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miss-tc-nova · 3 years

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A Way Into the Future - Luxu

Alright, we’ve got the green light kiddos! So, without further ado, here’s my piece for the Shattered Fates - Foretller Zine. Enjoy!

Music Inspiration: I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead - Set It Off

~~~~~

Footsteps echo off the stone walls of the underpass beneath the Outer Gardens. One set—much faster than the other—struggles, moving unsteadily and with a lot of panic. It’s no wonder considering the owner of said steps took quite a beating. He put up a decent fight, but poor Braig had no hope of prevailing against his tormentor: a legend, a man of time, a Master—Luxu.

Ruthless yellow lights barely have the power to illuminate the tunnels, but the young man doesn’t need to see to know the man hunting him is not far behind.

As the black coat stalks persistently closer, his prey stumbles down the path, unaware that he’s being driven straight into a trap—doing everything that the stalker had intended to a T. Luxu has spent many years refining a variety of skills, both combative and strategic; coercing his victims into his snare is child’s play. Decades of thought have gone into formulating the criteria for his perfect vessel and, unfortunately for the young man, he matches every point perfectly.

Unbeknownst to the Radiant Garden native, Luxu had scouted his playground days prior to this encounter and had collapsed the only escape that gave his victim any prospect. His hope is effectively crushed at the sight of the clogged tunnel.

Eyes wide with pure terror, he turns back to Luxu. The sharpshooter has a quick draw, even in fear, but it proves just as useless as it had before. Barely any thought is spent on the barrier that prevents the bullets from reaching their mark.

“I already told you resisting me was useless,” Luxu drawls. “All this fear and pain could’ve been avoided if you had just done as I asked. But I guess it’s only fair to assume any self-respecting warrior worth his salt would struggle.”

Backed against the debris, the kid quivers. To his merit, he maintains his aim, despite how utterly doomed he is.

“What do you want with me?!”

Luxu pauses his approach. “Hmm, let’s see—that brand new job you just took at the castle is a good start.”

“A job? You want my job? I-I can talk to my boss! Just let me talk to Ansem!”

“I hate to tell you, kid, but I need more than your job. I need your entire existence. Or more specifically, I need your body.” The boy’s petrified face goes pale. “My scapegoat has finally arrived; things are about to get very interesting and your life perfectly fits all my needs. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop struggling; I’d like to avoid injuring that body any more than necessary.”

As he closes the gap and the boy cowers beneath him, Luxu recalls how he came to be here, stealing the bodies of young men.

~~~~~

“Master, what is this?” the young man asks, looking over the paper and not entirely sure he’s read it correctly.

As he has many times before, Luxu stands in the Master’s study. The room is filled with books, vials, and plenty of objects of which Luxu couldn’t even guess the purpose of. The only thing he can be sure of is that none of it is as it seems, and that broad statement brings with it its own sense of security. It has always been filled with wonders and the Master seems to introduce him to a new one each time he visits. This time is no exception.

The eccentric man folds his arms. “What do you think it is?”

His voice catches in his mouth. He’s read it over once, twice, but surely, he must be mistaken. “This sounds like a method for taking over someone’s body.”

“Bingo! You are correct, sir!” the Master praises, waving his hands animatedly.

“WHAT?!” In his exclamation, young Luxu throws the paper in the air.

His master snatches the fluttering paper. “Don’t lose it! I only have one copy of that!”

“Okay, one, why don’t you make another copy? And two, why do you know how to possess someone’s body?!”

“Oh, I don’t know how; this is all just theory. I wrote it this morning.”

His master never fails to perplex him. “And you think I need it why?”

“Because you’re only human,” the Master of Masters replies. “That body of yours will become old and decrepit and weaken over time but your job will be far from done. So, you need some way to continue living and persist into the future.”

The Master may be a strange man, but it’s no secret that he enjoys pulling emotions from his pupils—his favorite being shock. Luxu has made a point to accept his master’s eccentricity and all it entails, having come to see the unpredictability as predictable. It’s been a long time since the Master has been able to truly flabbergast the young man.

Luxu’s arms wave in disbelief. “And you think body snatching is the way to do that?!”

Matching the animated gestures, the Master retorts, “Well do you have any other bright ideas?!”

Luxu glances away. “Couldn’t you figure out immortality or something else?”

The Master holds his arms up in an X. “Absolutely not. Immortality is far more complicated and we just don’t have time for that. So, this is your only hope of completing your task.” Again, the paper is pushed into Luxu’s hands. As the student stares at the page, the Master’s tone turns serious. “Remember, while the others have very important roles, everything hinges on the success of yours. If you don’t see this through, the Book of Prophecies won’t be written and things will fall in ruins.” His tone drops even more, almost as if he’s threatening his pupil. “And all those people you care about will die for nothing.”

Those words strike the young man. Aced, Ira, Invi, Gula, and Ava—they’re family. Even if they sometimes bicker and disagree, Luxu grew up with them. He already disliked the idea of them fighting, possibly to their destruction, but they’re all fighting for the light’s survival. If he doesn’t do his job, they’ll lose their guidance and their struggles will be meaningless—his family will die in vain.

But taking someone else’s body and losing his own: it’s unthinkably horrifying. He’d never considered that his body could be disposable; that something so undeniably “Luxu” could just be swapped out as easily as his coat. These thoughts become too much to deal with in this moment, so he decides not to. Still, he can’t simply throw away a key aspect of his master’s orders, so the paper is carefully folded and tucked into his jacket to address later.

“Thank you for your guidance, Master,” Luxu murmurs.

Back to his light-hearted self, the Master of Masters slings an arm around Luxu’s shoulders. “That’s more like it. Now, let me show you why you’re going to need that paper.”

~~~~~

Spasms wrack every gasp he takes. They come not from his chase of the now-unconscious man at his feet, but from the seriousness of what he must do next.

Staring down at his very first victim, he feels a heavy guilt in his chest. Based on what’s written, he can only assume the original heart will be ejected and either become a Heartless or ascend to Kingdom Hearts. This man had no say in the matter; he was hunted down like a dog and endured only terror and pain in his final moments. He’s still young and could’ve had a full life ahead of him filled with happiness and adventure. He had potential but Luxu deemed him a lamb for slaughter.

Luxu shakes his head; he can’t have these sorts of distractions dragging him down.

The old parchment slips from his pocket, a perfect cross forever creased into its aged surface. Instructions written in black still read perfectly clear despite time’s efforts. He’s read and reread the page thousands of times, each time going through the shock of what exactly is being asked of him: ice shoots through his veins while his skin scorches, a suffocating grasp squeezes at his throat, and a violent churn nearly upheaves his stomach. The possibility of failure reels in his mind, threatening to evolve into a full-blown panic attack. He spent his whole life as himself—as Luxu—but now, for the sake of light itself, he must discard that. Just thinking about looking in a mirror and not recognizing the face looking back reminds him of his nightmares. Supposedly, his heart will retain his memories, but he still worries over exactly how much of himself he’ll get to keep; after all, sacrifices for such sins must be made.

The tremors in his chest have spread, shaking the page in his gasp. A deep breath does nothing to soothe his fears but allows him to regain focus. He reminds himself that this is for the existence of everything—for the people he loves. It doesn’t matter if he’s scared, it doesn’t matter if he loses himself, it doesn’t matter if the people who matter don’t recognize him, he has no choice.

Sighing, he lets the paper float to the ground, letting his eyes linger on the victim at his feet. He can’t let himself dwell on anything lest his mind trail back to his fear. He gets started.

Clearing his head, he rests both hands against his chest. The suggested mental imagery serves him well while his heart begins to compress. He remembers the most important parts of himself—the things about himself he values—and imagines placing them in a box. His personality, skills, and knowledge are added inside. Memories follow suit; all the good, the bad, and the in-between are stowed away as important, for they have shaped the person he’s become. The young man takes great care in packing all of himself away.

As these things fade from his conscious mind—all bound to his heart for transfer—the darkness stalking at the edges of his mind begins encroaching on his thoughts like wolves prepared to devour him. Luxu’s natural instincts react in fear, causing the man to tremble and his physical heart to pound in his ears. Just like the darkness, a chill creeps along his quaking limbs, his control over them waning. With every bit of himself that he stows away for his next life, the little rationality that must stay behind cowers in terror. He would simply do away with all his senses, but he knows that some of his consciousness must stay to facilitate the move. He must suffer this fear and lose part of his mind to succeed.

The body to be left behind is nearly shut down. His throat closes, no longer able to draw air into his spasming lungs. He has no idea if he’s doing anything right or if he’s even ready, but the innate fear of death has him in a panic. He has to go now.

Eyes snap open, nothing but bright light consuming his vision. This is it; this is where he discards everything he is. This is the point of no return. With the dread as potent as ever, his consciousness fades as he sends the light on its way.

Instantly, Luxu becomes aware of the intense, stinging pain. Every nerve is like a needle, searing at his heart. He would absolutely be screaming if he could but, as it currently stands, he has no access to any vocal cords, let alone a mouth.

A firm pressure resists his heart, struggling against him. The way it reverberates is reminiscent of his own screams. This is his victim, desperately fighting to keep control. Their panic gives them strength, allowing them to push against Luxu to the point he feels his grip slipping. A desperate alarm shoots through him, fueling his struggle.

As it turns out, Luxu’s fear is stronger than that of the man he’s possessing.

Resistance suddenly stops. Slowly, the presence of the other heart begins to fade, allowing Luxu’s heart to fill the hole left behind. The pain begins to ebb at an unbearably slow rate, but there is solace in the fact that it is fading.

His consciousness begins unfurling within his brain as he lies on the ground gasping. Comprehension begins weaving through the unpacking, bringing attention to what exactly just happened. He hadn’t been prepared for resistance; he didn’t know he could still lose after disarming his target. There was no warning for that. If Luxu’s heart had lost the struggle, he would’ve been expunged, become a heartless, and failed his task; he would have failed his loved ones. And this is only his first time.

It takes an eternity for the agony to fade enough and allow him to assess the body. It’s all still sensitive, like a limb falling asleep and waking back up, only far more intense. Nevertheless, he manages to open his eyes. Even they feel the stinging, giving him blurry vision. Nerves feel like fire as he struggles to raise a hand. The trembling extremities are different: the skin tone is a shade off, fingers are slightly longer, and there’s no sign of a mole he used to have on his wrist. It’s strange to feel and control the hand of a stranger.

It takes some time for all the nerves to properly connect. Small repetitions get the muscles moving as they should, and after a few hours, he is able to stand. Weak legs hold him up while he tries to regain his bearings. Palms press against his eyes, struggling to get rid of that remnant sting.

When his hands drop, he finds nothing. The expelled heart is gone and so is the body he left behind. There is no going back.

The old paper flutters, threatening to fly away. However, this is only the first of many stolen bodies and he will need those instructions to repeat the move in the future.

Reaching down, he scoops up the paper. The action nearly topples him. Despite his careful decision for this particular individual, he couldn’t find someone exactly like himself. There are still differences that will take some getting used to, driving home one very important, horrendous fact.

He is no longer Luxu.

He is no longer himself.

The reality finally kicks him in the gut, bringing him back to the ground where a foreign scream tears from his mouth.

~~~~~

“You’re crazy! Stay away from me!”

The cry drags the man back from age-old memories. Braig is the latest of his numerous casualties.

Luxu could’ve stopped long ago, given up his master’s orders and spared so many ignorant hearts—innocent people didn’t have to die for this. However, sacrifices must be made for sins, and Luxu’s been paying his due. With every bit of himself left behind, the rest naturally tries to fill in that hole, but it’s not the same. The new pieces become influenced by the suffering and bitterness Luxu endures with each move, filling him with more and more darkness. That’s not to say darkness is a bad thing, but it fuels the apathy born from repeated trauma.

Luxu’s views on humanity have deteriorated; each passerby could die at his feet and he would simply step over them. Those chosen as new vessels hold some interest, but he no longer has any qualms putting them down. Only the people he started this journey for mean anything to him now; they are the only light left in his unrecognizable life. They would likely look down on him with disappointment, scold and abhor him, but he would burn every world in existence for their fates. But the end is near. The scapegoat has finally shown himself and soon Luxu will be free of this burden—his family will return to him. No matter what wrath he may incur from them, the relief of the end is just too tempting to spare this last victim.

Luxu shrugs. “You might be right about that; repeatedly losing part of your mind does that to a guy. Unfortunately for you, there’s nothing more dangerous than an insane person with a goal. You were simply the poor soul that caught my eye this time.”

“N-No! Please!”

Having done this so many times, Luxu doesn’t even need the instructions, so he burnt them long ago. His mind already begins to pack away the things he wishes to carry forward and the chill starts in his fingers.

“Sorry, but everything I’ve dedicated my life to hangs in the balance. Neither of us have a choice here. But don’t worry—this isn’t my first time and I’ll ensure it’s as painless as possible.”

As he strides closer, the man scrambles closer to the wall. Fear shines brightly in his eyes, but it doesn’t faze a man who’s seen it so many times before—who’s endured it so many times before.

“Take a deep breath, Braig. It’ll all be over soon.”

#kh luxu #zine feat nova #luxu

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gusu-emilu · 3 years

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Follow Your Arrow (Part 2): Jiang Cheng / Wen Ning

(Cloud Recesses Era, G, 2.6k, CW: non-graphic bird hunting, read on AO3)

Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning accidentally go to the same spot in the Cloud Recesses to practice archery.

< Part 1 (although this part can stand alone too)

* * *

Shooting at rocks in a waterfall is not Jiang Cheng’s ideal form of an archery competition. Wen Ning is closer to the waterfall, which doesn’t necessarily put Jiang Cheng at a disadvantage, but it does mean that Jiang Cheng has to see Wen Ning in the corner of his eyes every time he tries to aim. It's irksome. Jiang Cheng has always competed better when he doesn’t have to watch his opponent.

Not that watching Wen Ning affects his performance. Sure, Wen Ning is a decent shot. When he’s relaxed and his hands aren’t fidgeting, his archery skills might even be called impressive. The rocks blown to bits by his arrows seem to testify as much. But he's not that good.

Another rock shatters with the impact of Wen Ning’s shot. Jiang Cheng is still adjusting his aim when the periphery of his vision is filled with Wen Ning grinning to himself, and inadvertently his eyes wander over to the sight.

Yes, that’s enough shooting at waterfalls.

“Stop here,” Jiang Cheng says, lowering his bow. He straightens his posture once Wen Ning looks over in confusion.

“H-Have we finished the competition?” Wen Ning asks, leaning to the side slightly as if he needs to look around some barrier to see Jiang Cheng, even though the length of riverbank between them is unobstructed. Somehow that makes Jiang Cheng feel exposed, that Wen Ning is paying such careful attention to him.

“No,” Jiang Cheng says. “We’re not finished. Haven’t started, actually.”

All Wen Ning returns are wide eyes and a soft little “oh?”

“That was the warmup.” Avoiding Wen Ning’s gaze, Jiang Cheng slings his quiver over his shoulder and strides toward the woods lining the riverbank. “For the competition, we’re going to hunt birds.”

After a few moments, there’s a shuffling sound and scurrying footsteps behind him. Wen Ning catches up to Jiang Cheng just as they enter the forest, sidling up next to him. Jiang Cheng picks up his pace.

“Hunting birds?”

“You have a problem with that?”

Wen Ning stumbles as he tries to keep up with Jiang Cheng’s ever-quickening pace, but he regains his balance and appears back at Jiang Cheng’s side. “No. I just don’t usually shoot animals.”

Wen Ning's hurried steps beside Jiang Cheng keep him in the corner of his vision again. It’s irritating. Like a ghost Jiang Cheng knows is there but can’t fully capture in his sight. He stops abruptly and turns to face Wen Ning head-on so he can at least see the nuisance in his entirety. Wen Ning trips again, steadies himself, then clutches his bow in front of his stomach, his hands close enough together for him to nervously rub his thumb over one of his knuckles.

Jiang Cheng studies his scrunched posture, his pouty face, his long fingers curling around the bow. “Then it’ll be all the more of a challenge. You wanted help getting over competition anxiety, didn’t you?”

“I—y-yes, I suppose so.”

“Okay. Anywhere in this section of the forest is fair game.” Jiang Cheng gestures at the shady expanse of forest in front of them. “Meet back at the river. Whoever catches more birds wins.”

Wen Ning nods a little too eagerly, still staring at him.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Go already.”

“Oh—oh.” Wen Ning hesitates for a few seconds, then bolts away.

Jiang Cheng scoffs. Weirdo. No wonder he gets along with Wei Wuxian.

That thought bites. Wei Wuxian has been fluttering from disciple to disciple nonstop since they arrived in the Cloud Recesses, gravitating farther from Jiang Cheng and revolving in tighter circles around people from other clans, like Nie Huaisang, who—if Jiang Cheng is honest—he doesn’t mind that much. But Wei Wuxian has also attached himself to this strange one Wen Ning, who of course also happens to be from an enemy clan. And Wei Wuxian has been clinging most of all to that insufferable Lan Wangji…

Anyway. Bird-hunting.

This choice of competition was intentional. First, it’ll let Jiang Cheng get Wen Ning out of the corners of his vision. Completely out of his sight. Wen Ning’s absence feels much better already. Second, he’ll be able to show off the birds he catches to Wei Wuxian and maybe squeeze out a few compliments for hunting an extra dinner for them, as well as get a rise out of Nie Huaisang for turning cousins of his prized avian pets into prey.

Following the calls of birds, he stalks through the forest, scanning the canopy of trees. A flash of wings on a branch to the left. He creeps closer, stringing an arrow and drawing it back. He sets his aim, gets the tension just right—

The bird plops to the forest floor.

Jiang Cheng’s arrow hasn’t left his bow.

His brow furrowed, he steps forward to stand over the bird and inspect it. Wen Ning arrives at the same time, holding his bow up guiltily. His arrow has been shot.

“What way to play is this?” Jiang Cheng shouts. “You have the entire forest! You can’t hunt the same birds as me!”

“S-Sorry…” Wen Ning looks down at the creature, his eyes downcast.

“Just, hunt somewhere farther from me! Okay?” Jiang Cheng says, trying to soften his voice and not succeeding at it.

Wen Ning is quiet for so long that Jiang Cheng’s throat begins to itch.

“Well, it’s just that…” Wen Ning finally says, only to trail off.

“What?”

“W-Well, if I want to become better at competing without feeling nervous,” he meets Jiang Cheng’s eyes, “won’t I get the most competition if I steal your shots?”

Jiang Cheng’s eyebrows shoot up. He reigns his facial expression back in immediately, but not soon enough, because Wen Ning is staring right at him when a traitorous heat flushes across his cheeks. “I’m not helping you that much! Go somewhere else!”

Wen Ning nods sullenly and walks away.

Steal my shots! The nerve! He shakes his head. These Wens are unbearable.

Wen Ning’s idea makes sense, of course, and his gut twists at the realization of how seriously Wen Ning is working to get an advantage over him. He didn’t expect he’d have to be on his guard this much.

Is Wen Ning only trying this hard because he wants to overcome his fears?

Most likely.

Jiang Cheng thinks that incident will be the first and last time Wen Ning shoots down a bird before he even has the chance to set his aim.

It happens a second time.

“Wen Qionglin!” He stomps over to where Wen Ning is hiding behind a tree and grabs him by the collar of his robes. “I told you to hunt birds somewhere else! Do you want me to shoot at you instead?”

“S-S-Sorry—”

Somehow, without noticing, he’s pulled Wen Ning closer. Or he's stepped closer himself. He lets go of Wen Ning’s robes with a shove, turns around and storms away because this time he is not letting the heat in his cheeks be seen. Especially since it shouldn’t even be there.

What is he so embarrassed about? That Wen Ning has been following him and timing his shots to land right before his own, at the exact time that would frustrate him most?

The answer rises into his mind unbidden.

He is embarrassed about that.

Dang it.

The next bird he targets, he resists the tingle in his fingers that urges him to rush through the shot and strike the bird before Wen Ning has the chance. Instead, he positions himself for the shot, slows his breath, steadies his arms, and drops his gaze away to scan the shadows in the forest surrounding him. The pest is bound to be around here somewhere.

His gaze settles on a dark spot in the bushes that seems especially unwieldy. Was that a pair of eyes blinking back at him?

He adjusts his fingers on the bow and arrow, builds up pressure in his back muscles. He'll change directions at the last second. Fire an arrow toward Wen Ning and give him a scare.

He draws—

Shing!

His head jerks up to follow an arrow that whirs past his hair ornament and lodges into a tree trunk behind him. His own arrow releases into the dirt at his feet.

Wen Ning shot at him first?!

"Wen Qionglin!" he bellows.

"I'm s-sorry! I didn't m-mean to—aaaah!" Wen Ning drops his bow in the grass and sprints away, because Jiang Cheng is chasing after him and Jiang Cheng is going to catch him.

All those times he chased down Wei Wuxian have proven useful. A matter of seconds and he's close enough to grab Wen Ning's arm and yank him to a stop. Unfortunately, Wen Ning is heavier than he expected. He loses his balance. Overshoots a bit. Falls to the ground and pulls Wen Ning on top of him.

"J-Jiang-gongzi!"

"Get off me!"

"Jiang-gongzi, I didn't mean to—"

Jiang Cheng is sick of being at a disadvantage, so sick of it. He pushes Wen Ning off, slams him into the ground beside him. He climbs on top and pushes Wen Ning's shoulders down, flattening the weeds underneath his shoulder blades.

"First you shoot at my birds, then you shoot at me?!"

"I-I didn't—that was an accident—"

"Oh, wonderful! Please tell me how that could possibly be an accident!"

Wen Ning stares wide-eyed at one of the hands Jiang Cheng is digging into his shoulder. A few locks of his hair, too soft, are tangled between Jiang Cheng's fingers. Wen Ning meets his eyes, looks down at his chest for longer than is comfortable, and back up to his eyes. Heat rises to Jiang Cheng's face again. This time he has nowhere to hide.

"I...I..." Wen Ning says quietly.

"You what?" Jiang Cheng's voice cracks on the word what, jumping to a pitch much too high, as if he hasn't already been humiliated enough today.

"I was..."

"Spit it out!" He shoves Wen Ning's shoulders down harder for good measure, but that only makes him blush more fiercely. He freezes, fearful that one more motion, one more twitch of muscle, and his face would light on fire.

"I was aiming at the b-bird above you and then..." Wen Ning tries to look away. But there's a person on top of him. Anywhere his eyes go is somewhere on Jiang Cheng's body, and that definitely does not make Jiang Cheng shiver.

"But then I was w-watching you instead of the bird, so my arrow..."

The rush of understanding is like a punch in the gut. Had the wind been knocked out of Jiang Cheng before this moment? Or is it just now?

Wen Ning was staring at me so much he ended up aiming at me.

What the heck.

He wrenches himself away from Wen Ning and plops onto his backside in the grass next to him, resting his arms on top of his bent knees, his mind fuzzy.

"Why?" As soon as the words come out, Jiang Cheng bites his lower lip and presses his mouth closed, clenches his jaw, but he's already asked. He hadn't wanted to ask that.

"Umm." Wen Ning sits up a bit, propping himself up on his forearms, still lying on the forest floor. His feet splay outward from each other. His fingers dig into the grass. "What are you asking?"

Jiang Cheng would sooner plunge one of his arrows into his own chest than explain what he meant.

"W-Well..." Wen Ning sits up fully now, positioning himself cross-legged in front of Jiang Cheng, like they're about to have a meditation session together. His hands are a little jittery and he stutters his words, but overall he looks gentle and calm, which should be impossible given what just happened. If Jiang Cheng didn't know better, he'd be jealous.

"I guess I just," Wen Ning continues, his eyes fixed down in the dirt, then lifting to graze over Jiang Cheng's face, "think you're p-pretty."

An arrow does plunge into Jiang Cheng's chest.

His heart races. Fights against the tightness constricting his windpipe. His whole body is going to burn up.

He really had to choose this word? Pretty?

Jiang Yanli is pretty. Wen Qing is pretty. Even Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji are pretty. Hell, Wen Ning is pretty.

But Jiang Cheng?

Whatever mortified expression he's making right now, he can't wipe it off his face, and it's definitely not pretty.

He jumps to his feet. "That's—that's dumb."

Wen Ning gapes up at him. "It is?"

He just stands there with his fists clenched like an idiot.

Gods, why can't you just say something properly? Something nice. Why are you acting like this?

"You can't go around shooting arrows at people and telling them it's because they're pretty!" he says, trying to swallow the words back down his throat, but they come out anyway. "Who does that?" You do! You were going to aim your bow at him yourself!

"Oh," Wen Ning says, still sitting on the ground. He's started fidgeting with his hands. "Jiang-gongzi...should we finish the competition?"

"It's finished!" Jiang Cheng shouts. "You've already won, haven't you?"

"I have?"

Jiang Cheng sucks in a breath and turns his face away. "Clearly!"

Wen Ning stands up. He takes a step toward Jiang Cheng, then wavers and returns to stillness. "So what happens now?"

Jiang Cheng glares at him. "I'll...I'll..."

I guess I just think you're pretty.

It's humiliating. So much worse than when Jiang Yanli tells him that he's handsome. From Wen Ning it feels so genuine and awkward and nice and makes his skin boil and his body sink into the ground.

And Wen Ning really did perform well in their competition. During the "warmup" he was already nailing every two or three shots, and during the hunt in the forest—Jiang Cheng hates to admit it—he put up a challenge. For someone so outwardly meek, Wen Ning is plucky. After all, only one of them had caught any birds. If Wen Ning had been trying to impress him...it had worked. Ironic, embarrassing, that was, because Jiang Cheng had been the one trying to impress him.

"I'll treat you."

Wen Ning raises his hands and shakes away the offer. "Oh, no, n-no need to trouble yourself. I don't want anything."

"What?" Jiang Cheng scoffs. "Don't want my company?"

"That's not what I meant."

Jiang Cheng is ready to leave. He's ready to get out of the forest and far away from the aftermath of this cursed competition. They need to settle this now, because he's ready to leave, and absolutely not because his heart is fluttering.

"Wei Wuxian is bringing Emperor's Smile to our room tonight." He jerks the strap of his quiver over his shoulder and grips down hard on his bow, straightening his posture and raising his chin. "Either show up, or don't."

Wen Ning gives a small smile. "I-I'd like that, Jiang-gongzi. But...my sister says I shouldn't drink too much."

"Then don't drink anything. What do I care?"

""Okay." Wen Ning's smile grows a little bigger, and Jiang Cheng just about dies inside. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jiang Cheng says, the words catching in his mouth a bit. He turns around before his face can betray him again. "You better show up."

Jiang Cheng heads up the trail to the center of the Cloud Recesses, his face burning, his archery skills insulted, and his lips quirking into a smile.

* * *

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, you can be a supportive sibling like Jiang Yanli by visiting me on AO3!

You can subscribe to my degrees of separation series on AO3 to get a notification whenever I post the next part. I have ideas for a follow-up thanks to suggestions from @qi-ling (who also has some excellent fanfics!)

And if you have your own ideas...my ask box is always open 👀

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wolffyluna · 4 years

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A Ferdinand/Claude fic, for @ferdinands-love-club/ @stag-of-almyra.

I’m going to be open for Ferdinand rare pair requests for the next week or so, so feel free to send some in!

Ferdinand knew horses. He’d grown up around them, and learned to ride them as soon as his parents felt confidant he wouldn’t immediately fall off. He knew how horses thought—their love of their herd, their mixed curiosity and fear at new things, they way they responded to fright and treats and leg pressure. He understood them.

He knew dogs, too. To a lesser extent then horses, but he could read their body language well enough to recognise fear and joy and prey-lust and excited obedience.

He did not know wyverns. He knew they were ridden, like horses. He knew they were predators, like dogs. So it seemed reasonable enough to assume they were half way between horses and dogs, until he found any differences. And it was a duty of a noble to give it all your all in your assigned tasks, and to show initiative, and so he went to retrieve the wyvern he would be riding for this week’s assignment by himself. He knew which stable she lived in, and had enough instruction to know how to tighten her girth strap and lead her out, and that was, in theory, all he needed to do.

He felt prepared.

It was, unfortunately, a false sense of preparedness.

He had walked in, tried to tighten her girth strap, and immediately gotten bitten and backed into a corner for his trouble.

A noble did not call out for help needlessly, so he was a bit stuck. Only a little, of course. Once he worked out how to approach her, without her attempted to puncture his flesh again , he would be set.

He stared at her. It was how he had cowed his father’s guard dogs, who forgot they should not try to menace their master’s son. Assuming wyverns were doggish horses had in some ways gotten him into this mess, but it was his best idea for how to get out of it.

She stared back.

“Well, you seem a little stuck.” Claude leaned over the stable gate, hands dangling into the stable itself (courageously close to the snapping jaws of an enraged wyvern, by Ferdinand’s read.)

“Only momentarily—”

“You’ve been there ten minutes. Petra’s been waiting.” He paused, and looked at Ferdinand’s arm. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

Ferdinand conceded his staring contest to look down at his own arm. “So I am,” he said, somewhat puzzled. He’d felt the scrape of her teeth, but he had assumed it was merely that, a scrape, and that she had not broken skin. …he hoped that the scent of blood did not make wyverns go strange, as it did for horses and dogs.

“You’d better get that checked out, wyvern bites are nasty.” He opened the door, and strode in nonchalantly. “And considering you’ve been bitten, I’d better help a pal out.”

“It really is not necessary—” he said, vainly trying to save face.

Claude tightened her girth strap in one move, and the wyvern merely squinted in annoyance. “Don’t worry about it, they always give the first-timers trouble.” He left with a jaunty wave. “Good luck!”

Ferdinand paused for a second, before he realised the thing he had forgotten to do. “Thank you very much for your assistance!” he called out.

Claude didn’t seem to notice. (Or maybe he did, and felt no need to react? Ferdinand had the trick for reading horses and dogs. He hadn’t found the trick for wyverns, and he was not sure he had found the trick for Claude.)

***

Ferdinand walked back to the wyvern stables after breakfast the next morning, bandage tight around his arm, and Manuela’s admonishment still ringing in his ears (“Don’t ride with an injury like that! And certainly don’t leave a wyvern bite untended for hours, their mouths are nasty things—“)

Claude caught up with him, and handed him a bowl. “Here you go: a bribe.”

Ferdinand took it automatically, and looked down. It was bowl of old sausages from yesterday’s breakfast, that didn’t smell like they had turned yet, though he was reluctant to put them to the test in his stomach. He blinked at them, and paused. What was the most polite way to say to your better “Please do not bribe me, it is unbecoming conduct for a noble to accept a bribe” and “Please do not bribe me, I do not want old sausages”?

Claude saw his confusion. “For the wyvern. Their just like people: quickest way to their hearts is through their stomachs.” He winked.

“Thank you once again for your assist—”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just paying it forward, pal.”

***

Claude and Ferdinand saw each other at the wyvern stables more and more. Ferdinand seemed quite taken with the creatures, after his unfortunate first impression. Claude couldn’t blame him—they were strong willed, and independent, and generally only took suggestions instead of commands, but they were lovely animals.

Over time Ferdinand, went from someone he merely called ‘friend’ or ‘pal,’ to an actual one. He was loyal and driven, and his noble ideal was much less “I am better than everyone” and more “I should strive to be better than everyone,” which, while an odd philosophy, was one Claude could respect.

They gave advice to each other on assignments, Claude teaching him about wyverns, and Ferdinand imparting horse-y wisdom.

(Claude sat on the arena’s sawdust floor, hip still sore from his fall, after his mount spooked at a wall they had ridden past twenty times before with no incident. “I don’t quite see what you seen them.” He shook his head. “They’re far too flighty.”

Ferdinand hopped off his horse, to lend him a hand up. “That could be true,” he said. “But once they trust you, once you are part of their herd—that loyalty, that partnership, is like little else in this world.”

He took the hand, and brushed the dirt off his pants once he was upright. “I don’t mind my partners not listening to me, from time to time, if they didn’t throw me off when they get scared.” )

When they had free time, they shared tea together, and discussed politics and history and philosophy and duty and riding.

It was a good friendship. And it would stay like that: friendship. Nothing more.

Even if Ferdinand had some interest in him, his noble ideal did seem to involve marrying someone and having as many Crest-bearing babies as possible. He’d said as much, even if not directly about himself. Spoke while sipping his bergamot about the duty of Crest bearers to protect those he did not have them, and to protect future generations of those lacking Crests by making future generations of bearers.

And, well, that wasn’t going to happen between the two of them. Better save the heartbreak there and then.

Plus, even if Ferdinand was speaking in general, rather than specifically about his own duties—when he wasn’t chasing after the noble ideal, he was chasing after the ideal of Edelgard. Which maybe wasn’t super healthy, but Claude wasn’t going to judge. But he could see all the little ways he could twist it, point Ferdinand’s ideals at him, make himself the object of that idealistic devotion with just a few words here and there over tea and cleaning wyvern tack. Ferdinand thrived on goals and ideals and it would be so simple to just change the direction he pointed ever so slightly--

It was tempting. The idea made him feel slimy. So he put that plan in the “don’t” bucket and tried to forget he’d ever thought about it.

And then Edelgard went and made that temptation a moot point, and his and Ferdinand’s friendship too. Maybe some people could stay friends with the person who drove them out of a monastery, and made a serious attempt to do kill them, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t that person.

It was a shame, really.

***

4 years later.

Claude stared through a palace window.

A messenger skidded to a halt next to him, panting. “My lord, there is someone in the courtyard who insists on seeing you.”

That didn’t surprise him. He’d just seen a wyvern rider coming in, hard and fast—not wearing Leicester colours, a skilled flier, but still having trouble dodging the arrows and wyvern riding guards aiming for him and—well, it wasn’t like Fódlan lacked for red heads, but he still had a quiver of hope in his heart. (He hoped that that was who was demanding an audience. When the strange wyvern rider dropped out of the sky, he could not tell if it was to land, or because they had been struck in the heart by an arrow.)

He walked to the courtyard as fast as he could.

Standing on the tiles, an old wyvern, battle scarred and with the brand of Garreg Mach on her shoulder, scratched her head. In front of her, stood a warrior in Black Eagles colours, but with every bit of insignia painstakingly seam-ripped out, and long red hair. Ferdinand. He looked different. Not just older, but older—having the bearing of someone who had seen some shit, if he had the liberty of being vulgar in his own head.

(He wondered if he looked older to Ferdinand, too. The beard would help.)

Ferdinand sank to one knee, formal and courtly and like an example illustration from an etiquette book. “My liege,” he said.

“I’m not your liege.” Because he wasn’t. Ferdinand was the Duke of Aegir, so his liege was Edelgard nigh definitionally. And he had followed her to war, and if that didn’t count as vassalage then nothing did—Even discounting that, he wasn’t going to point that devotion at himself deliberately if he could help it. Not now.

Ferdinand looked up at him—a breach of etiquette, and it surprised Claude that Ferdinand didn’t seem to care. He spoke fast, a shake of adrenaline and twinge of desperation in his voice. “Yes. Yes, you are. I am making—I am formally requesting to be your vassal.”

Claude lifted him up by the shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. If asked, he’d say it was to try and read Ferdinand’s intention, see if he was lying—but he didn’t need to. Ferdinand was a man of honour. If there was anything he would not play false on, it was matters of lieges and vassals and duties and loyalties. He’d only admit it to himself, but he was just looking at Ferdinand’s face, trying to map what had changed and what had stayed. (It was definitely Ferdinand. He was older, less bright—but he was Ferdinand.)

He stared back—ready for rebuke, but determined to stay at Claude’s side.

How could he say no? He embraced Ferdinand, and clapped him on the back. “It’s good to have you back, pal.”

#ferdinand von aegir #claude von riegan #claude/ferdinand #fire emblem #fire emblem: three houses #fe3h #wolffy writes fic #premium original content

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