#in THIS version it's kind of the opposite | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tobiasdrake · 2 days

Note

You previously anaylzed Yamcha's fighting style and the flaws he doesn't overcome. Do you have any thoughts on how Krillin fights?

Krillin's fighting style is one of my favorites, to be honest. He's a dedicated pragmatist, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to win. His techniques and strategies are deceptive and tricksy, always on the lookout for a way to circumvent the straight fight.

Krillin's fighting style is all about cutting the knot. It's just a shame that, Dragon Ball being what it is, his methods run counter to its central philosophies and so he is doomed to constant failure.

We get our first glimpse of the kind of fighter Krillin is going to be when he defeats Goku in the rock hunt on the first day of their training.

He first tries to win the competition by forging a counterfeit rock. But when the Muten-Roshi sees through that, he instead uses his counterfeit to fake out Goku and steal the real rock for himself.

He's narratively punished for this victory when his reward dinner poisons him via badly prepared pufferfish. But we see the foundations of what will become his martial style beginning to take root here.

Krillin is a tricky trickster. His goal is to be the guy still standing at the end of the fight. That's what he's here for. Though he does quickly soften up and become Goku's Male Bestie (opposited Bulma as Goku's Female Bestie), he carries this pragmatism with him as he begins to develop his skills.

Note that this is not to say Krillin isn't a capable fighter in his own right. As a pupil of Kame-senryu, he is a formidable martial artist. He begins to show the fruits of his martial training as early as the 21st Tenkaichi Budokai, where he crushes one of the monks that used to bully him in the preliminaries. He also pressures his own mentor, the Muten-Roshi, by raw skill alone.

Krillin's got the skills and he uses them. When I say he's underhanded and deceitful, I don't mean instead of fighting straight. It's a weapon in his toolbelt but not the only one. Nonetheless, it's a potent one, as he nearly defeats the Muten-Roshi via a special technique that only Krillin would devise.

Goddammit, Roshi.

He starts out using these kinds of underhanded tricks to compliment his martial arts. But as he grows as a martial artist, he begins to incorporate strategies like this into his art itself.

Aside from a brief and mostly offscreen bout with General Blue, his next significant fights are in the 22nd Tenkaichi Budokai. His fight with Chiaotzu demonstrates the way Krillin's sneakiness and martial training complement one another, as a major spotlight of it is his ki exchange with Chiaotzu.

Chiaotzu, like Tenshinhan, is a trained wielder of the Dodonpa. A lethal technique first introduced by the assassin Taopaipai, designed to fire a thin ki bullet from one finger, straight through its target for a mortal blow.

To counter this, Krillin attempts to perform the Kamehameha for the very first time. Which. Is. Absolutely stupid and reckless, as the Muten-Roshi notes. Baby's First Kamehameha is a poor choice to defend himself from the Dodonpa.

Or it would be, if that were the plan.

This is Krillin's strength in action. He fakes out everyone with an in @ Me Bruh bluff and then skirts around the direct competition to blindside Chiaotzu when he isn't looking. This is what a tricky trickster martial artist looks like.

In his next match with Goku, we see Krillin's ruthless pragmatism on full display. He devises his own version of Tenshinhan's Taiyoken/Solar Flare.

And he nearly wins by a tail when he once again breaks out his weak, improvised Kamehameha.

This bluff is brilliant. He gets Goku's focus on the Kamehameha while his true goal is Goku's tail. Unfortunately for him, Goku - under advisement from both the Muten-Roshi and his Grandpa Gohan - has been training his body to rid himself of that critical flaw over the last three years. His tail no longer saps his energy when it's grabbed.

But if Goku were still the same fighter Krillin knew before, this bluff would have been game-ending for their semifinal match. Krillin's abilities both in martial arts and in knot-cutting have advanced substantially. It's just that Goku's have advanced as well.

Krillin only gets one fight in the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai. But he goes hard.

In the three years since last tournament, Krillin's devised bending ki blasts that home in on their target. Holy shit, what a stellar-

GOT YOU SUCKER THAT'S A FAKEOUT IT'S KRILLER TIME

Krillin's invented bending ki blasts that home in on their target as a distraction. Sadly for Krillin, characters at this point are beginning to distribute Bukujutsu, the Flying Technique, among themselves so surprise ringouts aren't an option anymore. Piccolo's been capable of performing Bukujutsu since his previous life.

Krillin loses the match, though he does force an admission from Piccolo that martial artists of his caliber will make the world difficult to conquer.

The next chance Krillin has to put his skills on display comes six years later when the Saiyans attack the Earth. Vegeta and Nappa grow their six Saibamen, forcing the Earthlings to entertain them by battling these veggie monsters. Tenshinhan and Yamcha handily defeat two of them, though Yamcha's killed by a surprise attack.

And then Krillin decides enough is enough and makes his move: Opening fire directly on Nappa and Vegeta with everything he's got.

A fool's attack guaranteed to fail against the insurmountable might of the Saiyan-no, wait, what's he doing?

Ha, fuck you, he was aiming for the Saibamen the whole time! Made ya look. Though he does also hit Nappa and Vegeta for good measure.

Krillin is technically the first Earthling to ever land a hit on either of these guys. Imagine that. It doesn't do shit to them, but still.

This fight also brings out Krillin's ultimate technique. The epitome of his skills, the final fruits of his labors, the be-all end-all of Krillin Techniques. You already know what I'm talking about.

This. This, right here. The Kienzan/Destructo Disc is peak Krillin. Literally a knife with which to cut the knot. Everyone else is throwing ki punches except those assassins shooting ki bullets. And Krillin stops to ask, "What if I sharpened my ki into a buzzsaw so I can slice open an opponent's flesh rather than trying to beat them at punching?"

Prior to Goku's arrival, this technique from one of the weakest fighters on this field is the closest the overconfident Nappa ever comes to defeat.

Nappa outright tries to take it like a punch. But for Vegeta paying the fuck attention, this would have taken his head clean off. Even Frieza can't resist it.

Because it's not something you resist. It's a buzzsaw. It doesn't hit, it cleaves. It's a technique that's so utterly Krillin in nature.

In fact, the entire Namek arc in general is peak Krillin. A three-way tug-of-war over the Dragon Balls between Frieza's ungodly might, Vegeta's rogue wildcard antics and deadly force, and Krillin being a tricky trickster gunning for any opportunity to scoop victory out from under them.

That Krillin wins.

This is the key to Krillin's longevity as a character. Like the rest of the cast, he eventually falls victim to inability to keep pace with Goku's advances, and becomes further and further de-emphasized from the big action pieces of Dragon Ball.

Krillin's tricky methods were rarely allowed to grant him much success in the ring due to the way they chafe against Dragon Ball's tone. This simply isn't a series where ruthless pragmatism and knot-cutting generally wins the fight. But those same methods also gave him staying power and an ability to continue influencing the plot of Dragon Ball long after he ceased to be relevant as a fighter.

Krillin's style is designed to punch above his weight class, and he's in general a tricky trickster outside of the ring too. The result of this is tremendous staying power as a weaker character brushing elbows with the titanic super gods of the cast. He may not be the clincher in a fight but there's almost always something for a pragmatist like him to do.

#dragon ball #dragon ball z #krillin

37 notes · View notes

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years

Text

Carynthian - Chapter 2 (Also on AO3)

Nesta is home, and Cassian fusses. (This is just 6k of angst and soft Cassian... my two most favourite things!)

*******

Standing on that mountain, her blood marring the snow at her feet, Nesta hadn’t ever expected to see the House of Wind again. Death had beckoned, called with a crooked finger. As her lifeblood leeched out of her and stained the snow crimson, Nesta really didn’t think she live to see another day. She heard Death’s whisper, it’s song— a requiem, every time Bellius’ blade whistled, every time it crossed her skin. And maybe she would have given up, given in. She had no strength left and could barely stand— but she looked up at Ramiel’s summit, and thought of Gwyn and Emerie. She thought of home, of Cassian waiting, and somehow she found the strength the rise time and time again, even as Bellius’ assault wore her down.

As the sharp edge of his dagger came perilously close to slitting her throat, Nesta knew only one thing. She wasn’t done. Wasn’t ready to leave this life behind, to bow out now, not when she needed to hear Emerie’s laugh again, see Gwyn’s smile.

She couldn’t die now. Wouldn’t.

Not before she’d looked into her mate’s hazel eyes and told him, at long last, how much she needed him. How much she loved him.

She wouldn’t die now— not at the hands of a wretch like Bellius, not when she still had so much living left to do.

She thought of Cassian’s face. Conjured it as she hit the ground, remembered his touch and the way his hands would wind in her hair. The way he called her sweetheart. The sound of his voice, his smile and his laugh— she wanted to hold onto it, to let it pull her through. But she thought of the bridge in Velaris too, how she’d called in their bargain and told him to leave her. More than anything, she couldn’t die knowing that was their last parting. Their last chance. She was on the floor, unable to rise, the sharp end of Bellius’ dagger just a breath from her throat, and all she thought of was his face. How their last words to one another had been sharp and angry, wounded and sore.

And in the heartbeat before that dagger kissed her neck, Nesta found the strength to grit her teeth. To kick out, her foot connecting with the inside of Bellius’ knee, knocking him off course and sending him stumbling over a rock, crashing into the snow. It was the thought of Cassian’s kisses - the soft and the slow, the hungry and the desperate - that made her lunge for the dagger he dropped. The thought of lying in his arms again spurring her forwards as she plunged the blade through Bellius’ jugular.

It was over in a breath, and then his blood was pooling around her, soaking her, and hers was still flowing too thick, too fast, from too many wounds. She tried to calm her racing heart, tried to stand, but found her legs weak and trembling. The bracelet around her wrist glowed silver, and Nesta knew then that Gwyn and Emerie still hadn’t left. Knew they had waited for her. Staggering, she made it to her feet, put one aching foot in front of the other and dragged herself to the summit.

She didn’t even notice the stone at first. The polished obsidian rock sitting right at the centre, carved with symbols and runes she didn’t recognise and couldn’t understand— a secondary concern as she collapsed into Emerie’s waiting arms. Gwyn wrapped her arms around them both, muttering that if Nesta ever tried to knock her out again, she’d live to regret it. Nesta huffed a laugh, and the priestess kept her arms tight, holding all three of them together.

Any one of them moments from falling apart, they clung to each other. Valkyries— and Carynthian now too, forged in battle and blood. Nesta swayed, her blood still flowing far too freely, her breathing far too laboured. Emerie broke the chain, hauled all three of them over to that scared onyx stone.

She held her bruised and blooded hand over the monolith first, but didn’t let her palm kiss the polished surface. Not until Nesta’s fingers were woven through hers, her palm against Emerie’s knuckles. Gwyn’s pale hand crowned them both, and it was only then - only together - that the Valkyries touched the stone and came home.

***

“Cass,” Nesta breathed, the only words she could manage. The only thing she had the strength to gasp as she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer— as close as he ever could have gotten, their bodies pressed so firmly together that there was no way of coming between them. Cassian had dropped to his knees before her, as though she were something to be worshipped, and Nesta’s heart had cracked, sent her stumbling towards him until they were knee-to-knee. He tugged her into his lap and Nesta curled against him, engulfed. It didn’t matter that they were on the floor, in the middle of the House library. Didn’t matter that she was still shaking, still cold.

She couldn’t hold back the sobs that tore apart her chest, that clawed from her throat. He was crying too, his anguish a mirror to hers. His wings snapped around them, cradling them both and shielding them from the world outside. In the dim, the tip of his nose brushed her neck, and against her skin she felt his lips move, felt him whisper her name as he held her tight.

I love you. His first words to her— I love you.

Nesta had tried to say those words back, but when she opened her mouth, she couldn’t speak, could only fall to her knees and reach for him. All she could manage was his name, and all she could do was burrow closer to him, feeling his arms wind around her, strong and steady. Safe. She hadn’t felt safe for days, and she’d forgotten what it felt like, but it felt like this— like his fingers in her hair, his palm pressing her head into his shoulder as her tears stained his shirt.

In a world so filled with peril, the only place Nesta ever really felt safe was here— in the shelter of his arms.

“Nesta,” he whispered, his fingers running down her spine. His voice was hoarse, and Nesta wondered how much time he had spent screaming over the past few days. How much time pleading with gods that wouldn’t listen. There were shadows under his eyes, and his voice was raw and worn— yet still, he spoke. Still, he whispered her name.

“I saw it,” he breathed, his palm against the crown of her head as his other arm tightened around her middle. She could have sworn his fingers trembled. “There was a mirror— I could see you.”

Her brow furrowed, and Nesta was about to ask what he meant, what mirror he spoke of, but he was swallowing thickly, tears lining his eyes as his fingertips brushed her cheek.

“You were cut here,” he said hoarsely, dragging a finger over the line of blood across her face. The injury itself was gone— healed. But the blood remained, flaked away as he brushed his thumb over it. “And here,” he added, his hand drifting to her arm, where Bellius’ blade had cut through her leathers and sliced the skin beneath. Smooth as butter now, not a mark to be seen. “You sprained your wrist too.” He spared a glance to her hand, twisted in the fabric of his shirt, right above his heart. “And there was blood here.” His thumb was soft at the corner of her mouth, tracing her bottom lip as he listed her injuries one by one, as if he had felt each and every one of them. As if they had pained him, too.

They had, Nesta realised. Every cut, every bruise, every hit— it had wounded him, cut him to the bone.

“I know they’re gone,” he whispered, his voice barely keeping steady. Shaking, in a way she had never heard before. “I know that. I know how it works— you touch the stone, you come home good as new. But I can’t stop seeing it, can’t forget the sight of you bleeding in the snow.”

His hazel gaze searched hers, desperate and pleading.

“I’m here,” she said at last, the reminder serving as much for herself as for the warrior on his knees.

He nodded, inhaling deeply as his fingers twisted in her braid. “I missed you,” he added quietly. Gently. With a rasping breath, he dropped his forehead to hers. Nesta nudged his nose with hers, letting her eyes close as his warmth chased the lingering chill from her bones.

“I missed you too,” she answered, her fingers drifting to his collarbone, over the hem of his thin shirt. His skin was warm beneath her, soft and warm and hers— but covered with red, stained with the blood of the men she had killed. The black fabric hid the worst of it, but the skin at his neck was crimson from where she’d touched him, where she’d buried her face against him, Illyrian blood coating her hands, her hair. His hands were covered too, slicked with blood that she wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t hers, marking his skin whenever he fisted the fabric of her stolen leathers.

She let out a soft huff, a mournful, tearful sound. “You’re all bloody,” she said, wiping at the smear on his neck.

“Doesn’t matter,” he answered gruffly, his grip tightening on her waist. “You’re not hurt?” he asked, stroking a palm down her matted and bloody braids. She turned her face into his chest and felt his heart stutter. Down the bond, she felt it trip, felt hers shudder too.

“No.” Her fingers twisted in his bloodied shirt, crescents of red under her nails. Hurt was relative. Physically, she was fine. Tired perhaps, but all of the injuries he listed, every single one, had been wiped. Healed. So why did she still feel like she was trembling? Why did it still hurt to breathe?

“Nes,” he murmured, his lips pressing against her temple. Her forehead, any piece of skin he could reach. Softly, so, so, softly, he kissed her cheek, seemingly unconcerned with the blood that lingered there. His hand brushed the nape of her neck, his fingers light. “It’s alright.”

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. A tremor ran through her, a shiver, and in an instant, Cassian’s arms were tightening, banding around her middle as if he were too terrified to let go, too grief-stricken and pained to think of anything but holding her close to his chest, keeping her safe in the circle of his arms.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said softly, burying his face in the crook of her neck as she buried hers in his chest. Holding onto one another, she finding her strength in him just as he recovered his in her. “Never with me.”

“I can still feel them,” she said, her gaze falling to her ribs, where she’d been cut and bruised. Her skin had knitted itself back together as soon as she’d left the Rite, but she could swear she could still feel it bleeding. No, she wasn’t hurt— but she was hurting, and even though she was here, safe in his arms, her mind was still in the killing fields, still several steps behind.

“I know,” he murmured, drawing back, retracting one arm from around her waist to let his fingers trace her jaw. “It’s the same for all of us.”

He was silent a moment, as if remembering his own Rite. He looked at his hands, then hers, both of them coated in blood. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Let’s get you cleaned up,” before he pressed a kiss to her temple, one so heartbreakingly soft that Nesta wanted to shatter. “Get you out of those leathers,” he added, grimacing at the clothes she’d stolen from a dead man.

She forced a smile onto her face, made her lips tug up at the corners, as if hoping it could chase away the horror. “Is that all you ever think about? Getting me undressed?”

Cassian smirked too, a smile that echoed hers in its insincerity. “Obviously,” he drawled, upholding the joke that masked the despair. She needed it— needed him to hold her, to make jokes that made the world seem a little lighter. He knew it too, gave her a wink as he plucked at the hem of the leather jacket she wore.

He moved quickly, and before Nesta could blink, he was on his feet, sweeping her into his arms. One arm around her shoulders and the other under her legs, he made for the door, clutching her tight as if she were something to be treasured. Protected.

“I can walk you know,” she pointed out dryly as the House opened the door wide. She refused to admit that her knees still felt a little too weak, a little too fragile, to take more than four steps forwards.

“So?” Cassian hummed as the House opened more doors, lighting the way to the stairwell, to the hallway a floor below that housed her bedroom.

“So this isn’t necessary?”

“I’d say this is very necessary,” he countered with a shrug. “Look what happened last time I let go of you.”

“What’s your plan, then?” she asked as they reached her bedroom. As Cassian crossed the threshold, tipped his head to the ceiling and asked the House to ‘fill the bath please. With bubbles. Lots of them’. “Never set me down again lest someone else tries to kidnap me?”

Cassian’s fingers tightened under her thigh as he shuddered. He nudged her cheek with the tip of his nose as he nodded. Met her eyes and gave her a wink.

“Exactly,” he answered.

***

He couldn’t keep his hands off of her.

Couldn’t go a moment without touching her, without pressing a kiss to her skin every chance he got— her cheek, her forehead, her hand, her fingertips. Making up for all of those days they’d been apart, the thousand small kisses and idle touches they should have had.

He was loath to put her down. I can walk you know, she’d said, but it was easier to for him to remember that she was here, safe, alive, when he had her cradled in his arms. Easier to pretend the last few days hadn’t happened, that he hadn’t almost watched her die.

She scowled as he carried her to the bathroom, still refusing to let her feet touch the floor. Mother above, he’d missed that scowl. Missed the way her eyebrows drew together over storm-blue eyes, missed the way her lips pressed together into a thin line. He missed the scowl that was his alone, the one that she only ever used on him— where her lips twitched, a barely-there smile, a scowl of endearment as much as disapproval.

That was the scowl she gave him now, her lips quirking as he set her down on a wooden bench along the wall.

He took in the bath - almost overflowing with bubbles, shining iridescent pink and blue in the soft light - and murmured a soft thank you to the House. Candles burned on the shelves, and a pile of fluffy towels waited. Her favourite soaps were set out, her slippers left by the bath mat. The House was fussing, and Cassian might have commented on how ridiculous it was— but he was fussing too. He didn’t even let her untie the laces of her stolen shoes herself, getting on his knees before she had the chance.

Slowly, he removed every piece of her stolen clothing. Cassian felt his heart stutter as he peeled back the layers, torn and bloody, reminded all over again of where she’d been injured and how. There was no searing lust or desperate wanting as he bared her skin, no desire in him except that to make sure she was alright. To care for the one he loved. His fingers were soft, gentle, and undressing Nesta had always been his favourite thing in the world but this…

This was different. A new kind of intimacy.

When he was finished, he stood and held out a hand to help her into the bath. She didn’t need it. He knew that, knew she could bathe perfectly well on her own, but leaving her felt impossible. She might be Carynthian now, and Valkyrie too… But even the fiercest of warriors need a hand to hold every now and then. Need to lay down their arms and fall back on the strength of another.

Cassian watched as she slipped into the water, the steam gently curling the hair that had escaped from her braid. He didn’t leave. Had no intention of leaving her anytime soon and instead, sank to his knees by the porcelain tub, resting his forearms on the curved rim.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, watching as he plucked up a clean cloth from the little basket the House left next to the assortment of soaps. He dipped it into the water that had already turned the colour of rust and shrugged.

“I know.”

He lifted her hand from the water, began to wipe away the blood that stained her knuckles, her wrist, her arms. He gave her a rueful smile, gently removing all trace of the Rite from her skin. His gaze snagged on the line of blood on her arm, the last reminder of a wound now gone.

It’s the same for all of us, he’d said, and it was true. The first night after his own Rite, he’d woken sweating long after midnight. Half hungover from celebrating, his skin still burning from his newly-inked tattoos, he’d felt the wounds he’d gotten climbing that mountain. He’d been so convinced that they’d torn open anew that he’d scrambled from his bed and lit a candle but— there was nothing. No blood, no wound. But he’d felt it, as real as anything.

He knew— when she said she wasn’t hurt, when she said she was fine, he knew it was a lie, because the same untruths had passed his own lips all those years ago, and there had been nobody to wash the blood from his skin then. Nobody to hold him as close as he wanted to hold her.

“Let me be the one to take care of you sweetheart,” he said softly, his voice low and rasping. He took the cloth to her shoulder, her neck, where the blood had dripped down her leathers and gathered at her collarbone. Pooled in the hollow of her throat. “Please.”

He wiped at the blood marring her cheek next, and mother, he needed this. He’d spent the past week in a state of absolute terror, every moment needing her here, like this. Fussing— he was definitely, absolutely, fussing, but given that he’d almost lost her, that there had been a few moments where he thought her dead, when the breath had left his lungs and his soul had shattered…

He wanted to fuss for the rest of eternity.

Nesta nodded, but her eyes went to the shirt he still wore. Still stained with blood, still tear-stained and creased from where she’d clung to him on the library floor. “Don’t you want to get cleaned up yourself?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet. He followed her gaze and shrugged.

“Not right now,” he answered, dragging his thumb across her clean cheek. Soft and smooth under his touch, just as it always had been. “I’m not leaving you Nes. Not unless you tell me to.”

“Insufferable,” she muttered, her lips curving gently as her fingers found his. The tension that had bracketed his heart for days eased with her touch, with every breath she took. “So am I to have no respite from your fussing, then?”

Cassian smirked, her teasing making his own breath come easy for the first time in a week. “No.”

“Then it’s a good thing I love you.”

Cassian was rendered silent, her words echoing through his head as her fingers squeezed his. The cloth in his other hand was forgotten, dropped into the water as Nesta raised one perfect eyebrow. It’s a good thing I love you— muttered as casually as anything, as if Cassian wasn’t damn near breaking apart all over again. He let out a breath of a laugh, soft and surprised, and lifted their entwined fingers to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

She leaned towards him, bubbles threatening to spill over onto the tiles as she moved, closing the distance between them. Cassian’s hands slipped through her hair, his hands cradling her face as he kissed her softly. Gently, so slowly it was though he were terrified of hurting her. It was sweet and chaste, a kiss that held in it all of the heartbreak of the past few days. The gentle brush of her lips against his, the kind of kiss he’d longed to have just one more time in those few devastating moments where he thought she was dead.

“I missed this,” he whispered, dragging his lips to her cheek. “When I saw him with that dagger, I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you—”

Nesta pulled back. “You didn’t tell me how,” she said with a furrowed brow. “In the library, you said there was a mirror. What mirror? How could you see us?”

Casian offered her a crooked, almost sheepish, smile as he said, “I suppose I could have explained the mirror better, but in my defence, I had other things on my mind.”

Like the fact that you’re not dead.

Nesta raised an eyebrow once again, giving him exactly the kind of imperious, haughty look that so frequently made him unable to think straight around her. He told her all of it— how he’d been damn near imprisoned in the House, like a caged animal desperate to reach her. How Azriel had sent out the shadows and got nothing back, until eventually they'd remembered the mirror in the Hewn City. One that showed you the person you wanted to see most. Nesta listened in silence, wide-eyed, as Cassian recounted all of it.

When he was finished, Nesta leaned back in the water. Lifted her hand and watched the droplets slide from her skin to make ripples on the surface. She looked at him, and then her hand was against his cheek. She ran her damp fingers through his hair, and the smile she gave him made him dizzy.

“If you saw everything, I imagine you have a pile of notes somewhere. A list of things we did wrong to torture us with in training.”

Cassian snorted, plucking up a bar of soap the House left out. He ran it over her arm, her shoulders, and hummed lightly. “Oh, absolutely.”

He tilted his head, looked at her pointedly. “Starting with never, ever, taking your eyes off your opponent. Especially when that opponent is armed and you’re not.”

She swore under her breath, and his stomach lurched at the memory— how she’d been disarmed in the snow, her blade knocked from her hand. She muttered under her breath, something about him being a stupid, ridiculously overbearing bat, and Cassian grinned for the first time in days.

He dropped the soap. Pulled her towards him and kissed her forehead for the hundredth time.

“Still Carynthian though,” he whispered. “There were only six before.” A wave of pride so violent it almost knocked him over stole his breath as he looked at her. His mate, so dazzlingly brave. His lips split into another grin as he pressed another kiss to her skin. “Nine, now.”

She said nothing, silent as Cassian looked at her with the kind of awe that had driven him to his knees in the library. As if there could be any doubt now, that they were made for one another. Equal in every possible way, evenly matched and perfectly suited. My Nesta, he thought. My Valkyrie. My Carynthian.

Nesta shook her head after a long moment. Gave him a grin of her own and said, “I think I prefer Valkyrie.”

The laugh that left him was soft, a huff as it passed his lips. He shook his head, the hair falling onto his forehead with the movement. She moved it, tucked it back behind his ear with bubbles coating her fingers. He reached around her, plucking up a glass bottle. He unstoppered up, inhaling the jasmine and vanilla that was so entirely Nesta it made his heart sing.

“Fair enough,” he acceded with a small smile, tugging on the end of her braid, untying the piece of ribbon holding it together at the bottom. Valkyrie it is. He made a circle in the air with his index finger, raising an eyebrow of his own. “Turn around then, Valkyrie, and let me wash your hair.”

***

Little in the world made Cassian as happy as the sight of Nesta sitting on the edge of her bed wrapped in a fluffy white dressing gown, brand new and courtesy of the House. Nothing— nothing could compare to the warmth in his chest as he brushed her hair behind her ear, as he touched her shoulder whilst passing her.

Nesta patted the mattress, her eyes heavy and lidded as she blinked slowly up at him. Cassian knew a time would come when the argument on the bridge would need to be addressed, but not now— now was a time for treasuring everything they had almost lost. Nesta lay back against the pillows, but didn’t get under the covers. Just a nap, she said as he lay down beside her, her back to his chest, his arm resting over her waist. Just a nap, he agreed, inhaling her, the scent of her jasmine soap suddenly seeming all the more beautiful, all the more wondrous.

“Cass,” she murmured, her eyes drifting closed. He hummed, his thumb rubbing circles over her abdomen. “Did you really think I was dead?”

“I saw you on the floor, and I saw his blade an inch from your neck.” Cassian swallowed against the bile in his throat, against the bitterness of the memory. “Yes. For a minute I thought you were dead and I…” He trailed off. Shuddered at the recollection. “I never want to feel like that again.”

He’d lost lovers in wars before. Seen death and the grief it wrought, thought he knew well enough what loss was. But in those moments when he thought Nesta had left this world… His grief had been depthless. It had torn the world in two, and those moments when he thought she was gone… They terrified him more than any time he’d ever spent on any battlefield.

Instinctively, his arms tightened around her, pulling her more firmly against his chest. He breathed her in as he felt for the bond between them, tugged on it, reminding himself that she was home. Here, back with him at last.

Nesta shuddered too, but there was an answering tug on the bond. A soft pull behind his ribs that made his breath catch. He could sense her down the other end of that bridge, felt it when she tugged again as if she, too, were checking it had survived the past few days.

“I couldn’t feel it,” she whispered. “I tried. I didn’t know how to, but I tried to reach you— but I couldn’t feel it, it was like…” She trailed off, words failing her.

“Screaming into a void,” Cassian finished, and Nesta nodded. “I tried too. Every minute of every day, I pulled on that bond and there was nothing.”

“It still scares me, Cass,” she admitted, and his heart broke clean in two. He hummed softly, comfortingly, as the argument on the bridge reared in his memory once more. The argument that had sent her to Emerie’s in the first place, and in so doing, almost fucking killed all three of the Valkyries. Later— it could wait until later.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the shell of her ear. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“No?”

“No.” He shuddered for a third time, inhaling deeply as he hugged her tighter. “All that matters now is that you’re here. That’s all I care about.”

Nesta nodded, and Cassian couldn’t fight it anymore, the fatigue that weighed him down. He hadn’t slept for days. No more than a handful of minutes snatched here and there since she’d been gone, too consumed with fear to sleep.

He could sleep now. With her in his arms, knowing that she was safe… He could rest.

“I love you,” he said again, his eyes drifting closed as the hands of sleep dragged him under. Before consciousness fell away, he heard her hum. Felt her bury her face into his chest. Heard her whisper, I love you too, Cass.

He slipped into dreaming with the sound of her breathing and her lingering I love you echoing in his ears.

***

Nesta woke to the evening light filtering through the curtains, and a weight at her middle. She was warm, too, and when she looked down, expecting to find Cassian’s arm wrapped around her waist, she found instead his wing, draped over her like a blanket. He lay on his side, curled into her, sleeping so deeply that he didn’t stir as she shifted. Didn’t move even when she traced the edge of that wing with her fingertip, when she whispered that he really was a great overbearing bat.

Nothing— not even a whisper of waking.

His face was smooth, peaceful and calm, and as she drifted her fingers across his cheekbone, she thought that she might have stayed there forever, content to watch him sleep. Had it not been for the thought of Gwyn and Emerie, Nesta might well have stayed in that bed and waited for him to wake.

She needed Cassian more than she needed air to breathe, but she needed her friends - her sisters - too. She couldn’t lie still, not thinking of the fear Gwyn had endured the past few days, the traumas Emerie had faced. Cassian had taken care of her, wiped her tears and held her as she sobbed— but who had done the same for Gwyn and Emerie?

Slowly, Nesta slipped out from under Cassian’s wing. Still, he did not move, not even as she kissed his cheek and murmured a soft, I’ll be back soon.

She found them in the sitting room.

A mirror lay discarded on a low table before the hearth. The mirror, she presumed— but it wasn’t that which caught her attention and held it. No— it was the sight of all three of them playing cards at the other end of the room which gave Nesta pause.

They were playing cards— Gwyn and Emerie wearing soft cotton lounge clothes the House provided, both with damp hair and scrubbed skin. They, too, had been bathed and pampered by a fussing House. They sat around a small table with Azriel, cards in hand, a teapot steaming between them.The fading sunlight turned the room golden, gilding Emerie’s skin as the Illyrian turned to look at Nesta in the doorway.

“I’m surprised,” she said with a soft, teasing smile. She flicked her eyes back down to her cards and placed two down in the centre, right next to the porcelain teapot. “I wasn’t excepting to see you or Cassian for days.”

She winked, and Nesta rolled her eyes. They’d spent the afternoon in bed together, but all they had done was sleep. He’d undressed her before, but only to get her into the bath, to touch her gently, softly, as he wiped her skin clean.

Gwyn snorted. “Did he tire you out already?”

There would be time enough later for that. For her to reacquaint herself with the feel and taste of him, to feel him beneath her, above her. She gave her friends a wry smile now, sinking into the last remaining chair at the table and resting her chin on her elbow.

“He’s sleeping,” she said blandly.

It was Emerie’s turn to snort. “So you tired him out, then?”

It was as if they hadn’t just spent days on the brink of death, and as Gwyn’s laughter echoed, as Emerie’s smirk grew, Nesta let herself smile. She shook her head wryly, and took the cup of tea Emerie poured her, sipping at it as their laughter encompassed her.

Beside her, Azriel offered her a small smile of his own. Over his cards, he said quietly, “I’m glad. He didn’t sleep at all while you were gone.”

Nesta frowned. “Not at all?”

Shadows danced around the spymaster’s chair as Azriel shook his head. “I tried to tell him. Even the House tried, but in the end it was pointless arguing. He only slept when exhaustion took him and that wasn’t often or for very long.” His gaze flicked to a crack in the surface of the table, one that ran edge to edge, and Nesta’s stomach sank, her heart growing weighty, as if pulled down by an invisible anchor.

“He was supposed to meet the victors of the Rite,” Azriel continued. “Every year, he’s there when they get their tattoos but we figured it was… best that he stayed away this time.” A pause, where the shadowsinger seemed to consider his words carefully. “He was hellbent on getting you back. At whatever cost.”

Emerie sucked in a breath. Gwyn shook her head, and Nesta shivered. They all knew what that cost would have been— his life. His, and theirs too. And he would have given it— he would have given his life if it meant he could have saved theirs, could have spared them the Rite. No doubt he would have tried to get them to safety first, to keep them from harm’s way. Her gaze lowered to the cracked table surface, her heart cracking too.

Gwyn placed a hand on Nesta’s forearm. Offered her a small, brave smile. “Do you want to play?” she asked, nodding to the cards. “I’ll deal you in.”

Nesta considered the cards on the table. The shadowsinger, who seemed to be caring for both Gwyn and Emerie the way Cassian cared for her. She looked at her friends, the smiles they offered and knew that as much as she loved them…

Cassian needed her more.

She shook her head, declined the priestess’ offer. Drained her tea and set aside the small porcelain cup.

“He waited for me,” she said, getting to her feet. “The least I can do is wait for him, too.”

Azriel’s eyes sparked, his head bowing in a small, gentle nod. Emerie nodded too, and with that Nesta left the library, making her way back to her bedroom with the sounds of their card game following her. Their laughter, their protests that Azriel was using his shadows to cheat.

When she opened her bedroom door, she found him exactly where she’d left him. His hair falling haphazardly over his face, his wing draped over his shoulder and across his arm. The days of not sleeping had weighed heavy on him, and Nesta smiled softly as she watched him dream. In the silence, she asked the House for a blanket. When it obliged, she placed it over him, pulling it right up to his shoulders.

He murmured, something unintelligible, and Nesta eased back into the bed. Under the blanket, under the wing he’d covered her with. She worked her way under him, letting his head rest against her chest. Still sleeping, his arm came about her middle once more, as if he sensed her even through dreaming.

Nesta asked the House for a book and a fresh cup of tea, turning the pages as she felt his breathing steady, felt the rise and fall of his chest against her own.

He had waited for her, and now Nesta waited for him, one hand on her book, the other drawing idly through the strands of his hair.

Keeping her own vigil.

#nessian #nessian fic #whats this #two updates in two days after nothing for an entire month?#i feel like a changed person #seriously though i loved writing this soft and fussing Cassian #from this point on i will accept no other version of him #this is kind of an alternate to that scene in ACOSF after the bog #like I wanted Cassian to actually care for Nesta and be all soft and tender not just jump right into bed with her #so I really wanted this to be the opposite of that in every possible way

81 notes · View notes