up and Left Behind #cats #new alien au dropped

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stevenbasic · 2 years

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Growing into the Job: Post 223 - Scenes from a Party, p6

----------------------------------------------------------------

“So, what’re you?” the tall, stick-thin mustached guy said, nodding and sloshing, towering over me on the dance floor, “Some kind of mini boss-man?”

“I, uh…” I began, as one of his friends, an overweight Latino guy, ‘accidentally’ bumped me.

“Yeah I think he’s the doctor, or something,” said the third, a red-haired goon with a sloppy beard. He had spilled some beer on me earlier.

“Is that right?” slurred mustache, “Are you the guy they all talk about..?”

Okay yeah I’m not sure how I ended up here, either, surrounded on all sides by three lunky goons. Just ten minutes ago I’d been dragged from the powder room, taken by the hand by the statuesque blonde Amelia. Trailing after her, shorter by nearly a foot in her party heels and filmy green dress, when we hit the small dance floor at the club I was immediately swarmed by women - all taller than me. Buffeted and bumped by hips and thighs, I tried to keep up with the music which - even this early in the night, before anyone had eaten - was already loud and energetic. Amelia, Stephanie, Katie and Kori: big blondes. Then there was Bobbi and Brittni and Bianca and Bessie. Shanette and Katarina had found me again, as had Josie and Lakshmi along with a bunch of other girls that I barely knew. No, I couldn’t help but notice, Melissa...yet.

But there were plenty of others. They danced with me, they danced around me, they danced all over me. Laughing and drinking and apparently paying no mind to how closely squashed they were to me, that I was their boss, and that this was alllllll totally inappropriate. I’m not a great dancer and felt fifty shades of awkward, but apparently I was amusing enough to be the center of attention. The flagrant flirtations were bold and blatant from each and every one, and I was the shortest on the floor.

There were other guys here; I think I’d mentioned that before. The guys on the construction team had been invited, and a few actually showed up: younger guys, the braver ones, it seemed. Mostly they’d been hanging around the periphery, watching the girls from behind the bar or the shadows of the booths. But as we all danced, I slowly became aware of some of them making their way towards me.

And now I’m surrounded by meatheads. Momentarily separated from the girls, whose attentions were briefly pulled away. They were all hugging someone, crowing and clucking, congratulating them for something.

“I dunno why they all dig this guy so much,” red beard said to his friends, ignoring the gaggle of girls and the fact that I was right there.

“Yeah he’s a twerp,” added mustache.

I hated it, I fucking hated it, how weak and meager I felt. Not that I was ever a big and burly dude, but I’d rarely found myself intimidated just by being near other people. But everyone now, in this crowd, seemed so big. I was five-three, I think, and everyone was either in heels or just naturally much bigger than me. And these guys, being no exception and obviously intent on being bullies, were starting to scare me.

Suddenly, though, they stepped back.

“Leave him alone,” came a voice, a harshly female voice from above and behind me, “Did AJ put u up to this?”

“A-AJ..?” one of them stammered.

“Y-yeah…” said another.

Suddenly hands were on my shoulders, spinning me around.

I gasped.

“Are you okay?” she asked, looking me up and down with concern. Angie. New hire, in accounting. Longtime friend of Melissa’s, she’d told me. Big breasts, which had starred in the now countless, aggressively inviting little videos she’d been sending me this week. Her dress tonight was red, fitted, and low-cut to the extreme. It left almost zero to the imagination as far as her heavy chest was concerned.

“Uh….y-y-yeah,” I answered, suddenly mortified.

“Where is he?” she snapped, looking over my head to the three construction goons who I felt, already, retreating behind me, “Is he here?” I was shorter than her, but they were taller still. She looked up at them; I tried to keep my eyes from just sinking into her tits.

“Y-yeah he was dancing with that really big blonde girl…” I heard one of them answer, as my eyes helplessly, slowly dropped to the voracious cleavage Angie had on display, like they were being drawn by magnets, to a safer place. “I don’t kn-“

“Cynthia?” Angie asked, obviously annoyed at something.

“Yeah I think so…” came a male voice, as I struggled to pull my eyes up before Angie’s attention found its way back down to me. The ubiquitous perfume of these girls still filled the room, and seemed to keep my willpower crippled. Her tits were a comfortable place to keep my attention while the noisy confrontation went on above me.

“T-they went back that way…” someone added.

Angie’s eyes shifted, she turned her head and looked across the dark room, to my right. My gaze followed, and saw a dark hallway over which a sign hung: Private Lounges. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re coming with me,” she suddenly announced, grabbing me by the hand and pulling me from the guys, dragging me out of the crowd, and down the small, dimly-lit hallway. Her thick red hips rolled in front of me with confidence but stopped in front of a door, ajar. Inside, someone was groaning as Angie peeked in. She paused, smiled strangely, and pulled the door shut.

“Who’s in th-?” I asked. What’s going on, and why do I feel, suddenly, like I’m being watched?

“Shush,” Angie stopped me, apparently unaware - or at least heedless - of the strange presence I felt hovering over us. She pulled me away with new vigor, “let’s try these other doors…”

The lights flickered.

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undercoveravenger · 4 years

Text

A Pirate’s Life For Me

Creature Week 2020: Day Two

Pairing: Harry Hook x Siren!Male!Reader

Request: “Harry Hook rescued by a male!siren reader?”

A/N: This is set in an AU where the villains were never trapped on the Isle, so Harry grew up on the Jolly Roger with his father.

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Harry had been working on his father’s ship practically since he’d been born, but in all that time he had never seen the typically crystalline waters of Neverland become this rough. He’d seen the Jolly Roger weather storms before. He’d smelled the salty sea air grow thick with the scent of rain and watched as the dark wooden planks of the deck speckled with the falling droplets of water. He’d seen the sails billow and tear when the winds came ripping through more suddenly than the crew had been prepared for.

This was no normal storm though. The sails were being shredded up on the masts, the wind was thrashing the tail ends of the rigging around like whips and no one had been able to pull them in. Harry had abandoned his previous post almost immediately when he realized just how bad the storm was getting and did his best to help mitigate the damage.

He’d barely managed to reel in one of the flailing lengths of rope and get it tied down when he found himself slammed into by a wayward boom, the thick beam uncontrollable since the vicious winds had torn through the sail. The force knocked him from his feet and sent him plummeting over the ship’s railing and into the freezing water below.

Harry flailed, trying in vain to flounder his way to the surface but only succeeding in tiring himself out. The weight of his heavy leather coat and the sword and scabbard strapped to his hip dragged him further beneath the frigid waves as they soaked in water.

His movements had started to slow and his vision was going dark when he’d first seen it. A dark figure had flitted past him, barely discernible from the black depths around him. Then he’d felt the thickly-muscled tail brush against the back of one of his legs and, as his consciousness finally slipped away from him, Harry hoped that he would drown before the siren chose to do more than observe him.

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When Harry had woken up and found himself lying on the sun-warmed sand of an unfamiliar beach, he had been sure that this must have been the afterlife. The burning ache of his ribs where he’d been struck by the beam during the storm when he tried to sit up had been enough to convince him that the events of the previous night had really happened.

He forced himself to sit up quickly, ignoring the pain from his bruised chest in favor of attempting to identify his surroundings. He was sure that this was not the main island of Neverland, but it also had a very different appearance than any of the smaller surrounding islands that he had been to. He supposed that the ship could have drifted during the storm, but he doubted that they’d made it into a previously uncharted archipelago. But then, how had he ended up here?

The last thing Harry had known, he had been drowning and the ship had been far enough from land to have made washing up on some beach nearly impossible.

“Oh good,” came the sound of an unfamiliar voice. “You were out so long I was starting to wonder if I hadn’t gotten to you in time.”

Harry wheeled around at the sound of the stranger’s voice, eyes widening as he locked eyes with the most attractive guy he’d ever seen. The stranger was laying in the water on his stomach with his chin propped up on his hands, seemingly undisturbed by the freezing temperature of the water as waves crashed up over the bare skin of his back and shoulders. Harry forced himself not to linger on the stranger’s shirtlessness, instead shifting his attention to the damp waves of thick (h/c) hair falling over captivating (e/c) eyes and the alluring smile he was being offered.

Harry swallowed sharply, suddenly struggling to remember how speaking worked, “You? You were the one who saved me?”

The (h/c) nodded, shoulders straightening proudly, “Yeah, I was swimming nearby and saw you fall off your ship.” He ducked his head, looking almost abashed, “My sisters told me that it was what you deserved, but I didn’t agree so I dove after you.”

“Your family wanted you to let me drown…?” Harry wasn’t exactly sure what sort of people would want to let someone drown, but he had the distinct impression that he probably wouldn’t like his savior’s family.

He shrugged, rolling over onto his back so he could look up at the sky, “Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s kind of what we do.” At the baffled look on Harry’s face, the (h/c) let out a huff. Harry watched as the stranger shifted his weight back onto his shoulders a little, using the new leverage to lift his legs out of the water.

Except it wasn’t legs that emerged from the frothing waves. No, instead, the (h/c) lifted a huge, gleaming caudal fin from its previous place hidden under the water, droplets and rivulets trailing down the length of the tail toward where it merged with his torso.

At first glance, Harry had assumed he was just one of the merpeople that lingered in Mermaid Lagoon, but he quickly noticed the distinctive differences. Merpeople had beautiful, elegant tails that came in a rainbow of shades more appropriate to showing off than for use in hunting. Sirens on the other hand? They were made to kill and one good look at the (h/c)’s tail had Harry convinced that he knew what he was dealing with.

His scales shone a brilliant emerald color and the myriad of colors that made up the caudal fin nearly camouflaged the set of poisonous spines hiding along the length of the fin. Harry knew, even without seeing it, that a similar set could be found along the shorter fin that trailed up the back of the tail.

After all, sirens were deadly even without their captivating songs.

Harry scrambled back at the sight, pushing himself further up the beach in an effort to get away from the creature.

The (h/c) let out a disappointed huff, letting his tail drop back against the water with a loud slapping sound. He dropped his head back against the sand, but Harry knew he was still under observation. “You realize that if I were going to make a meal of you, I would have done it by now, right? I had the perfect opportunity before. Y’know, when you were drowning?” He sighed as Harry made no move to relax, eventually pushing himself further into the water and slipping off below the waves.

Harry knew that even with the siren out of sight, it still posed a massive threat. He wasn’t sure exactly how long it would take for the crew to find him, if they ever did, so his first priority needed to be securing himself a shelter. He wasn’t sure how large the island really was, but he decided that he would rather make his camp near the beach than in the thick jungle that loomed beyond the welcoming white sands. He’d just have to make sure to take some precautions to ensure that his silver-tongued visitor would not be visiting unexpectedly.

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It took him several hours to set up a shelter that he deemed secure enough, and several more to find enough rocks to serve as a sort of barrier. He spent the rest of the day arranging the stones in rows three or four deep around the sea-facing edge of his camp, the most jagged edges facing the water. He knew that rocks alone would do little against a siren, but it made him feel better to think that if the creature wanted him dead enough to drag itself out of the water after him, it’d at least have to risk injuring itself.

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When Harry awoke the next morning to find the siren lounging in the same spot as it had been yesterday glaring reproachfully at his meager stone barrier, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction.

The (h/c) turned to look at him as he emerged from his shelter, (e/c) eyes glinting oddly in the light. “What’s this for?”

“To keep you away from me,” Harry replied evenly, crossing his arms over his chest.

The siren rolled his eyes grumpily, dragging a claw-tipped finger along the edge of one of the rocks, “And here I was going to offer to take you back to the other humans once you were healed.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, “And get back in the water with a siren? Not a chance.”

“Good luck meeting back up with your family then,” the siren retorted, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “There are not many boats that come this far. There are too many of us up here.”

Harry’s eyes widened; if the siren was telling the truth, then he really was on his own. There would be no chance of rescue if he was deep in siren territory. He swore at the realization, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Why should I believe you?”

The (h/c) shrugged, pushing himself to sit up further to watch the waves come rolling in, “I have no reason to lie. Because of you, I have no family to go home to. No one to protect but myself.”

The brunet was confused. “Because of me? What did I do?”

“I saved you,” the (h/c) replied simply. “They saw that as a betrayal. Thought that I was putting a stranger above the wellbeing of the pod and decided to cast me out.” He smiled wryly, eyes fixed on the horizon, “I have no one but you now.”

The siren’s honesty had Harry feeling a little guilty about his earlier hostility. And the (h/c) had a point when he said that he could’ve just let him drown, but instead he’d tried to save him and he was offering to take him back to the ship as soon as he was better.

Harry took a deep breath as he made his way closer to the siren, kicking a few of the stones out of the way as he approached. The (h/c) looked stunned by his change in attitude, but he chose to remain silent even as the brunet sat down beside him. “My mom died when I was little,” he started slowly, azure eyes fixed far past the boy beside him. “She’d gone out on the ship with my dad and his crew and when they came back she was gone along with almost half of the crew.” The breath he took was shaky and Harry felt like he didn’t have nearly enough air in his lungs to continue, “My dad says it was sirens; they were lured off of the ship by their singing and drowned.”

The siren’s (e/c) eyes were wide as he looked back at Harry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Harry replied slowly, “I just wanted you to understand why it’s hard for me to trust you.”

“That makes sense,” his companion nodded, the end of his tail flicking and creating a mess of tiny waves that washed up over Harry’s feet and wet the ends of his pants. “You can call me (M/N), by the way.’

“The name’s Harry,” the brunet replied, watching the light dance off his new friend’s scales hypnotically. His lips quirked up as he realized that being trapped here with him until he had recovered may not be so bad after all.

#harry hook x male!reader #harry hook x male reader #harry hook x reader #male reader x harry hook #male!reader x harry hook #descendants x male reader #descendants x male!reader #descendants x reader #male reader #male!reader #male reader x #male!reader x #male reader insert #male!reader insert #Creature week 2020

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delldarling · 3 years

Text

all that matters | merrick

chasing truth | chapter nine male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 7803 words lemon | teasing about relationship, communication about feelings and past relationships, kissing, nipping/mild biting, hair pulling, oral, hands, lube, penetrative sex, banter & talking during sex chapter index? or chapter eight?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

For a moment or two, you can bury the knowledge of Faerie behind the facades you've come to know and care for. You've known Gar as nothing more than a handsome, nerdy human being for years, and Merrick? Sarcastic, awkward Merrick has been one of your closest friends over the past year and change. It's safe to say that you've spent ample time in their presence, trading jokes and building stories you know you'll share for years to come.

That false screen over their true selves won’t ever last now though. You know what lies under their glamour, and you know them too well. You can't ignore the things you've seen. Neither you nor Merrick will ever doubt Gar's morality and honesty again. Not when it comes to those he cares for. Not after what he’s told you and Merrick about his Court.

The car doors close in quick succession, one after the other, echoing down the dim, silent street. No one comes to investigate. No lights flicker behind the curtained windows, and no one cracks open their door. It's a relief, and yet a mild disappointment, knowing what you're all about to do.

“This still doesn’t sit particularly right with me,” you say softly, words barely more than a breath tickling your lower lip. You clutch your bag to your chest, fingertips digging into the seams to better distract yourself. Ditching the car and taking another makes sense, but just because it makes sense doesn’t mean you have to like it. Or approve of it.

Merrick can’t quite look you in the face, but Gar only shrugs. “It’s not the kindest option, not by a long shot, but we can’t travel on foot,” he says. Part of you wants to cringe because Gar doesn’t mean we, he means you. “Besides, we need to make it to where we’re staying in the next few hours, and this is the quickest way to tempt Roran closer without putting any of us in danger.”

You turn, eyeing the cars lining the street, and sigh. More stealing. It’s fairly silly that you’re worrying about this kind of crime, especially when you’ve already been riding around in a stolen car all day with a faerie assassin. You can’t stop the itch of the thought in the back of your brain, which probably means this is how you’re attempting to compartmentalize everything.

“I won’t even break the seatbelts this time,” Merrick tells you, cautiously placing his hand on your shoulder, fingers feather light. Relief eases the tension around his eyes when you don’t move away, and he sighs when you step into the circle of his arms. “If you don’t want to witness it,” he whispers, leaning his head against yours, “then I suggest you keep holding me. He’s right though. We can’t keep the same car, not after we clouded the whole thing with glamour.”

“I know,” you say against his neck, enjoying the warmth of his skin against your cheek and temple. “I get it, the whole thing, but it’s not going to stop feeling wrong just because I know it’s necessary.”

Merrick breathes deep, and you can already tell that he’s going to keep trying to explain it away. “If we thought that-”

“You don’t need to defend yourself. We’ll get in the new car, we’ll head to our stop for the night and it’ll be fine. I just… Need to compartmentalize, and that’s rather new.” You sigh against his neck, the tickle of breath making him shiver. Merrick shifts, hands leaving your back and sliding up your shoulders until he can cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones, tender and careful, and you can’t think to do anything but blink up at him.

“Or I could distract you?” He offers, and bends his head down, covering your lips with his. A few hours ago and you would have been too tired, too on edge and hungry for food to let him try this, no matter how attracted you are to him. But everything with him, regardless of the fear and adrenaline, is still brand new and leaves your fingers aching, eager to keep him close. Even with all that you’ve learned, Merrick still feels the same, warm skin and calloused fingers, and it’s familiar and… comforting. When his mouth opens, breath hitching as you lean in against him, you find yourself wondering how eager he’s been for more of this. More of you.

Merrick puts his whole body into the kiss, pressed against you from chest to thigh, the taste of floral tea filling your senses as his fingertips carefully stroke behind your ears. He hums into your mouth when you roll your tongue and even though your eyes have fallen closed, you could almost swear that a brilliant light is beginning to shi—

“Hey!” Gar shouts hoarsely, and something hard bounces off of Merrick’s forehead. When the two of you stop kissing, eyes darting to the small item rolling slowly away from you, it turns out to be a small, wizened acorn, cap long lost. The two of you turn to look at Gar with startled expressions and find him trying to hold a fierce scowl on his lips. A muscle in his cheek jumps, betraying his amusement.

“I hope the both of you realize what happens every time that starts up! And if you do then I suggest you take a moment to reflect... You don’t,” Gar says after a moment, stalking closer with a steady frown now on his lips. “Merrick, you light up like a firefly every time you touch! You may as well be a torch in the middle of the street!”

Merrick’s mouth opens, attempting to disagree, but his lips curl and his nose wrinkles, like he’s tasted something off.

“You do. I’m over here jimmying open a car door, trying to steal it, and suddenly there’s a blazing light in the middle of the road! Everyone on this street is probably going to come out here, and-” Gar freezes when you shush him, eyebrows rising.

“Everyone is going to wake up if you’re shouting!” You snap, embarrassed but mostly tense because you still cannot quite believe you’re both being chastised for a handful of kisses. Both of the faeries grimace, shoulders hunching like they want the ground to swallow them whole. “I’m never going to say this again,” you mutter, already regretting your interruption, “but please: Go back to stealing the car, and Merrick and I will discuss his—his enthusiasm.” The frown on Gar’s face promptly vanishes.

“Enthusiasm,” he mutters, a goofy smile replacing his initial ire. He looks slyly at Merrick, but then holds up his hands in surrender when Merrick glares. “Right. Stealing. I’ll be quiet until it’s time to go.” He turns on his heel, heading back towards an old looking Datsun, a ridiculous little spring in his step. You’re fairly certain Merrick is going to make him pay for that later.

“So,” you say, your heart suddenly ricocheting off of your ribcage before it settles back into place. “You… You glow?” You have to fight not to laugh, though Merrick notices straight off. His eyes narrow before he sucks a deep breath in through his mouth.

He tries, twice, to say something, but ends up shaking his head and closing his eyes, breathing out through his nose. “Apparently,” he finally settles on. “You make me happy, make me- forget myself. Or forget everything else. I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again, but I’ll be more conscious of it.”

“Is that a normal thing?” You can’t help asking, laughing quietly when his shoulders slump.

“For my sake, I hope it isn’t. We should go though. I believe Gar is finishing up.” He nods his head in Gar’s direction, but you don’t even look towards your friend. Your eyes are caught on the collar of Merrick’s shirt, replaying everything Gar had confessed to earlier in the car.

“Gar doesn’t lie,” you murmur. “You agreed, he can’t have been lying. After everything he’s been through.... Is there any way—”

Merrick presses his lips together until they’re nothing more than a slash across his face. “If what Gar says is the truth, then none of us should have lived the lives we have.” Merrick grits his teeth, hands growing loose in their grip on your arms and nods towards Gar again. “Back in the car. Roran might not be close yet, but it still isn’t safe. The last thing we need is humans with guns seeing us stealing vehicles.”

You have to agree with that, but you still can’t help wondering about it all in the ensuing silence. Gar worked as a Guard in the Court of Land for the entirety of his adult life. He refused the Queen’s direct orders to kill a disobeying gardener, but... The Fae aren’t supposed to be able to disobey their monarchs. After Gar’s confession, he and Merrick had shared a serious, silent conversation with only a look. One you had no hope of deciphering and while you know you can’t actually do anything about Gar’s situation, you can’t stop yourself from worrying about it. You turn it over and over in your mind as the three of you drive away, meager belongings in hand, and time slowly slips away from you. You barely notice when you leave the main roads behind, but when the car pulls to a stop in almost full darkness, you lift your eyes. Gar has parked in the driveway of a rather ornately decorated cabin, surrounded on all sides by tall trees. You glance back down the drive, but all it reveals is more forest. You must be out in the middle of nowhere.

“I thought we were heading to a hotel?” You ask, confused as Gar gets out, grabbing both his bag and your own before you can even think to take hold of it..

“I said I knew how to use the internet, not that I was going to head to a hotel.” He gestures to the surrounding woods, trees shading parts of the cabin from view. “Hotels, or motels even, have too many witnesses. Even if we lock down on any glamour use and I hide my hands and ears?” Gar makes one pointed look Merrick’s way, eyes roving from his face, to the way he carries himself. Both of them have always been lovely, and Gar definitely has his fair share of admirers—Em comes immediately to mind—but Merrick?

With his fair curls, and the utter disdain he directs at just about everyone who shows him attention that he doesn’t want, he’s always stood out. Never mind that he hides his ears, and the great tattoos of his wings, you were hardly the only person who had been unable to tear your eyes away from him every time you met. You’re still not sure how he managed to hide so much of himself for so long, especially after all the times he’d hung out on camping trips or went out for drinks. Yeah. Gar doesn’t have to say anything else. No matter where you go, there is going to be someone who won’t be able to forget Merrick’s face, or demeanor, or both.

You glance back at the cabin as Gar passes you by. The clean windows and paved driveway, and the careful tending done to the planter boxes hanging from the windows...

“Did you book us an Airbnb?” You can’t help asking, rushing to keep up when Merrick starts walking to the door too.

Gar throws a sweet grin over his shoulder, cheek growing a shade darker with green. “Two bedrooms and everything. I’m going to leave you and Merrick to get settled,” he teases. You would like to kick him for that one, but you can’t actually deny that a few moments alone with Merrick will be pleasant. “And I’m going to grab food from a supermarket. I’ll be less... conspicuous by myself,” he says idly, like he’s still thinking everything through. He unlocks the door, not even bothering to set down the bags to do it, and then sweeps inside.

Gar is a whirlwind as he moves through the cabin, turning on lights and dropping your stuff in the small, but cozy main room. He gives you enough time to get through the door, checking out the small windows in the common area and the kitchen, and then turns to leave. He clasps Merrick’s shoulder once, nods his head at both of you, eyes already distant and then he’s gone, back through the still open door. You take a few steps after him, mouth opening to call out a goodbye, but he’s vanished. You blink, confused, because he didn’t even take the car, but then… Well, you knew already that the only reason they hadn’t left town on foot was because of you.

“That was weirdly intentional,” you mutter, quietly closing the door. For a moment, you hesitate, hand over the lock, mind racing. You can’t really ignore the fact that you don’t need any food. They’d brought plenty of things from the apartment in the array of bags that Merrick had brought in. Maybe he’s really just trying to give you and Merrick some time on your own? And he has the key, you remind yourself, finally locking the door. You turn, quietly wandering around the little cabin you’re going to be staying at for… who knows how long. You can feel Merrick’s eyes on you, but he doesn’t actually follow until you head into one of the bedrooms. Both of the rooms are medium sized, clean, and better than any standard motel, that’s for sure. The decor all has some kind of woodsy theme that makes you wrinkle your nose, but Gar might appreciate the irony of it, what with his tree affinity. We’re not X-Men, slips back into your head, making you smile wryly.

Merrick slides past you, groaning as he flops backwards onto the bed. His hat slips off of his head as he bounces, his curls falling in a picture perfect halo around his face. With no one else around, you’re not sure if his hair looks so bright because you don’t normally see him with his hat off, or if it’s because he’s beginning to glow in your presence. You bite back a smile.

“How are.. How are you holding up?” You ask, sitting so you can kick the knock-off keds down on the floor. You stay where you are at the lower corner, but after a moment you pull your legs up to cross them, noticing the storage space under the bed. The place is definitely lovely, but it’s still out in the middle of nowhere, and unknown. You wonder if anyone ever gets over wondering if something is underneath the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to get down and check. The momentary image of Roran waiting underneath has your heart speeding, though you’re not sure whether you want to laugh or shiver.

Merrick swallows, but summons up a smile for you. It’s not brilliant or blinding, but it’s real, if soft. “To be honest, I’m not actually sure?”

“You don’t have to know, Merrick.” You reach out, tugging a wrinkle in his trousers, just under his knee. “I’m asking if you need to talk about things. If you don’t want to—” You stop when Merrick shakes his head.

“I’m… I’m happy, because of you. Because you found out about me and you didn’t run. And... I’m hurting because of Roran.” His cheeks tense, which likely means he’s gritting his teeth again, trying to puzzle his way through the labyrinth of his own feelings.

You take a deep breath, unsure as to whether he’s going to be okay with the line of questioning you’re opening up, but you have to do it. It’s not even that you have to know, but Merrick very much looks like he needs to talk about it. He might not get another chance, not without Gar around, and you’re not sure he wants to do that, not after what you heard in the car.

“...Is Roran your ex?” You ask, fully expecting a wince and closed eyes, or for him to immediately look away.

“Are you going to be surprising me like this forever?” He asks instead, laughing softly. You give him a small smile, but otherwise continue to stare. Human or Faerie, the question he asked isn’t actually one you can answer and keep truthful, and besides, you’re trying to get him to open up. You don’t want to push, or have him change the subject so quickly. “Not exactly,” he finally says.

“Merrick,” you softly chastise, because you know there’s more to the both of them than that. He sighs, brows furrowing, but finally begins to speak.

“We made no declarations. Roran had plenty of other lovers and I didn’t mind. I—I was never much interested in anyone, but I didn’t mind passing the time with Roran. My interest in him was sparse, at best.” He frowns, like he realizes how that sounds and pauses to lick his lips. “I cared about his well being and I enjoyed his company, especially as a friend, but my interest lay in my work. In fulfilling the orders the King gave me, and I never felt like I had anything left to truly give him. Not really.”

“Did he.. Think you were exclusive to him?” You ask, drawing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You can’t deny that it’s an awkward feeling, knowing this. But Merrick has been by your side for a year, and you knew he was keeping secrets. It doesn’t change your feelings, however strange it might be, finding out that he’s been with others, but the knowledge does put a different spin on what you witnessed back at your house. “I’m not condoning anything, his actions or—I’m just trying to understand where he’s coming from,” you rush to say, when Merrick looks slightly pained.

“Not exactly,” he says again, and truly grimaces when the words pass his lips. “He asked for my love, asked for any scrap of attention I would be willing to throw his way, and for a time it was easy. I always liked him, and giving him that much had never really been a problem. But before I came, I told him I wasn’t his. That my heart was my own.” Merrick sits up, and he looks torn, staring down at his empty hands. “I told him I wouldn’t die, and that, I think, is what he was initially angry about. He thought I’d died, and I never made the effort to correct that worry.”

That you might be able to understand.

“Okay, that I might agree with,” you tell him softly, shrugging when he looks at you, dark eyes wide. “Do Faeries apologize? Because leaving someone who cares for you is one thing, but letting them think you’re dead is… a little much. Granted, we’ve been raised very differently, so I can’t actually speak for him.”

“I, yeah, I do owe him that,” Merrick agrees. “But my heart—it’s yours, now,” he tells you, voice low and fierce, and desperately earnest. His eyes search your face, trace your slowly smiling mouth and you’re suddenly very thankful that Gar decided to vacate the premises for a while. “I can’t change how I feel, though by Air I tried at first. But I don’t want to change how I feel about you. No matter what happens with Gar, or with Roran, I want to stay with you, if you’ll let me.”

Your chest feels as if it’s all tangled up in knots, nerves and worry utterly strangled by the sudden tidal wave of softness. “I want you to stay, too,” you say, eyes drifting to the leaf pattern on the bedspread. “Even if you do change your feelings, you’ve been in my life for a year now, and.. I see you in the future, you know? If it’s with me, then great, if it’s as friends? I can see that t-”

Merrick leans in close, your name on his lips, interrupting the awkward string of words spilling out of you. “Then I won’t be leaving,” he assures you, his curls crushed against your forehead. “Not for any of them. I can’t turn away from this, and I have to help Gar, but I won’t leave,” he whispers, watching you closely, like he’s afraid you might disagree. You reel him in for a kiss instead, trying not to let your eyes linger on the way his lips tremble, but then he’s smiling against your mouth.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

It almost doesn’t make sense, knowing you’d spent hours in your bed with Merrick, exploring each other, mapping out every inch of each other’s flesh with fingers and mouths… And all of that was less than two days ago. While it had been happening, it had felt like the only thing that mattered, like you’d never forget it. Your heartbeat had been so loud in your head that you could barely hear yourself think beyond the next touch, the next kiss.

After the day you’ve had, after everything that’s happened since you forced yourself to grab a few hours of rest in a stolen car, part of you wonders if there aren’t things you imagined. Did Merrick really like it when you touched his ears, or bit at the lobe of them and traced the cartilage with your tongue? Had he really made you fall to pieces so quickly on the kitchen counter, or had it only seemed that way, with adrenaline and hope and lust running high?

The first touch of his fingertips under your shirt is electric though, and the callous on his thumb catching at your hip makes you shiver. Regardless of the time you’d taken before, or how fast or slow things had actually happened, the chemistry between you is a heady thing.

Merrick’s kiss is slow, and more than just the press or slide of his lips on yours. It’s the pause before he kisses you, the beat as he pulls away, mouth parted, his breath soft against your skin before his tongue touches your lower lip, and then his mouth closes, sucking slightly, like he’s trying to taste a drop of honey that he knows was left behind.

How are you supposed to keep quiet with such attention focused on you?

The first soft gasp has Merrick’s hands skimming over your middle, hand coming to rest on your heart, to gauge your pulse before he tries to get your shirt off of you. Part of you thinks you should tease him and struggle with the material—he’s always trying to undress you first, isn’t he? But you’re too eager to get his mouth back on yours, to curl your hand into the curls at the base of his skull and pull, exposing his throat for kissing.

As soon as you do that, as soon as your fingers are tangled in his hair, Merrick glows. You don’t bother to point it out, you don’t really want to halt things at the moment, but you bite at his neck, wondering if any marks you leave will glow too.

His eyes close when you pull a little harder, his cheeks grow ruddy with color and then you let your own eyes unfocus, losing yourself in the feeling of him under your hands. He runs just slightly warmer, though you’re certain that could be your imagination. The heat of him against you feels wonderful though, and leaves you wanting more. You slide a hand along his back, reveling in the change of temperature, and sigh when he shudders under the sweep of your fingers.

He doesn’t pull away—his breath is coming faster as you suck at the skin of his neck—but Merrick’s hips shift, his legs settling to either side of yours and then he’s groaning, erection rutting against your thigh, trapped in his trousers.

“Harder,” he whispers, and for a second you’re not sure whether he means you to use your mouth or the hand in his hair, but a twitch of your wrist answers that question. His mouth falls open and you have to release his neck so you can lean back and take in the sight. It’s—It’s intoxicating, seeing how much you affect him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen someone so eager for you, and then his eyes open, wonderfully dark underneath those pale lashes and arousal grows so strong in you that the ache of it is painful.

“What do you want?” You ask, voice low as his eyes trace your lips. You have to ask, because you’re not sure what you want, if you want to feel his mouth again, or use your mouth on him, or maybe-

“Everything,” he whispers, because it’s the truth, and that’s all that matters to him.

You huff out a laugh, knowing you probably look punch-drunk off of his kisses, off of touching him at all. “Merrick, as wonderful as that sounds, we’re going to have to narrow things down.”

He barely looks sheepish, though you catch his eyes darting to your bag near the side of the bed.

“I packed… Things?” He says, and his tone is so unsure that you want to pat his cheek.

“I could have sworn I looked through that bag,” you mutter, fighting a smile, but Merrick sits up on your thighs and you let him go. He looks, well—He already has sex hair, with the way you’ve been yanking at it, and neither of you have actually gotten there. Gar is going to have a field day when he comes back.

“Did you check the side pocket?” Merrick asks, and he leans over the edge of the bed, pants riding low on his hips and exposing the dimple on his lower back. He tugs at the zipper, fumbling about and comes up with lube and condoms, and a handful of other things you’d kept in your bedside drawer.

“Are all faeries this prepared?” You tease, smiling widely when he rolls his eyes. “Or am I just terribly lucky?”

He doesn’t respond, just hops off of you—and you can feel the difference now, as it’s cold without him—and pulls off his clothes like he has no sense of modesty. It’s always a rush, seeing him bare this way. The tattoos of his wings are still impressive, catching your eye and drawing your gaze over his shoulder and bicep as he turns to face you fully, but then your eyes lower and your breath quickens.

“I can’t get enough of this,” Merrick murmurs and he looks so damned earnest, sitting down next to you on the bed and leaning over you so he can brace himself up on his forearms. “The way you look at me. For so long I thought I was imagining things-” And you do laugh when he says that.

“You thought you were?” You ask, reaching up to trace a fingertip over his cheekbone and down his jaw. “At first, I thought I had a chance, but then we were friends and... Honestly, I was sure you didn’t like anyone. I watched you reject person after person and was convinced that I’d only ever fooled myself. The other day when you joked about sharing a bed? I thought—”

Merrick frowns. “I was trying to be sly,” he murmurs, wincing when you raise an eyebrow.

“It came across as a joke, after the way I’ve seen you talk to other people.”

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” you hasten to say, slipping your arms around him and tugging at his shoulders, wanting him closer. “I know that now,” you correct, pleased when he’s nose to nose with you. “But I didn’t then. That’s why I grabbed your hat and reacted like I did. Every time you said something even remotely similar, I convinced myself that I was only hearing what I wanted to hear. I was only hearing what I thought about when you weren’t around.”

“You fantasized about me?” Merrick asks, and he sounds entirely too gleeful about that.

“...Did you fantasize about me?” You shoot back, knowing it will likely shut him up.

“Yes,” he says instead, completely surprising you. “I… I felt like I shouldn’t have, but I kept thinking about the way you talked to me and I was lonely and—It was more than once,” he blurts with a sigh, and he looks like he hates the fact that he has to tell the truth.

You just grin at him, feeling ridiculous, until Merrick shakes his head, and gets back to kissing you. Apparently he’s decided the time for talk is over. Or at least, talking about this subject is over. His kisses trail down your neck though, which you suppose means he’s decided on what he wants, and you can’t really complain.

He uses tongue and teeth as he moves down your body, hands kneading gently at your thighs, stroking with fingertips and pressing with his thumbs. He lingers at your hip for a moment, sucking kisses into the skin there that you know are going to ache later, and then his hand is on you.

He definitely remembers everything he’d learned back at your place. He knows how to stroke, how much pressure to use, how to curl his fingers just so, and your thighs are starting to tense and his mouth isn’t even on you yet.

“Merrick,” you murmur, clutching at the blankets under your hands. You want to watch him, want to see his pink tongue lick—but you’re mildly distracted by that glow of his, shimmering softly over the walls. The light is on in the room, ceiling fixture bright, but there’s movement to the light on the walls that matches the rolling of his shoulders and the arch of his back.

His mouth closes over you, tongue flicking.

“Fuck,” you say immediately, tensing when he pauses, waiting for you to relax under his touch. He doesn’t use his teeth here, that’s for sure. There’s just his tongue at first, hot and wet, and his breath, soft against your bare skin. Then Merrick sucks until his cheeks have hollowed out, fingers curling just right and you have to bite your bottom lip, using the pain of your own teeth in your flesh to try and keep yourself from thrusting your hips up into his face.

He pulls off of you with a wet pop, leaving you whimpering and can’t help the little smirk he directs your way before he speaks. “You don’t have to be gentle with me,” he tells you, smirk growing a little wider. “You’ve seen some of what we can do. You can let go,” he assures you, hand still working you over, tongue sliding over his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of you on his own skin.

“Sure,” you say shakily, and then your eyes are nearly rolling into the back of your head as his mouth closes over you again. You’re fairly certain he’s doing it just to leave you breathless, to leave you speechless. “I’ll just—just go to town,” you mutter, rolling your hips, but only just. “You could probably, uh, could just pick me-”

Merrick stops using his hand on you, hooks his arms underneath your legs and lifts your hips as he kneels on the bed. He curls his arms around you to hold you in place, legs hanging over his shoulders, and rolls his tongue over you before he starts sucking again, making soft noises that are driving you crazy.

“Oh, oh, fuck, you’re going to-” Your hands are totally tangled in the blankets now, having dragged them with you as he lifted you partially off the bed. You’re going to lose it if he keeps up with this, blood rushing towards your head, leaving your face feeling hot and your thighs shaking against his ears.

You shout as you come, trying to arch your back, to get closer to his mouth and pull away from it, all at once, but Merrick is holding you too tightly. After a moment it gets to be too much and you’re gasping, panting and reaching out to try and slap at his knee, though you can’t quite reach. “Enough,” you say once, and Merrick slows, but he doesn’t pull his mouth off of you until you wail the word. For a second you think he’ll just drop your overstimulated self back to the bed, but Merrick is more careful than that. He lowers you down, revealing his messy face and heavy lidded eyes. His cock slides over your most sensitive parts as he sets your ass in his lap and carefully takes your legs off of his shoulders. Your calves feel like they won’t hold you up for a week.

“I’m going to die,” you say, all dramatics, and then Merrick is chuckling, wiping at his lips.

“I hardly think you will,” he says, confident in his words. “But if it was too much, I have no problem ceasing while we’re ahead. Soon enough, Gar will be back and...” He licks his lips again, frowning slightly as something occurs to him. “Did I glow, like Gar said earlier?” You can’t help laughing, but that only makes you move against him, leaving the both of you making soft, shocked noises.

“Would you—would you like to find out?” You ask, breathless when he presses himself between your legs.

Merrick hesitates, nearly frowning for a moment before he settles on an easy, slightly awkward grin.

“It’s a bit of a toss up,” he explains, eyes tracing you from head to toe. He lingers on the spots he’s kissed, on the way your mouth is parted, breath still coming heavy, like it’s being drawn up from the absolute depths of your lungs. “I want to do the things that could potentially lead to me glowing.” He can’t seem to stop himself from rolling his hips, from rutting in between your thighs and leaving himself trembling at the touch. “But do I want to know if I’m actually making a fool of myself?”

“Making a fool of yourself?” You repeat, laughing. “Is that what happens when faeries glow during sex? They’re considered fools?”

“Maybe not fools,” he amends, looking a little awkward as he tucks a few stray curls behind his pointed ears. “But… Horribly transparent. You can see how much you affect me, and leaving our emotions laid bare?”

That you can understand. Granted, you don’t think you’ll ever mind the fact that he shows just how much he wants you. That he’s incapable of hiding how he feels when you touch him. You desperately want to kiss him again, to return the gesture. You might not be able to glow, but you’re fairly certain anyone looking at you can see how you feel—especially now that you’ve both laid it all out in the open.

“Come here,” you urge, crooking a single finger.

He pauses, dark eyes darting between you and himself, and you see the thought cross his mind. He could try and press inside you, he wants it, but—Merrick leans over you, arm stretching until he’s braced himself next to your shoulder, as close as he can get without being inside you. His hair falls back into his face.

“Kiss me,” you say, stroking your hands along his sides and up and over his shoulders. You have to concentrate, keep yourself from getting distracted when the pads of your fingertips catch on the wing tattoos. They have such texture, and one day you’d love to trace those lines with your tongue, if he’ll let you.

Merrick falls back into kissing you like he’s never left. Tilts his head and slots his mouth along your lips, soft at first and then his tongue finds yours, sweet and warm. He starts grinding against you, making you shudder underneath him because you’re still oversensitive. You’re not sure you have the energy in you for more than lying here, for hooking your ankles behind his back as he works himself to completion inside you, but just the thought of that has your pulse speeding again.

When he pulls away from the kiss to breathe, you reach up to try and adjust his hair, tucking the curls back once more, but you don’t actually succeed in anything other than making it look messier.

“Lube,” you remind him, when he seems plenty content to simply stare at your face, blinking slowly. He jumps at that, snatching at the pile of things he’d left on the bed when he’d stripped off his clothes and shakes his head once he has the bottle open, tilted over to spill the gel into his palm.

“So you want to witness my shame?” He asks archly, and that tone of his is all an act. You wonder how many times you fell for it, how many times he said exactly what you were thinking and you wrote it off, purely because of his tone and-

No. There’s no need to dwell on it, not now.

“I have witnessed it,” you say instead, breathing out slowly as you reach for his hand. You slide your fingers through the lube and then reach down to prep yourself, watching his face all the while.

Merrick looks gutted. He swallows, eyes intent on your hand, on your fingers, stroking and pressing into you and he snaps the lube bottle closed. He tosses it over the edge of the bed, pressing himself close again so your hand brushes against him every time your fingers move.

“At some point,” he says hoarsely, and your eyes get caught on the gel starting to drip over the edges of his hands. “I would like to watch this. Just this, but—” He glances at you, gauging your reaction and joins in. You’re shaking again, watching his face, feeling his fingers move in tandem with yours, but the feeling is a lot and eventually you let him take over. Merrick breathes out when you pull your hand away, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and licks his lips. “We’re on a bit of a deadline,” he murmurs, looking just a slight bit disappointed by that fact.

“Then hurry up,” you tease him, though it’s a little hard when he’s touching you this way. When he’s making your thighs tremble all over again. “I want you at least once before we get interrupted.” Before Gar gets back, before you have to crash for the night because you’re exhausted, before—Before you have to get up tomorrow, and possibly get back on the road to who knows where. This would be the absolute worst time for Roran to find us, crosses your mind and your heart speeds for all the wrong reasons.

“Noted,” Merrick says, breaking through your thoughts with a smug smile as he removes his fingers. The first stroke of him against you has you clenching your hands in the blankets again. Just the wet slide of his cock against you is enough: lust sweeps over you in a tidal wave, your thighs shifting like they’re trying to spread, even though they’re open already.

When he takes himself in hand though, when he finally presses into you? You lose a few moments, just enjoying the heat of him, the feeling of fullness.

Then he’s glowing.

There’s no hiding it from him this time. His eyes aren’t closed, and his face isn’t pressed into your neck, or your body, intent on bringing you pleasure first. Merrick blinks when the glow is cast on the walls. It’s not enough to blaze through the window and the closed blinds, but he sees it now, and his face turns an absolutely lovely shade of pink.

He doesn’t stop his movements, or try to stop himself from glowing. He takes a couple quick breaths and thrusts into you, gasping when you tighten around him reflexively.

Merrick doesn’t do things by halves. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t pound into you, chasing after his own pleasure, he builds it between you. It takes long enough that when you realize time has passed, you’re fairly sure that Gar must have returned, but—But Merrick’s hands are sliding over your body and his hips are pressed against the back of your thighs, and you don’t have time to think.

He whispers your name and his eyes are so heavy lidded, he looks like he could fall asleep where he is. You think the only reason his eyes are even open is to watch you, to see the look on your face every time he pulls back, only to slide back in, leaving you languid and terribly warm. You’re going to ache tomorrow.

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you see that Merrick is clenching his jaw, trying to keep the slow rhythm he’s got going, but his hips are stuttering. You tug him close, angling your legs until they’re tight against his ass and he groans, being so deep inside you.

“I want you,” you murmur. “Merrick, I-” But then he’s nearly shouting as he comes, burying his face in your shoulder as he shakes apart and you can hear the front door closing. Merrick doesn’t bother trying to quiet himself, just pants against you until he’s finished, until he can sit up on his own. The smile he directs your way is mildly embarrassed, but mostly smug, especially when his pulling out leaves your legs shaking.

“Have you decided yet?” You hear from the main room of the cabin, followed by bags being set on the small kitchen counter.

You raise your eyebrows, wondering what exactly Gar means. Merrick’s shoulders tense up a little though, and you think back to what was happening before the two of you started this much needed romp in the sheets.

“...What does he mean?” You finally ask, sitting up slowly and glancing around the room. You’re going to need to clean up, and never have you wished more that Faerie glamour or magic came with a quick spell for messes. A quick snap of your fingers or the wiggle of a nose would be quiet and unobtrusive right now.

“Give us a moment,” Merrick calls out and gets off of the bed with a sigh. “I’ll—Let me help you, first,” he says, focusing on you after a moment. “Once we’re both clean we can discuss it.”

Gar gives you both the asked for privacy. He retreats to the other empty room so you and Merrick can dart into the shower. It’s barely big enough for the both of you, but the water is hot, and the pressure isn’t horrible. Once you’re both cleaned up and clothed, all three of you find yourselves back in the main room, sitting around the small pot belly stove, a fire crackling inside of it.

“So?” You find yourself asking, when neither of them make a move to fill the silence. “What are we deciding?”

“Not we,” Gar says, lips twisting wryly. “Just Merrick.”

“What is Merrick deciding then?” You ask, exasperated with the non-answers. You know you’re going to have to deal with this regularly, now that you know what both of them are, but it’s still irksome.

“I need to decide what I should do about Roran,” Merrick finally murmurs, letting you take his hand when you reach for it. “We always have the option to end his life, but I would rather not,” he says, directing his stare straight at Gar. “I want to convince him.”

Gar stares at Merrick, resigned, like he’d never expected another answer. Maybe he hadn’t. According to Faerie standards, or maybe just Gar’s standards, Merrick is apparently easy to read. “Then you’re going to have to figure out a way to draw him in that doesn’t involve cutting my head from my shoulders. He won’t be lured in by us just standing around again either. He’s going to be eager to get us apart, to take you hostage, if need be,” Gar reminds you, with a tip of his head in your direction.

“If he finds me first-”

“I’m going to con—” Merrick starts, and then he’s knocked to the floor, with Gar straddling his prone body and holding a shaking hand over his mouth. You’re on your feet with a shout.

“Don’t make promises you’re not sure you can keep,” Gar bites out. Your heart is racing. You didn’t even see him move, he was just—there. “Don’t leave yourself open to even the possibility of lies. You know better, Merrick. You know better. Don’t let sentimentality cloud your decisions.”

“How about we calm down?” You ask, knowing you likely sound a little silly. You know they can’t lie, you know it does something to them, but it’s- You hadn’t quite realized it was all so serious. The lying.

Gar gets off of Merrick and points a finger directly at you, still staring at his friend. “You have someone else to worry about now. Someone who cares, deeply. You don’t know if you’re going to convince Roran. Try, sure. But don’t—” Gar cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath, letting it out very, very slowly.

“I’m not tired,” he says after a moment. “But you two probably are. Get some rest, I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

That, more than anything else in the last hour, feels utterly surreal. Keeping watch is something that happens in fantasy novels, out in the wilderness, waiting for bandits. You don’t keep watch in an Airbnb, in modern times, waiting to see if a lonely Fae assassin shows up on the doorstep.

“That’s a good idea,” Merrick murmurs, and lets you pull him up to his feet. He still clasps his hand on Gar’s shoulder as he passes, like he doesn’t mind in the slightest that Gar just knocked him to the ground with nary a thought. They’d been close to the fire too, and worry makes the scene play out differently in your head. If Gar had taken one more step forward- You can’t let yourself get angry or defensive about this. They’re faeries and no matter how long you’ve known them, how much they care, you don’t know everything that’s at stake.

“I’ll come back after I grab a few hours rest,” Merrick promises, and escorts you back into the bedroom you’d both claimed as your own. You want to protest, to say you can take the next watch, but even with the Sight now, you’re not sure you would even have a chance of alerting them if someone like Roran showed up. What you’d witnessed in the square, and what you’d seen just now in the main room spelled it out all too well: Human eyes simply can’t move fast enough.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

...turn the page?

#exophilia #faerie boyfriend #fae boyfriend #faerie x reader #fairy boyfriend #male faerie x reader #d.darling writes

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dennou-translations · 3 years

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Violet Evergarden Ever After: Chapter 2

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The Night and the Auto-Memories Doll

Everything went around.

From past to present and from present to future. The dead bodies that decayed within the soil would dissolve into the earth, and from the earth, too, would new living creatures be born. Within a few hours’ time, curtains made of stars and nightly shades would be covered over by curtains in the colors of dawn.

People went around as well.

Children would be born, muster out their voices, start walking and, once they became aware of their own selves, their stories would begin. A cycle of discovering passion, coming to know love, stopping to be children and, upon sympathizing with other families, birthing offspring just as their parents had done. A cycle of learning about the world, spreading information, teaching their knowledge to younglings without sparing any of it away and generating more such younglings. A cycle in which someone’s story was someone else’s encouragement, and those who were encouraged would conceive stories of their own.

Everything went around.

There was one cycle here. It was the story of a meager cycle that likely could happen anywhere in the world.

A man picked up a wild beast from a small island to which he had drifted. It was a beautiful beast, but it had been stocked with skills long before coming to his hands. Skills for slaughtering people with ease and seeking submission.

Their first meeting was terrible. His underling had attempted to lay his hands on the beast’s beauty. As if it were a given, the beast had killed his many subordinates, leaving only one person. That was him. Granting him both disaster and salvation at the same time, the beast had sought subservience in regards to the man.

The man fled around the island where all but himself had been murdered, but gave in and accepted the beast. The beast was useful, but also an existence that he could not handle. Be it morning, noon or night, his head was troubled with the beast, his heart unable to calm down.

Essentially, he was a man who did not want to be shackled by anything. After all, he had a past of being forced into submission by his household and parents. He had escaped from his responsibilities and his home, jumping off into the sea. The man, who had been born in a family that bore the name of a flower, had run away and gained freedom.

He yearned for it – for a freedom that no one could steal from him – more than anything. Even if he had to cast away his little brother for it. Therefore, the man had done the same in the beast’s case. The one who mattered most to him was himself. He wanted to break free from that horror. Most likely, he had cut off from himself a child in need of salvation.

Everything went around.

——O God, I want to .

Everything.

A voice that sounded like bells echoed.

“Captain,” it whispered, as if to tickle the man’s ears. “Captain Dietfried Bougainvillea.”

It was evening. A time when people were returning to their homes.

“What would you like to do?”

An orange light shone from the window inlaid with stained glass. With the sunset reflected on the elaborately designed interior decoration, the place itself looked like a single work of art.

“Could it be that, because of the impact earlier, your hearing has...”

It was supposed to be. The place where the person who called out so insistently and the person who intentionally ignored her were in was an art gallery that just recently had its interior and exterior finished.

“As if.”

“I am relieved. Then, I would like to ask if you have a plan.”

In a place they were not supposed to be at, the two who were not supposed to be together were kneeling on the floor in resignation.

“Captain.”

“.............................”

“The civilians are in a predicament.”

“................................”

“Captain Dietfried Bougainvillea.”

“............”

“What would you like to do?”

“..................”

“I would like to ask if you have a plan, by any chance.”

“.....................”

“The civilians are in a predicament.”

“........................”

“If I may offer my opinion, firstly, I could act as a decoy—”

“Be quiet, monster. Don’t keep repeating the same thing over and over. Don’t breathe either. I’m thinking right now.”

Dietfried Bougainvillea, a naval captain of Leidenschaftlich, eldest son of the Bougainvillea – a household of patriotic national heroes – and the man who had picked up Violet Evergarden in the past and brought her to this country, was covering his eyes with his hands due to having too much on his plate. The little bit of silence and darkness had brought him relief, but someone’s sobbing, the voice of a man reproaching it and the sound of a person being brutally kicked and tumbling down dragged him back to reality.

He had a severe headache. Whether it was caused by his anxiety or his injury, he had no idea. He put a hand on the back of his head and examined it, but only a bit of blood had come out.

In order to somehow spit such awful mood out of his body, he took deep breaths. He felt that he had become a little better, but the unpleasant sensation returned once he opened his eyes and cast his gaze at the woman next to him. A spoon of discomfort, rejection and fear each was thrown into Dietfried’s emotional vessels, set on fire and boiled up. However, the most prominent feeling was something else.

The woman who had been talking to him so insistently until a moment ago was now quiet just and not letting out a single breath as he had told her. Violet Evergarden.

Dietfried looked fixatedly at his former servant. The woman, whose appearance had transfigured considerably in comparison to when they had first met, bore a radiantly shining cold beauty, which was even more conspicuous under such tense circumstances. She was almost like an ice sculpture, Dietfried thought.

——Even though you used to stink like a wild beast...

She now smelled of nothing but flowers.

——...you turned out just as I’d imagined.

“You’re a siren.”

Silence.

“My little brother destroyed a train station just to keep you alive; you’re a siren through and through. I’m not into you, but my mental stability is wrecked right now, and I’m sensing the harmfulness and influence that your existence brings about in that. You’re unmatched when it comes to breaking things and causing problems.”

Dietfried had once told his brother that the beast could become a siren. He had meant to say so including all sorts of matters. This young woman named Violet was a creature that God had created by mistake and had not been born under a good star. When one was by her side, there were many of them.

“Damn troublemaker.”

Many problems. Even though she had not wished for it, she had been born this way. Under a star that attracted disasters.

——It goes round. All of it.

He ran and ran from her, yet they would end up meeting, thus Dietfried had started to think that it might be some sort of divine revelation at this point. Telling him to face the girl that he had thrown away.

Violet was still, hand on her brooch. He someway guessed that it was given to her by his younger brother. He felt like clicking his tongue. This girl might become the worst-ever wife whose hand his most beloved little brother was going to take.

——We can leave that for later; gotta overthrow this situation first.

Determined to fight this reality, Dietfried then turned his gaze towards the sight that spread out before his eyes. Women, men, elderly people – everyone was crouching on the floor with guns pointed at them regardless of anything. Obviously, the same applied to Dietfried and Violet.

Unexpected situations – situations in which they could not make a false move even if they were on their own, let alone in the presence of so many civilians – were responsible for this. On top of it, Dietfried was also saddled with someone that he had to protect despite not wanting to. Of course he would feel like clicking his tongue at it.

Perhaps they were thought to be lovers, as no one said anything even while they stayed close to each other.

“Hey, did you really stop breathing?”

She did not seem to be in agony, but her figure as she diligently obeyed made Dietfried feel uneasy.

“I was joking; breathe.”

Violet’s blue eyes blinked with a snap.

“Yes.”

And then, she finally let out a breath. Dietfried hated himself for being remotely relieved that she had safely started breathing again, was what he thought.

“Hey, you.”

“Yes.”

“From now on, follow my orders. Don’t act on your own accord.”

“All right.”

“I’m gonna save the civilians. It’s my duty. There’s no helping it, so I’m counting you in that math too... No idea what my little brother would do if he found out I’d let you die. Even if it weren’t on purpose, if anything that could kill you happened under these circumstances, I really have no way of knowing what he’d do. He’d probably hate me.”

“No, Captain, he—”

“Have some self-awareness, Monster. My foolish younger brother blew up a train station to let you live. This fact did turn into a subject of teasing towards Gil for no matter how much time passes from now, but if you think about it on normal terms, it’s out of the ordinary. That’s the way you’ve changed him. Damn witch...”

She was the tool that he had found and that used to exist for his sake. A woman who used to be a dog with no name. An orphan whom he had picked up from a solitary island, brought back with him, attempted to get the most out of yet was unable to, and then threw away.

Asset. Girl soldier. Automatic assassination doll. Witch.

——Even if I don’t want to, for now, I gotta protect this thing and take it home.

“I’ll save you, so you save me too, Witch.”

Fate went around, adding a chance meeting as the best seasoning for a finishing touch. After all, at this very moment, Violet Evergarden and Dietfried Bougainvillea were being attacked by robbers and had weapons thrust at them.

“That’s awfully unpleasant for me, but I’ll take action by considering your life to be the top priority. Not for you. For my little brother.”

Understanding that she had received permission to talk once she had received permission to breathe, Violet gave her own opinion, “No.” She did it directly, without any restraint. “No, that is my job, Captain. Major... Lord Gilbert loves you.”

Dietfried’s eyes blinked. Those green orbs were staring fixatedly at Violet since earlier, enough to seem like they would suck her in. They were green jewels in a different shade from his younger brother’s. Those green gems, enveloped in shock, reflected Violet’s serious gaze.

“I shall guard you, no matter what happens,” Violet declared with resolution, like a knight. “I will obey your orders to the best of my abilities, but if I judge it to be dangerous, I shall take action with your safeguarding as the maximum priority.”

“Hey.”

“I will definitely protect you and bring you to Major safely. Please do not leave my side, Captain.”

“That’s my line,” Dietfried said while nonetheless wanting to kill Violet.

For the exchange between the two to reach this stage, things had first begun when morning visited Leidenschaftlich. This might be going back much too far in time for a clarification, but it all had indeed started since daybreak.

The morning weather was overflowing with sunlight on that day – typical of Leidenschaftlich in early summer. Early rising ladies formed queues in the bakeries that opened at dawn and little birds flew about the shops’ surroundings to receive breadcrumbs. There was a café three stores away from one of the popular bakeries, famous for serving floral teas, its signboard girl preparing to open it. If one went further ahead, there was a bank, and round said bank, there was a main street lined with large-scale shops.

An art gallery arranged to open the next day had been erected on the main street. Its name was Artemisia. It bore the name of its owner, who was an artist.

The gallery Artemisia displayed the works of its proprietor, of course, but it also had works of artists from within and abroad Leidenschaftlich. There were rows of works from unknown young artists that the owner had taken interest in as well, devoted as she was to the cultivation of new talents.

The Artemisia Gallery, which was to become a place where novel forms of Leidenschaftlich’s art would be born, was scheduled to hold a pre-opening party today, attended only by the people concerned. The gallery’s staff had started cleaning its interior and the sidewalk in front of it from morning.

Around noon, a restaurant employee hired for the sake of that day had visited, bringing in wine, snacks and table sets. As for the dishes, there were two types: the ones that had already been prepared and the ones that would be made by borrowing the kitchen of the owner’s residence, which had been built on the gallery’s top floor. Since eating was not the main focus, the preparations were merely enough for the upcoming guests not to feel hungry.

As evening came, the inside of Artemisia began to speed up with haste. If there were anyone in command of such a scenery, they would likely be asserting with a baton: “hurry”, “faster”, “elegantly”.

An envelope closed with a wax seal bearing the establishment’s crest. Customers arrived one after another with the invitation taken from inside of it at hand. For a pre-opening party with a limited number of invitees, there was a large amount of people. The elect few of Artemisia’s employees were in a flurry of activity.

“Bring me a coat” here, “not enough drinks” there, a plate breaking somewhere. “Where’s the owner?”, “Got caught by the guests”. “There’s no one to give us instructions”, “Oh, well” – just like this, things descended into chaos behind the scenes.

Normally, their job was to calmly recommend artistic goods. Therefore, they were unable to hide their bewilderment at handling so many visitors at first. Nevertheless, if one looked at the guests being entertained, how were they? Appreciating the artworks, looking like they were having a blast. Upon seeing this, the employees were able to understand deep down. That “what, so things are the same as usual”. By the time that the customers were completely familiar with the gallery’s interior, the employees were able to show smiles with a little bit of ease.

Among the guests invited to Artemisia, a foreign body completely unrelated to this world was mixed in.

It was a woman. A beautiful one at that. From an appreciative viewpoint, there would be nothing to complain about if she were one of the artworks. She was clad in a ribbon-tie one-piece dress, snow-white as a flower in full bloom on a summer day. Her long, softly curved golden hair extended to her waist. Perhaps she had come straight from work, as she held a heavy-looking trolley bag on one hand. “Click, click,” knocked her cocoa-brown boots against the marble flooring each time she took a step.

She walked while observing every artwork one by one. Idyllic landscape paintings, abstract paintings that looked like silver ink spilled on pure-white paper, oil paintings in which the people seemed as if they would move at any moment. Glassworks and ceramics that one would be very afraid even to look at from nearby. At first, the exhibition was of works from artists renowned within the country, but the small hall of its latter half integrated displays from artists who were still nameless. The woman stopped in front of one such work.

A painting of whimsical fantasy. Was it a winter sea? It depicted various things falling and sinking into dark and cold water. A pocket watch, a feather, a bed, a knife, a white flower and a chair. All were worn-out and had damaged parts. At first glance, one would not know what it was expressing. Only the boy painted in the center seemed to pierce through the viewer.

He was still a teenager and his appearance could also be considered that of a girl. After staring at him for a while, the feeling that he was supposed to be saved would surface. Because the boy had a facial expression that almost looked like he was making eye contact with the viewer as he fell. But this could not come true. He was sinking in the picture. No one on this side could do anything. One would not know what to do with themselves after looking at it – it was that kind of picture.

“Excuse me; I was the one who painted this. Is there anything wrong with this painti...”

Suddenly, a voice called to the woman from behind. A rock thrown into the quiet atmosphere. A low tone that cut through the dimness of the room.

People were mostly heading towards the famous artists, so the woman had been all by herself on that spot until just now. The man who had showed up a bit late was coincidentally the creator of that fantastical painting, and found himself talking to the woman who had stopped in front of his art. That was an extremely natural encounter for a pair. If their positions, circumstances and everything else were different, something might have been born between them. It did not have to be romantic love, just something – something else that “the two of them originally had”.

“Captain Dietfried Bougainvillea.”

The moment the woman turned around, the space resounded with a loud squeak. It actually had not resounded, but at the very least, Dietfried heard the thump of his own heartbeat, which gave his whole body goosebumps. He was enveloped in a strange sensation, as if the blood inside him were flowing backwards. One of the things he had once evaded in his life was standing there.

“What’re you doing, Monster?”

Violet Evergarden.

Before the emerald eyes that Dietfried possessed, of a hue different from his younger brother’s, there was a young female Auto-Memories Doll. The reason why he had not recognized her from the back was likely that her golden hair was slovenly loose.

He had not had a chance to see her after she had become a grown-up ever since the incident during the Flying Letters. Only people who had great amount of interaction with each other would be able to tell such a thing just by looking at someone’s back.

“I was looking at the paintings, Captain.”

Violet was expressionless. However, her hand alone promptly searched for her emerald brooch and squeezed it.

“You, paintings? Can you understand them?”

First, a scornful laugh, and then a head start with a verbal attack. She needed to put up a defense line. After all, this girl was formerly a weapon. An automatic assassination doll.

“I cannot. It is just that... my eyes and legs stopped.”

She was the one and only woman that Dietfried feared. If he had run into anyone else, his emotions would not be so disrupted.

Dietfried was scared. This girl was terrifying.

“I caused you trouble last time.”

He knew the things she had done. He knew whom she had killed. And he also recalled how he used to treat her, telling himself that it was all right.

“By asking about Major.”

Because she was a monster.

——O God, I want to .

These words wandered about in his head. They were words that he had prayed in his childhood to the one that he would meet at some point – probably in his dying moments. Thinking back on it now, it had been a foolish, immature and helpless wish, but he was serious about it at the time.

Looking at this girl made him remember his embarrassing past self.

“I shall see myself out. Captain, please take your time.”

“Hey.”

Violet had decided to retreat from the place, putting it to action. She concluded that this would be a peaceful solution for both sides and that it would secure each other’s survival.

“Hey, wait.”

However, Dietfried still had something that he wanted to say.

At the call of restraint, Violet’s feet halted mid-step. She then gazed at Dietfried. “Why?” her eyes were asking.

Choosing to leave must have been her own way of showing respect. Considering the current and the previous relationship between two of them, it was a sound judgement. Hence, she stared at him presumptuous and mutely.

Even now, it pierced Dietfried. That quiet “why” perforated him.

Despite being the one who had told her to wait, Dietfried lost sight of his next words. He had tons of complaints. Rather, complaints were the only thing that ever came out of his mouth. Most likely, he had never presented any warm words or attitude to her. No, he had at least patted her head when they parted. But what about it? That was all he had done. Which perhaps was the reason why.

——What did you think of that painting?

Just a question like this was exceptionally challenging for him. If it were anyone else, he would surely be able to ask as easily as breathing. He could also boast that he was the one who had painted it. However, only with this woman was it so difficult.

A long silence drifted between the two. A truly long, long silence.

The mood was almost like two beasts had come across each other in the wilderness and were estimating which would attack first. Both were underdeveloped and, not matching their insides, only their appearances were actually full-fledged. Seen from the sidelines, they were a beautiful adult man and woman looking at each other, but the air flowing between them was that of a battlefield.

Dietfried was starting to sweat. As for Violet, even her breathing was becoming shallower.

Violet seemed to be thinking about something. She opened and closed her mouth, repeating it several times. What should she do in that situation? What was best? She was probably unable to decide. This was something that not just Violet but also Dietfried was thinking about, yet the degree of seriousness in behavior was surprisingly higher on Violet’s side.

She would normally not be like this.

He was the person that even Violet Evergarden, who had written so many letters, was at loss as to how to act around. That was the man called Dietfried.

Perhaps her thinking had eventually arrived to a conclusion, Violet left her baggage on the floor and put her hands behind her back. “Feel free to.”

At first, Dietfried had no idea what she was doing. Violet looked like she was offering her body.

“Ha...?”

Without hesitation, almost as if she were a tool.

“I am still. Feel free to.”

“Feel free to feast on my life,” she seemed to say. Her current self overlapped with the beast of the past.

“To do what, is what I’m asking...” Dietfried’s mouth felt sticky, giving him a hard time mustering words out. His head had been occupied mostly with how to mend the blunder that he had exposed to her, so he could not respond to Violet’s surprise attack immediately.

“Do you not remember? I used to do this whenever I had to receive reprimand or punishment.”

He could not. All of the information that had been fluttering about in Dietfried’s head until now disappeared. It vanished.

“You, what the...”

The owner of the blue eyes that stared at Dietfried as if to shoot through him always did unexpected things, tossing him about.

“I did not know how to speak back then, so in order to show that I had no intention to attack you, Captain, I would do this.”

Those eyes.

“No matter what I say, surely... there is no atonement for me. With time, I have come to understand the things I... did. And how much terror I made you go through. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the kindliness of placing me under Lord Gilbert. I wish to pay you back somehow. If you say that it is unnecessary, at the very least, do as you please.”

For whatever reason, when those eyes asked him “why”...

“Be it with fists or with reproach, as much as you want.”

...his chest ached as if it had been stabbed.

“Feel free to.”

If that place were not a quiet art gallery, Dietfried would have yelled furiously at her, without caring about shame or his reputation. He managed to ball his fists hard enough for it to hurt and swallow down his angry voice due to his high level of self-respect.

“I hate that about you...”

This girl always made him aware that she would never act as he expected.

“...to death.”

At the words spoken by Dietfried’s quivering tone, Violet took a step back. Her stance of offering herself did not change, but her instincts were on-guard, wondering if she was not going to be killed by this man. Seeing that, Dietfried sneered at her figure.

“You’re the one who could choke the life out of me anytime,” he seemed to say.

Dietfried suddenly felt the heat that had gone up his head cooling down. Violet had taken a step back. That became the trigger for him to regain his composure. Because he was able to reconfirm that she was but a child in the end. This innocent aspect and action that were much like what a child would show to an adult exerted a great influence on the other party. Dietfried loathed that.

For he, who despised interventions from anyone, had so much aversion to it that it make him want to vomit.

Those who were accustomed to oppression from others would very easily choose to hurt people. She was inwardly frightened of that tendency. Yet albeit frightened, she prioritized others over herself. That creature was like a mass of contradictions.

——Disgusting. Stop. Die. Don’t look at me.

He did not want to get involved with her. But he had a mountain of things to say. However, when it came to whether or not he could properly do it, even if he managed to squeeze them out, they would turn into nothing but abusive language.

There was a large lake between the two of them and all they could do was gaze at the opposite shore, unable to tell how deep it was. Their first meeting was to blame for that. It was the cause of everything.

His underlings had attacked her and she had killed all of them. She then chased and chased after him, making him into her master. Despite there being a hierarchy, Violet was the one who had a grip over his life.

One would understand, after spending time with the girl, that this was a necessity for her. She was always like that, ever since the island only the two of them knew. Whenever anything happened, she would prioritize Dietfried. After all, even as he handed her over to Gilbert, she had not resisted.

If anything could be changed, that was the moment.

The two who never mingled with each other met again countless times in a parallel line. On such occasions, they would become unable to make a move due to shouldering the truth of rejection and of the things they had done, thus running away.

——Gilbert.

What did the person who brought the two together, whom they loved most, thought of that?

“You... I...”

——If I could change for Gilbert...

“Captain...?”

——If I could change, right here and now, for your sake...

Would it be easier for him to breathe?

Just as Dietfried was about to make a bitter decision...

“GYAAAAAAAAAH—AAAAAAH—AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

...an incident occurred.

It was clearly not a hasty crime. The scream of Artemisia, the owner, echoed, and by the time that Dietfried and Violet had bolted from the quiet hall where there was just the two of them, robbers were already thrusting their weapons mostly at vulnerable women and children, having them on their knees. The course of action was far too swift.

Wide-eyed, Violet swung back her trolley bag and was about to throw it at them, yet Dietfried stopped her.

“Are you stupid?! Those aren’t all adults that can run...!”

Among the hostages, there was also a little girl held under someone’s arms, looking like she did not understand the situation.

“I will save them as fast as possible and take control of the rest.”

“They’ve got guns; what’re you gonna do if they hit someone else with a warning shot?! There’s the other artworks too... This ain’t a stage for a tactless bastard like you to brawl! Just stay put for now!”

“But, Captain—”

“Stay put!”

While the two were trying to push past each other, the robbers took notice of them.

In the main hall, perhaps in order to bind people up through fear, the men were being beaten without exception, being put on their knees over the floor. Seeing that, the women naturally sat down, trembling, and began to cry.

While screams were resounding like music, one of the robbers headed towards the duo. “So there were still weeds growing here?” was the look in his eyes as he swung his firearm emotionlessly.

Dietfried would have managed to avoid it. He had done it several times until now. He could do it as easily as floating on water. If he could catch the man’s gun with one hand and pulled it just like that, he was able to picture the opponent falling over as a reaction. Once he stole the gun, he could shoot each member of the robber gang one by one in the head. And then, there would be a gunfight. He would have done that if he were alone. Yes, if he were alone.

——Why now of all times?

There was nothing more humiliating than a punch that one had to resign oneself into receiving. But he had things he had to protect above his own dignity. Thus, he accepted the attack without dodging. If he were to start a scuffle amidst the current situation, he did not think that all of the people who had become hostages would remain unharmed. He would aim for a chance. That was what he should do. He made such decision not only for his own welfare but also for that of other people.

However, the automatic assassination doll made a completely different one. When her eyes glinted like that, she quite literally moved on automatic. She came forward to take his place. In that instant, the face of Dietfried’s younger brother was the only thing crossing his mind.

——Gil.

It was almost as if he had readied himself to do it. That was how quickly his arm reached out. He forcefully embraced Violet and turned his back towards the robber. A violent hit struck him from head to back. He could hear Violet’s breath quietly catching while holding her in his arms.

And such was how they had arrived to the present.

Dietfried did not think that his decision to suppress Violet was a mistake. He was aware that she was the woman who had fought by herself against terrorists inside an exploding train, but it would be a problem if she did something of the sort in the Artemisia Gallery.

Right now, he felt like a pet owner containing the rampage of his mad dog.

As for the mad dog herself, she had grown quiet ever since Dietfried had been hit, as if her functions were gone. Dietfried had pushed away the hands that had attempted to give him first aid. Any false moves and the robbers might beat him again.

She, who always took upon herself to protect, wound up being protected. On top of that, she had let the other be injured. This must have caused her to fall into despondency, enough to result in service outage. However, with time, she had rebooted and was rousing herself up once more to get through this situation.

“I understand that I should refrain from the use of force in an art gallery. But should we not place human lives above the artworks?”

——Whose fault do you think it is that I got hit on the back of my head?

Because she was saying the most obvious thing with the most serious face, Dietfried grabbed the collar where her brooch resided, taking the brooch along, without thinking. The thread that fastened the ribbon-tie dress’s button let out a screech. It was not the kind of deed that a gentleman would do to a lady. But Dietfried did not loosen the strength that he put into his grip.

“You... Do you still need disciplining from me?” he said, voice filled with rage, close enough for their faces to touch. “Think of this as a place that can hardly compare to any other... This thing’s pretty important for you, isn’t it?”

After blinking with a snap, she opened her mouth once, then closed it.

Once Dietfried’s hand let go of her, she grasped the brooch as if to protect it. She was more concerned about the brooch than the crumpled bust of her dress. She stroked it over and over, making sure that it had not been damaged.

Finally, she whispered in a dazed state, “I understand.”

“As if an idiot could,” Dietfried said with a snort, yet the other was a poker-faced Auto-Memories Doll. No matter how much he hurt her, it would have no effect. That was what Dietfried had thought.

“I understood completely. I will avoid combat here as much as possible.” Alas, her voice sounded a little faint.

Dietfried stared at Violet from the corners of his eyes. The brooch was indeed important to her. She was holding it down with both hands. She did not want anyone to touch it – that was what she was indicating. The two of them were speaking in an awfully low tone, but her timbre just now was as thin as the cry of a mosquito.

Dietfried said with a somewhat softer voice, “Good that you get it. I’m indebted to the owner of this gallery. I’m gonna choose the best I can for her sake too.”

“All right.”

“Human lives are the priority, of course. But we’re not gonna fight in a stupid way.”

Like a child, Violet nodded repeatedly.

“You’ve only ever been doing body guarding, murders and military action, and that’s why you don’t understand. In the sea... In fleet battles, we fight to protect. Our way of thinking is different from those who fight to conquer.”

“To protect...”

“If you can’t put brakes on them at sea, the enemies go to land. The reason why Leidenschaftlich is called a military nation ain’t just the army’s achievement. I’ve... never taught you how to fight at sea, huh... For now, forget the method of destroying and taking control of everything. Learn from my ways.”

“Understood.”

Dietfried was inwardly surprised at the obedient reply. Rather, even more than this, he was surprised that he and the “beast” were able to have mutual comprehension.

When she was in his hands, this beautiful Auto-Memories Doll was a “wild beast” that did not know how to speak, as well as a tool. An incontrollable beast, to boot.

“Still, if that is how it is, please do not forget that your wellbeing is my top priority all the more. I shall fight to protect you, Captain. Please do not think of protecting me for Lord Gilbert’s sake. If necessity arises, I will not might if you use me as a shield. I can be replaced, but there is no substitute for you.”

If, at that time...

“This is also linked to protecting Lord Gilbert.”

...in that place...

“Bye, Monster. This guy’s your next master.”

...he had educated and guided her instead of letting her go, would she have grown up the same way?

“Shut up.”

Would she have thought like that?

“Shut up, Monster.”

He had never even thought about it.

Another side of him immediately answered “no” to the self-questioning. Surely, a Violet Evergarden raised by Dietfried Bougainvillea would not have turned out like this. He might have at least taught her how to talk. They would have trouble communicating otherwise. He would have probably given her clothes and personal belongings for daily life. Bringing her along when walking around would look bad for him.

However, when it came to whether or not he would have bestowed this girl with something that would be enveloped in her hands with utmost zeal...

——I see; so it’s the same color as Gilbert’s eyes. That brooch.

...he would undeniably have not.

——Come to think of it, she was always following me around from behind ‘cause she hated being alone.

If there was anything he could have done for her, it was to at least fill up a coffin with flowers and leave it available for her. He did not intend for anything to happen, but he might have done that much. After all, if Violet had stayed beside Dietfried Bougainvillea, she would have surely died before him, for his sake.

“We’re gonna do an act.”

——Aah, Gilbert.

“An act?”

——I’m always late to realize how great you are.

“That’s right. You’re the one who suggested it, so I’m gonna make you into a decoy.”

——You’ve made that filthy beast into this.

“Understood.”

——You were able to change her like this.

“First, take this... It’s late for that, but... you got any questions about a joint struggle with me?”

As Dietfried asked, Violet responded with her neck tilted, “Why...? I do not.”

For whatever reason, his former weapon would show scraps of emotion only at times like these. Just innocently, unaware that it was merciless of her.

“Please use me correctly, Captain.” She smiled.

Why had robbers attacked the Artemisia Gallery?

There was a certain amount of history that led to such violence unfolding amidst everyday life. Firstly, it would be preferable to start with the time when a turning point happened in the life of the robbery’s main offender, but that would be rewinding too far. On to a brief explanation.

This case was a crime committed by a habitual criminal.

There were various reasons for people to rob, yet the advantage was but one. Earning compensation within a short period. Good citizens would be paid for their work, but thieves did not share this mentality. People received rewards through serving others. In order to gather a large sum, a long time and effort were necessary. Thieves abdicated from this. To achieve success, no matter in what land, a person had to be equipped with skills as a rule of thumb.

If one could stop after doing it once, why did they do it countless times? There were people here and there who thought this about criminals. It was because, if they had succeeded once, they could do it again. They were instantly able to attain things that they would have to spend a long time out of their lives to earn. This was the arrival of an opportunity to do that.

Once one got used to it, identifying opportunities was surprisingly easy.

Supposing that there was someone who excelled at predicting people’s thoughts. The other person’s personality would be determined by the movements of their eyes, the way they breathed, their voice tone, the relationships of power in their background, their social position and other such things, so one would be able to deduce what kind of conduct should be taken in order to derive the “correct answer”. It seemed like magic at first glance, but it was no more than the result of someone continuously keeping watch on another person for many years.

Since this was a strategy against individual matches, the robbers needed a slightly better ability to grasp the environment. As they were walking around the city, they incidentally found out that a new gallery was going to open. The opening date was also announced. It appeared that there would be an event only for those concerned on the day before.

No matter the establishment, dealing flawlessly with the inauguration of a new shop was difficult. Even if there were people in it who already had experience working in a gallery, but the use of their abilities to have control over such a situation and proceed with it smoothly was different. Employees would be in quite a panic on the day. If it was a members-only celebration day, there was no mistaking that the original state of the security that should be guarding the gallery would be insufficient.

And so, the robbers had thought, “Aah, if you poke this place, it’ll surely crumble down.”

They did not have any grudges in particular. They had simply judged that they could do it, thus undergoing the assault. The truth was merely that the Artemisia Gallery had been unlucky.

How many hardships the owner had gone through until she was able to open the gallery, had she lived her life bowing her head to other people? How many artists were looking forward to seeing their work exhibited in the gallery? The feelings of such people could be trampled miserably at times.

Not that many people paid any mind to weeds when walking. That was all. Except, this time, the Artemisia Gallery had been lucky about just one thing.

“No good... Hum, excuse me...! She suddenly...!”

A naval captain who loved art...

“Ugh...”

...and the woman who used to be called Leidenschaftlich’s War Maiden were amongst the hostages.

The man who had caused a commotion and pleaded to one of the robbers in a panic raised both of his hands as a display of no resistance. He was a long-haired a man. His slightly curvy dark hair went past his shoulders. Right next to him was a woman holding her stomach and trembling.

“What?”

A few armed men gathered around them.

“It seems her stomach hurts.”

“Just a stomach ache? Leave it alone.”

“You’re telling us to let her go to the bathroom? We still gotta watch these people. Besides, she’s a woman. If someone takes her to the toilet... Well, how much stuff did we get?”

“We’ve piled most of the paintings in the carrier, but there’s still the ornaments. It’s still gonna take a while.”

The robbers had a choice. The option to either silently let her suffer or kindly take her to the restroom. Beating only the men was likely one of their policies. They did not hesitate to make use of violence when needed, but when it was not, it was best to have as least animosity as possible in order to get through with things unobtrusively and quickly take the treasure. It seemed gentlemanly but was a self-righteous thinking.

“What do we do? The Head is...”

“The Head got in the car first. As if we can ask him stuff like this every single time it happens.”

“Head” probably referred to the member worthy of being their chief.

As the quiet exchanges continued in front of the agonizing woman, she finally lay down on the floor while still holding onto her stomach. The man who had appealed about her bad condition shook her shoulders, telling her to “hang in there”.

As if she had received a signal, the woman raised her face slowly. Her gemstone-like blue eyes were visible through the gaps between her disheveled golden hair. She was covering her mouth, perhaps trying not to vomit. Even so, it was easy to tell that the woman’s looks were remarkably good.

“It’s gonna take a while, huh. Besides, we’re gonna need the women later.”

Her eyes locked with one of robber’s as though sucking him in. One would not understand the destructive power that having this woman look up at them from their feet with her eyes wet had, unless they witnessed it themselves.

“Then, I guess it’s okay.”

From the vulgar smile of the man who had said so, one could presume what his intentions were. As the woman was covering her mouth, the robber instructed her to stand up, pointing his gun at her, and then took her to the restroom.

After that, the woman and the robber did not return for a while. Since there were no other people who mustered out the courage to say that they wanted to use the toilet, the period of their absence passed as if it were natural. In the meantime, the gallery’s exhibits were being carried one after another to cars with roof racks parked outside the establishment. The robbers were dressed as employees who worked with the transportation of goods, so even those walking down the street did not think there was anything strange about that work scene.

Once they had finished relocating most of the merchandises, one of the cars left the gallery. The other one that remained parked was meant for the getaway of those who were keeping watch. With the artworks that had been collected for the sake of this day snatched away down to the last one, the gallery was bare. The owner, Artemisia, had all the while been suppressing her cries and shedding tears.

Apparently, those thieves were quite the habitual criminals. They had threatened everyone with armed force upon entering the establishment, robbing people of any resistance, but after that, as long as everyone stayed still, they would do nothing but coldly keep control of the hostages, not even raising their voices. If people did as told, they would not lose their lives. That hope made the hostages obedient. Even though they were robbers, this seamless way of dealing with people was like that of artisans. They did not think of humans as humans.

“Excuse me; I just... want to lend her a handkerchief. That’s all. The sleeves of her clothes are already soaked with tears. Can’t you allow just this much?”

Hearing a voice from the back, Artemisia turned around. It came from one of the artists that she had invited over for today, whom she had known for quite some time. She was shaken by a sense of guilt that she had done something terrible to him as well.

Their first meeting had started at a certain recreational facility, when she peeked from behind while he was painting a landscape. She did not know his occupation, but they kept in touch and she had him show her his art. It seemed he had always been drawing as a hobby. He told her that even most of the people who were close to him did not know he painted, and that he had truly only been doing it for himself.

The busy man had weaved his way through spare time and the work he brought had swayed Artemisia’s senses. At first, he had hesitated at her request to put it on display, but then smiled like a boy and gave her his ready consent, looking happy.

——Aah, God. Please give it back. Please give that fun time back to everyone.

Artemisia was upset and vexed at the fact that the artworks were being stolen, but more than anything, it felt like the regret towards everyone who had been looking forward to this day would split her chest open.

“Hey, he told you to use this.”

He had lent a handkerchief to Artemisia through one of the robbers. Artemisia wiped her tears and managed to lock eyes with him somehow. She then mouthed a “thank you” to him without letting out her voice.

The man smiled. But it was not the smile that Artemisia knew. He was different when he talked about art. She had shivers before she could think. His eyes were not smiling.

“ .”

The man said something to Artemisia. As he had only moved his lips, Artemisia could not tell whether she had been able to read what he tried to convey. She could not, but most likely, he had said:

“It’ll be over soon.”

Eventually, the robbers started to create an atmosphere of evacuation at last.

“Let’s take one person with us until we leave the harbor. Can be a woman or kid. Which do we choose?”

“Woman it is.”

“That guy was playing around with the woman we were planning to use for that, wasn’t he? What happened to him?”

Assuming that they would finally be freed, the hostages started fidgeting. They had faced a disaster and the artworks that they had dedicated their lives to making had been stolen. This joyful day had been repainted into despair. But they were alive. That was the one and only bright side of today. They would not be able to maintain their rationality unless they comforted themselves with that. At any rate, they wanted to hurry and be liberated.

Amongst them, there was a man who merely observed the robbers’ movements in silence all the while. It was the man who had been caring for a woman that had a stomachache, looking worried. Once the woman had been taken to the restroom, he became expressionless, as if he had lost interest in everything. Occasionally, there were moments when he even yawned in secret, as if he had grown sleepy.

“Go call him. We could use that woman as hostage. She’s young, so she can come back walking if we throw her away on the street.”

Hearing these words, the man let out his voice and laughed. By the looks of it, he had not intended to laugh, but wound up doing so. He put a hand to his mouth, but then shrugged and let the robbers see it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of you. But trying to rape that thing, huh? No matter how many lives you have, it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Hey, what’s with you...? Got a complaint or something...?”

The man kept laughing, as though to say that the robbers’ threatening figures were even more comical. With her eyes, the owner, Artemisia, begged the man provoking the robbers to restrain himself, for she could not afford to lose not only the artworks that she had collected but also a guest that she had invited, yet the man closed one eye at that and replied, “Artemisia, it’s okay.”

No one in this place knew his social status. Or his history.

In the past, Dietfried Bougainvillea used to wield a weapon that could become the world’s best. It was now away from his grasp, but it was not as if their master-servant connection had been completely severed. The beast had a high level of loyalty, so although they had met by chance after a long time, her heart recognized it. That he was the one she had been following in the past – someone worth being served by her. Therefore, the beast would attend him to exhaustion.

Only a limited number of people could handle the beast. The feeling that she had returned to his hands for now was somewhat strange.

“She runs quick.”

“Ha?”

“That’s why it’s the end for you guys. My bad.”

“Hey, shut this dude up.”

As Dietfried had suddenly started talking, the robbers naturally had a doubtful reaction.

“She’s as fast as a deer. And this is the city’s main street, so there are hotels nearby.”

“So, what’re you saying?”

“I left my bodyguards behind to come here today. They’re probably drinking at their room’s bar. There’re also guys among them who know that thing from the time when she was still by my side. I left my hair tie with her, so she should be able to convince them with that. I could predict that you’d take the things you stole to the port. It’s pretty difficult to get away from pursuers on land when you make such a mess in the center of this city. It’s harder to be tracked using the sea route than the land route, right? But the sea route doesn’t work against me. It looks like one vehicle left a while ago, but it’s over by the point they reach the port. You’ll probably go outside now, but if you’re thinking about taking someone along as a hostage, you’d better drop it. Many of my subordinates are hot-blooded. If you rouse them up like that, they’ll probably get too excited. If that happens, you’re the ones who’ll be getting the short end of the stick. No matter how many dead bodies fall down, we can deal with it all we want in the aftermath. We’ll need to get the stories straight, but today’s hostages will surely choose to cooperate with me. Having people trample on the proof of a life that you’ve lived with all your might is painful for anyone.”

The eloquent man did not run out of breath even when speaking nonstop in such a situation. However, this majestic aspect of him was reflected in others’ eyes as dreadful and similar to madness.

The robbers abruptly realized that all the hostages were looking far behind them. They felt that there was something behind them. It was like a ghost, hiding even its flame of life, simply waiting for the orders of its lord.

Outside the windows of the gallery, they could hear the sounds of someone fighting from around the area where the car was parked. Simultaneously, they could hear a faint breathing just behind them.

The respiration of a woman who was out of breath from running loomed over their ears.

“Do it, Violet.” Dietfried raised his thumb and made a swift throat-cutting gesture.

While watching his doll render the robbers unconscious with a strength as overwhelming as a monster eating people, Dietfried reminisced to the past.

——Everything goes around.

He recalled the time when the two of them were stuck in that isolated island.

The beast had been scared when the rescue fleet arrived. So had Dietfried. He would not be able to bear it if more of his comrades were murdered. Hence, he had taken the beast’s hand and guided her to the outside world. In his perception, it was the same as taking the reins.

There were no reins anymore now. No need for him to pull her by the hand when walking, either. There was nothing between them.

Not love, passion, attachment, desire, anything.

“Captain.”

There was nothing, but one thing was for certain.

“Captain Bougainvillea.”

If he called for her, this Auto-Memories Doll would most likely go to the ends of the world to save him. That was her nature.

“I have just returned. Are you unharmed?”

At that moment, the beast was well aware that he had called her name for the very first time. Her eyes were crinkling.

“Yeah.”

Just this much compensation was enough to make the beast smile.

After a little while passed, Leidenschaftlich was embraced by the gentleness of the night.

Summer constellations were decorating the jet-black sky. Just as sunny as it was during daytime, the night sky was twinkling so brightly this evening that it could be called a banquet of stars. The day was about to end in Leidenschaftlich. Today was filled with chaos ever since morning.

While being observed by gathered-up onlookers, the arrest drama that had unfolded in front of the Artemisia Gallery was already coming to a conclusion, its many procedures and processing passed over to the military police. Seeing the stolen artworks safely re-delivered to Artemisia, Dietfried took a breather. His gaze then fleetingly drifted to the side. A dirtied ceramic doll was standing there. A woman beautiful enough to look like such, who shone amidst the night, was standing there. He had to say something to her. As one would expect, he should do that at least now. But he could not think of anything.

——“You did well”. “That wasn’t too bad”. “Good work”. “I commend you”... Which one?

Inside his head, words were being conceived and then disappearing. Just like the dreams that the sleeping children all around Leidenschaftlich were surely seeing right now. They were born and then vanished.

At last, he attempted to open his mouth, “Aren’t you cold?”

“It is summer, after all.”

And ended up talking to her like a man who was unused to inviting women out.

Violet Evergarden, who had been fighting reasonably and in order to protect, was still by Dietfried’s side. It was fitting to say that she had been today’s most meritorious person. The one who had come up with the idea of the arrest operation was Dietfried, but the one who had done all the work for it was Violet.

First, she had put up the woman-with-a-stomachache act and gone with one of the robbers to the restroom. She had then quietly strangled the neck of the man who had reached a hand to her shoulder with her mechanical prosthetic arms, making him pass out.

She had broken out and escaped through the restroom’s window. Rather than going to the military police, she had gone to the hotel that Dietfried instructed her to and notified the naval soldiers, who were enjoying cigarettes and drinks in a room on the top floor, of the circumstances. One of the soldiers, who happened to know her, had been frightened at first, but upon seeing that she had been entrusted with Dietfried’s ribbon, his facial expression changed and he contacted the military police, then informed the port’s security to reinforce their inspections.

Without waiting for them to get ready, she had immediately run back to the Artemisia Gallery and infiltrated it through the same route. A few of the robbers, who had the bad luck of spotting her, fell to the ground with one kick or punch to the abdomen, and so, she had finally returned. As Violet stood behind the remaining robbers while catching her breath, the hostages stared as if she were their safety, but Dietfried was sneering as he looked at her.

Just as ordered, she had saved Dietfried without damaging a single artwork.

“About what happened...”

“It will probably be best not to tell Lord Gilbert. He would worry.”

Upon seeing the last artwork be brought in, Violet took the trolley bag that lay by her feet. She likely intended to go home by herself.

After making her do so much, something similar to guilt was now sprouting within Dietfried. He wound up acknowledging that she, too, was important to someone. That was what he thought after the battle, when he saw Violet stroking her emerald brooch as if to confirm that it was there.

Even though she used to be a wild beast whom no one would mourn if she died.

——Aah, that’s an excuse. It’ll be nothing but an excuse. If so, then I don’t wanna say it.

Back then, when she was by Dietfried’s side, every single day was filled with madness on all accounts. They used to roam around battlefields, fighting from dawn to dusk, growing too accustomed to violence. The war then ended, peace had returned, and he realized that an era in which he could even make art was arriving. That those times were abnormal and the way he felt now was the default.

“I’ll take you home.”

“No need. Your escorts must be waiting, so please, feel free to take your leave, Captain.”

“It’s fine; just this time. I’ll take you home.”

“No need.”

“I’ll take you. Listen up, this is an order.”

“I cannot accept your command.”

“You little... You were taking action like I instructed you to just a while ago.”

“Because it was a state of emergency... Besides, Captain Dietfried, it would be reasonable if I were to take you home, but the opposite is illogical.”

“What’re you talking about? You’re a woman, aren’t you?”

“A woman”. Finding himself asserting this with his own mouth, Dietfried regretted it even more.

The corner of Violet’s lips had a cut and blood was coming out of it. Her ribbon-tie dress was drenched in sweat. Even those who did not sweat much would be like this after such a huge scuffle during summertime.

“I’m calling a carriage. It’s all right; just wait right there. I’ll see you off until you get inside the Evergarden house. And then it’s goodbye. We’ll never see each other again. No matter what you and Gil become, we’ll never see each other again.”

What he had done today to this woman, who had become fully able to accept someone’s love, was not something that a son of the Bougainvillea should ever do to a lady.

After they had hopped into the carriage, a moment of silence went on for a while.

——Is it okay for her to keep such an open secret even though those two are a couple?

Dietfried found himself accidentally concerned about his younger brother’s love life. After all, this situation might be a betrayal to his dearest brother. Gilbert had completely forgiven Dietfried. For pushing the headship succession onto him. For not having any consideration for their family. For forcing an indescribable wild beast onto him. He had forgiven everything.

Thinking back, the only time that he attempted to push Dietfried away, saying he would not forgive him, had been when Dietfried offered Violet to him. He had called it “human trafficking”. Told Dietfried not to be violent with a child.

Most likely, those two were each other’s only exception from the very beginning. There was probably no pardoning what Dietfried had done to Violet today. Gilbert would forgive most things. Save for matters related to the one and only thing that was most important to him. Being hated by a loved one. This could cast a shadow over anyone’s heart, regardless of how old they were.

“It is all right.” The voice that cut through the silence was thrown at him as if to soothe him down. The words sounded almost as if she had perceived Dietfried’s uneasiness. “If, by any chance... word ends up reaching him through someone else about this case, I will definitely defend you, Captain Dietfried.”

“‘Defend’, you say?”

“To tell the truth, I often get involved in large-scale incidents without Major knowing. But I return without fail. To Leidenschaftlich. I will return today as well. Therefore, we are all right.”

“What do you do out there?”

“We were separated for much too long. Therefore, we have many moments that the other does not know about in the first place. Perhaps even now, too. I have work to do and so does he. We have limited time to see each other. However, I will definitely always return to Major. He knows this as well. Even when we are apart, that person is the only one who occupies my mind. I am not sure if I convey it to him properly, but that is how it is.”

Her statements were something that would normally make him burst into laughter, but Dietfried was unable to do so.

——When did you become like that?

Dietfried hated Violet. Several factors had induced his emotions to it.

——Now you can correspond to someone’s love.

He saw himself overlap with her. Her subservience to adults and the way that she herself wanted it disgusted him. He despised the wild beast that did not yearn for freedom. Despised the fact that she had been trained by someone to be this way. Despised everything. To begin with, Dietfried did not have many things that he liked.

Even the number of people who could become kind had a limit.

The truth was that, even if he wanted to be kind, it was no longer possible. He had prayed to God for it countless times in the past. However, unable to achieve this, a man named Dietfried Bougainvillea existed.

——O God, I want to, he begged a certain Someone in his mind for the first in a long time. Perhaps since his childhood.

Still, this sort of being did not give any reply to calls. Even now, he had no idea if his plea had reached Him. It was certainly impossible. His and Violet’s stars were in a position that would not radically change.

Nevertheless, for some reason, he had the overwhelming desire to ask someone for forgiveness today.

——I wanna go back.

Not even he knew where to.

——Hurry and be over, this day, today and the time I have to spend with her.

He was not annoyed.

——O God, I want to...

But painfully miserable.

“Captain.”

The carriage ran amongst trees dyed in the darkness of the night. A cool voice echoed amidst them.

Violet was looking at the scenery outside. She was observing the moon, which chased after them, no matter how far, far apart they were.

The moon was something that would continue to exist forever. Unlike stories. Regardless of whether Dietfried concerned himself with it, everything about his story would come to a closing one day as well. Demise would arrive even to the things that he did not wish to ever be over. Even the feelings he had now would end.

“How was I today?”

“What?”

“Did my work earn your satisfaction today?”

Dietfried could not read the intentions behind Violet’s question at all. She was someone whose emotions he could not read in the first place, but it was even harder to understand the meaning of that sentence.

“What do you want to say?”

Silence.

“Hey, just say it straight. Don’t be dodgy with me.”

“All right,” the cool voice entered his ears once more. Such coldness resembled the night, but it never left his ears, easy as it was to catch.

Violet turned her neck and cast her gaze at him. Slowly, blue and green eyes blended with each other.

“I...”

Bathed in moonlight, she was simply, purely beautiful, enough to take Dietfried’s breath away.

“When I was with you, Lord Dietfried, my work was never satisfactory. Now that I became an adult, have I finally been able to repay my debt... with my work?”

“What d’you mean by ‘debt’?”

His voice was hoarse. He suddenly felt as if this icy woman had robbed his entire body of its heat. The inside of his mouth was extremely dry.

“I mean everything. It all started when you brought me from that island. I am the way I am now because you entrusted me to Ma... to Lord Gilbert.”

“If you’d stayed with me, probably nothing good would’ve happened.”

“How would I be if I had continued to serve you?”

These words became a bullet and pierced Dietfried’s heart. He felt as if his breathing would stop at the unexpected question. Things had been like that since the distant past. Dietfried would reconfirm time and time again that she was a woman who could have become a lethal weapon for him.

“So you also imagine a hypothesis... of ‘what if’,” her exquisitely cold voice rang within the darkness. Upon being asked, “You too?”, Violet nodded.

That was his line, Dietfried thought, but Violet then sent his gemstone eyes a dream-like gaze. His existence might be devoid of realism to her.

Violet began to whisper. If only she had disobeyed that order back then. If only she had rushed to him a step faster at that time.

“Back then, if”. “Back then, if”. “Back then, if”.

She could not bring myself not to think that, if only she had had this extra step, he would not have lost that emerald eye.

“Besides, I wonder... if I had managed to protect him back then...”

She had to let go of her most beloved lord’s hand and was entrusted to someone else as if she had been thrown away.

“...I would not have had to spend that time away from Major.”

Thinking back, she had always been abandoned and then picked up by somebody. She should have been used to it. That was the star she had been born under.

She was originally a foreign body to this world and was supposed to have been eliminated. Her destiny had also flowed in this way. The reason why Violet had rebelled against her sectioned path, despite having been tamely submitting herself to it, was that the other was special.

——I also threw her away.

He had thrown his home away. Thrown away his little brother, who cried in protest. And thrown away this beast.

“I also wonder what would have happened if you had not left me with Major.”

This woman.

“But all of these are akin to dreams, crossing my mind and fading away. After passing through countless ‘if’s, I...”

He had pushed this woman onto his brother and forsaken her. Looking at her made him sick. He was also scared of her. Most importantly, he would have stopped being himself. This terrified him.

“And now, I have become an Auto-Memories Doll and am spending a night with you.”

This woman possessed an element that transmuted people.

“Y’know, you’ll be alone one day. You’re the one who’s got the longer lifespan, aren’t you?”

Violet closed her eyes at those words. If she had pictured numerous “if”s, this would obviously come to mind as well.

“I do not know.”

“If that happens, what’re you gonna do?”

“I do not know. But are you not the same as me when it comes to this? You love him, right?”

“I’m... I’m the older one. I’ll be gone sooner.”

“No one knows about that. But... if, one day... I do become alone... if I am left living by myself... my order will still be valid. I will probably live on.”

If she ended up living by herself, this supposition was the cruelest of things to the beast. Just what did he want to do by making her say this now?

Thinking back, ever since they had first met, he had not known how to deal with her. Should he have protected her? Killed her? Protected? Killed? Or perhaps...

“That is why I write letters every day. Even if they do not reach him, I write letters to Major every single day.”

Silence.

“Captain, what will you do?”

“Me, huh? I... let’s see. Paint, I guess.”

“A painting or Major?”

“That’s right.”

“May I go see it?”

To Dietfried Bougainvillea, this wild beast was both a woman and a monster from the very beginning. She was now as far-off as a dream.

“You’re the only one of my relatives who knows I paint. Do whatever you want.”

——O God, I want to be a good person.

#violet evergarden #fyeahvioletevergarden #veedit #dietfried bougainvillea #kyoani #kyoto animation #akatsuki kana #takase akiko #my translation

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