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poptod · 3 years

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Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them to Me), pt. 10, (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: Relief.

Notes: now ive said this before, but i need to say it again and add on to it. This chapter will NOT make much sense if you do not read Mahjur's story, None Like You. The experience of reading this chapter will also be enhanced if you read Piye's story, Miscreation, but it's not as necessary as Mahjur's story. theyre also long as fuck so heres the important stuff: Piye was born blind and went on a mission when they were about 14 in which they grew their dark skin, massive height, and white hair, and gained some of the sight they'd lost. Mahjur gave up everything to be with Ahk. in the end, Ma'at (Goddess of Truth and Order) forced them apart in the name of the 'holy law'. Ma'at did this because mahjur, as a god, was not supposed to be interfering with the lives of people.

WC: 6.4k

Throughout the entirety of your two-day journey, you never left the canoe, leaving your muscles cramped, and strained, and restless. Still, you supposed you were in a better state than Piye, who had yet to sleep or rest from their rowing. On the other hand, Ahk was fine. At one point you asked him if he was worried about the coming events, but he told you that he wouldn't stress until it happened, and continued to swim beside the canoe without a care.

How you wished to have his capability to simply not think about things.

As you passed by Thebes in broad daylight, you looked far across the river from the western bank, searching for the falcon soldiers. Like Aswan, most of what you saw looked vacant or abandoned. Despite that you continued to stare, watching civilization pass by slowly, till city walls faded away to the flush green of the Nile.

"When will we get there?" Ahk moaned, his neck on the edge of the canoe, allowing him to dip his head upside-down, the crown of his hair soaking in water.

"Shut up," Piye said. The Pharaoh obeyed, although begrudgingly.

Night came and went in the blink of a sleep-heavy eye, passing into the dark early morning. Birds had yet to stir, leaving you in the eerie silence––the quiet before the battle. The only to feel such stress appeared to be you and Piye. Ahk slept on as usual, and the rest of the world remained ignorant to your journey.

"How did you meet Ahk?" You asked, desperate for someone elses' voice rather than the one in your head.

"My father was employed by his father, the Pharaoh of the time. I was... nine, maybe?" They said, taking a moment to remember. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem very close."

"I suppose we are." They paused. "He was a great comfort to me when my father died. And other... such things."

"He seems to have a habit of winning people over," you noted quietly.

"Yes, well... he has a certain charm."

As the sun's light began to crest the horizon, Memphis appeared in the distance, and Piye pulled the canoe to a stop on the western shore. Ahead of you lay the city you had so eagerly fled, the silent white walls foreboding in the worst of ways. You were certain the city would be flooded with falcon soldiers, as well as people who had heard of Ahk's treason, and who had decided Gyasi would be a better ruler. There would be few friends in those walls. Those of standing who had openly expressed their support of the Pharaoh Ahkmenrah had been banished.

Once the boat hit the riverbanks, Piye jumped out of it and pulled it the rest of the way onto solid ground. From there they donned a head covering, and shook the water out of their sandals, before helping you out as well onto dry land. No words were exchanged as you fully dressed yourself as well, sheathing knives you had been toying with.

You stepped to the side, tapping Ahk's head and laughing when it lolled to the side. It took a few more pokes before he truly stirred, moaning about a poor night's sleep, before he noticed you above him.

"When are we gonna be there?"

"We're here," Piye said flatly.

"We are?!" Ahk jumped to his feet, nearly falling over in the canoe. "How's the city look? Is it burned?"

"Look for yourself," you said, manually moving his chin to face the city behind him.

"Beautiful as the day I left," he said, seemingly satisfied. "So what are we doing?"

"Following a Goddesses' orders," Piye said as they finished pinning their head covering.

Ahk haphazardly dressed himself, but refused to wear a head covering. Piye explained thoroughly how screwed the three of you would be if Ahk was instantly recognized, and though the Pharaoh argued back for a little while, he was eventually won over. With that decided, the three of you abandoned the canoe and made way for Memphis.

The flush bushes and trees lining the river soon disappeared into empty sand, the land having been cleared for the construction of the great city. From where you now stood you could see guards inside the entrance of the massive walls. Your heart thrummed in your chest, crashing against its' own strings, sending your thoughts into a flurry. Disappearing was your act––returning was not. Facing the consequences of your actions was something you rarely did, since you weren't locked down anywhere, and didn't require anything from anyone but yourself. Now, you had a self-appointed duty––keep your friends safe. After the many years of your travels, you finally had something to lose.

And the thought of that terrified you.

"We aren't using the front entrance, are we?" You murmured, mostly to Piye.

"Of course not. Have you ever scaled a wall?"

"Well... once when I was trying to escape Ahk," you said reluctantly.

"Oh, I remember that," Ahk said with recognition in his eyes. "Then I tied you to the bed."

"Yeah, and then I cried."

"You two are.. I don't even know. You're insane," Piye said. "Now stop being insane and help me here."

You had yet to reach the walls of Memphis, so Piye stopping halfway there confused you for a moment.

"What are we doing?"

"I can't throw a grappling hook straight up that far," Piye said, kneeling and digging into their bag, "so we have to set up here."

Before they could find the hook amongst the mass of other tools set carelessly in their bag, they stopped suddenly, raising their head and looking off to the city. It didn't catch your eye at first, but when they didn't move for a good minute, you noticed, as did Ahk.

"Piye?"

They stood suddenly, the tools in their lap clattering to the ground. Long threads of white hair began to rise, floating mid-air as though Piye stood underwater, or stood suspended in nothing.

Your attention alarmingly caught, you circled round them, finding their eyes white and glowing on a face of night-black skin.

"Piye, this is not a good time to have a revelation!" Ahk chided, reaching for their wrist. Before he could do so, Piye flicked his hand away, making him recoil with a pained gasp.

"There is..." their voice spoke in double, in triplicate, echoing in your skull like the resonance of a gong, "... much to do."

You and Ahk looked to each other, both searching for answers that neither of you had. Piye continued their path forward, leaving you and their belongings behind, as they headed in broad daylight towards the city's gates. Without ever having to reach up, their head scarves and chest coverings fell away till all that remained was their skirt.

What the fuck do we do now, came through your head, but you had little time to voice your question before Ahk ran to Piye. You followed, mimicking his actions when he tried to stop Piye or direct them the other way.

"You're going to get us killed!" Ahk scream-whispered, all too aware of the soldiers surrounding the city's entrance. He leant the entirety of his weight on Piye, attempting to pull them back, but they showed no sign of strain.

"It is meant to be," they said in a hush. "It is meant to be."

Their mouth closed but the words remained, whispered over and over again in your ears. Your own breathing had already hastened, fingers tense with your own terror, worsening as you met the eye of one of the guards.

"Ahk, they're looking at us!" You hissed behind Piye's back, still grasping helplessly at Piye's hands to attempt at pulling them back.

Panic stewed in your heart and leaked into your head, leaving you in a daze of confusion, unsure what to do to protect yourself and your friends. The soldiers were now focusing their attention on you, and Piye's eyes were still glowing.

It was then, within full view of the falcon soldiers and about ten feet from the city itself, that the magi released themself of your terrified grips, rising into the morning air. They opened their mouth and out came a voice that did not belong to them, lodged in their throat as they screamed over the rustling of guards and soldiers readying themselves for battle. Bells began to chime in the city, alerting officials and citizens to the threat now floating above the white walls of Memphis.

"If ye are in Heaven or on Earth, I am the Only One in your bodies," Piye spoke, loud enough to be heard throughout the city.

The sheer volume and the vibrations within the earth that followed had you crouching down, and covering your ears with your hands, a position Ahk soon adopted as well. You watched from the corner of your eye as the soldiers fell victim to that same, screeching pain digging into either side of their heads. Swarms of people began to leave the city through the back entrance, trampling over each other like fleeing rats.

"I am the Pure one – I shall not die a second time. I am He Who is Not Known."

Ahk's eyes darted upwards, recognition flooding him.

"They're calling in Amun," he murmured, just loud enough to hear between the pauses of Piye's words.

"Already?!"

"I don't think they can control it," Ahk said, but as Piye continued, he was forced to cover his ears once more, wincing away.

"Your forms, indeed all forms, are my habitation. My moment is within your bodies. I am The Unveiled," Piye said, and suddenly the aura around them stilled, fixed on a glow brighter than the sun.

For a moment all was silent. Then their mouth opened, gaped and unhinged from the skull as they looked to the sky. An ear-splitting note came from them, running through the earth and sky, even through the water that now bubbled on the shore as though heated by fire. Horror filled your chest, spreading quick through your veins till your body trembled and shook.

Light flooded out of their mouth, a great beam of sun cast into the dark morning sky. Their still-glowing eyes now gave their skull a hollowed look, filled with nothing but light, pouring out with the overflow. Such multitudes could not be contained to a mortal body.

"We need to get the hell out of here!" Ahk yelled over the horrifying screeching, attempting to cover his ears best he could while still reaching for you.

Hopeless, you reached out as well, finding his hand in the space between you and grasping it as though he were a ship in a storm. He pulled you along, stumbling on his feet just as you did. The deep hum running through the earth and water had already worsened, till the ground began to crack, the water of the Nile turning into steam at an alarming rate.

You said nothing to each other, but he led you into the city and you followed without question. Every two seconds you cast looks behind your shoulder, watching events carelessly unfold, and stumbling over yourself whenever Ahk increased his speed. Together, you barrelled down the straight pathway to your destination––the gleaming palace.

"Ahk, what are we going to do?" You asked in a shaky voice, burdened by stumbling feet and a racing heart.

"I don't know," he admitted in his own fear-laced tone. "We need to hide you."

"We can't hide forever!" You wrenched yourself out of his grasp, pulling the both of you into a side alley hidden from Piye's––or Amun's––eyes. "That Goddess wants us here for a reason. We have to face him eventually."

"What if they were just dreaming?" He grasped both your upper arms, looking into you with wide, terrified eyes. "What if that Goddess doesn't come? I. Cannot. Lose you."

"It's our only hope. Don't you believe in your own Gods?"

"Not since Amun tried to steal you from me," he said, still searching your face for something he clearly couldn't find.

"That's your fucking friend up there!" You said, pointing behind you to Piye, who was now floating above the city walls, their hair suspended as they continued to bellow with that horrible ringing sound. "I know for a fact Piye would give their life for you and you should do the same."

"I know, I know," he hissed. "But I won't risk you. I have to hide you –"

He reached for you again, but you swatted his hands away.

"I will not be hidden!"

"No, no, no, no, no," he began to murmur, his gaze flickering between you and Piye, far behind you. "No, you must stay away. Far away."

"Ahk, I'm n––"

He tore his sleeve, a habit he had apparently used enough to become good at, and promptly tied it around your mouth. You protested greatly, pushing and shoving and kicking him away. In the end it was that same struggle you never won––your hands were tied behind your back, quite literally, and your legs followed. Even as you writhed and yelled, you could note the tears streaking down his face.

"Don't you do this!" You said through the gag, your words muffled as he threw you over his shoulder.

"I must keep you safe. I cannot fulfill my role if I am worrying about you," he explained in a weak voice.

With that, he hid you away in an underground cellar, locking the door as he left. Try as you might––and you did try, from yelling to thrashing to crying––you couldn't move from your spot, tied to one of the pillars holding up the dirt ceiling.

As much as he promised not to hurt you or bind you in any way, he sure had done it a lot. Tears began to burn your own eyes, and soon they were falling, soaked up by the gag wrapped around your head.

Piye's unholy screeching had yet to stop, even within the earth. The vibrations you'd felt so fiercely were dulled with distance, a fact you were very relieved about, as any risk of cave-in would've held you mortified. It was a small comfort compared to the severity of your situation, but you tried to revel in it nonetheless.

Every now and then you'd thrash in your bonds again, hoping your continuous struggle had done you some sort of good. Each time you were proven wrong, and still you rubbed your ropes against the splintered wood that kept you there, praying the bonds would break.

A soft hum reverberated in the room, and for a moment you were terrified Amun (in Piye's body, of course,) was knocking at the door. But a popping sound marked the end of the tune, making way for a person to appear, their form tall and still nothing more than a white silhouette.

How many god-damned magic people am I going to meet in Egypt? you thought tiredly. Piye was already enough for you, but the bushy, almost circular hair of this person had you convinced it was someone else.

Eyes pulled themselves open. The only trait on the glowing, ethereal form, and you recognized them. The heat on your skin. The crawling unease trickling down your spine. You recalled a night's sleep spent in a restless haze, and it clicked––it had watched you. This had watched you, now reaching forward as though to touch you. Instinctively you flinched away, but you couldn't go anywhere, not bound to the pillar. You tried your best to cringe and strain away. It still touched you, first by its' fingertips, and the burning heat reached down from your forehead down into your sternum.

"Stop!" You cried when the entirety of its' hand spread over your forehead, sending searing pain through your nerves like electricity. With your shout it withdrew, seemingly surprised by your reaction.

"Whhhat iss your naammmee?" It asked in many voices that spoke one after another, stretching the words.

"... Amoke," you said quietly, still pushing yourself against the pillar, but thankful it was no longer hurting you.

Slowly, starting at their crown and spreading down to their feet, their image appeared through the light. Who stood before you was not someone you recognized, but there was something unearthly about them––as their mouth opened, you found long rows of sharp teeth, all ordered as if it were normal to have that many teeth. But they towered above your shrunken form, fiery gold eyes staring down.

"You are... a friend of Ahkmen's?" They breathed out.

"Y - you mean Ahkmenrah?"

"Yes," they said with a relieved sigh, a smile stretching too-wide across their face. You curled further into yourself at the sight of their sharp teeth. "How is he?"

"Fighting Amun, I think," you said, hoping it would help them along.

"Oh, right," they said, jumping back into action.

Circling you, they bent to untie your ropes, grabbing your hand and wrenching open the lock on the door. Without pause they bounded up the steps with you in tow, leading you out of the alley and back onto the main street. By now the sun had risen, now shining bright with its' familiar warmth, circled by a sky of blue.

"Come, we must –"

"Wait, for one second," you said, pulling on your hand to release their hold, but you couldn't shake them off. "Who are you?"

"... my name is Mahjur," they said in a quiet voice. "I don't know if you know of me."

"I've... heard some things," you said vaguely.

"Shall we go now?"

You nodded, and the two of you were off. The main street still led straight from the gates to the palace, Gyasi to your right and Piye to your left. You had no way of knowing which way Ahk had decided to go, but Mahjur seemed to have some idea, as they set off straight away for Piye.

When you reached the city gates, you found the ground ripped into pieces, lightning-like strikes running through the earth. You stumbled over them and jumped, reaching the riverside where Amun had unleashed a special hell of holy wrath. The Nile was still boiling, and the height of the water had gone down drastically already, matched by the haze of fog and steam now hiding Amun, and Piye, from view. Spilt blood soaked your sandals, reaching up to the soles of your feet in a sticky liqueur. Sickness suddenly overtook you, nearly vomitting from the sensation even despite your previous run-ins with blood-soaked limbs, memories of dry blood tainting your tongue.

"Who has brought me to this form?" He asked from Piye's mouth, too deep for them, too roaring and ear-piercing.

"I am," said a woman, and your attention zipped to a figure standing atop the city gates, looking up at Amun. "I came to a magi in a dream and asked them to summon you."

The Goddess.

"Who is that?" You asked Mahjur quietly.

"Ma'at," they answered. "Goddess of order. I asked her to help. Knew she wouldn't stand by if she knew a God was breaking the natural order."

"Can we help her?"

"Yeah. Just need to wait for Ahkmen to get back from the palace," they said, looking back over their shoulder towards the shining palace in the distance. "He's fetching his royals and their soldiers under the guise of protecting the city. Once they're here, we can take down Amun, and Ahkmen can deliver a final blow. That'll reinstate him as Pharaoh."

"You've thought this through."

"Of course I have. I actually plan ahead, unlike Ahk."

"You can say that again," you mumbled beneath your breath.

Mahjur didn't respond, but took your hand again, pulling you out past the giant walls. The cracks in the ground were large enough that, at times, you needed to jump over the crevices, dodging the crumbling earth leading into a bottom you couldn't see. Before you could ask what to do, Mahjur began to search through the stalls still put together after Amun's rampage.

Caught up in whatever Mahjur was searching for, you remained unaware of Amun's argument with Ma'at, one that had digressed into nothing more than angry yelling. His eyes inevitably fell to you, and the glow within them tripled.

"Amoke," he said in a whisper that still echoed like drums.

You whirled around with eyes big as the moon. He, Piye and Amun, looked upon you with a smile that crawled across the darkened skin, illuminated by both the glow in his eyes and the rising daylight. Petrified into place, you could do nothing but watch as he lowered himself to your level. In Piye's body, Amun still towered over you, just as he had inhabiting his golden statue.

"Don't you look away from me, Amun!" Ma'at yelled from the top of the wall.

Even as the Goddess yelled, he did not tear his gaze from you. You began to back up, looking behind you to try and find Mahjur, but they were as scared stiff as you were. They would not help you, and Ma'at was too far away.

He snatched you in his arms, grinning as though he'd won some sort of prize. In Piye's face, glowing with Amun's power, you found something familiar––hunger. Ahk's hunger, of cannibals, of the rich. Your hands shook, followed by your heart thundering in your chest till you were sure your veins would explode. His smile was too wide, like Mahjur's, but empty and near expressionless.

"Pretty little thing," he said softly, scanning your face.

Wings of green and gold spread out above Amun's head, catching your eye as he attempted to lean in closer to you. Your eyes further widened when they began to descend, growing larger till the ground shook with the landing of heavy feet, marking Ma'at's footprints in the earth that burnt at the touch of her skin.

"How dare you look away from me," she said in a voice that trembled with her fury, barely contained in her mortal form.

A large hand came over Amun's head, wrenching on his––or rather Piye's––long, silver hair. Under Ma'at's control, he turned to face her with ire in his gritted teeth.

The Goddess, who had at first seemed rather small and delicate, had grown to twice the size of even Piye, meaning she seemed much like a statue to you and Mahjur. Her wings that came from nowhere now flared out, appearing to crown her head that she held high. Her eyes did not glow, but her anger reverberated in the air, thrumming in your bones.

"You claim to be a lord of all creation," she said through a fixed jaw, forcing Amun back and kneeing him in the face, hard enough to hear an audible crack that you winced away from. "And then you kill your children, betray the one who saved your armies, attempt to steal from the one who gave you back your power. You were not born yesterday, Amun."

When Ahk left you tied up in a cellar, the tears that lined his face grew cold in the wind of his running footsteps. His pace was slowed by the uphill slant, but he pushed himself as far as he dare, and made it to the bottom of the palace entrance in a short amount of time.

He noted throughout his run an astonishing absence of people. No people in their homes, no markets setting up, no guards at the palace door. As he made his way up the stairs, the reason for it became clear––the sound of many footsteps all trampling over each other came from within the pristine white walls of his home, coupled with fretting voices talking muted behind the walls. He cracked open the door to the inner chambers, and found his hypothesis to be correct.

The whole of the city––or those who had decided not to flee––were hidden within the palace. At the other side of the room sat the raised floor of the throne, and upon it sat Gyasi, flanked by the lesser advisors of Ahk's father. He kept a perfectly still expression, but Ahk knew better––Gyasi panicked under stress but seeked action in times of peace.

Keeping his head low, Ahk crept through the crowd, a hand on the wall to ensure he wouldn't lose himself. A few of the people he passed had hanging swords attached to their hips, and so he stole two just in case, hoping he wouldn't have to use either. Through the mutterings he heard, there were a good deal of complaints about Gyasi––a fact he definitely liked, though his delight was shortlived, as he soon heard a fair amount of criticisms on himself as well.

Murmurings and voices grew louder, more concerned as Amun's voice pierced the thick walls, sparking panic among the crowd. People began to move, bumping against each other and pushing one another aside. Ahk was inevitably hurt as well, thrown against the wall and landing on the floor.

It came to such a height that Gyasi stood, yelling a call to attention above the crowd, who stilled on command.

"Amun will not kill his devotees," he ensured, the skin of his neck dangling as he shouted. "He is searching for the False King and his whore."

Ahk could physically feel his irises shrink as he singled down on Gyasi, hatred boiling in his head.

"He is seeking a citizen," Ahk said, projecting his voice to speak over the old man stealing his throne.

Gasps came from those around him, the crowd suddenly parting completely, leaving him centered out from the bustling heads. Gyasi narrowed his eyes as he saw him.

"A citizen named Amoke. They are my friend, so I must protect them, but I will not abandon my people, leave them helpless in the hands of an artifact," Ahk continued as he stepped forward, making his way to the throne, where Gyasi began to back away. "Do you really think keeping everyone here is going to work?"

"We are dealing with your mess! It is undignified to insult someone cleaning up after you," Gyasi said with furrowed brows, a grimace and a sneer forming simultaneously on his crooked lips.

"I think it's alright if they're doing a godawful job at it," Ahk said flatly. "You need to get the citizens out of here, hide them in the brush of the Nile. If Amun breaches the city walls, this is the first place he will look, and he will demolish every living thing he sees. He is aiming to kill my friend, Amoke, and he does not care if others die in the process."

His words were doing little to quell the audience's worries, but that was his aim, as detrimental as it might be to the health of his citizens.

"You think you know better than I? I have been protecting the people of this city longer than you've been alive."

"You are a remnant of my father's rule. A relic from a time of barbaric violence and meaningless bloodshed. Now get the people to the nearest outcrop of the Nile. You and I have a God to face, if you're truly ready to protect Kemet," Ahk said, offering forward one of his swords.

"... very well," Gyasi said slowly, grasping the sword and drawing it to hilt on his hip. More murmurings came from the crowd that watched the argument. "Pikta, divide the populace and take them in groups. Divide soldiers evenly as you can."

"Yes, sir," said a soldier, who bowed and ran to the front of the room to obey.

"Is Amun outside?" Gyasi asked as he made his way to the entrance of the palace, Ahk at his side.

"He's at the city gates in Piye's body," Ahk said, and as the two of them breached the threshold, he found he could still see Piye's flying body in the distance.

"That beast?" He said with raised brows. "We have quite the battle ahead."

"Hopefully, we won't have to use these swords. We should have the help of a Goddess," Ahk said. "She came to Piye in a dream a little while ago and instructed us on the beginnings of a plan. It is our duty to help her."

"How do you know it isn't a trick?"

"We don't."

The two men began to run down the pathway, both sets of eyes trained on the distant crumbling walls of the city, allowing them to see a tall woman holding a man by his neck against the reflected sun on the Nile. As Ahk noticed two much smaller onlookers, his pace doubled in speed till he bounded down the street. He reached the end much sooner than Gyasi, but it didn't take long till both of them stood shocked, watching Ma'at raise Piye––Amun––into the sky on long, emerald and gold wings.

"I am the Lord of this world," Amun growled, a statement that sent him crashing towards the earth, Ma'at's muscled arm pounding him down.

She stalked over to him, footsteps drumming against the ground till she knelt at his side, grabbing his hair and pulling his face out of the mud.

"I want you to say that to Ptah," she said, before letting his head fall back down. "Mahjur."

Ahk's heart froze at the name. You watched it happen, how his body seized, eyes darting to the God beside you. He lost feeling in all his limbs as Mahjur stepped forward, glancing at Ahk before quickly looking away and joining Ma'at's side.

The two Gods––Ma'at and Mahjur––spoke to each other quietly, and most everyone present listened in with shocked expressions. What you didn't notice, caught up in Ahk's reaction to his old friend, was Amun sinking into the earth. You only realized this as you, too, began to lower into the earth. Beneath you, hands had grasped your ankles and pulled you down.

"Um, Ahk...!" You said in hyperventilated gasps, helpless on how to save yourself.

You no longer had control of your legs, unable to pull them upwards, and there was nowhere your arms could hold onto. Ahk looked to you, shouting when he caught the tail-end of you disappearing wholly into the ground. He ran to where you stood, but it was too late, and Amun was raising himself into the sky with you bound to him.

"Amoke!" Ahk cried.

“They do not belong to you,” Amun said with a smile, unsheathing a knife and baring it to those watching him in an act of vanity. “It’s mine.”

From above, those gathered at the city gates seemed small––even Ma'at, who was twice your height. You watched, unable to breathe through your bindings, as an object materialized in Ma'at's hand and was handed to Ahk with words you couldn't hear. The point of it directed to you, and in an instant you recognized it.

A hornbow.

The tip of the arrow pointed straight to you, and you writhed, desperately trying to escape Amun's grasp and worm out of the way. But he held you fast, and through his speech you couldn't hear over the thundering of your flowing blood, he laughed and held you tighter yet.

Twang.

The drawstring shot back into place, sending the arrow zipping through the sky, and straight into Piye's chest. Amun's arms and magical bindings faded away, and you fell through the open air. Ahk ran to catch you, careening straight into the still-steamy river with open arms. His efforts were not for nothing, as he caught you, using the water to ease your descent as well.

"They asked me to do it," Ahk said through tears pouring out of his eyes, falling as a rainstorm does, as waterfalls do, as blood does from the tip of a sword. "They asked me to shoot them. I didn't think. I saw you, and – and – I didn't –"

"It's going to be alright," you whispered in a shaky voice, comforting best you could even with your trembling hands. His shoulders wracked with heavy sobs as he hid his face in the crook of your neck, wide, haunted eyes cast over your back.

You looked upwards, watching what Ahk could not bear to see. Piye, and Amun, were suspended in open space, the end of a glittering arrow buried in their chest. As the body began to rise higher, your gaze fell to Ma'at and Mahjur still on the shore. They were chanting, both of them––something you couldn't hear, but their eyes began to glow, the veins in their body shining through their skin. You tapped Ahk's shoulders, asking him in a murmur to look. He reluctantly turned to watch.

The heavenly glow emanating from Piye's bones and eyes began to separate from the physical body, peeling away from itself till all that remained of it was a golden shell, shimmering and translucent. Your mouth fell open, watching the two forms pull away from each other.

Once Piye was fully separated from what you guessed was Amun, they fell down into the river, where Ahk also stumbled weakly to catch them. They did not wake, but the slow up and down of their chest marked that they were still breathing despite the arrow piercing them.

You turned back to the power of Amun, transforming from Piye's body to the symbol of the sun. The spells falling from Mahjur and Ma'at grew slowly louder, lifting Amun's essence through the sky, till it dissipated, and fell into the sun.

Silence.

The hum of magic, of broiling Gods and Goddesses came to a halt, and time stood still. It felt as though the world around you had been imbued with enchantments, marinated in it, and then separated entirely, cut off from the feeling of holiness. Your chest had caved in, leaving you near unable to breathe.

No wind. No movement in the water.

Someone was sobbing––you turned to search for the source, and found Ahk knelt in the water with Piye in his arms. His face was buried in his vizier's neck, quiet apologies coming from his trembling lips, matched by fevered hands.

"Bring them here, Ahkmenrah," Ma'at said softly, beckoning the Pharaoh.

He turned to face her, slowly breathed away the tears still building in his eyes, and carried Piye to shore best he could. When he reached Ma'at's feet, he set his friend down to life flat on the earth.

"Oh you young men," Ma'at murmured as she knelt, a hand poised over Piye and the arrow. "Shu of the morning... who have power over those who flash among the sun-folk, whose arms move about and whose heads sway to and fro... may they move about every day."

Piye's eyes fluttered slowly open, a soft groan escaping them as they blinked. The arrow lodged in their chest dissipated to no more than ash. Ahk gasped, a wide grin spreading across his features as he once more knelt to his knees, helping Piye to sit up.

"Are you alright, my friend?" He asked hurriedly, scanning over the healing injury.

"I... I can't see," Piye murmured in a breath, still swaying from the weakness of their muscles. They fell against Ahk. "I can't see anymore."

"What? How –"

"Oh Gods," Piye said, their breathing quickening. "It's as if I am a child again."

"Amun claimed your magic," Ma'at said softly. She hadn't ever looked you in the eye, but she met the magi's, a kinder look on her than ever before. "To save you and your.. friends, I locked Amun into the sun, with help from Mahjur."

Mahjur gingerly stepped up behind Ma'at, looking to you, then Piye, and to the ground below Ahk.

"I am afraid your magic intwined with Amun’s, and I had to lock it into the sky as well, to rid of him," she finished. “Your magic is what gave you eyesight to begin with, if you remember those years.”

"I... do I look.. the same?" They asked in a shaky voice.

"Taller than anything," Ahk said instantly. "Dark skin. White hair. You look the same."

"But with no... magic," they murmured.

"You may still have remnants. Most people do have a base magic. You might be able to do small spells," Mahjur said. You watched Ahk bite into his cheek and look down.

Piye cried––you expected little else, and you waited patiently as they came to process everything that had just happened. When they requested a rundown of the events (as apparently their memory was not fantastic), Ahk happily explained what had come to pass, with his usual dramatic debonair. Ma'at stayed and chuckled at certain points, but stood when Ahk finished.

Movement caught the corner of your eye, and your gaze darted upwards, ready for any return of danger. But what you found instead were people––lots of people, coming from several different directions and circling you, Ahk, the two Gods, Piye, and Gyasi. They were muttering amongst themselves, and from what you heard they appeared to be discussing the validity of Ahk's story.

"I must return to the Duat before anything else decides to unhinge itself from the natural order," Ma'at said at the end of Ahk's retelling. Mahjur, who had taken a seat beside the Goddess, stood as well.

"Wait, Ma'at," Ahk said, standing with a hand out, hoping to halt her. She turned expectantly. "Can I... Mahjur..."

She glanced between the two, who even now were too nervous to look at each other. You watched on though, watched how timid and shaky they both grew, itching terribly to acknowledge one another.

"... very well," Ma'at sighed. "I'll give you a moment."

Ahk didn't even leave time to thank Ma'at for the allowance. He went straight to his friend, colliding with them and wrapping his arms so tight round them you could swear it'd kill a regular human. Mahjur had much of the same attitude, tears and laughter coming simultaneously from them.

"I will be waiting for you," they said with the biggest grin, parting for a very short moment to stroke the side of his face. "I wait for you in the field of reeds."

"I await my death, then," Ahk laughed giddily, followed by his friend bursting into giggles as well. You couldn't help but grin, but you hid it behind your hand.

"Come now, Mahjur," Ma'at commanded, and the two friends reluctantly parted, allowing Mahjur to rejoin Ma'at.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, though Ma'at was still a great deal taller than everyone present, and in a flash they were gone. Murmurings in the crowd grew in volume, people drawing closer as they realized their Pharaoh had never lied.

They had truly seen Ma’at, the Goddess of peace.

Relief––that was the only way to explain it. Pure, unaltered relief, flooding your veins, flooding your thoughts. Tremors in your hand that you didn't even notice were there disappeared, the knot in your brow fading with it. Air felt like it had been made anew, refreshed after a hundred years of a solitary cave, and you could smile. No more Gods.

Finally.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

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pog-through-the-suffering · 3 years

Text

ive . never made an original post on this blog besides being completely head full of thoughts regarding the dream smp these past months so, 🎉here’s to my first og post

The Traitor!!!

(yeah i know it's already been a day and none of this stuff is new hsjfhj just let me be a drama queen that really likes analysing characters)

can i just say before i get into it that i love the descent into pretty much grey morality for most of the "characters" involved in the smp. like. pretty much nobody is morally correct! other than niki nihachu because niki can do no wrong :) also i'll be referring to the characters... of these people? and not who they are

now, i've got a couple people that i think are traitors and i'll explain them a little further down but here's some things i noted when i was watching the vod that might be interesting owo

dream says, quote, "[you] may have traitors in your ranks" which,

could be a double jebait; he knows there's a traitor but he wants to sound like it's up in the air

there really is no traitor and this is just a ruse to get pogtopia to implode on itself

the traitor still hasn't made up their mind on whether or not they will betray pogtopia

and i think the last one is the most interesting, at least from a semi-meta perspective, to have a traitor that's not fully into the role and doesn't decide until last minute. idk, something about the angst really fuels me :)

either way, here's my predictions on who could be the traitor ranked (more or less) most compelling to least compelling, and i'm not accounting for realism because... this is my tumblr post and i get to pick how i order things :) i'm hiding the (long) analysis in read more because... i just realized how much i have to say and i am Not concise.

tl;dr

tubbo, while unrealistic, makes for an interesting twist and, for angst reasons, would also be cool to write about if he betrays pogtopia

similar to tubbo, tommy betraying is unrealistic, but for angst reasons would also be cool

technoblade is kind of obvious, but the continuity (if he’s the traitor) would make me pretty happy.

wilbur soot would be a little null, since he’s already planning on blowing everything to smithereens either way, but would be another step in his spiral downwards (jeez how far can this guy go) so i’m not mad.

georgenotfound would not be super surprising per say but would continue with his general characterization as an arbiter of chaos (i’ll maybe elaborate in a different post) it would be :)

badlands folks would... not be surprising. they never formally aligned with pogtopia, and aside from sam never really... offered their help? concretely, at least.

fundy already used up his secret traitor card.

same with eret, i love her, but his betrayal wouldn’t be super impactful. plus, they’re more aligned with badlands?

niki nihachu... i said i won’t care about realism but i sincerely cannot in canon imagine this. but if she did... oh the angst would be *chef’s kiss*

hbomb, ponk, purpled, itsalyssa, punz, other people? they never really were involved with this season aside from like,,, maybe helping schlatt hunt down tommy and wilbur right at the beginning. so the betrayal wouldn’t. matter.

tubbo - look, ik i said i don't care about realism, but the chances of this actually happening are... pretty slim. i love tubbo. i support tubbo. but they... like, the confused "no?" when he first came on VC with tommy makes me think it probably won't be him, unless they're really that good at acting. which, i mean, i guess would make for a fantastic surprise. but there's something deeply compelling about this kid, who largely has been relegated to third in command/less important than his friend, and who has been treated like a work horse a lot of the time (being asked to farm netherite for this upcoming war, being forced to decorate what ended up being his fucking funeral, otherwise grinding for shit in the earliest war only for it to get ruined by dteam), fucking snapping. plus, it's not like tubbo hasn't demonstrated his penchance towards chaos. also, i think there's something to be said about the lingering effects of manipulative authority/paternal figures and how that would manifest in tubbo, but that's a post for another day.

tommy - okay, yeah, maybe i just like kids my age popping the fuck off because of terrible parental figures, but shhhhhh. for real though, i think it would be really interesting for the person who up to this point has largely been the moral compass or otherwise the hero of the smp. for him to turn out to have always been as bad as the "villains" he's fighting... i dunno. also, something about him betraying because he's so fucking done with the people who are supposed to protect and lead him? mghhghh. but i like this probably mostly for the pop off factor LOL

technoblade - i mean... this one's a little obvious innit? i'm not mad at this, for sure, because techno's always made it clear he is ultimately here for chaos and anarchy. plus, i'll be able to stew in the dynamics of dream and techno fucking the server up LOL. all that aside, if techno turns out to be the villain i will be happy about the (now) fired chekhov's gun. like, i appreciate the continuity between "schlatt suggests techno is a pogtopia spy when he joins" to "techno admits he's just an anarchist" to techno's accidental or forced, depending on how you read it, betrayal of pogtopia by killing tubbo, and it all culminating in techno's final betrayal. while not the most surprising, it would be narratively fitting. and that's always nice isn't it? when things end with a nice bow on top-

speaking of nice bows on top, wilbur soot! i mean,,, as the man has said himself, there's really nothing more he can do to betray (if not pogtopia) tommy's values. the bitch wants to blow up manberg! and that's super fucking sexy. i love his corruption arc, it's *chef's kiss.* so... is he gonna be the traitor? probably not. but something about being driven to the very brink, that you've got nothing else even after you want to destroy it all that you seek out your former mortal enemy to cause even more pain and destruction... very compelling, very nice.

speaking of brunet british twinks,,, georgenotfound. even if george wasn't really on the smp or never formally betrayed manberg, i think they kind of accepted that he's on their side. and while this wouldn't necessarily a surprising twist, this would continue with dteam's (accidental?) characterization of themselves as arbiters of chaos. maybe i'll write a whole nother post about that, stay tuned :)

any of the badlands people - i mean... i love them. i love what they stand for. but they never really aligned with pogtopia, did they? so one of them, any of them, except maybe sam, would make for a pretty weak sauce twist. like, perhaps with skeppy? and it continuing the trend of enemy between tommy and skeppy? but really the most compelling is sam in that he agreed to help tommy but as a final reveal he doesn't join tommy's side when tommy does whatever with the creeper head.

as for weak sauce twists, fundy being the traitor would be pretty fuckin' weak. i'm sorry! he already used his secret traitor card, and everyone knows, once you've used it once you can never (until the next season) use it again.

other characters on the smp... yeah, i love eret! i love her! he's fucking fantastic! their gay castle? best fucking build! but like i said, already used secret traitor card. plus, she's part of badlands, so i don't think his betrayal would be surprising. and niki nihachu,,, i know i said i wouldn't care about realism, but i honest to god cannot imagine her being the traitor. i guess if she was there'd be some nice angst about her realizing that everything is shit, no matter where you turn, pogtopia's being run by a fanatical JD, manberg's run by a dictatorial senile goat man, badlands isn't even strong enough to have its own territory. so, what can a woman do when she has nothing left to lose? but for real, within canon it just... wouldn't really make sense to me. hbomb hasn't been involved in the plot, punz + ponk + purpled + alyssa + others haven't really been involved in the plot aside from. like chasing down tommy and wilbur that one time.

and... yeah! those are my thoughts :)

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bittysvalentines · 4 years

Text

You Can’t Hear My Soul

From: @eatallofthepumpkinthings

To: @corgiberus

Rating: T

Tags: Soulmate AU, Angst, mentions of anxiety, mentions of loneliness, mentions of defamation of character, mentions of paparazzi being rude, OC, ASL/RSL/Sign language, NHL Chowder, NHL Whiskey, Open Ended, mentions of Zimbits

Note: Sorry I can't write fluff! I hope you like it anyways.

Alexei wakes up groggy. The night before he'd tried to stay up until midnight, his heart racing with anticipation, yet he'd fallen asleep at some point. As soon as he is awake enough to realize why he's so groggy, his heart starts running again and his face splits with a grin. Immediately he feels for that space in his head where the connection to his soul mate should exist. When he finds it, nestled just behind his eyes, his heart sinks.

There is wind blowing past his ears and he knows he won't be able to hear his soulmate. He'd hoped that they'd fall into that small statistical chance and have the same birth date. He knew it was unrealistic, but he still had hoped to hear his soulmate. He often stayed up at night wondering if their voice would be airy and melodic or deep in soothing. Would they be Russian like him, or would they be foreign and the translation weird and distressing. Of course, it wouldn't matter if his soulmate was foreign, living half way across the world even – but it would be so much easier if they were Russian. If they were, then the likelihood of them being close by would be higher. They could be together sooner.

His daydreaming didn't matter now. The connection was open. He could tell his soulmate all about himself and maybe they'd come and find him before their 18th birthday. Even if they didn't come and find him – he had to stop himself . There were only 24 hours in the day and he'd already wasted several sleeping.

“HI! I'M ALEXEI!” He shouts into the connection. His cheeks heat. Why am I shouting? I'm going to sound desperate. he thinks.

He tries to reign himself in, but he knows its going to be difficult. “Uh sorry for shouting. I'm just really excited to talk to you. I've been dreaming about this day for a long time. I can't hear you now. But I'm sure in no time I will be able to hear you. We will talk non-stop on your birthday. I just know it.”

He stays up until midnight telling his soulmate everything about his life.

********************

Months pass and Alexei's hopes fade. He throws himself into his hockey career again. His father is right, if he's going to transition to the NHL he should do it now. He's been working with agents and talking to teams. By the end of the regular NHL season he's secured his spot with Falconers.

********************

Nervousness sits in the pit of his stomach everyday. Without any games to play, he refocuses his energy into learning English. It's profoundly frustrating. After a particularly disastrous lesson, he decides to take out his feelings the only way he knows how – on the ice. He's laces up and heads onto the iced over pond behind his family home.

Who knows when I'll get to do this again, he sulks.

He's skating laps, pushing himself as fast as he can. Suddenly he's tripping over himself. There are words flashing behind his eyes. As he falls forward, he becomes aware that the room where his connection lives is open and the wind rushing past his ears is just from the fall.

“Hello, can you hear me?”

“Are you awake? I hope I'm not waking you.”

“I'm really excited to talk with you Alexei.”

As he catches his breath and tries to push up off his knees, his mind is racing. After a few minutes he realizes he hasn't said anything back and he probably should do that.

“OH, HELLO... Hi. Uh... Happy birthday!” He replies awkwardly.

“Thank you! I'm so happy to finally talk to you.”

Alexei is excited but he is so very confused.

“Why can't I hear you?” he asks.

“WHAT?” his soulmate replies.

“It's like I'm seeing your words. I... I don't hear them. Is there something wrong?” Is he sick? He's heard that colds can sometimes mess up these conversations. Or maybe it's because of his concussion. He hopes that that isn't the case. Concussions have all sorts of long term affects, and in his line of work, its likely he'll have another if not more.

Suddenly he feels a door close. He frantically feels behind his eyes for that space where his soulmate just was but its gone. The void is overwhelming and he's back on his knees. What just happened?

********************

Alexei's 19th birthday couldn't come sooner. He's managed to stay up all night this time. Midnight finds him sitting up straight as a board, staring out the window of his senior teammate's guest bedroom. The city lights are stunning. He feels the connection open and he's speaking as fast as he can. Every question that's swirled in his head for the last few months spews out of him. He gets silence in reply and in just a few minutes the door is slammed closed, the connection lost. He cries himself to sleep.

********************

When he decides to put his mind to something, Alexei always manages to see it through. Going into the NHL, learning English, making friends with his teammates, becoming rookie of the month – he set his mind to those things and he did them. He makes his mind up to be as positive as he can about his soulmate. He may not know why they've hung up on him, why they've not talked to him, why they haven't tried to find him, but he knows he can't control what they do. He can only control himself.

With his mind set on positive, when his soulmate's birthday comes back around, he keeps it casual and light. He talks about his life. He talks about hockey. He talks about his teammates and friends. Every birthday flies by like this. His soulmate never speaks, but the connection stops closing right away.

********************

A few years go by. The Falconers win the cup. But his soulmate never talks to him.

********************

There is a movie playing on the plane. It was a tough game against the Capitals and every muscle in Tater's body is beat. He thinks that the movie is a romantic comedy, but he isn't really sure. The actors all seem to be mumbling or talking too fast. Lulling his head to the side, he asks Poots to translate again for the 5th time.

“Dude, Aren't you paying attention?”

“Yes, I'm just very tired.” He gives him his best puppy dog eyes.

Poots smiles. Tater sees a light go off in Poots head and suddenly Poots is climbing over him and stumbling towards the front of the bus.

“Hey who has the remote.” Someone produces the remote up front. Tater watches Poots struggle with it. Eventually Snowy gets up, rather reluctantly, and helps Poots with whatever he was doing.

When Poots returns, Tater turns back to the movie and is amazed. There are words steaming at the bottom of the screen, highlighted in black, and in Russian.

“Now I don't have to translate.” Poots says victoriously. Tater nodes dumbly. This is what my soulmate's voice looked like.

********************

Its been awhile since he's thought this much about his soulmate when it wasn't his or their birthdays. Stewing on this new information is easy. Making any sense of it, that isn't easy. He tries to Google for some answers but he must not be using the right search words because none of the search results make much sense to him. Once again he finds himself wondering if there is something wrong with him.

After a couple of weeks, he decides to talk about it. He trusts his friends, and the old guys have worldly experience. Maybe one of his teammates will know something that can help.

He's hanging out with the guys, having a few beers when he musters up the courage to bring it up. They're all silent for a few minutes. It unnerves Tater. Am I the only one this has ever happened to?

“Maybe they speak a different language?” Poots says.

“If they speak a different language he should just hear them in Russian. That doesn't explain why he sees the words and not hears them” Snowy refutes.

“Oh right”

“Ive never really heard of anything like this before” Marty says. A couple guys nod in agreement.

“Maybe they're sick all the time?”

Thirdy brings up, “I read a story once that a guy started hearing his soulmate's voice in a whole different language than either of them knew and it turned out he had a tumor.”

“I just had a scan when I had that minor concussion” Tater replies exasperatedly.

“Maybe they're deaf?” Jack offers.

“What?” Everyone turns to Jack.

“I read a book on historical figures with disabilities and it explained that many deaf people and their soulmate's see each others thoughts.” That makes sense.

He goes home and googles some more.

********************

On his next birthday he tries to casually slip in “Are you deaf?”

It doesn't come off casual. Thankfully his soulmate responds.

“Yes”. Then the connection drops.

********************

His family and friends start to worry about him as the years go by. Its not uncommon for people in their early 20s to be single or dating around. But when you're close to 30, people notice. His parents set him up with a Russian National figure skater. She's nice enough but they don't last long with their mismatched schedules and distance between them. He hooks up regularly with a goon on the Bruins for almost two years before he gets traded to the Lightning and meets his soulmate.

On home game nights, when his teammates head home to their soulmates, he returns to his empty apartment. The silence is overwhelming. When he feels like the loneliness will crush him, he turns on ASL and RSL tutorials and clumsily signs along.

********************

It's the off season. Usually he tries not to schedule anything on his soulmate's birthday. But admittedly he's starting to give up hope. When Jack invites him to his summer home for a cookout and a friendly game of hockey with friends, he accepts. Its made easier by B's promises of pie and jam. He's pretty excited until he gets there and is slammed with regret.

Milling about and taking pictures are several PR people from the Sharks, the Aces, the Baby Penguins, the Belleville Senators, and of course the Falconers.

“Sorry guys, I was just so excited.” He overhears Chowder saying. A few Samwell alumni and Falconers are huddled around Chowder and the keg.

“It's alright Chowder. This is good PR.” Whiskey assures him aloofly.

“Yeah and its not like they are staying the whole party – right?” Poots asks.

They all shrug.

Tater makes his rounds. He gives crushing hugs to his teammates, the wellies, and the players from other teams that he has grown to care about. He shuffles in and out of the house. He helps Bitty keep the tables full – and subsequently helps to empty them of their contents. He plays games on the living room's Nintendo Switch, pongs it up with the Pong Master, and gives piggyback rides to the various little ones. He's enjoying himself, but he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched.

He's pouring himself another beer when he glances up and catches the stare of a Shark's photographer from across the room. The guy is lean, with broad shoulders, and flaming red curls. He's also wearing a serious expression aimed right at Tater. His unnerving blue eyes bore into Tater and suddenly Tater feels very self conscious. He trains his eyes on his cup as he takes a drink. When he looks back up, the photographer's face is buried by his curls. The guy is looking down at his camera. Tater is suddenly filled with the fear that he'd just had his picture taken. For years tabloids have tried to make him out to be a heavy drinker. It wasn't true and he didn't need a photo of him chugging a beer to stoke those flames.

He makes his way across the room and stops a few feet from the photographer. “Hey” he says lamely. He was upset a moment ago but now up close, with the man's pale face turned towards him, he can make out the freckles on his nose. He always had a weak spot for freckles.

He was hoping the guy would at least say hello back. Instead it seemed like Tater had returned the favor and unnerved the guy. His eyes were wide and frantically searching around the room, looking everywhere but at Tater. Finally they seemed to settle on something behind Tater. Turning Tater sees Chowder and his soulmate chatting with another couple.

“Uh, hey Chowder” Chowder turned to Tater and Tater pointed his thumb at the photographer. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out movement behind him, but by the time he had turned back to the photographer the movement had stopped and Chowder had materialized between them.

Then Chowder started introducing them and signing.

“Hey Tater, this is Cody. He's one of our team photographers. Cody this is Alexei Mashkov.”

“Nice to meet you” Cody signed. He offered a handshake.

Tater shook his hand, then he signed back “Its nice to meet you too”

“Oh you know sign language?” Chowder asks exuberantly.

“Yeah, a little” Tater replied sheepishly.

Cody's expression relaxs somewhat, but he still looks apprehensive.

“How do you know sign language?” he asks.

Surprisingly without hesitation Tater responds “I learned it for my soulmate.”

He regrets it almost immediately. He had almost managed to forget that it was his soulmate's birthday. It felt like he just dropped himself in an ice bath. Cody looked about how Tater felt.

Chowder doesn't pick up on the tension.

“Is your soulmate deaf?” He asks.

“Yeah”

“I didn't know that! Are they here with you? I don't think you've ever introduced us! I know Caitlin would love to meet them too!”

“Well I haven't met them myself so.”

“Oh”

Tater wishes the floor would open up and swallow him.

“I'm sorry” Cody signed. His face looks pained, like he felt what Alexei was feeling.

Chowder offers an escape. “We should probably get padded up for the game. I think I overheard a couple guys talking about starting it soon.”

Tater was about to agree, when Cody cuts in. “Wait, can I get a picture of you both before you're all sweaty.”

Tater chuckles at that. “Sure”

Cody maneuvers them to stand beside some of the Zimmerman's tall houseplants and underneath one of the living room's skylights. Tater is a bit disappointed when Cody takes a few steps away to take their picture. Up close he could see the sun bouncing off of Cody's curls. He even got to see his eyes light up when he joked that Chowder and himself should pose like a falcon and a shark respectively. He's still smiling when he aims the camera. Tater is smiling too.

Cody raises his hand and counts down from 5. With the click of the camera shutter Tater sees words flash behind his eyes.

“Wow he really is a sweetheart isn't he.”

Tater's heart jumps and flutters wildly. He watches Cody's face transform from embarrassment to terror, flaming red cheeks turning to ghostly white. They both stand still, staring at each other.

Finally, Tater asks “It's you isn't it.”

“Yes”

#tateroc #bv2020 #bitty's valentines #omgcp fandom #omg check please!

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chrysalispen · 5 years

Text

(Reborn by Fire) iv. calling from sad shires

AO3 Link (pending)

The truly heinous scowl on K'luhia's face as she stormed back into the clearing was more than enough of a clue to Cheerful Sparrow that something had gone awry. But she didn't call for reinforcements even though she looked fit to chew nails and spit ingots, so he thought it mustn't be much in the way of an emergency.

"...What's got under your bonnet, lass? Where's-"

"She'll be along," the rogue snapped, hands on her daggers, and strode past them to perch upon the ruins of a nearby colossus.

Sparrow shook his head with a rueful grin. At forty-nine winters, the burly Hellsguard was the veteran of the group, old enough to be father to most of the youngsters in the Levy, let alone this ragtag unit. Like himself, Bryngeim and K'luhia had been adventuring freelancers before answering the thassolocracy's call to arms. After two years fighting alongside her, he could read Lu Zhisi's spates of ill temper like an open book.

Some things never changed, he supposed.

He squinted up at the roiling sky, ignoring the raindrops that pelted onto his cheeks. "This storm ain't givin' ground any time soon."

"It's nigh impossible to see anything in this, Captain Ahrmbraena's right about that much," said the other man at his back with a heavy sigh, drawing his yellow overcoat tighter about his shoulders. "Should we go look for her?"

"Eh, don't worry yourself, lad. Cap'n used to say it weren't a proper mission until them two nigh came to blows over something. Sure wish he was here, though, even to keep the peace. Bryn's a good and sensible lass, she'll be a good officer once she gets her bearings. But it's just not the same."

The grating scrape at their backs broke both men out of their conversation. K'luhia had pulled her whetstone out of her bag and she was running it against the edges of one blade, the noise somehow both ominous and grating. After a few minutes of letting her stew in silence Sparrow cleared his throat, clapped Edwin on one shoulder, and ambled over towards the overturned warmachina she'd commandeered.

"Lu," he said.

K'luhia didn't acknowledge his approach, but he saw one of her ears flicker and swerve in his direction.

"Come on, we don't have time for this right now. You and Bryn will have to work it out back at camp."

Scrape. Scrape.

He sighed.

"...Well then, let me know when you're ready to talk."

At that the Seeker set her whetstone aside and fixed him with a cold stare from leaf-green eyes, her ears now so flattened they nearly blended in with her cloud of wet auburn curls. The expression she wore was shuttered and neutral, but he could see the brittle heat of a surprisingly deep-seated anger lurking just beneath the surface. Whatever they'd crossed words over, he thought, it must really be serious this time.

"You want to know aught that's botherin' me," she retorted, her lips drawn back in an angry sneer, "then ask her."

She gestured impatiently with her drawn blade, pointing with its tip in the direction she'd run with Idront and Bryngeim. Sparrow's eyes tracked the blade and it was then he saw the pair emerging from the wet mist - with a third person cradled in Idront's arms. Bryn's face was a thundercloud, and Idront... well, the Duskwight looked about the same as he ever did, really.

"Sparrow," their captain called, pointedly ignoring the Miqo'te who radiated hostility from her perch, "come here. I need your help."

As he drew close he saw that Idront was struggling with his burden, which was passing strange. The man was not small nor weak and shouldn't have had any trouble carrying a willowy youngster like this--and then he saw why. One of the legs was turned at an unnatural angle, visibly shorter than the other.

"Take her to Edwin," Idront whispered, lifting the youth towards Sparrow like an offering.

She was in a great deal of pain, he noted upon taking in the haggard face and glassy, half-opened eyes. He bore the woman the last few fulms to lay her down on the ground next to the conjurer, and even that small bit of movement was painful, if the strangled moan that escaped her throat was any indication.

"See to the prisoner's hurts," their captain said shortly. "I'll not have her caterwauling all the way back to base; she'll draw every bloody fiend for malms."

Prisoner? His eyes fell upon K'luhia, whose arms were crossed and whose hard glare was likewise fixed on the tall blonde girl in her strange attire. The Miqo'te turned her head to spit on the ground, in the most deliberate act of contempt he'd seen from her in moons.

"Aye, Birdy, yer ears're workin' just fine. All these poor sods what could be usin' our help and she wastes our precious time on a godsdamned imperial."

Bryngeim's mouth tightened angrily, but she didn't rise to the other woman's baiting. Sparrow, casting an uncomfortable glance between them and thirdly to the injured woman, cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

"Cap'n, if I'm honest I don't know that we'll find anyone else in this mess. And now we've got a prisoner to worry about," he said, pointing at their captive. "There's a unit after ours set to take the same parameter. Might be we should put down the yellow marker so they know it's not been searched and report in. We found one survivor and that's better than none, even if it’s an enemy. We might still find others on the way in."

The note in his voice said he didn’t think so, but none of them remarked upon it. Bryngeim let out a heavy, regretful sigh, running her fingers through her soaking wet hair.

"Suppose you've a point. I just hate leaving when-"

"We all do," he said gently. "But there's little help for it. There's teams comin' after us that can keep up the search so if there's aught to find they'll find it. We'll be back at this after some rest anyroad. Your call."

Edwin meanwhile had turned his attention to the woman, kneeling at her side and bracing his hands on her cold, pale cheeks. His fingers drifted lightly over the spot of dried blood on the back of her head. "What happened to your prisoner?"

"The head injury's of no import," the prisoner rasped. "Superficial. I'm fine."

"You're not 'fine'. You look half dead." Edwin's hands were already moving, pressing and testing along her neck, arms, collarbone, ribs. Sparrow had seen him work on several wounded in the last few bells and knew the Gridanian's touch would be careful, but even so he could see the woman's jaw clench tight as he reached her hips. It was difficult to watch, though he imagined he was probably the only one feeling much in the way of pity.

The conjurer sat back on his haunches for a moment.

"I've good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I suppose that depends," came the hoarse reply. "Am I beyond aid? Does your Miqo'te friend up there get to use me as a striking dummy after all?"

"Not unless you've a mind to try and run, and that shan't be happening anytime soon. Your hip's slipped its socket and I'd wager the leg's broken. I'll do what I can to put the joint back in place without causing further damage, but setting the break will have to wait until we're back at camp."

"Anything you do will be better than leaving it like this." She took a deep breath. "I imagine you already know what to do."

"Aye. I'll make it as fast as I can, but it's going to hurt."

"I was hardly expecting it to be pleasant. Just make sure you ali--shite and hellsfire," the Garlean swore as he wrapped one hand about her still-armored calf. "--align the limb first--"

"Let me worry about that."

It took Edwin a good few minutes to position her leg properly before he set to work. All conversation fell silent, the rain punctuated only by the prisoner's harsh and truncated breathing. She'd grasped Sparrow's forearm for purchase and her fingers had dug in so tightly he could feel the pinprick sting of her nails breaking his skin. She'd borne it without any complaints, though, and he couldn't help but be impressed by that.

Seeming satisfied for the moment, Edwin looked at Bryngeim.

"Whenever you're ready to move, Captain. One of us will still have to carry her. But we'll be able to move without drawing attention if there’s imperials about."

Still locked in a haze of pain, Aurelia didn't even cringe when Captain Ahrmbraena's stride came to a stop in front of her. It had taken a supreme act of will to keep herself from another bout of dry heaving. Her leg burned and her head ached and dully she wondered why she had been spared at all.

It was the rattling sound of iron chains that finally drew her attention back to her captor's face. A pair of somewhat flimsy-looking manacles were clasped in the woman's hands. "Never had cause to use these before today. Hold out your hands."

"Is this truly necessary? I've given my word-"

"Aside from the word of an imperial meaning piss all, I don't hold with special treatment for enemy prisoners. If you weren't too injured to walk I'd drag you across the godsdamned battlefield. Now hold out your hands."

Biting back further protest, Aurelia obeyed. The metal was soaking wet and freezing cold to the touch, and it weighted down her arms as the hasps locked shut.

"Sparrow here," a quick jerk of the head in the direction of the salt and pepper-haired roegadyn who'd assisted their medic, "will carry you back to the camp infirmary. You will not speak to anyone unless you are directly addressed. If you have a request to make, then you make it to me and only me."

"I-... yes. Understood."

That stony, disapproving glare again.

"Yes, what?"

The Garlean felt a whiplash surge of incredulous fury at the other woman's insolent tone before it was smothered by an acute sense of shame.

Although she wasn't part of a combat unit, she had some knowledge of what the VIIth Legion had done to its own enemy prisoners in the past on Nael van Darnus' orders. Captured rebels and imperial defectors processed in the castrum brig to await trial and execution - the precious few given any such courtesy - were treated exactly like this; their names were usually the first thing taken from them.

She could not reasonably expect her own treatment at the hands of her captors to be aught better, now that their positions were reversed. In truth, such petty indignities were like to be the very least she should expect, the situation being what it was. The Eorzeans could do far more than simply not afford her the use of her name.

And there were fates worse than a hangman's noose.

"Yes, Captain.”

"Much better. Sparrow, if you would."

~*~

They spent the next bell stumbling across the blasted crystal and corpse-littered remnant of the Flats, all of them soaked in rainwater, the fabric of their uniforms splashed with a thin and unpleasant-smelling layer of mud.

Aurelia absorbed the cold fact of her captivity in tense and painful silence, trying not to make any noise at the roegadyn's heavy footfalls. Captain Ahrmbraena's order to the big, grizzled man called Sparrow to carry her was something she'd found surprising, a small and unexpected concession. Every step he took sent pain jolting through her body, but she bore it as best as she could manage given little other recourse, arms twined about his neck, the manacles binding her wrists keeping her from dropping them to her sides or into her lap even if she'd wanted to.

She tried not to look at the battlefield, at the countless dead on both sides scattered over the ravaged and despoiled land, but the stench was impossible to ignore. It was an awful, cloying reek of incipient decay and charred flesh, and it made her eyes water.

Surely, she told herself, it was just that. Not the whispers of self-loathing coiling in her own mind.

"Ye doin' alright, lassie?"

Aurelia blinked up into the lined, bearded face. She'd received a range of reactions from her Eorzean captors, running the gamut between open hostility and cool and distant civility. The former intimidated her less than the latter, as she knew the coolness was a veneer of professionalism that could be breached at any time for any reason.

But looking at this man, she saw only concern.

"I can ask the captain to stop a moment if you need it," he said. "That leg must pain you somethin' fierce."

"I-" She hesitated for a moment, unsure if speaking was allowed in this instance- but then their commander had said she could speak if spoken to, hadn't she? "I'm... I'm all right for now. Just... cold."

"Aye, this wind's gone right through me as well." The smile he gave her was kind, and for an absurd and terrifying moment she thought she felt the burn of tears. "We're almost arrived. The infirmary's terrible short on healers, but I'll try t'make sure you're seen as soon as possible. If naught else Edwin can help patch you up, once we're in a better place to-"

"Sparrow, you're not here to make small talk with the prisoner," Captain Ahrmbraena barked from her position. "Eyes on the field."

He cast Aurelia an apologetic glance and did not continue the conversation further.

By the time they reached the Eorzeans' camp, it was too dark to see aught of the Flats, and for that she found herself grateful. The encampment itself was a series of quickly pitched tents near the cliffsides, on a path that rolled upwards to the escarpment. A few malms south, she knew, lay the town of Revenant’s Toll, the adventurers’ city.

Men and women in colorful jackets, and not a few in other garb whom she assumed to be sellswords, milled about, gathering supplies, talking to each other, eating meals, entering and exiting their small tents. They paid neither her nor her captors any mind, aside from a few disinterested glances.

"Agilmar!" Captain Ahrmbraena shouted at a burly, tall Highlander, this one in a dark jacket. He held up a lantern, squinting in her direction, and the light from the fire crystal beneath the glass reflected off the falling raindrops. "Where're we supposed to take prisoners?"

"We've only got a handful at the minute. Over in a holding area just by the chocobo pens. Why, did you catch yourself a Garlean?"

Aurelia knew the Ala Mhigan accent almost better than that of the capitol. His presence here meant he was most likely a refugee of the invasion fifteen years past, and deserved ire or not, she cringed at the context that knowledge brought with it. Quickly she averted her eyes and tried to adjust her arms where they lay about Sparrow's brawny neck without causing herself more pain. Her wrists and fingers had gone numb from the awkward angle and the weight of the chains, another layer of discomfort above the keening ache of her broken leg.

"Aye. Just following orders is all," the captain said. Agilmar grunted.

"I'd not have bothered with him, myself. Zealots to the last, this lot. At least their conscripts're forced to enlist. But since you didn't cut 'is throat when you had the chance, I suppose we'll burn that bridge when we cross it. Holding area's over there. Near the chocobo pens."

She allowed herself a small peek in time to see the man gesture towards a small, muddy clearing that had been hastily fenced in and placed under guard. The holding area was little more than a dirt circle, with no shelter from the rain, containing perhaps two dozen people in familiar uniforms. Beyond the water soaking all of them to the bone, the prisoners all looked miserable and frightened, and the men and women set to guard them didn't exactly look happy about it.

"We're headin' to the infirmary first," Sparrow said firmly. "Prisoner's injured. Edwin and I'll see it done."

Captain Ahrmbraena nodded. "See that you explain the situation to the chirurgeons. They'll not be happy about us jumping the queue but there's naught to be done for it."

Really, she understood their anger. None of this would have happened had the Empire, frankly, contented itself to hold Ala Mhigo. She had even looked askance at this campaign, thinking it not only unnecessary but accompanied with a curious amount of subterfuge for something that should have been straightforward. But her opinions, had she felt safe to speak them aloud, would have fallen upon deaf ears. Save a handful of outliers like herself, the bulk of the VIIth Legion had been fanatically loyal to the White Raven. Not that their loyalty had amounted to much.

Worse, as far as she knew the Emperor had felt no particular compunction about the legatus' plan, one that could charitably be called "extreme."

Why do men always wish to make war?

She'd joined the army for practical experience, but she'd quickly found that the only way to keep her own moral compass relatively intact was to remind herself that her duty was to help the sick and injured, not provide moral judgments upon military operations. The fact that she was performing surgeries and healing people who were usually just sent right back out to the battlefield at the first opportunity was something she tried very hard not to think about.

As the veneer of duty had worn thin and the depth of the legatus' depravity became too obvious to ignore, it had become more and more difficult to convince herself of her reasons not to defect.

(Her gens would merely disown her for the act. Would they not then find a way to punish Sazha for her desertion, in whatever far-flung land they had sent him? she would ask herself. Or Lee?)

There were whispers that the Emperor's relatives were already bickering over the throne, as the old man was in his eighties and had still not named an heir -- and as awful as it was, she found herself wishing tensions would devolve into civil war and force the legions to withdraw. She let out a bitter sigh and let herself relax against the roegadyn's broad chest as he wound his way through the collection of tents towards the infirmary.

Mayhap if my people shed enough Garlean blood, she thought to herself, they shall eventually lose their taste for it.

#reborn by fire #chapter 4 #chrysalispen writes #yet another self indulgent WoL backstory fic #aurelia laskaris

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emmaekay · 6 years

Text

Kotonari IV - Future, Complete Chapter

AN: I’ve literally been working on this for like 8 hours. Hopefully it’s worth reading. I’m gonna go eat some pizza and pass out now.

Kotonari IV – Future

The Boy walked next to the King, who was still in just his nightrobe, as they walked through the castle. This place, too, was different in his time. The thrones on the dais were the first difference The Boy had noticed – this King Vegeta’s throne was black marble, 90 degree angles, sharp and uncomfortable looking. You looked at the King, you looked at the throne, and you realized that you needed to speak quickly, clearly, concisely for it was apparent that the King didn’t intend to spend all that much time on his throne.

The gilded, plush, jewel inlaid throne next to it, The Boy assumed it belonged to his grandmother Queen, gave you just the opposite problem. You looked upon that throne and realized that the comfortable Queen would take all day, had all the time in the world, to patiently wait for you to run out of words, out of excuses, out of your mind before she passed judgement upon whatever issue you’d brought to her.

The two thrones were entirely missing from The Boy’s world. His father took no audiences, and so had no need of a place to sit and make proclamations. The dais was still there, and on the rare occasions that he addressed his soldiers or his son, he stood upon it and screamed down. The room itself was bare of everything in that future, totally bereft of the painted royals whose portraits hung on the walls now. Dark King Vegeta took no guidance from his ancestors, nor indeed from anyone at all.

The King raised a hand in greeting to the same guard who had admitted The Boy. “Cress. You wisely admitted this child. A threat against the crown is made. Send word for the entire Crown’s Battalion to awaken, make ready for a highly dangerous opponent to attack the castle. One third of the battalion should go directly to the Prince’s estate and guard the Queen and Princess who are currently sequestered there.”

Cress stood immediately to attention. “At once, sire!”

“And wake Nappa up. Send him to the estate. I need his counsel.”

“N…appa’s, sire?” Cress paused a moment. Nobody had ever – ever – wanted Nappa’s counsel in Cress and Nappa’s entire life. They were cousins, playmates, sparring partners and friends… but he wouldn’t ask Nappa for counsel on anything other than spirits, and even that advice could be taken as dubious. The only other royal to ever send for Nappa directly was Vegeta, who liked the old fool for reasons that weren’t ever apparent. They had gone off world together many times, Nappa and the Prince. Perhaps that was connected to this, Cress thought.

“Did I misspeak, soldier? Nappa. Now. Crown’s Battalion, also now. Move!” King Vegeta ordered the younger Saiyan, who immediately saluted before running down the hall at the highest speed he was capable of, past the paintings, the plush couches, over the thick ruby red carpets, down the hall and around the corner and out of The Boy’s sight.

In the future, the castle was a dark, echoing place. None of this – the carpets, the paintings, the crystal, the gilded banisters, the guards and service people – none of it was there in the castle that The Boy had grown up in. There were no servants, no housekeepers, no cooks, no cleaners, no guards… only himself and his father for the last eight years, and the dry bones of his beloved twin sister rattling in the howling wind against the iron gate.

The Boy had imagined that he spoke to her spirit often, imagined that she grew up with him, that he had hidden her away instead of letting her confront their father. Just ten, just ten – and ten she would always be, and just four feet tall, and just dry bones to haunt him – always. The Boy tried to clear the image from his mind as he and the King passed through that same, but different, gate.

This path he knew well, the winding and beaten path through the castle garden and down into a gully and up over this hill to the Prince’s estate. The Boy would come here often, whenever he could, whenever his father wasn’t beating him unconscious in their “training,” whenever his father wasn’t sending him to fly over cities and encampments to tell him how many “traitors” still lived on “his planet,” whenever he could get a free second to himself.

The Boy and the King crested that same, but different, hill now and The Boy gasped in shock. He had never seen the estate like this – the lawn trimmed, the hedge fence even and brambleless, the roof solid, the door intact. It looked like a real mansion, not a haunted husk – not the corpse that it became. Best of all and most different to The Boy, there were lights and warmth within and he could see someone moving against one of the kitchen windows. He knew that silhouette’s head of long hair, the lithe frame, the short stature - could it be? The Boy broke into a run.

He burst through the side door that lead directly into the kitchen and cried out, “BERI!” banging the door against the wall hard enough to crack the glass inlaid. The woman in the kitchen jumped in surprise at the sudden violence and dropped a tray of biscuits right onto the floor. The Boy burned his hand on the open oven door as he brushed past it to throw his arms around Beri’s aproned waist, falling to his knees and burying his head in her apron, crying again.

“Uh, I, uh, sire?” Beri turned her confused eyes to the King who stood in the doorway.

“I can’t believe you’re alive! Beri!” The Boy laughed and cried and stood and straightened himself up, rubbing the back of his head in that same way Daiku did after he’d done something foolish.

Speak of the Saiyan, Daiku had felt her confusion and was now thumping down the hallway to see what the hell was going on. He rounded the corner to see a strange young man holding his Beri’s hands, laughing and crying and babbling some kind of nonsense. He also noticed a full batch of his favorite biscuits rolling around on the floor, and he scooped two of them up as he strode into the room.

“What in -omf- ninety eight hells is going -omf- here?” Daiku shoved the bread in his mouth between words. He wanted to know what was going on, yeah, but he also wanted his first meal in 27 hours. As his attention left the bread, he saw the King in the doorway. “Uh… sire,” he added.

The Boy dropped Beri’s hands as soon as Daiku spoke, and was transfixed to the spot, staring at Daiku like he’d seen a ghost. In one way, he was seeing a ghost, but the man who stood before him had not been killed yet. The Boy jumped clean over top of Beri and threw his arms around Daiku’s massive shoulders. “SENSEI! YOU’RE ALIVE, TOO!”

“Uh… yep?” He cocked an eyebrow and opened his hands in confusion, gesturing toward the King and mouthing, What is going on?

“First things first,” the King began, “How is the Queen, how is the Princess, did you find the doctor, what is his progress, and where is my son?” the King ticked off his questions, one through five, on his fingertips.

Beri answered the first two, “My lord, your wife is strong. She is helping Bulma recover a memory right now, but based on her previous meditative sessions, she should be awake within perhaps 15 minutes. The Princess Bulma’s body is healed; the damage to her womb was significant, but her near death was caused by blood on the brain. The Queen has secured two of the five tethers on Bulma’s soul already.”

Daiku dislodged The Boy’s death grip from his shoulders, shoving a biscuit from the floor into the kid’s interrupting mouth. “You next.” He turned his attention to the King. “My lord, I found the doctor on the north road out of Caarte and brought him here directly to heal the Princess and relieve some of the strain on the Queen. Prince Vegeta chose a different route to look for the doctor, and we were separated about 14 hours ago. I do not know where he is.” The King stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I see. How was he when you parted?”

“Distracted, my lord, frantic, at the edge of rage. I would be the same way in his position. After I have eaten, I intend to go find him.”

“Belay that for the moment. Boy, tell them what you told me, answer whatever questions they have, eat something. I need to see the Queen.” The King strode forth, hem of his tunic flapping. “He has on absolutely no pants.” Daiku noted aloud. “Huh.” He sat down at the kitchen table, laden with a hearty stew, biscuits, rice, potatoes, four roasted shanks of some animal, fruits on ice and vegetables piled high and steaming. Daiku pulled several plates and began ladling food on each. Beri brought another tray of Daiku’s favorite biscuits and several baskets of berries and began serving herself as well. The Boy stared. How long had it been since he’d seen a table laid with so much? All The Boy could cook was rice because it was the only food stuff that was ever delivered to the castle. Rice and rice and rice for … was it really ten years since Beri and Daiku had been killed?

“Eat.” Daiku shoved an empty plate at The Boy. “Some sorrows are smaller on a full stomach.”

“You told me that once.” The Boy nodded and the trace of a smile began to emerge.

“Did I? Feel like I’d remember that.”

“About eight years from now, you’ll find me crying for my mother, who I never knew. I was here, exploring, and I found her journals and her jewelry. I gave the jewelry to my sister and I kept the journals for myself. I would come here and read her notes, try to imagine her voice, try to imagine my father the way she described him. He used to sing to us, when we were in our mother’s belly.”

Daiku ate, scraping his first plate and lading it again with another helping of meat and stew. “Eight years from now, but you speak of it as if it happened long ago.”

Beri looked at The Boy, eyes widening. “How can it be?” Tears pricked her eyes and Daiku felt her joy and sadness both pass through the Keiyaku. “How can it be? How can it be?” Beri jumped up from her seat, abandoning her dinner and hugging The Boy tightly. “Daiku, this is the little prince!”

“You’re insane.”

“Daiku, look at him! Look at his eyes, look at his ha-“ Beri started to exclaim.

“Not you,” he waved the woman off. “What, am I blind? Am I dumber than Nappa? Look at his face, feel his ki. Of course this is Vegeta’s whelp.” He gestured toward The Boy with the knife he’d been using to butter a biscuit. “No, I meant you. You’re nuts if you think Vegeta ever sang to anyone in his life.”

The Boy exploded into laughter. That’s just what Daiku said the first time he’d read the passage from his mother’s journal and asked Daiku what his father’s singing voice had been like. “I can’t believe you’re still here. Beri, the first memory I have of anyone other than my sister is of you, you know?”

Beri sat back down in her place at the table. “How can this be? Your little body is sleeping sound upstairs! The King told me to take you home when I leave here in the morning, though I may not leave here for a few days. But either way! You’re just a baby, and yet you’re – you look old enough to be nearly independent!”

The Boy straightened up in is chair a little. “I’ll have you know I am of the age of independence.” He smiled sheepishly. “Just yesterday.”

“Tell us how you came to be here.” Daiku spoke around a mouthful of meat.

So The Boy repeated his story, much of the sorrow already gone out of him like a tide withdrawing from the edge of the sea, forced away by the bright power of the moon. Daiku and Beri, like parents to him and his sister, were the moon to him. He told them of his father’s descent into darkness, of the war that wiped them out. Of the rips and rifts in time, hanging open like windows or doorways in the air there to walk through.

“I flew right through one once, without realizing it, you know? It was just air opening into air. And I must’ve been in the decades in the past… there were lizard creatures everywhere and Saiyans in chains. It looked like something from out of the Saiyan histories you used to bop me over the head with. Icejin bastards everywhere, but I thought about freeing them – the Saiyans, I mean. I thought maybe I could get them through the window, back to my time.” “Reinforcements. Not a foolish idea.” Daiku agreed.

“But it was. Look at me. I don’t look Saiyan. And anyway I was spotted by Frieza’s men within minutes. I’m fast, though, really fast, I mean – even my sister and you couldn’t keep up with me, Beri.”

Beri made a little impressed noise, mouth full as she chewed “Mmm!” Beri’s speed was somewhat legendary among Saiyans, as she was lithe and small of stature instead of tall and thickly muscled like most Saiyans. Anytime someone would make fun of her diminutive stature, she’d say she was –

“Built for speed! Like you always say,” The Boy exclaimed. “Anyhow, I just took the hell off out of there, you know? It took me weeks to find the door in the air, though. I spent… a lot of time on the run, then. Frieza’s men weren’t that tough though.”

“Not that tough?!” Frieza’s forces were notoriously strong. No way had this scrawny kid held his own, much less brushed them off.

The Boy shrugged, though. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe they put the weak ones here on Vegetasei to keep guard or something.”

Daiku frowned deeply. “That’s not – anyway. How’d you get home?”

“I found the window, eventually. My own time, it smells different. The air does, I mean. Even when Frieza’s men were on the planet, it still had some greenery and some nature. My time… doesn’t. It’s all just blasted down to the dirt. The land has been razed entirely – burnt, stripped, ki blasted into oblivion. Most of Vegetasei is just dead and desert dry. The Allewater river is poisoned, the Namekian’s grudge in it’s waters make it deadly for any Saiyan to touch, let alone drink. That’s,” the faraway look stole back into The Boy’s eyes, “that really where it all went wrong, I think. So many people were poisoned by the water, and that started a panic. The Dark King, he took advantage of that panic to stir the whole country into civil war.”

The Boy tightened his fist around his fork. “We just… Saiyans just… kept dying. You know? Just dying. And my father… seemed happy about it.”

Daiku knit his brows together. That wasn’t right – Vegeta loved Saiyans, he was proud of being a Saiyan, he wasn’t a complete madman… this couldn’t be true, could it? “How many dead?” “All of the women. Maybe 200 men remain. We’re effectively extinct.” The Boy told him.

“Hundreds of thousands dead?”

“At a minimum.”

“My Beri?”

The Boy cast his eyes down. “I was small, only eight. You both died in battle against offworld mercenaries hired by my father to put down the rebel fighters in Asket. They conscripted your house. The worst, the worst men in the galaxy. One grabbed Beri, you went for his throat with your teeth – it was a brawl in seconds.” The Boy began to tremble. “I snatched my sister up by the hand and we just ran and ran. We hid here, in the dilapidated remains of our birthhome for a day, maybe more. When we returned, you were both gone. I’m… sorry.”

Daiku reached under the table and put his hand on Beri’s knee. Yes, he would die for her in an instant, and he would kill anyone who intended to touch her without her permission in half that. Beri gave her husband’s hand a squeeze. “What are you sorry for? You were eight, little prince. I’m sorry I failed to protect you.”

“As am I,” Daiku spoke. “You called me ‘sensei,’ but I must not have been a very good one.”

“Sensei, no. You taught us how to survive. Both of you did. You kept us alive when we were babies, my father would never have cared enough to keep us alive – Beri, you were like a mother to me and my sister. We loved you – love you – very much. Both of you, sensei.”

“Where is your sister?” Beri asked, a little excited to see if she was correct about the little princess growing up into a beauty. “Did she come through the rift with you?”

“No, I… she – I…” tears welled in The Boy’s eyes and he angrily dashed them away. “How long ago?” Daiku asked simply. No details needed. Clinical. Spare the boy any more pain. His eyes were already red and swollen with crying when he arrived, he was barely picking at his food – the child was on the edge of shaking apart, dissolving into the kind of melancholy from which there was no return.

“Eight years.”

“How?” “My,” he choked, cleared his throat, scrubbed at his eyes again. “My father.”

“Was it –“

“Murder, it was murder plain and simple – he just, he just, he just…” cracks in his voice so far away, he looked suddenly so small, a little boy of just ten, and tears poured out of him then. Beri jumped up and threw her arms around him, gathering him to her like a mother hen, kissing the top of his head. “Shh now, shh. It’s not going to happen like that this time, I promise you that, child. Not this time. Shhh, your sister is upstairs and when she wakes you’ll see her and hold her. Shhh.” And she stroked his hair with such mother-kindness and such fierce love, he felt even more like a little boy again.

“And that brings us to the heart of it,” Daiku said at length. “How do we stop it, and what happens when we do? Do you just go -poof- and cease to exist?”

“I don’t know what happens to me, really. When I go through the windows, it seems like everything is just… off. Off on an angle, like the whole world was knocked out of kilter by the wrongness here. And maybe when the thing is prevented, everything will just settle back into the place it always should have been.”

“Hm. Maybe. But how do we stop it, stop him? I don’t suppose I need to tell you that he could kick my ass into space with the difference in our power.”

The Boy snorted sardonically, “No shit.”

“Watch your mouth,” Beri admonished, popping him softly upside the head.

---

“And so, my love, that’s how it is.” The King finished his explanation.

“He must’ve picked up the poison of that asteroid, Vegeta.” Queen Pea, said furiously. “We never should have used it, we should have destroyed it! Look what it’s done to our son.”

Mallumo Asteroid was a dark body, massive, hurtling through space. So large it had its own atmosphere, Mallumo was filled with an evil miasma. The Saiyan King thought if their covert forces could seal some of that miasma in grenade like deployment spheres, they’d be able to use them as an excellent, effective disruption device when defending themselves from the plots of other worlds. He had been wrong – six of the eight Saiyans in the squad sent to Mallumo killed each other on that rock. Only Vegeta and Nappa had left alive, and they didn’t remember anything about how they got off the asteroid.

There was every likelihood that the Malluma miasma was somehow… sentient, and perhaps it allowed Vegeta to live, living itself in his own ruthless heart these last two years, until the stress of recent events gave it the cracks it needed to escape.

Evil is its own self-fulfilling prophecy that way – a little evil makes it easier to do a little more, then that taint on your heart makes it easier to do even worse. Vegeta had always been somewhat ruthless in his dealings with anyone other than the Saiyans, but it was his love for his people that always balanced out the dark things he did to safeguard them.

Now, that darkness had taken over him, manipulated his mind into thinking there was nothing left but the viciousness, the cruelty and the anger in him that sustained the Mallumo miasma in the first place. Without Bulma, he’d forgotten love entirely.

The Queen was right, and this was the most likely explanation for her son’s soon coming betrayal. Now, how to stop it? “Did you send for Nappa?” the Queen demanded.

“Yes, he’s to meet us here. I’ve assembled the Crown’s Battalion, as well. Nappa and Daiku, and even The Boy, will be here and I intend to fight him. Capture him. Fix him.” “See that you do, Vegeta,” her voice still harsh. She reached for his hand with her free one – the right still holding Bulma’s hand, still pouring her power into Bulma, still trying to keep hope alive. “Vegeta…” she whispered. “Do not make me choose.”

She couldn’t imagine having to choose between Bulma, who had become a precious daughter to her and had given her two beautiful grandchildren, and her own dear heart, her King, her Vegeta. She couldn’t imagine the pain of having to let one die to save the other. Even thinking of having to make such a choice stung her eyes with tears like fire.

“No,” King Vegeta reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek. “That will not happen, Pea. It will not.”

“Good,” she sniffed. “Then go get dressed, fool. Running around in your nightrobe.”

“Don’t like the view?” he said, standing and flexing his legs and arms impressively.

“Idiot.” The Queen blushed crimson under the golden glow of her super Saiyan ki. “It’s not… unappreciated.” The King bent double and kissed her head, her face, her lips. “Never fear, my love. Nightrobe or finest armor, I will always come back to you.”

The Queen tipped her chin up to kiss him again, but a little knock at the door disturbed them. “Sorry – it’s Dende. I really need to check on the Princes –“ he said, poking his head into the room. “-ess. Uh, I can come back, she’s probably fine.” Dende flushed plum purple under his cheeks, having caught the King in a state of undress, looming over the queen with her hair in one hand and her chin in the other, both flushed like teenaged Saiyans left unattended.

“Enter. The King is leaving. To dress properly.” The Queen giggled.

The King opened the door to leave, Dende standing aside sheepishly to let the large man come through the doorway before he entered it. “Oh, Vegeta?” the Queen called out, “Send my grandson in here.”

----

After their talk, Daiku and Beri walked into the bedroom where the Princess was sleeping, with The Boy following close behind. He had never seen his mother’s face – no pictures, no portraits or paintings of her had survived his father’s rage. Daiku tapped twice on the door, and The Boy heard the Queen say “enter” in a lovely mellifluous honey warm voice.

He walked in and was rooted to the spot, instantly. His “grandmother” was sitting in a chair alongside the bed, holding another woman’s hand, and she shone with a radiance like sunlight, blonde haired and blue eyed. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life laid sleeping in the bed – long blue hair flowing down around her shoulders, her skin the same creamy pale color as his sister’s had been.

“Are her eyes like mine?” The Boy asked.

“No,” the Queen told him. “They’re sky blue, crystal blue, blue like the clearest water.”

“Did she ever tell you what she was going to name us?” The Boy asked, wonder and joy in his voice.

“No, my dear, she didn’t. What do people call you?” the Queen asked.

“Boy. Or The Boy. My sister was girl.” The Boy lost only a little of his enthusiasm. There she was! His mother! She’s alive! He was in time. He sat down at the edge of the bed, near the queen’s chair. “Can I touch her?”

“Certainly. It will not harm her. Dende has repaired her body, I’ve just been coaxing her soul back into this vessel.” The Queen gestured to the little green doctor, sitting on the couch across the large room.

“Thank you both, for what you’re doing for my mother.” The Boy took Bulma’s free hand, stroking the top of it with his thumb gently. “Mother. I hope you can hear me. I hope you wake up soon. I’ve always, always wanted to hear your voice. I’ve always wanted to meet you, you know? I’ve always wanted to see you.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I read your journals… no one can believe that dad really sang. When you wake up, can you teach me the melody? Better yet, can you smack some sense into my father? He’s… he’s lost without you.”

Beri walked into the room from the adjacent nursery, holding the tiny newborn Princess in her arms. “She woke up all on her own, just laying there and listening, the second you began to speak.” One tiny hand poked out of her wrappings, the little princess flexed her fingers, almost in an attempt to grab at something. Beri placed the precious little bundle in The Boy’s lap. “Here is your sister.”

The babe wrapped her little hand around The Boy’s finger immediately. He looked down into his lap and for the fourth time today, and the fourth time in eight years, he wept – tears splashing down on the baby, a baptism of protection and a baptism of sorrow all at once. The little princess sneezed.

“That’s right, my little one.” The Queen placed her free hand on The Boy’s head. “No need to cry, big brother, you’ve come to set things right and we will help you. The King will win his fight. You’ll see.” The Queen’s sweet voice was gentle and reassuring in his ear. “I need to meditate and try to contact your mother’s soul.” “Right.” Trunks swiped a hand across his eyes, “Okay, I’m going to go. I’ll see if I can help the King.”

“Oh, no, no. Sit down, you’re coming with me,” the Queen pressed. “With your power as one of the Saiyan Gemini, you should be able to easily attain the necessary power level and focus.”

“The Saiyan what?” The Boy looked at his young grandmother in pure confusion.

“You don’t even know what you are.” The Queen clicked her teeth. “I will explain in greater length what you are and who you are, but for now, suffice it to say that you, in your unascended state are very nearly as strong as I am at this level.”

“What?”

“You are. But that strength requires awareness. You have to know, have to believe, have to have unshakable conviction in your own physical superiority to your opponent. Of course, you’ve been so badly treated, all your life, it’s no wonder you aren’t in tune with that ability yet.” The Queen patted his head. “Daiku, please go find Nappa and get to the King. He must survive whatever is coming – on pain of death, you will return my husband to me.”

“Yes, your highness.” Daiku stole a kiss from Beri on his way out the door, and was gone.

“Beri, please take the babies and Dende and settle them in to sleep. I assume you’ll be staying here, as well, but please sleep soon yourself.”

Beri scooped the little princess up from her brother’s lap. “Yes, highness. Come Dende.”

The little green man was rubbing his eyes and acquiesced instantly. Namekians were definitely not nocturnal. Beri laid the baby down in the nursery, then left the room entirely, Dende in tow.

“Now then,” the Queen began, “Just try to match your ki to mine – the same strength, the same flow.” The Boy studied her form and let his ki flow outward as hers did, a peaceful stream, a pool of water undisturbed. “Yes, that’s just so. Now, focus on my breathing, and I will focus on your mother’s breathing, and we’ll go through together.” The Boy closed his eyes and felt a sleepy pull, a floating feeling, come over him.

“Don’t fight that,” the Queen’s voice rang out in his mind. “It’s only us. Come along.”

---

Bulma stood in the kitchen, about four months pregnant. The antefasting battle was a memory fading into the fabric of their lives, and two months had passed in relative ease. The pregnancy made Bulma prone to fatigue, so Vegeta forbade her from training. He tried to prevent her from even doing yoga, but she insisted that was good for the babies, for the birth, so he let it go.

He let most things go, when it came to Bulma. Most everyone did – it was the effect of the pregnancy, she thought. Vegeta knew it wasn’t. It was her own charm, her own irresistible pull. Meeting her meant befriending her almost instantly, even though she could be abrasive, vulgar, rude and spoiled. She had some power over people. It made her irresistible.

She rummaged through the fridge and Vegeta watched her. The bump of her belly poking out from under a shirt that didn’t really fit anymore, she was piling food on top of it and holding the stack in place with her chin. “Woman, what are you doing?” he asked, one brow raised.

“Look, hee hee,” she giggled, sticking her arms out to the side and holding the sandwiches, fruits and vegetables in place with her chin and her bump alone. She stumbled and tottered, nearly losing her balance, and losing several of her snacks in the process.

“Don’t play around like that!” He jumped up, picking her up, food and all, in his arms. “What if you fall?”

“Oh, Vegeta, really, how much of a clutz do you think I am?”

He just stared at her, his silence the only answer to that question.

“Put me down, husband!” she demanded, pointing her nose in the air and using her most regal tone of voice. Vegeta’s knees almost buckled, but he tightened his grasp on her instead. “Woman, don’t do that,” he said, referring to her ability to turn her words into irresistible commands. Damn flaw of the species, he thought. “What room are you going to?”

Bulma laughed against his chest. “Upstairs sitting room. I’m going to write in my journal a little.” “Mm.” Vegeta mumbled a vaguely affirmative acknowledgement and carried her up the steps to the second floor sitting room she preferred to his own study on this floor. Vegeta walked up the steps, thinking that he’d ask a few attendants to come over and swap the furniture in the two rooms. Maybe then Bulma would stay on the first floor, where she couldn’t fall down any steps.

Deep down, Vegeta knew he was being overprotective. It wasn’t like Bulma went keening down steps every other day, she was actually quite graceful in her own way. But, he thought, kissing the top of her head and depositing her in her favorite chair, he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Call for me when you want to come down, I’ll come get you.”

“Vegeta, I don’t need you to walk me up and down the steps! You’re being weird.”

“It’s this, or I tear the whole second floor off the estate,” he threatened.

“You wouldn’t.” she narrowed her eyes.

“Try me.” He kissed her lips. “I would destroy stars to keep you safe – a house is nothing to me.”

“Vegeta.” She smiled at him warmly and something in his chest tumbled over.

“Call for me when you want to come down.” He pinched her under the chin and went back downstairs.

About an hour passed in peace and quiet. Vegeta was buried in paperwork in his own study – preparations, requests, suggestions and plans were being made for his 30th birthday and since it was a celebration for the entire kingdom, it would take an unholy number of supplies. 100,000 barrels of beer, 200,000 barrels of wine, 75,000 barrels of spirits. The livestock required to feed an entire race a banquet – they’d have to trade for some. The Namekians would provide some of the entertainment, they could use their ki to create illusions and fantastic effects.

He was trying to do some meat-math when he heard an all-encompassing rumbling, the sound of thunder over top of him, a soft body making repeated painful impact and his own wife’s scream - and he ran from his study, papers scattering in a flurry. “BULMA!”

She was lying at the bottom of the steps, body curled tightly around her belly, crying her eyes out. “I told you to call for me, I told you I would come get you!” He scooped her off the floor, “What did you hit, where are you hurt?”

“I fell on the babies!” she wailed, burying her face in his chest. “I hit everything!” she cried and cried. He put her up on the high counter in the kitchen so that he was face to face with her bump.

“Shh, shh a minute,” he put a finger physically on her lips, ear to her belly. Strong heartbeat, one. He moved his head to the other side of her bump. Strong heartbeat, two. Vegeta let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “The babies are fine.” “Then why does it huuuuuuuuuuuurt,” she caterwauled.

“Because you fell down the stairs, you little fool,” he ruffled her hair to annoy her. “They’re upset because you’re upset.”

She pouted and cried. “My babies haaaate me!”

Pregnant women are terrifying, Vegeta thought to himself. Moods worse than an Oozaru. Of course, he said nothing, smoothing her hair down and getting something cold for her elbow, which was beginning to bruise deeply. Handing her the cold compress, he placed his hands on either side of her bump as she sat on the counter.

“Little warriors, come out and see your people.

Little royals, come out and see the land.

Little prince and little princess

Your Kingdom is at hand.”

Vegeta sang the old nursery rhyme he remembered his mother singing to him and his brother when they were being stubborn about one thing or another. His voice was deep and smooth, and so sweet. Bulma felt the pain in her belly subside and she would have sworn that the babies were listening, straining at the walls of their warm little world to hear what only they and their mother had ever heard – their father, singing.

And so the third tether was made, and The Boy learned the melody to the song he read in his mother’s journal as a little boy, and he saw the man his father could truly be.

---

The King stood atop the battlement, looking up into the black of night at something darker still. He had sent lookouts 50 miles in every direction and when he saw the ki blast signal come from the watcher to the southeast, he knew Vegeta would be arriving soon. He hoped the lookout got away, and since he saw no further blasts of ki light up the night, there was a chance he did.

Now, the Dark Prince Vegeta loomed above his father’s head by 30 feet in the air, and was perhaps 40 feet away. Close enough for ki combat, not close enough for the physical restraints the King hoped to clap on his son until he could be relieved of this madness.

The Queen had been right – this was the work of the Mallumo miasma. His son’s entire body, even the whites of his eyes were covered in an inky blackness, no hint of his caramel skin remained, and his black Saiyan eyes were overthrown by an evil bloody red. Teeth far too white were displayed in a rictus grin drawn tight across his face.

“Father.” The Prince’s voice spoke.

“You are not my son.”

“But aren’t I? Aren’t I the one you sent to cause the death of millions, while you sat here comfortable and safe on your throne, with your Queeeeeen,” the Prince’s voice mocked and stretched the words out unnaturally. “Aren’t I the one you used to do all your dirty work, aren’t I the one this entire race used to carry out evils untold in the name of protecting someone they love?”

“Vegeta! Fight this!”

“Vegeetaaa, fight thisss.” The shadow mocked. “Vegeta has fled, coward that he is. I am the Dark Prince, here for my crown, here to show this worthless race what it is to create a Dark King!”

Dark Vegeta charged the King then, closing the gap between them in less than an instant, landing on the battlement just long enough to use its solidity as a launching point as flung himself, screaming his rage, at his father. They clashed brutally – elbows flying, teeth gnashing, feet and fists making shattering impact with their targets. The King locked his hands in the Dark Prince’s hair and delivered a crushing headbutt and the younger man staggered back, shaking stars from his head. He snapped his arms back, and deadly light filled his hands. He thrust them forward with a tortured scream in many voices, “GALLICK GUN!”

Light filled the corridor of the battlement, but King Vegeta fired his own ki wave back. Now it was down to who was the stronger man. They screamed. They felt the ki tear like electricity through their bodies, burning its way out of their hands in unstoppable waves.

Suddenly, the Dark Prince was tackled from behind and went hard to his knees. A crushing blow upon his head. A stab like fire through his middle. Heavy boots to his back, and a man cried, “NOW! THE RESTRAINTS, NOW!” It was Nappa’s voice, and Daiku was still pummeling him senseless. The King flew across the battlement, iron chains in his hands.

The Dark Prince reached up, grabbing Daiku’s hair and smashed his face into the rough stone of the battlement. Nappa was behind him in a flash. The Dark Prince drove an elbow into his ribs – snap, snap, snap went the bone. The King looped a chain around him. The Dark Prince spun and escaped its loop. He snatched the chain from the King’s grasping hands. The Dark Prince wound the iron chain around the King’s neck and with an almighty snarl, pulled the chain taut.

The King’s world went black.

He could smell the iron of the chain.

Taste the iron of his blood.

The Dark Prince hauled the King’s limp body to the edge of the battlement and kicked it off. The King plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening crunch of bone.

The Dark Prince faced Nappa and Daiku. “All hail the King.”

#kotonari #vegebul au #fic #I'm tired af now #gonna eat some pizza and pass tf out #please reblog and comment to validate the fact that I spent 8 hours on this

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