#only he could look at her still covered in the ashes of corpses and be like 'cute' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oxbellows · 1 month

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Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost.

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory.

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it?

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king.

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope.

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it.

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him.

Perhaps.

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised.

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition.

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

"Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap.

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears.

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

Your father thought you dead.

Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward.

He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him.

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered.

Faramir would never plan a suicide mission.

Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones.

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

He reached the top of the stairs.

A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.”

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

Boromir ran like he had never done in his life.

For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

“Faramir?” Boromir called warily.

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!”

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot.

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand.

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir.

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying.

Boromir dropped to his knees.

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell.

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill.

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart.

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it.

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs.

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

“No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief.

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

#@emilybeemartin #lotr fic #Boromir Lives AU

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magnusmodig · 4 months

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@clxscdeyes / following (x.)

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐄'𝐒 shores was to remain each day suffocating in the wake of his own absence within the nine realms. his dreams , if they could ever be called that , recalled their sunken faces covered in dirt , blood , grime and ash. then recalled still how hands had clung to his cape , soiling the the fabric as he'd tolled the names of the dead , the lost , and those who had survived. perhaps another all-father might rave , beside himself at the audacity of commoner's dirtied hands and rivers of tears. but all thor had seen then was the grief of his people. cold and dark and heavy. he felt in himself the weight of every loss as though it were his own. ( if he was asgard's molten gold , his cape the same red of asgard's once-proud banners , then thor felt that the dust and dirt to stain his royal hem was fitting . asgard the people wept for their legion dead. it was thor's burden to bear the striking lash of each name he added to it. )

each day was counted in mortal months , weeks , days and hours. and for each sorry , sordid day spent far away from his people thor could only rue the moment they had looked up and found in him their golden child.

he couldn't escape this planet. even as it fell ill all around him he could do nothing to sway the tide of the "nightmare moss'" infestation. still , thor would not rest contented with that. the aevum realm was hardly one of his own , but he had alighted upon it all the same. and so he would toil against the tides of reckoning that consumed the isle beneath the light of the blue moon.

his work had led him first to the archives with his brother. then deep into the decrepit ruins with his flame-haired friend. but thor would not rest with such little known and such little done , and carved out in himself the WILL to continue as exhaustion foxed the edges of his mind. ( he felt them. his people . like shadows lingering just outside his vision . like hands clawing and clinging to his boots / pants / cape — ) he turned a corner on his return to the guild headquarters. behind the trunk of one tree and slumped against the next , the mangled corpse of an asgardian child , befelled by surtur's infernal flames , eyes accusatory and wide open and mouth agape with the whisper of asgard's scorn upon her lips – leering at him. the mighty thor faltered. blinked.

there was no asgardian girl. there was— another.

❝ — ᛒᚬᚴᚴᛁᚱ . ❞ ( damn . ) one foot fell before the other. in a rush of movement he had snapped mossy tendrils from his boot and crouched at her side in an instant. ❝ child, ❞ he called. then , placed a hand upon her shoulder. ( shook it as lightly as he could - aware of a primordial strength within his fingertips that could move mountains . ) ❝ luna. this is no place to rest. not at this time , young one. ❞

#( ic . ) — son of odin . the crown is a heavy burden for thee .#( closed . ) — locked in father's vault .#hypnum insomnum / act one #hypnum insomnum / 2024 #clxscdeyes #clxscdeyes / o2 #(//INHALES//)#(//SCREAMS at my own novella length starter/drabble-reply)#(don't bother to match length i just needed to Set his Mindset for my own sake and oh boy is he Not Okay)

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skyyknights · 11 months

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Ao3 | @zelinkcommunity | go to ao3 for my notes!

Ganondorf is dead.

And Zelda is supposed to feel elated about it, to feel relief that finally her people are safe, that no more evil lurks in her kingdom’s hills and towns and valleys. She is supposed to feel overjoyed that Hyrule is no longer in danger.

But she feels no relief, or happiness. Instead there is insurmountable grief clawing at her throat as she stands next to the hero of Twilight, staring across Hyrule Field with a blank expression. Her gown is stained with dirt and ash, but she can’t bring herself to care. Not now. Not when everything is upside down.

“So it’s over, then.” Her voice is rough even to her own ears, and she knows the trembling in her words must be obvious.

Link turns to face her, and for the first time she notices the blood smeared across his tunic, around his mouth, crusted in his bangs. Some is Ganondorf’s, but much of it is his own, spouting from wounds that need to be attended to sooner rather than later. For the present, however, Zelda cannot process much of anything.

We won, she thinks numbly to herself, eyes dry and stinging as a cold wind whips past.

We won.

But at what cost? Her kingdom is in shambles. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians lie dead, their corpses rotting and mangled, some in places they may never be found. Those who remain are still frightened for their lives, desperate for leadership she cannot offer them at the moment. She is too trapped in her own head, as if she is still walled up alone in her room.

They had given her a choice. Surrender, or everyone in your kingdom perishes. Give in, or they will be slaughtered without mercy.

Of course she had surrendered. That was the only possibility in her mind. And yet they had killed her people in masses anyway, murdering innocent men and women and children as if their lives were worth absolutely nothing. She can still taste their blood upon her tongue when she swallows.

Zant had shut her up in her tower, leaving her doomed to stare out the window at her crumbling kingdom as the rainy twilight swallowed it whole. Alone she had grieved, weeping silently for those who had been lost, refusing to let herself block out the screams that rose afresh each night. Forcing herself to listen to the anguish of her people, to dwell on the fact that there was nothing she could do.

The prophecies had spoken of a hero who would come, eventually.

But Zelda did not have much faith in eventually. For all she knew, the hero might not even appear in her lifetime. And if that were the case, she would be doomed to sit gazing out her window as her kingdom fell into shattered pieces, remnants of a once-beautiful realm now plunged into shadow.

And then, a mere matter of days had gone by before the door to her room, left unlocked so her guard could bring her meals every evening, was shoved open, and he had stepped in.

If she was honest, Zelda was expecting a man.

Instead she had been greeted by the sight of a beast, his thick fur rain-drenched and muddy as he stared up at her with impossibly blue eyes. There was a pang in her chest at the sight of the shackle round his leg, and the fragile hope she had harbored deep within her was swiftly crushed.

A wolf could not save Hyrule.

And yet, she stands beside him now in the sunset, a natural twilight that stretches warmly over the fields. Smoke is rising from Castle Town, and she smells it on the wind, thick and heavy and tinged with the faintest scent of blood.

The hero is watching her. He has not spoken since Ganondorf at last fell; he has simply stood beside her, silent and watchful. His tunic is covered with slashes and burns edged in crimson, and his hands and face are painted in blood as he finally resheathes his sword.

But the eyes that look at her are the same eyes as those of the wolf who stood in her tower, so long ago. She couldn’t forget their piercing blue even if she tried.

Zelda swallows the grief that is threatening to overwhelm her and turns away from him, chest aching. “We should return to the castle,” she hears herself saying distantly, her voice unrecognizable even to herself. “Your wounds need attending to.”

And soon, they must begin to count the dead.

—

Zelda is quiet on the ride back to Castle Town, seated behind Link with her bow strapped to her torso. There is a sour taste in her mouth that she can’t quite explain as the drawbridge looms nearer, seeming to spell out her own doom.

People are weeping in the town square, dancing and rejoicing that they are finally safe, that Ganondorf has been vanquished. They cry out as Link and Zelda ride past, tear-streaked faces uplifted, tossing handfuls of flowers into Epona’s path as she trots towards the castle.

“Thank you,” their voices echo, over and over, until Zelda wants to scream in agony. She does not deserve to be thanked; she did nothing for them. She let her people die. Her hands are stained with the blood of guardsmen and the lives of civilians. She does not look at her people as they ride past, Epona’s hooves crushing flowers underfoot and filling the air with perfume.

Link brings Epona to a halt in the courtyard and jumps lightly to the ground, reaching up to help Zelda. She grips his hand firmly, repressing a shudder at the feel of the crusted blood on his palm, and swings to the ground, her bow heavy on her back. It weighs scarcely anything, but right now it seems to be cutting into her shoulders, dragging her entire body downwards. Down into the earth with the bones of her people, where she belongs.

“I’ll be inside in a few minutes,” she dimly hears Link say, followed by the light clatter of hooves across cobblestone. Zelda’s nod is belated, too late for him to see, and her gaze follows him across the courtyard. His posture is slightly slumped, his head bowed, and she detects a slight limp in his right leg. He badly needs attending to, but he is a farm boy; of course he is putting his horse before himself.

Zelda swallows bile as she half-drags herself towards the double doors leading inside the castle. She isn’t injured, at least not physically– Link made sure to check that she was all right before they began the ride back to town. But her mind and heart are so weighed down that she might as well be momentarily crippled. She is scarcely able to get herself safely into the castle.

Once inside, Zelda falls to her knees amid crumbling stone and tiles and plants her palms on the floor, heaving for breath.

Are you all right, Princess? Link had inquired gently, caringly, a few moments after Ganondorf’s defeat.

And Zelda had lied to him, unable to tell him the truth.

She had responded that yes, she was all right.

Now she curls into a ball on the dusty, cracked floor and wraps her arms around herself and weeps. Zelda has never really been one for crying, but she cannot stop the aching sobs as they rip painfully from her, one by one, her cheek pressed against cold tile. Her cries fill the room with an anguished, illegible noise that rolls off of the walls and echoes through the empty chamber again and again.

The soul-crushing grief and loneliness from her days cooped up in her tower slam into her, again and again, driving her deeper into a pit of darkness that she isn’t fully able to explain. All she knows is that she has carried the burden of Hyrule’s dead with her, ever since the invasion began. Ever since the terrified screams and pleas for mercy rose from the town square. Ever since the cobbles were washed red with innocent blood.

Zelda weeps until her throat is raw from it, until her eyes and face are swollen and stiff, until she can scarcely breathe through the heaving sobs. She clenches her hands tight and presses her face against the floor and lets herself cry with all the emotion that was forbidden her as a child. Princesses don’t cry, her guardians had said. Be strong for your people. And she had been. She had. But she can’t hold it in anymore.

So she weeps.

And just as the ruined surroundings of the castle are beginning to fade into inky oblivion, just as Zelda is slipping away into exhausted unconsciousness born from grief, she feels hands pressing against her shoulder. Instantly every nerve in her body is on alert again, her brain irrationally screaming to her that Ganondorf has returned and Zant is shrouding the lands in a second twilight, but then she sees worn leather gloves and forest green cloth.

Link.

He is bleeding still from injuries she desperately needs to tend to, but she is all tears and gracelessness as he slides his arms beneath hers and lifts her torso carefully. Before she knows what is happening, her cheek is pressed against his chest, soft cloth brushing her skin, and his arms are wound tightly around her, the fingers of one hand threading into her hair.

“Shhhhh,” Link whispers, as if he is soothing a lost child, frightened and alone. But, Zelda reflects slowly, she is no more than that right now, drowning in grief and desperation, her hands soaked in figurative blood.

She scarcely knows the hero, but she doesn’t need to be much acquainted with him to know she already trusts him with her life. So Zelda grips his tunic in her hands and buries her face in his chest, shaking as she tries to control the last straggling tears. His heartbeat is steady and solid beneath her cheek, pounding rhythmically in her ear, and he is warm against her, a sturdy pressure grounding her to the earth as her last facade crumbles away.

Princesses don’t cry, she was always told. Be strong. Show little emotion. Someday you will be queen.

But Link doesn’t seem to mind as she weeps into his tunic. He just holds her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair as she struggles to get her breathing back in check. “You’re all right,” he murmurs gently, cheek pressed against the top of her head. He seems to know exactly what she needs to hear right now, because in the next moment he whispers, “Hyrule is safe. And none of this was your fault.”

She wishes she could believe that. And maybe she will be able to, someday. But for now she continues to cling to him, allowing herself more emotion than she has been permitted to show in years, and he rocks her back and forth, humming under his breath. “Shhhh,” he soothes, and she feels him press a brief kiss to the top of her head. “Shhh.”

And just for the moment she doesn’t care that she must be comforted like a lost and frightened child. Just for the moment she doesn’t care that the hero of Twilight has seen his future queen sobbing and helpless. Because she does trust him with her life, and she is sure she always will.

The nobles of her kingdom would cry out in humiliated outrage should they see their princess in such a state. Get up at once, they would shriek, tugging frantically at her arms, pulling at her skirts. Such disgraceful behavior is forbidden, your Highness!

But, as she finally begins to drift off encased in the hero’s warm embrace, Zelda finds that she really, really doesn’t care what they would think.

#sky types words #link #legend of zelda #twilight princess #zelda #tp link #zelink #tp #tp zelda #tp zelink #tloz #zelink week

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blackjackkent · 2 months

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Heading west from the gnolls and away from the smell of blood, Rakha is struck by a sudden new smell - much more pungent, and just as laced with death.

Smoke.

The village up ahead is burning, echoing with shouts of pain and terror. A small herd of soldiers in silver and red armor are swarming the courtyard fumbling with buckets of water or standing shell-shocked among the dead.

Rakha questions one of the officers. There was an attack by goblins and drow here. Probably the same that Rakha killed in the temple. She remembers that those out front were celebrating a successful raid.

The devastation they left behind is considerable. The smell of smoke is mixed with blood from the corpses scattered across the square. Luckily, the hunger they might rouse in Rakha's head is muted after the recent experience with the gnolls.

At the far end of the square is by far the largest building in the village, an enormous inn suffused with smoke and flame. Rakha can hear a woman shouting from inside, and several of the armored guards are wrestling with the front door in a panic.

"Keep pushing!" one of them shouts as Rakha and the others approach. "Duke Ravengard could be inside! On count of three - one, two--"

To Rakha's surprise, Wyll goes completely still, his eyes widening. "Ravengard? He's here?!"

"Yes!" bellows the soldier over her shoulder. "Now make yourself useful. Push, damn it! PUSH!"

Something in Wyll's expression has struck Rakha with an urgency to the situation that has nothing to do with the guard's shouting. Without taking time to think, she strides forward, slams her boot into a weak spot in the jammed door, knocking it backwards with a burst of thunder magic from the sole.

The door collapses with a shuddering BANG and all the officers burst into sudden frantic movement, darting into the inn. Wyll, too, breaks into a run, knocking past Rakha's shoulder as he hurls himself into the smoke.

Instinctively, she follows.

The shouting is coming from upstairs. The air is thick with smoke, choking, blinding; she can barely breathe, can't see. She follows Wyll unsteadily to the upper floor, where the officers have come to a halt in front of one of the doors.

What are they waiting for? Another burst of thunderous magic rolls around Rakha's fingers and she blasts it past the guards, shattering the door apart and releasing the trapped woman behind.

It's only when they're back downstairs again, out of the smoke and into the light, that Rakha can take a proper look at her. She's an elf, with dark green skin, wearing robes that would likely be fine if they were not soaked in the same sweat and ash that covers her body. And, apparently, Wyll knows her, for he bursts in before Rakha can speak.

"Councilor Florrick! Are you all right?" He sounds more worried than Rakha has ever heard him, even when talking about the tadpoles.

The woman starts to nod - then does a double-take. "Wyll?" Her eyes widen and her lips part in sudden shock as she takes in his devilish appearance; her gaze lingers on the rough place where his horns meet his skull. "By the Maimed God..." she whispers, horrified. "What's become of you?"

It's subtle, but Rakha knows Wyll well enough by now that she can see the way he flinches under her gaze. But his voice is steady. "A story best left for calmer days," he says firmly. "Now breathe deeply - are you in pain?"

Florrick draws a slow breath, lets it out, then shakes her head. "A scorched throat. A few hairs singed off," she says, with a crispness that almost reminds Rakha of herself. For how close this woman came to death, she seems remarkably self-possessed. "Nothing a bit of time and fresh air can't cure."

She doesn't wait for Wyll's response, but turns sharply to the officers all hovering nearby with anxious expressions. "Gauntlet," she says to the one who seems to be their leader. "A new duty calls. Drow have taken Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard - westward, if my eyes and ears can be believed. Report to the manip and send for reinforcements. We must find the Duke."

Rakha vaguely hears the collected officers making noises of concern and obedience - but her eyes have flicked back to Wyll and stayed there, because his expression has gone slack with shock. They have already faced down many monsters, but she has never seen him look so dismayed.

Instinctively she tenses, putting one hand behind her to rest on her quarterstaff. What danger does he see?

"No..." he whispers. "It can't be. You mean, they've taken--"

"Yes, Wyll," Florrick says, and though her tone is still grave and curt, there is a note of compassion in it. "The drow have taken your father."

The sentence falls like a lead weight into the conversation. Rakha blinks, Wyll's shoulders hunch. Shadowheart lets out a soft whistle under her breath. Lae'zel curses.

Rakha's brain works furiously through these new details. Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard. A leader with a title - and loyal followers, judging by the eagerness with which these soldiers plan to find him. She has heard Wyll speak before of the city of Baldur's Gate, the largest city in the area, and of its leaders in vague terms. Grand Duke is the highest among them. This Ravengard, then - Wyll's father - is one of the most powerful people in the region.

And Wyll has said nothing of it.

"Wyll," she says slowly, questioningly, "you are the son of nobility?"

Wyll frowns - yet another new expression, this one of deep bitterness. "The circumstance of my birth is no matter of pride - for neither me, nor my father." He draws a heavy breath. "But pride is no reason to refuse help to my own flesh and blood." His eyes fix back on Florrick. "How can we help?"

Florrick looks him over appraisingly, then nods. "Rescue Ravengard from his drow captors. Baldur's Gate needs him now more than ever."

Wyll nods gravely. "Trust us to see it through, Councilor," he says.

Rakha feels tremendously thrown by this new development. They already have other plans that need attending to - Lae'zel's creche, for one. On the other hand... if Ravengard was taken by the cultists, and Halsin and the Dream Guardian were right, then he has likely gone to Moonrise Towers, which is the same place they need to go to follow the cult to its source and exact a final revenge.

And... more than that... Wyll has helped her, and now he needs help. So she nods - almost without hesitation, in spite of the turmoil in her mind. "I'll rescue Duke Ravengard," she says sharply. "You have my word."

She feels, rather than sees, Wyll relax at her side.

Florrick nods. "Thank you." She smiles very slightly in Wyll's direction. "When the Grand Duke returns to the city, he'll hail his only son a hero." The smile fades, and she is suddenly all business again, looking at Rakha. "Approach the Towers with care. The land itself has been swallowed in shadow. I will seek reinforcements and join you when I can."

A pause, and then she looks back at Wyll again, and for a moment, the businesslike air melts off her completely, and she looks at him with the sober gaze of a concerned friend. "Remember, Wyll," she says, "'Courage is found in the battle against fear, not in the defeat of it.'"

"So Father said," Wyll says gravely. "I won't soon forget."

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #wyll lore drop whee #also casual reminder that Florrick is the best

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ninjafrogofhnm · 1 month

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That Grief Which Preys Upon Thy Heart

Iron coating his tongue was the first thing he noticed as he awoke. Slow, disjointed blinks had the darkness above resolving into a high stone ceiling of little note as his consciousness returned.

It was all that returned.

His name, his past, his self were all fragmented. Carried away on the wind like the ashes of the corpse pinning his legs.

Its’ identity was as much a mystery as his own but as he looked down at it pain blazed up his arm. A twisting burn wound up his forearm from a twining pair of circles burnt into his palm as if he’d been branded. The scorched flesh stood out in stark contrast to the deathly gray pallor of his skin, trickles of dead black blood seeped from the wound far too slowly without a heartbeat to pump it.

For a second he expected to see threads of blue light stitching the wound closed but it remained, ragged and raw.

He flexed his injured hand and both the pain and familiarity faded.

Kicking aside the disintegrating corpse he sat up, getting his first look around the crypt he found himself in. Bloodshot eyes dragged from corner to corner for any hint of himself to be found. Dust hung thick in the air around a single stone plinth where he lay covered in blood and ash. Alcoves dotted the walls all around bearing bodies draped in shrouds as frayed as his mind.

There was not a hint of life in that cold dead room – even as he rose to his feet in its midst.

“Where…?” His voice rasped in the stagnant air, thirst drying his throat. No memories rose to the fore to answer his question though something skirted around the edges of his thoughts. No more than a flash of vision or a snatch of sound. A curl of hair, a peal of laughter, a hint of color. It told him nothing – of himself or how he came to be here – nothing except that he was alone.

Nothing except that he wasn’t supposed to be.

That, at least, he could rectify. And perhaps in time the rest would follow.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

He found the first of them at a small homestead deep in the woods. Roughly patched timber walls stood strong amongst the tall pines, echoing the stance of the woman in front of it brandishing a rake at him. Protective rage rolled off her in waves, nothing but challenge in those glaring eyes.

A fighter even in cheap homespun with naught but farm tools as a weapon.

There was no memory of this woman in his mind, her face as new to him as any other, but something in the determined set of her jaw and the fierce brown of her eyes clicked in place. A familiarity that drew him up short.

As her knees buckled, sending her to the ground, he tipped her chin up towards him with a foreign sense of curiosity. Pale from blood loss beneath her freckled tan she still sneered up at him in defiance. He made a split second decision. With her blood on his tongue and his magic slithering through her mind he bound her to his will with a decisive snap. Her shoulders slumped obediently under the weight of the binding though the angry frown still creased her face.

“...Mira,” he posited, testing out the name with a tilt of his head. It came to him with delightful ease. A bloody smile drew back his lips as he pulled the wavering woman to her feet. “Let’s go home.”

Disappointing though it was, no further memories came to him as he led Mira into the darkness of the woods but he was not discouraged. He now knew what it was that he was missing and soon the rest of his family would return to his side.

Soon, soon they would be complete once more.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Mira was the one to point out the encampment just beyond the edge of his slowly growing territory. He drew the shadows of the trees around his shoulders like a cloak and observed the skittering group with sharp eyes.

A small group, only two tents pitched amongst the trees. No fire as if they didn’t want to be spotted. At least two of the humans roaming along the edges of the clearing while the others slept. A scouting party.

The steely-eyed looks being cast in the direction of his territory made what they were scouting painfully easy to discern.

‘How amusing,’ he thought, unconcerned. It wasn’t often that the prey came to him rather than the other way around. On silent feet he stalked ever closer to the cold camp, bypassing the patrolling guards with ease. He would start from the center and see how long it took the humans to cotton to the invasion.

Blood soaked mud slowed his steps as he rounded the still-standing tent, stepping absently over a discarded body towards the last racing heartbeat in earshot. It galloped in fear, a siren song leading him forward through the carnage he’d wrought. It was loud in the now-silent night and he only had to hear the faint stutter in the rhythm to slap away the desperate stab of a knife from the shadows.

Disarmed, the man scrambled backwards through the muck trying to get away. He fell onto his back and stared up at the specter of death towering over him. Fear and resignation fed off each other until he snarled up at Death, nearly feral.

The shadowy figure tsked down at the rangy human, that naked expectation of dying striking a distant memory. Blinded eyes spitting venom to hide the hopeless resignation building within; breathing life back into those eyes.

“Enough Lei,” he snapped, the first words he’d spoken that night. The human flinched in surprise and tried to reach for his lost dagger, his wrist caught in a steely grip before he could even graze it. The wrist was drawn inexorably up to his mouth, fangs glittering in the moonlight. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. It’s time to rest.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Fires were blazing throughout the village, turning the night bright with the houses and sheds acting as makeshift torches. The light crept beyond the boundaries of the village itself to illuminate a figure crouching just outside a large outcropping of rocks, peering at a deep crevice in the stone.

“You need to come out,” the figure murmured, normally cold voice warming to a degree as he peered into the deep shadows of the crevice. Inside a young girl was curled up in a tight ball just out of his reach, her face pressed tight against her knees, short curls just visible over the top. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

Wide dark eyes slowly lifted up to peek at him, set deep in a young face. Frightened and tear-stained.

He had no practice in being inviting but kept his face calm and voice quiet, hand extended to the child as a faint echo of a trembling figure in a stone tunnel whispered through his mind.

“I-I’m not supposed to go with strangers,” she answered back, voice a tremulous whisper in the night. Nearly drowned out by the crackle of flames.

“I’m not a stranger.” He beckoned again, watching her consider his hand – consider him – before inching slowly closer. Cautious still but allowing herself to be coaxed. “It’s time to go Ellia; the others are waiting.” A small hand was placed into his own and he pulled her free with a swift tug, holding fast before she could try and run.

Back under the concealing darkness of the forest, far from the harsh firelight, he patted the top of the girl’s head. Brushing blood and stone dust from the curls as she followed close at his side, eyes vacant with the binding.

He held her hand all the way back home, keeping her safe from all the lurking dangers in the perpetual gloom of the woods. After all what here could be more dangerous than him?

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Within these vast woods those that studied magic were in high demand. In the ever-present darkness those that could conjure up light to ward against the many dangers that lurked within were held in high esteem and were protected accordingly. Cloistered away to learn, to practice. Only ever traveling in guarded groups.

Normally he would not have gone out of his way to cross the cloister’s path. Too much danger for far too little reward. Something about this group, however, caught his attention.

More specifically someone in the group.

She was taller than he’d expected – remembered, in some hazy corner of his mind – but as he stepped out from the trees into their path she snapped her hand forward, summoning fire to her fingers like a well-heeled hound. The other scholars cowered away and even the guards fumbled with their swords but she was ready. Fearless and bright.

“Ah, Milou, there you are.”

She did not come easily. Too many others at her back, too much magic in her veins.

They lit up the night as if it were daytime, sparks igniting the dry glass into blossoming embers that erupted into a field of flames. The cloister fell or fled, chased away by the spreading fire, leaving only two figures standing amid the blaze and bodies. The scholar wielded her magic with a deftness born of desperation but the fire dripped harmlessly from his shoulders as he finally reached her. She was panting, singed and exhausted, when his magic caught her in turn.

White robes bled red and another piece of his family returned.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

To the north a small town flourished within the forest despite the heavy darkness that kept many such settlements nearby suppressed and isolated. Just behind the town a barren hill rose up above the treetops, breaking through the otherwise endless canopy. Atop the hill a whitewashed temple glowed in the moonlight, a diamond shining above the black velvet pine boughs, a beacon of safety for the villagers below.

A cloaked figure hunched forward against an icy breeze that it couldn’t feel as it skirted past the village towards the hill, pausing near the base where the trees began to thin out.

Shadowed eyes scanned the hillside for any movement but only wind rustled the frosty grass. Once the moon dipped beneath the treetops he crept up the side of the hill opposite the town under the deeper cover of night. He flinched as he drew near the temple, palm stinging in the faint presence of the divine. Holding the hand close to his side he slipped around the corner to the front of the temple on silent feet.

Standing at attention in front of the temple entrance was a guard-priest, hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword as they watched over the sleeping village below.

A pleased smile bared his fangs at the sight of the priest. It had taken the better part of a week skulking about to nail down the guard rotation but it had paid off. The faint glow of mage light from the priest’s torch glinted off dark hair pushed back off of a green scaled brow.

Finding Kuris had taken a while and getting them alone a while longer, but he had all the patience in the world if it brought this last person back to him. And now that they were there just a handful of feet away there was only one thing left to do.

Bring them home. And at last they would be complete.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The click of claws on stone echoed through the empty room with metronomic regularity, each tap tap tap marked another second melting away into dawn. Alone, he sprawled over the crude throne that dominated the otherwise featureless room, the high back hiding the entrance to the dark cellar where his coffin waited.

He would normally sleep away the daylight, leaving the others to protect the ground in his stead. But he was restless. A sense of wrongness pulled at his senses, kept him on alert, so it came as little surprise when his solitude was intruded upon. Three sets of footsteps approached from the corridor, the heavy wooden door creaking open allowing a beam of sunlight to streak across the floor towards him.

Yanking his foot back from the light he hissed, “What do you think-”

“Bash.”

The world tilted sideways – or maybe he did – as that single word hit him with the force of a lightning strike. The word, that name, that was him. His. A piece of himself he hadn’t even realized was lost until it returned.

It was as if he’d been living with his head held underwater all this time and suddenly he’d broken the surface and taken a breath. He could remember again. Hazy at times, but the memories were there when he reached for them. Pain throbbed at his temples from the onslaught but it did nothing to keep him from stumbling excitedly to his feet to face his visitors.

Mira. Milou. Kuris.

Bloodshot eyes drank the three in, desperately re-familiarizing himself with faces he’d once known better than his own. How he could have mistaken anyone else for them he didn’t know – the thralls he’d made bore barely a passing resemblance. Faded paintings against the living, breathing reality that stood before him. Incomparable.

“How?” he breathed, stepping forward with preternatural speed. His mind was too tumultuous to decipher the tense postures and horrified expressions that greeted him as dancing lights threw him into stark relief. Dried blood crusted beneath black nails and tattered armor. An unhealthy gray cast to his skin. The glint of light reflecting off his eyes – a predator’s shine – over a wide, fanged smile. “I can’t believe all of you are here.”

Bash reached up towards Kuris’ face. Gauntleted hands wrapped around his wrists, holding them in place a hairsbreadth shy of contact.

“Wait!” A smaller hand caught in the blackened links of his chainmail, a flare of magic blooming out from the contact and twining around him like vines. Milou looked up at him, tense and wide-eyed. “Bash, just… just don’t move for a minute yeah?” Her voice broke but the spell bound him tight.

“...Alright.” His muscles relaxed under the onus of the magic without any attempt to resist, simply looking from Milou’s clenched jaw to Kuris’ furrowed brow and lastly to Mira’s fierce frown as she stepped to his other side and dropped a hand on his shoulder. The warm tide of happiness that had been swamping him slowly receded leaving the chilly reality behind.

For a second he had forgotten what he’d become.

“Why are you here?” he finally managed to ask, breaking the charged silence that had fallen. Mira’s hold on his shoulder tightened, reflexive. No one answered – not that he really needed them to.

“Bash.” Undemanding though the call was, Bash couldn’t resist his gaze being dragged up and caught by Kuris’. Bash still couldn’t move but they could, stepping forward so that Bash’s hands – still hanging suspended between them – settled over their cheeks. Bloodstained but familiar despite it all. “What can we do?”

Eyes closing, Bash reveled in the feeling of having his family all around him again. Tension trickled away from him entirely. Kuris’ hands still around his wrists, Mira and Milou at his sides holding him in place with might and magic. They hadn’t brought Lei or Ellia with them.

“Kuris, love, you already know the answer to that,” he smiled, letting his fangs prick his lip. An answer and a reminder. At his side Milou pulled at his chainmail and he obligingly looked down at her, at the stubbornly defiant look in her eyes. “You know I’m right.”

“Shut up.” Mira’s grip on his shoulder would have left bruises if he still had his own blood to pool beneath the skin and her voice was just as rough. Bash turned his head, feeling Milou’s magic melt away after a second’s pause, and met Mira’s glare. Furious tears were coursing down her face.

“Please,” he whispered and she quickly looked away. Gently tugging one of his hands free, he patted Mira’s where it pressed against his shoulder.

Kuris’ hand wrapped around the back of Bash’s neck and pulled him forward; he let himself be pulled, forehead dropping down into the crook of their shoulder. He could hear their pulse calling to him, so close he could practically taste it, but he would have rather slit his own throat than sate that thirst with their blood. Maybe they knew that because there was no hesitation as they held him close, no renewed flare of magic from Milou, no more tension from the shaking hand on his shoulder.

There was nothing but the warmth of his family and the sharp press of a stake through his back.

Heat more than pain spread from his pierced heart, rapidly draining his energy. With the last bit of his strength he gave Mira’s hand a last squeeze then let it fall to his side to land on Milou’s head, too weak to do more than let it rest there as more of his weight drooped forward onto Kuris. Kept upright only by the hold his family had on him.

“Tell-” Bash paused, breath escaping from his lungs.

“We’ll tell them.” Kuris answered before he could draw breath to finish, voice choked as they stroked the back of his neck.

“An-”

“Us too. We know,” Milou cut him off, her hold on Bash white-knuckled even as there was less and less of him to hold onto. “We know.” Wrapping an arm around him from behind, he could feel Mira nod in silent agreement against his shoulder.

With the first touch of peace he’d felt in too long, Bash’s body fell to ash leaving behind only memory.

#my writing #sometimes you play 70+ hours of V Rising and a vampire AU with your dnd blorbos pops fully formed into your head #and you simply must release it unto the world to deal psychic damage to your friends #Love yall!#silver tongues #title is from the poem The Vampyre by John Stagg

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rinwellisathing · 3 months

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You're Awful, I Love You: Part 13

Enver Gortash/ Trans male Tiefling Durge

Content warning for misgendering and trauma, the usual Durge specific violence and gore, and the intro to what might be a sex scene if I feel confident enough to write it.

After dinner, it was Sentry's turn to take the lead, to bring his companion to a place he knew well and only his presence offered safe passage. He gripped Enver's hand as he led him eagerly down into the sewers and through the twists and turns that led to the ruins. Manic glee crossed the tiefling's face as he thought of showing his muse what he had been working on since their last encounter.

“So, there IS a 'secret murder cult' in the sewers. Of course I knew about you and your family, but I thought the location was pure fiction to sell copies of The Baldur's Mouth.” Enver chuckled, gazing around as his Dread Executioner led him across the threshold to what seemed to have once been a series of small dwellings. The amusement turned to awe, however, as the two entered an otherwise unassuming hovel near the entrance to the ruins. Gortash could see the tell tale signs of arson. Ashes were all that remained of any furniture or signs of life that had once made this perhaps a home. Old blood stains coated the walls and floors and apart from the main large room, which once might have held a small kitchen and sitting area, he noticed all the doors seemed to have been smashed and sundered before the place was set ablaze.

“Oh, you'll need to look up to appreciate the first exhibits in my sculpture garden, my muse.” Sentry grinned, eyes bright and eager as he pointed to the ceiling.

Those deep, dark emerald eyes flicked upward and Enver found himself smiling appreciatively at the sight above him. There was an artistry to the slaughter, a beauty to it. Two tieflings, similar in coloration to Sentry, hung from the ceiling, mouths slack and wide. Their tongues had been removed leaving a dried and lovingly preserved issue of blood covering their lips, chins, and necks. The woman had her stomach eviscerated and her insides hung like the chains of a fine chandelier. The man had been castrated and his hands removed as well. Both were missing their eyes. The preservation was immaculate and though Enver could tell from the state of the dried blood that these were old corpses, they looked otherwise freshly killed. There was beauty in the loving detail.

“My first kill, my parents. They misunderstood my true father's vision for me so I made them understand MY vision for them.” Sentry's expression was giddy and beaming with pride. “Just the first exhibit in my sculpture garden. But not what I wanted to show you specifically. Still, please, enjoy the tour, yeah?” He was practically dancing with excitement.

“I see, you're a natural, my dear Sentry. A prodigy, I dare say.” Enver's lips curled upward as he admired his companion's work. His parents. It may not have been what Sentry had planned to show him, but it resonated. It was a piece he certainly understood. He must have been lost in thought because he found himself coming back to the present as Sentry eagerly tugged his hand and led him to the next room.

This room had been completely destroyed, walls knocked down with immense force to make space, but it had been worth it. The place was filled with all manner of nightmares. Body parts preserved and sewn together from hundreds of different people, bones wired and fused to create creatures most of the city couldn't fathom in their darkest dreams. A massive skeletal structure of a four armed horned and tusked monstrosity wove its way across a vast space of floor, twisted and wicked looking, seeming to stalk the rest of the figures. It was crafted so delicately with a reverence beyond even the rest. But Sentry was quick to pull Enver past the creature and draw his attention to the most lovingly detailed creation in the room.

A throne of severed and preserved hands rose up just behind the monstrosity and mounted atop it was a sculpture of bones clad in a black horned half-mask, long black and gold robes, and decked out in jewels and gold. The hands were painted black and atop its head was a crown of carved and gilded ribs set with glimmering purple gems.

“A crown for my muse. A throne for The Tyrant.” Sentry's gaze was wild and eager. Lust and violence dancing behind those bright mismatched eyes.

Enver gazed quietly at it for a moment. Frozen, his body and mind blank and unsure how to react, torn between a thousand emotions before finally, he grabbed Sentry by the arm and pulled him close. The Executioner's reaction was swift, free hand flying to Enver's throat and tightening around it. The two grappled roughly before their lips met, nipping and biting between deep kisses. The copper tang of blood on their tongues.

Clawed, calloused fingers began to undo the laces of Enver's shirt. “Fuck, these are laced so, so poorly.” Sentry remarked between breathless panting.

“Meanwhile, who dressed you? The shirt is something from a bad romance novel.” Enver replied, nipping at Sentry's neck as he opened the black velvet vest and began to unlace the white undershirt.

Sentry froze a moment as the shirts were pulled away, tense and feeling blood pulsing in his head. Jackal's taunt filled his mind. 'Be sure to kill him before you get to the bedroom, he may not like what he finds'. Orin's constant reminders 'Vereena the breed-spawn.' Bile rose in his throat but he forced it down. If he doesn't like what he finds, imagine what he'll think of what I'll do to him. The sculpture garden could always use another piece, I could improve my Tyrant. He waited, breath caught in his throat. Enver's hands traced his scarred chest, lingering a moment on the precise surgical scars, but he made no mention of them and Sentry's eyes widened when he realized no look of shock or disgust crossed his muse's face.

He pounced, shoving his partner to the ground and straddling him, pinning Gortash's arms and kissing him deeply before trailing affectionate nips and love bites down his neck and chest. The thick hair that coated his muse's body was soft and the tiefling nuzzled like a contented pet against it. He admired the softness of the Tyrant's body. No chiseled muscle for his blades to contend with one perfect night he could imagine years from now. His tongue ran down over the soft flesh, tasting eagerly and burying his nose in that dark hair, inhaling the scent as he moved lower, achingly slowly. He felt fingers tangling in his silver hair and then, one hand gripping one of his horns. Heat rushed to his face and his vision blurred just a bit. A sound halfway between a moan and a purr escaped Sentry's lips, muffled by his muse's supple flesh.

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #tiefling #oc #durge #dark urge #lord enver gortash #enver gortash #gortash x durge #durgetash #fanfic #writing

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crying-fantasies · 2 years

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Where Is Your Soul?

Synopsis: Everyone can live, everyone can have a future, a brighter one, if you give up your own.

Warnings: Character's death, suicide thought, self-sacrifice, angst, dismembered body, blood, mention of sexual assault, if you don't like this don't read, it's just me searching for some pain.

Jonathan Joestar

- When he declined your offer to keep searching for Dio's possible corpse he didn't believe that it would end like this, he wanted to spent time with Erina after so long, he could have told you, he really should have done it.

"Maybe later" He was trying to get to see her soon, so he left you there, in the street near your home, you only needed to turn around the corner and get safely to your house, "go straight home, it's dangerous at night"

In another reality you did as Jonathan told you

But now you decided to go along your own idea and turned around, entering the dark streets

- He never thought that you would go alone.

- When he heard of the shooting he didn't connect the dots right away, he thought that you would be still sleeping, your hair a mess and refusing to wake up earlier.

- Then, out of nowhere his father was calling for him, he was going downstairs when he noticed his master, Mister Zeppeli, with a gloomy expression that his father was starting to show too.

- His master appeared with something on his hands, when Jonathan saw it he didn't believed.

- He wished that it was a joke of yours, a weird one, a terrible one, a sick one.

"The body was found next to ashes and this..."

- He was holding your revolver, the one that your father gifted you so many years ago, one that your family didn't want back because of such a thing, such a tragedy, happening.

- It had blood over it, and anyone would know that it was yours.

- Jonathan didn't believed such a thing.

- George tried to stop his son but Jonathan was stronger, he was faster, he got to the place of the events in such a short amount of time.

Why wasn't I fast enough when you need him?

- When he arrived he found Speedwagon there, looking perplexed at the officers and a body in the floor, the blanket over it to spare the gruesome scene from the public didn't cover all the blood that was painting the floor or the walls.

"They really did it" he was trembling, crying, in his hand was your coat, the one that you used to carry all your guns around, it was empty, every gun and bullet on the floor, with blood, "They are both death, Dio is death and..."

- Speedwagon got wind of what was happening, but it was already late, when he got there he found you dragging your body on the floor, so much blood on your way, some kind of bloody pulp on your hands that then he realized was the remains of Dio.

- You left them fall in the sunrise light of the new day, smiling at him while it was turned to ashes that got carried away by the wind.

"Hey, Rob, I did it..." Your body on the floor, your hand full of ashes like some other parts of your body before you finally collapsed, he wanted to call for help but the police areived and at first they put the blame of such a crime on him.

- They just concluded that you committed suicide.

- Even if Jonathan asked Robert would never tell him that you used yourself to trap Dio in your embrace and started shooting, the bullets got to him but also your body, it weakened him and you could wait till the sunrise to finally kill him with the sun, the horrible escene would be forever on his mind.

- People would talk about you, about how your soul would haunt forever that street, how even in the future people would find the many bullets that you used in the walls near.

- Jonathan just thought, with tears on his eyes and your revolver in his hands, how reckless you were, just like always, even when he believed that Dio was already death you thought otherwise, not believing that everything ended, and you were right, even so, why didn't you ask him for help when you found Dio, why did you just go there all alone and without calling him for help, but what if you did, what if Dio caught you and you could only fight trying to survive? If you called for help but he was so far away to even know that you needed him there?

- Why did you choose to go there? All alone, almost ready to die for something that was supposed to be his responsibility.

- When his son is born, Jonathan would be overprotective, almost forbidding him to be near the place where the "Crazy ghost" would be roaming, that damned street where his nightmares would take place from time to time, punishing George when he, after a dare, put a foot in that place.

"Don't you dare to return there!" in all the years that he was a father, Jonathan have never shouted at his son.

- He used so much of his mental strength to even go after his son at that place.

"Dad, why do you have a revolver?" His son would ask but Jonathan would never answer, just taking the gun in it's glass box out of his son's reach.

"I'm..." He finally decided to tell his son when he was 15 years old and planning to enlist, the terror of having his son near weapons was real, and for a moment he would be terrified about the possibility that George would die like you, like a soldier, dying for others, "I'm just taking care of it for a dear friend"

- Years go and never return, now, after so long, he can be near that street again, it's early in the morning and with the help of his wife can finally put a feet there, say a prayer and left flowers for you, finally accepting that you died that day, that he can let go of your ghost.

- For a moment he believed that he saw you with the first sunrise's lights, smiling with mischief at him, snorting in disbelief and laugh at his tear stained face like the good ol' times.

- He hopes that if there is an afterlife then he can meet you again.

You die, all your descendants never existed, you defeated the great danger, everyone else survived

Are you happy with your choice?

Joseph Joestar

- Joseph would be the instigator of many problems but you were the one that would get the two out of trouble, he believed that it was a good dynamic, but then he would regret such beliefs.

"Why can't we just talk about it with them?" You asked that when everything started, like the peace lover that you were, Joseph only said that you didn't understood while giving you a hug, his hand on your hair and messing with it.

"Don't worry your little head" he would say while while smiling, Joseph had his usual mischievous grin, "everything is going to be fine, I will get that ring and we will live till we are old people"

- He knew of your worries and maybe he was a bit bitter about the fact that you liked Caesar, and that maybe you already did the do, it irks him to even think about it.

In another reality you would listen to Joseph and not worry, they were strong

But now you decided to use your imaginary friend, you had an idea, you could at least help a bit

- There is no one on your room when Joseph goes to say good night to you, maybe spend some quality time together after so long, and also to be sure that Caesar wasn't in your room again.

- He believed that maybe you got to eat something or to walk around the island, but then he thought that you may be with Caesar, he wants to puke at the idea and decided to let you be.

- The next morning you weren't in your room, with Caesar or even in the island.

- Joseph was worried, but he believed that you would be doing some tourism around bay because the boat wasn't in the shore.

- Lisa Lisa, Loggins and Messina thought otherwise because the boat was in reality there, bits of steel near it, also because the Red stone of Aja that she had was in reality a perfect copy made of steel.

- Who would do such a thing and keeping her in the shadows about if not you? The one with a strange ability to move things around without even touching them and to create different things out of steel, perfect copies of metal.

"You two will keep training while I'm away" Lisa Lisa didn't gave much explanation and just left.

- She was the one that found you, or at least what was left of you, your body impaled by giant metal bars.

- At first she believed that they got thrown to you, resulting in your death, but she then notices that those things got out of the soil around you, she notices the traces of a fight around but only your body is there, she finds what appears to be the sacred stone but it's broken and pieces of red steel and glass like pieces are everywhere, next to the pieces is the ring that Joseph needs.

"I'm not sure what was the idea but I found the real one secluded underground with many layers of steel around it" Lisa Lisa didn't have a soft touch, she knew that, and maybe she could have been a little more worried about the shattered expression in the faces of her son, her student and Suzi.

- Joseph just tried to figure out what happened with you while trying his hardest to be stronger after drinking the content inside the ring, he cried when he noticed little drops of dry blood on it but he stopped himself soon when the mask on his face didn't let him breath or cry like he wanted.

- When the time comes and they are ready to fight they only find Wammu, Esidisi and Kars, they didn't expected to see them there.

"We already accepted your victory, why are you even here?"

- Turns out that the day that you disappeared you took the real Red stone of Aja.

- For what the pillar men answer to their questions they now know that the stone that you left underground was a perfect copy, a second one, just to take the real one to the pillar men and destroy it in front of them.

- You were little, you were unarmed, so they didn't expected you to form some kind of hammer out of nothing, "this is the real one, the cause of so much problems"

- All pillar men jumped to stop you when you used steel to destroy the stone, summoning steel bars around you to stop them because you couldn't destroy it so easily, they got near you and that made you attack even more close to you, ending in your death and the stone being destroyed by the same bar of steel.

"That one" Wammu started to talk, "Was indeed a great warrior, so I let them the death ring"

- Caesar wanted to keep fighting, to avenge his father's death and your sacrifice with a broken heart and tears in his eyes.

- Joseph didn't know what to do.

"Don't worry your little head, I will take care of it!"

- And like he said, he would take care of it, accepting the plan that you almost did with the pillar men, a way of peace, it was everything but easy yet his achievement finally brought what you wanted.

- He needed to explain what happened to everyone back home, when he finally arrived to his grandmother's house he was welcomed in a warm home and her worried expression, he just wanted to get into his room but in his way he collided with a picture of the two of you hanging on the corridor.

- It was just too much for him.

- Erina had to help her grandson, hugging him back together when she found him crying in front of the picture, finally shattering his shield of normalcy and letting go all his pain even when he kept denying his tears, even when he tells his grandma that he will be okay soon and tries to believe it himself.

- She knows that he is lying, he also knows it, because he has lost someone that he held dear to him, someone that was with him since the very beginning, someone that he loved and he just realized it.

- He put a candle for you near the picture and a steel brooch with the form of your favorite flower next to it, in that way, a flower that would never wither.

You die, all your descendants never existed, the war between the Pillar men and the Hamon masters was over, everyone else survived

Are you happy with your choice?

Jotaro Kujo

- Love can make people do stupid things, that is something that Jotaro believed, but in a different way, for him love would make you a blind idiot.

- He saw it with the girls that chase him, it's not love, it's some kind of infatuation, but they want that belief that they like him, that they love him.

- His grandfather told you that you must go with the others after they returned.

In another reality you would listen, you would wait while the others go ahead.

But now you decided to go alone, you knew Hamon, just a little, but it will help you.

- No one noticed when or where did you go, Iggy was also nowhere to be found, but they had an idea faster than later after hearing a fight inside, a explosion that shattered many windows and the ominous roar of two creatures.

- You were still alive, almost in the verge of death, destruction around you after the attack of Vanilla Ice with Cream, you used Overdrive to finish him but it took your arm after touching it.

"Will you keep me company to the end?" Iggy lost a little piece of his ear but after looking at him you found relief that no further damage was done.

- Talking to the little dog wasn't common, maybe you were starting to lose your mind due to blood lost, even when you already closed it with Hamon.

- You continued till the moment that you noticed an ominous shadow behind you, Iggy barked but it was late, an unknown hand grabbed you from your neck and started to put pressure, you couldn't breathe, you couldn't use Hamon, you couldn't use your Stand.

- You recognized the man, that demon, that nightmare, with your last energy you tried to land a hit in vain, a kick that was blocked, a punch from your Stand was just too weak to inflict damage, The Fool was sent flying by a mere movement of his hand, then you give the command.

- Your Stand took Iggy and ran away, in the exact moment that Dio ripped apart your shirt and opened his mouth before finally biting you, but you smiled, pain cursing your whole body and a silent scream, puting your last breath to use.

- When the rest noticed your withered Stand approaching with an injured Iggy in their last arm they just needed to follow the pieces that kept falling from it, leaving a path of black pieces.

- The first one to found your body was Joseph, the one that raised you like one of his own flesh and blood, the one that teached you the ways of Hamon and the one that got you in all that mess.

- The rest just saw the old man trying to cover your exposed body with his own, sobbing and saying that it couldn't be, your ripped shirt and your face almost a distanced memory when now it had such a malicious wound in it that was still bleeding next to the one on your neck.

- Avdol with Iggy in his arms noticed that your Stand was fading, Polnareff remembered the attack to his sister and almost puked, Kakyoin would remember the day that Dio attacked him and almost had a panic attack, Jotaro was at a lost of words after seeing with his own eyes how your Stand just evaporated with a final and soft growl.

- You used your Stand running away to use ripple in your own body, affecting Dio in the way and making him lose part of his mouth and hand.

- You cleared the path and you gifted then a chance, it wasn't easy, at the end of all everyone was still fatally injured, one worst than the other, but they would survive.

- Joseph was the one to tell your family what happened, drifting apart the two families.

- Jotaro would return home, to his smiling mother, she was now safe and sound, and he tried to go with it, go on with his life even if it hurt.

- Every now and then he hears, in the middle of the night, the last growl of your Stand, one of pain, when he sleeps.

You die, your descendants never existed, Dio is finally death, all your friends return home and enjoy what life can offer.

Are you happy with your choice?

Josuke Higashikata

"(One) more time" you would say when he needed some extra energy in the middle of a fight.

- You did it often, even when they just needed the motivation to give their all in an exam, you would say the words, when they were in trouble and needed that shot of adrenaline you would be there to give some.

- Without the ability to cure you could at least improve power for a limited amount of time

"It's just a bit of my energy" you would say, giving little worry to it, "I only feel dizzy when I over use it"

- Everyone would laugh at your own description of your Stand, it could boost the homeostasis, improve one's health and pain resistance for a short or long period of time.

- You never overused it, so you never knew what would happen when you did it.

- Josuke was bleeding, everyone was like that, and you just found them with Shigechi in the middle of the street, your friend shouted in horror after he recognized the man in front of you, the man that tried to kill him.

In another reality you would take Shigechi with you and run away, make the killer follow you and give the others time to recuperate.

But now you decided to put your hand on his shoulder.

"We are going to fight..." You only whispered but now he felt stronger, Harvest was now even faster and numerous.

- While Shigechi was fighting you kept using your Stand on every one, once, twice and again, then to one nearest, once, twice and again.

- Then you were reached by a bomb.

- When Josuke opened his eyes he saw something on his hand, you were near him, your fingers touching his, and you started to talk in a low voice.

"One more..." He almost didn't heard you, "One more!" Now he could, he understood what you were doing, "ONE MORE TIME!"

- Josuke could feel his body awakening, his mind refreshing in an instant, fast enough to catch your body and heal your wounds, he left you there in order to finally end the biggest danger.

- When the ambulance arrived he felt remorse and hate, but he was just too exhausted to think anymore, then he noticed that Jotaro was next to you and he wanted to ask you why you were still on the floor, was it that using your Stand tired you to that point? Crazy Diamond should have done the work just fine and you should be on your own feet by now.

"You fool..." He heard Jotaro say, and when he was near enough he noticed that you looked fine, you were supposed to be fine, he healed all your wounds.

- So what was the reason that your heart stopped working?

"Hey, this... This isn't funny"

- He didn't know what to say.

- The ambulance ended up picking your body too even when Josuke tried to stop it, Jotaro was the one to put him back on his right mind with a punch.

- He just couldn't grasp the idea that you died so easily, even worse, that you died seconds before he healed your body, he didn't know that you were gone when he touched you, he didn't notice, he just thought that you were exhausted.

- You body, it was warm at that moment, there was blood at your side due to the bomb that got to you, that same blood, he didn't noticed it on his hand, he didn't noticed when it dried up, leaving the sensation that he almost couldn't move it, he tried to clean it at the spot with tears on his eyes and the dry blood fell on the street.

- He realized one day that where you died a little plant started to grown in the middle of the street, not even a year later it was a giant rainbow like wisteria tree, one that emitted melodies with the wind and every person that hugged it could feel energized again, the street is now a park for tourism.

- All the friends that you did in Morioh still go there to reunite.

You die, your descendants never existed, Yoshikage Kira is death, all your friends can live a peaceful life, the "Rainbow tree" is a new point landmark in Morioh.

Are you happy with your choice?

Giorno Giovanna

- Your destiny was already set in stone.

- Meeting Giorno was only a way to make it come to you faster.

- You weren't exactly, and legally speaking, related to all the group so you were the first choice when there was the necessity to bought things and to interact with the public in general.

- Now that Trish was with you all someone needed to buy more supplies.

In another reality you would deny this, preferring to stay with the others while Narancia did the shopping.

But now you take the shopping list and go, alone, trough a different direction and cross paths with the last person that you wanted.

- The explosion that results of your sonic attack is something that everyone is familiar with to that point, they recognize it quickly.

- They are near to the point where they will let Trish with her father, but a second and third explosions later they decide to at least see what is happening, who is attacking you and where exactly are you.

- Using Aerosmith was the first choice.

- Because the Stand returned with the red book that you always had in hands, Bruno is the first to open it, knowing how it works, and what he sees makes some take Trish to safety while the others go to help you.

- Giorno gets the book and also read it.

"You cross paths with DopiolovaiD, Trish's father, who is in his way to kill her and the group that comes with her"

"He realized your presence, your fear, he attack- he has you in a corner, something happened, the time isn't right"

- It was like a horror story, the pages in the book continue to move, to flip, now full of the same words.

"It hurts, it hurts you so much, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts" the same word keeps repeating, page after page of the same words.

"You are bleeding, it hurts- IT HURTS"

- Giorno is supposed to be in the group that protects Trish, but is her who tells him to go.

- When Giorno arrived it was already too late, two bodies on the floor, one is yours and the other is the one of a young man that he can't recognize, both bodies with blood on their ears, the book that he has on his hand starting to turn into ashes.

"If I can ask..." Days before you were eating ice cream together, he had extra cash because he stole a wallet, but he wasn't going to tell you that, you had some kind of heroic mind, "why the Mafia?"

"Why not?" He asked, to you and to himself, he remembers the man that helped him in his worst days and the changes that he wants to happen.

"I mean, what do you wanna do? How can the Mafia keep working without selling drugs or collecting protection money?" Your words held some truth, maybe the whole deal, and he didn't know how to answer you at that moment.

- Even years later he was struggling.

- All the group had to left both bodies on that place to avoid the police, but when Giorno got the power he ordered your body to be dragged back to Italy even when your family had already buried you.

- His people never touched or destroyed your first resting place, so your family would never notice.

- Giorno would use GE to keep flowers around your new resting place, he would visit you often and talk to you about how everything was going.

"I can create a cure for the addicted, I can protect everyone by just giving the order, I don't need their money, we can keep killing and obtain money only if the person is shit and the pay is good" his hand holds a bundle of rocks and these transforms into gold, then all the gold just rumble and turns to ashes, "but I can't take someone dear to me back from the death"

You die, your descendants never existed, Diavolo is death, all your group can achieve their dreams.

Are you happy with your choice?

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the-shattering · 1 month

Text

Chapter 16: Ashes

Odrum, Irozia

Odrum had been reduced to a pile of ash and death. Caleste, Edrahn, and the knights picked their way through the wreckage of destroyed houses. The cloth masks on their faces kept the worst of the stench out. They guided their horses carefully so as to not to trod upon the charred bodies that remained intact. Edrahn was grasping her staff so tightly that Caleste was worried that it’d snap in her hand. She’d have reached over to hold Edrahn’s other hand to comfort her if she wasn’t grasping her halberd with a similar tenseness. There was no telling if whatever had attacked the village was still lurking around the thick smoke that still blanketed the town and reduced their visibility to only a few dozen feet around them. They needed both their hands free in order to react quickly to whatever threat may arise.

“What could have done this?” Emmon asked. His voice was scarce above a whisper, as if concerned about alerting an unseen enemy.

“Odrum may be a small village but they certainly would have been able to defend themselves from any bandits coming in from the Barrens,” Caleste said, “A desperate lord from the Southern Kingdom perhaps?”

Edrahn’s lips pressed into a thin line and she shook her head. She hailed from the Southern Kingdom before she had met Caleste — she knew her people, “No lord would be this ruthless, this … destructive.”

“I agree,” Emmon said, “If they were desperate for food and resources, I doubt they’d burn everything to the ground before they could loot the place. Not to mention it would be suicide to go against Irozia — especially with an act of violence as egregious as this. We may have had years of peace but the Southern King knows that Queen Venera has him outmatched.”

Caleste looked down at the ground below her and almost wished she hadn’t. A ghastly skull clad in a blackened helm stared back up at her. She flinched back and brought her horse to a sudden halt.

“What is it?” Edrahn asked and Caleste felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment and shame from being so quick to spook.

“Nothing to be frightened of,” she said and regained her composure before she dismounted next to the corpse, “Just the dead body of a soldier.”

She knelt down to examine the charred remains. The corpse was mostly buried in the rubble of a collapsed house with seemingly only its head intact. Her confusion at the situation deepened as she got a better look at the helmet clad skull. The fire damage could explain the inhuman look of the skull but the helmet itself? That didn’t look like any helmet she was familiar with. It certainly wasn’t a helmet any member of a town militia in her countship would be wearing. She surmised that the body she saw must have been one of the raiders. However that didn’t help her much with identifying who exactly it was that just destroyed one of her towns.

In fact the mystery only deepened as she stared down at the skull and the helmet it wore. Most helmets from the Southern Kingdoms were conical nasal helms with maille aventails that covered the face and neck. Bandits, or really any warrior from the Barrens, wore thick cloth as their armor and usually wore no helmets.

This helmet was made of some form of metal, though Caleste wasn’t entirely sure it was iron, and it was in the shape of a brimmed hat. Under the helmet the creature wore a maille coif made of the same blackened metal as the helmet. She placed a few fingers on the helmet, rubbing it slightly to see if it were soot that would rub off. Her hand came back only slightly darkened by soot but the metal of the helmet remained a deep, glossy black.

“This isn’t any metal I’m familiar with,” she said and looked up at Emmon who had approached to examine the skull.

He shook his head, he hadn’t seen metal like that either.

Caleste carefully lifted the helmet from the skull and she heard Emmon make a noise of shock. The man was a hardened veteran, a soldier who had fought in the queen’s army during her campaign to retake the throne. He had seen far worse than this, they both had.

The skull looked almost human to Caleste — everything seemed to be in the right place at least: Two eyes, a nose, and a ghastly gaping mouth with soot stained teeth. However there was something still unsettling about it, something that stirred a feeling deep in her veins that she was only vaguely familiar with.

She reached out to touch the maille coif and as one of her fingers brushed the skull it crumbled into a heap of ash. She drew her hand back, her finger that touched the skull tingled slightly as if it had been shocked.

“Caleste?” Edrahn asked, her voice was laced with worry.

Caleste stood up and attached the helmet to one of her saddlebags, “We can’t do anything for the poor souls here,” she said, “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Emmon asked.

“Where do you think?”

Anger and indignation had been building up in Caleste like a thunderhead on a summer’s day. Sure she felt sorry for the people who died in Odrum and the child who now sat in her castle who was likely the only survivor of the carnage. But more than that she felt pissed.

No one marched into her countship and made a mockery of her. First the terrible winter and now this … this insult. Caleste, the noble and heroic countess who couldn’t protect her own people.

She couldn’t stand by that.

She needed to find whoever did this.

They needed to pay.

“We’re going to find who’s responsible for this, and make sure they never do this to me again,” she said.

Emmon looked uncertain, “M’lady I’m not sure this is a good idea. Look at what destruction these raiders wrought — we should get reinforcements.”

“We haven’t the time,” Caleste said, “They could be marching on Caleston as we speak. Are we not the best warriors in the queendom? Did we not prove that over and over again? We can prove it once more.”

Her tone allowed for no further argument though Emmon looked as if he wanted to press the point. He sighed and gave a curt nod, “I’ll send Theran and Lovac to look for any trace of where our attackers went.”

“Good,” Caleste said, “Have them start looking to the south of the settlement.”

“You still think this is the Southern Kingdom,” Edrahn said.

Caleste looked to her wife, “Who else could it be Edrahn? They suffered through the same winter as we had. I know you don’t want to believe your people did this but who else could it have been? This doesn’t look like the work of simple bandits.”

“I think your desire to prove your worth is clouding your judgment.”

“I think your love of your people is clouding yours.”

Caleste would always marvel at how Edrahn, despite being a head shorter than her, could manage to stare down at her. She wasn’t about to back down though — she knew this had to be the Southern Kingdom. It literally couldn’t be anyone else.

Edrahn wasn’t going to yield any ground either, “So if the Southern Kingdom did attack us as you so adamantly believe — to what end? What could they possibly gain from this?”

“It’s a tactic,” Caleste said, “Encroach on my territory, raze a few villages to the ground, and burn our farmsteads … It’ll become too big of a problem for me to ignore and so they’ll force me into a battle.”

It’s what she would do. It’s what she had done.

“So you’re giving them what they want.”

“I’m putting a stop to this before it becomes a big problem.”

Caleste looked away from her wife and back over the ruins of Odrum; her mask slipped slightly and she hurriedly readjusted it. The stench of death and smoke was very familiar to her yet it still was nearly overpowering. Perhaps she had lost her touch in the years of peace.

She furrowed her brow in confusion as she retied the mask — she had smelled what she would have expected from a scene like this: the acrid scent of burnt houses and the nauseatingly sweet stench of charred flesh. However added to the smell was the pungent, nose stinging stench of sulfur.

#part 1: fracture #the shattering web novel

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strunmah-mah · 9 months

Text

Alright, I'm in a weird mood tonight, and I need to go to bed. But i'm proud of myself for getting 800 words in an hour after months of nothing, even if it is the wrong project.

So in celebration, have a wip.

Jaytemis, DC vs Vampires, self-harm, blood

Ash falls to the desecrated floor. This was a place of worship once. A cathedral to the christian god. Artemis is a pagan and her relationship with her gods is complicated, but she still appreciates the beauty of these places regardless of religion.

Or she would if this place was beautiful. It’s not anymore. Part of that is her fault. The whole building is covered in a layer of ash, hiding all the fine details of the architecture and artwork. Any choirs that might have once sung here are gone, replaced by the sound of her ax. But this place was hollow before long before she arrived.

She takes a pill of erythropoietin and takes tired steps towards large cross with a man on it. She thinks it a statue at first. She may not now the exact significance but it is not uncommon sight to see in christian churches, even if this is much larger than most.

She looks closer and realizes like the church itself Nighwing has perverted this image. It is no statue that hangs crucified, but Jason.

She knew he would not be in good shape when she found him, but this . . . He gaunt, limp, pale and bloodless in a way even a vampire shouldn’t be. And he is a vampire. Now that she looks closer loose curls of smoke unfurl from where Jason’s spine touches the cross.

The are loose rags wrapped around Jason’s hips in a mockery of modesty. As if Nightwing has done this to protect his brother from shame and embarrassment. As if the rest of Jason’s emaciated corpse isn’t on full display. He is quite literally skin and bones and he makes no reaction as she moves closer.

According to Queen, when Jason was turned he told Nightwing he would never spend eternity living in his brother’s shadow. And while what becomes of a person’s personality after turning, Jason had lived up to that promise, raising hell against his brother, until suddenly he wasn’t anymore.

That was when Jason started appearing in her dreams.

When the vampire scourge began, the gods cut Bana-Mighdall off from Man’s world. The great sandstorm around the city swirled more violently than ever letting no sister in and no sister out. The oracle of Aset made many please to know the reason for this, to have their stranded sister brought home, but the gods remained silent.

And then Jason came. When she lay to rest his screams filled her dreams. Screams of pain, screams of accusation. You promised we’d see each other again, you abandoned me! It frightened her not knowing what could have prompted these awful nightmares. There was an ache in her chest and she knew something was wrong and so she braved the sandstorm.

It was an awful abrasive force, seemingly intent to tear her skin off. When her mouth was not full of sand she screamed and cursed every god she knew and demanded passage through the storm. She thought she saw them a few times. One shadow in particular reminded her of Nephthys’s weeping form.

But finally she made it through and found the world her gods had tried to protect her from.

When smuggling herself to Gotham ages. When she finally made it she found the floundering resistance and they told the story of the great Vampire King Nightwing and how he had enslaved humanity.

She asked about Jason and they told her he was dead. They tried to pull her from her search, recruit her to their cause.

But the world has already ended and she has a promise to keep.

There are nails in Jason’s hands and feet and she has no good way to remove those. So instead, like tearing off a band-aid, one by one she forcibly jerks his limps from the cross. Forcing nail heads through palm and sole.

And through all of this Jason still has not stirred. She would think him dead if not for the fact a dead vampire is only ash, and he is not scattered across the floor like she has done to rest.

There is not point in wrapping his wounds, he has no blood to bleed.

She has killed so many vampires here, she should leave now, before more come to investigate what she has done. But she cannot stand to leave Jason in this shape, so she takes a risk instead.

She slits her wrist and hold it to his mouth. It is a relief to her pressured veins as she watches crimson dribble from her to him and she prays for his ka to be restored.

There is a noise behind her and Artemis is to her feet and hefting Jason over her shoulder in a single motion. There are candles not far from her. She flings them into curtains, into wooden pews, anything the looks flammable and flees into the eternal night.

When the cathedral catches flames she prays once more that the smoke drowns out the smell of her blood.

#dc #jason todd #aremits grace #artemis of bana-mighdall #jaytemis #dc vs vampires

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sunsetdew0101 · 2 months

Text

Second Chance

Chapter 10

Professor Oak sighed as he rested his head on his clasped hands and leaned forward in the hospital chair. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, and his eyes looked like they had sand in them. Even though the chair was comfortable, he couldn't sleep a wink. The reason for that was lying motionless in front of him.

Ash always found ways to help others, regardless of what might happen to her. Whether it was a young Pidgey that had fallen out of the nest or even younger children who wanted to prank the older ones who had been mean to them. Despite the resulting bruises and scratches, she always shrugged it off as if it were no big deal and ran off to the next adventure with a mischievous glint in her eyes. No matter what happened to her, Aisha would get up again and continue as if nothing had happened.

Seeing her lying so pale and still in that hospital bed was like a slap in her face. Not even when she slept Ash was so quiet; There was always a leg peeking out from under the covers or a pillow almost falling to the floor. There wasn't even drool running down the corner of his mouth. If it weren't for the heart monitor, Ash could easily pass for a corpse. And with less luck, he would be seeing her in the morgue and not in intermediate care.

The bullet caused extensive internal damage, and if paramedics had taken longer to arrive at the scene or bring her to the hospital, she would have died. Aisha Ketchum could be dead because she did what she did best: she cared too much about others. That always seemed like her best quality until he got that damn call saying she was in surgery in the middle of nowhere and that she could very well die.

Oak knew that Pokémon journeys were dangerous. Hell, he sent 10-year-old kids with creatures that could control fire, water, and plants out into the middle of the jungle to encounter other ones that were just as, if not more, dangerous. As if that wasn't enough, there was also the possibility of them getting lost on the Routes, running out of supplies, or even the weather changing abruptly. It was no secret.

But Ash was, like Gary and Daisy, different from most new trainers. She clicked with Pokémon in ways that didn't make sense, and her instincts were much sharper than expected for someone so young. Oak dared to call her a prodigy.

But it hadn't been a Pokémon or a change in time that hurt Ash.

The Rockets had been a problem for years. At first, no one paid them any attention. They were some crazy people who thought they were better than everyone else; they would eventually disappear. Apart from police surveillance, little was done about them. Two years after he became a Professor, there was the Rockets' first large-scale attack. 20 fatalities, 45 injured, and several Pokémon and people disappeared.

From then on, the League had hunted them like a pack of Houndooms, but it always seemed like the Rockets were four steps ahead. No matter how many raids, arrests, or interrogations there were, they could barely scratch the surface of what they did. It seemed that only damage control could be done.

But about five years earlier, they fell off the radar. There have been a few reports of supposed sightings over the years, but nothing has been confirmed. There has been some speculation in the news over the years about whether they had disbanded or were preparing a full-scale attack. The fact that the League didn't confirm or deny anything didn't help, but the truth was that the Rockets had disappeared from the face of the Earth.

But now they were back. Little by little, and with a discretion that was unusual for them, the Rockets had returned. The League had not been caught by surprise. Recent attacks had ensured they were aware of their return. But they hadn't expected the attack on the Pokémon Village or the other recovery centers. It had been a coordinated attack, and the Village had been the only one that hadn't lost Pokémon to the Rockets.

Part of him wanted to be proud of Ash and her courage to face the Rockets and defend Pokémon from them. But the other part of him, the logical and scared part, wanted to scream at her and shake her until some sense came into her head.

Three times, Ash encountered the Rockets. Three times, she had escaped with her life. Professor Oak didn't believe in coincidences when it came to Aisha. Especially when it came to Aisha. There was something around her that kept him from believing that: Not when he was a trainer and not now.

He could only ask that the luck that had accompanied Ash until now would continue on her side.

After Ash woke up, doctors and nurses came in and out of the room. Memory tests, blood analyses, X-rays… Several hours passed before Aisha was moved to one of the regular rooms at the hospital. Oak wasn't ashamed to admit that his legs almost gave way with relief when he was told she was out of danger. Aisha would stay a few more days in the hospital under surveillance to ensure no surprises would arise, but the worst was over.

Oak spent a good quarter of an hour hugging Ash while she apologized for scaring him. She never apologized for doing things, just for scaring him when she did them. And despite how much he wanted to shake her and ask why she hadn't run, he knew why. Ash was never one to run away if he saw he could help. And with the Rockets, it was a hard-and-fast situation: If she ran, she could get shot in the back, but if Aisha fought them, their attention would be on her if she survived the interaction. There was no way to win.

Sometimes, Oak understood Delia's desperation and determination to prevent Ash from becoming a trainer. But nothing justified what Delia had done to her daughter, and Oak still shuddered whenever he thought about what had been said at the trial. But he understood the woman's fear. But Ash was going to become a trainer with or without help.

At least this way, Oak could ensure she had backup.

Keeping Ash still while she recovered was more challenging than Oak remembered. But the worst thing Ash had before was a broken arm, so he couldn't even compare.

Brock was good at distracting Ash, a product of raising his younger siblings, but even he was reaching his limit. Ash seemed to be made of energy. There weren't many things that tired her. Luckily, Pikachu, Espeon, and Roselia had made it their duty to sit on top of her and demand a grooming session, and that was the only thing that had kept her still for more than five minutes so far. Small mercies.

Daisy and Gary had laughed at his misery when he called them to update them on her well-being. The worried but amused gleam in their eyes did nothing to ease Oak's worries that Ash would pop her stitches if she didn't sit still. Which didn't surprise him. If there was anyone who knew what Ash was capable of when she was bored, it would be those two.

Fortunately for the sanity of Oak and Ash's traveling companions, the doctor informed her that she would have the stitches removed in two days. The use of Heal Pulse during surgery had ensured a speedy recovery - faster than they had even expected - and if no surprises arose, three days after the stitches were removed, she would be released from the hospital and able to return to the road.

Upon receiving the news, the three trainers made a list of what they needed to replenish, and Oak took the opportunity to purchase the antibiotics and painkillers the doctors had recommended for when Aisha was discharged. He was glad that her encounter with the Rockets hadn't taken away Ash's joy of traveling, but Oak also knew that Ash was good at hiding what she felt. Only time would tell how she really was.

It was good to be back in Pallet.

Being back meant Ash was alive and safe. It meant she was back on her journey and not stuck in a hospital bed. Oak felt like the weight on his shoulders for the last few days was lifted when he saw Ash getting on the bus behind Misty and Brock.

When he returned to the lab, Oak was stared at. All the lab assistants were worried and only relaxed when he gave them a tired smile. That didn't surprise Oak.

Ash had been a recurring figure in the lab, and everyone had a little crush on her. It helped how fascinated she was whenever she saw one of the lab's machines or how absorbed she was when someone explained on what they were working on. The lab had gone silent without Ash and Gary's presence, so any news about their well-being brought enormous joy.

But with the relocation of some Pokémon that had been in Melanie's care to the Ranch, the workload had increased for everyone. Most of the relocated Pokémon were Pokémon that could have left the Village long ago if Melanie was to be believed. Since most of them had had trainers, she thought they had stayed so long because they didn't know where to find food in the wild. The Ranch was chosen thanks to the supervision they could provide to ensure they were adapting well and feeding themselves, but also the lack of humans constantly around them that would allow them to re-learn how to take care of themselves.

Bulbasaur's presence helped smooth out any rough edges that arose due to the intrusion of new Pokémon. Oak found the seed Pokémon's ability to break up arguments and turf battles between Pokémon fascinating. His time with Melanie must have helped him learn to do that without worsening the situation. It was an intriguing research topic that Oak mentally noted for a future thesis.

Fortunately, aside from Ash's new Pokémon, nothing noteworthy happened. She hadn't mentioned anything the last time she called Oak when she arrived in a new city, which soothed Oak's worries immensely. That didn't mean that Ash didn't get in trouble. Only that nothing warranted a stay in the hospital had happened again. And Oak was thankful for that.

It wasn't like situations like those were just around the corner, waiting for her. And it's not like Aisha went out of her way to find them.

Honestly, Oak would like to say he was surprised.

Ao3

Index

<-Last Chapter

Next Chapter->

Fic Dividers Used Here

#Second Chance #Ash Ketchum #Fem Ash Ketchum #Pokémon #Delia isn't a good mother #Gary Oak #cannon divergence #Pokémon Anime #Pokemon Anime Fic #alternative universe #ao3 #pokémon characters #Chapter Ten #Misty #Brock #Teen Up Audiences

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blueberrypancakesworld · 1 year

Text

The instrument of solution

Warning : angst, emotional, hurt/comfort, tiny fluff, nightmare, horror

Masterlist, next part

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

Darkness and cold were her friends. Why am I so cold? Why is it so dark? What happened?

The questions echoed off the stone walls and she painfully covered her ears. It rang and seemed to burst her eardrums. Another nightmare, but in her current state a completely normal reality. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her and she could. But in her interior it remained silent, but why?

She ran through the dark corridors no candles and no light was to be seen the stone walls seemed to enclose her and not want to let her go. It was only when she stumbled over something in the darkness and hit the hard floor with a dull thud that she clutched at her chest after straightening up slightly in pain.

A startling sound came from her. ,, No heartbeat," it came from her lips as she frantically panicked, scanning first her heart area, then her wrist, and then her neck. She made another startled sound as she felt a bite mark on her neck. It was deep and she could clearly feel the two holes under her now bloody fingertip. But if she had no pulse, why was she alive?

The panic did not let her go because if she was dead that would be the end. But she was torn from her thoughts when she realized that it was not the environment that was cold, but she. How should she not. A dead person was cold, she had no blood in her body and no heart to pump it through her. Shivering, she rose and stumbled against the wall, her hands clawing at the stone. But if she was dead, why was she breathing?

She knew she had to calm down, but could she calm her heartbeat at all if she didn't have one. Would her derigent be able to calm her down at all. Would Michael even notice her or was he just seeing a corpse, a walking corpse.

She had to get out of the darkness, out of the blackness she wanted to haul over and over again. Slowly and still panic-stricken she walked on because she didn't want to know what she had stumbled upon. She was sure that she would reach the light at some point. Because in the darkness there was always light or was it the other way around was it that in the light there was always the darkness. Eternities seemed to pass as she finally felt something other than the cold stone on the wall. Wood.

She felt the old musty wood of a door. The exit ran through her head before she looked for the door's opener. The iron ring lay cold and heavy in her hand before she pulled on it and with a creak the door opened. She scurried inside and left the darkness behind her. There was nothing there to hold her, she was dead, what should she do there. Except to be trapped forever. She blinked at the light that presented itself to her, the castle, or at least what was left of it, was in ruins around her.

The entire castle from her nightmares was in ruins. The light was blinding and she raised a hand protectively in front of her face. But something was wrong, she heard something. It was like a drip or tick as if something would drip down again and again. The huge fells offered large shady areas behind which she could scurry to protect herself from the sun. It was not burning but the rays seemed to be too strong for her eyes.

Scurrying further in the shadows, the dripping sound became louder and louder. Then she saw it there where apparently the exit once stood and the huge wooden doors had collapsed on top of each other and were half burned to ashes someone was kneeling. In the corner of her eye she saw someone lying there. The body was half burned to ashes and yet she saw the walking stick lying broken next to it. She knew that Milo was lying there, but she was shocked that he was so battered.

Looking back at the kneeling person, she recognized the black hair shining in the sun. ,, Michael" she called, but he did not hear her. He neither looked around nor seemed to notice her in any way. Again and again she called his name as she walked towards him. She reached out to touch his shoulder as she moved through him. ,, What?" fearfully she tried to touch him again but again she went through him. Why, what had happened to her?

She was about to go around Michael and stand in front of him when she saw that he was holding something in his arms. Panic-stricken, she stumbled back and felt the cold stone in her back as she saw Michael holding something in his arms. It was Y/n herself lying in his arms. She saw that there was a deep wound on her side and all her blood had flowed out. Did he kill me? she dared to hear the question in her head and wished to disappear through the stone.

When he took his gaze from her dead body, she saw that his eyes were blood red. He was crying blood red tears. ,, I'm sorry, my heart," she heard him say. ,, No, it can't be," she said, shocked, before the stone suddenly gave way behind her and she fell back into the darkness. With a jolt she was awake again and her fingers clawed into a soft bedspread. To her horror, she was still in the darkness. A sound of fear

she suppressed as she panicked and groped for her lamp. Almost hammering, she pressed the button and cried out loudly in fear. Michael emerged from the darkness and she could feel the familiar breeze before she saw him sitting on a chair in the corner. ,, It's just me, it's all right, don't be alarmed," he tried to reassure her in a soft voice, but remained in his seat.

A miserable sound came over her lips as the events of the past few hours came over her, she didn't know it. ,, Michael, you have sucked my blood," she said miserably and brittlely, her throat aching. Immediately she grabbed her injured neck and cringed as she felt a soft bandage held in place by two clamps and tape for closure. She winced as she apparently ran over the bite wound, which still hurt.

As she moved, she felt the pain on her hip and her fingers slid under the blanket. She could practically feel the colorful wounds on her skin. ,, I am so sorry, my heart. I lost control, I didn't mean to, please," he said, and she thought she saw something flashing in the slightly dark corner. But it was too high for the sharp canines. ,, Are you crying?" she asked slightly huskier and swallowed. He rose quietly, careful not to frighten her.

He stood in front of her window, the blinds were pulled down, but there was still a lot of light. When he turned to her she saw the dark blood red tears flowing from his bright blue eye. Even now, after what he has done, he is beautiful, she thought, and her fingers gripped the blanket a little less tightly. ,, Please don't confuse beauty with death," he warned her, but his voice was filled with remorse and infinite pain.

She knew that he would probably never be able to forgive himself for what he had done. ,, It's...okay," she said and her voice slowly came back. ,, No it's not! It's not okay Y/n, I've tasted blood for the second time now, it brings out the monster in me" he said and his voice calmed down again. ,, But-" she tried and she felt how exhausted she still was. ,, No Y/n everything about me through this transformation is inviting to you. My look just everything. I sucked your blood I almost killed you my heart please don't downplay it please don't" he said almost begging before walking slowly towards her, keeping eye contact. ,, May I?" he asked and pointed to the floor. Y/n nodded and to her surprise he knelt down in front of her. It was again, despite warnings, a beautiful work of art.

The way he looked up at her, the tear that was on his cheek, leaving its streak of blood. The black hair that revealed his pale face and the pale light that shone on him. ,, Please, I know I can never forgive myself and I wish I could tell you if it was me or the monster who sucked your blood, but please can you forgive me" he said and his voice was so full of pain and fear.

Silence fell between them and to her relief she finally heard her own heartbeat again. They looked at each other she into his beautiful blue eyes and he into her beautiful eyes. She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek before wiping away the bloody tear with her thumb. She caught herself thinking about licking her finger and taking his blood, but let it go when she felt his lips on it.

It was intense and yet she felt their hearts seem to beat for each other again as he licked his blood from her finger, all the while maintaining eye contact. ,, I forgive you Michael but you know that only you can forgive yourself" she told him and knew that the words were like a double edged sword. They gave him what he wanted, her forgiveness, and they gave him the pain of remorse he so desperately needed. When Michael rose, she was about to get up when he interrupted her.

,, I called Martine and told her you'd pick her up tonight. I can't go out, I'm a wanted man," he explained, giving her an apologetic look. ,, It's all right, I suppose it's early morning anyway?" she asked and Michael nodded. ,, I'll make you something to eat," he said before disappearing from the room. She appreciated that he didn't touch her, but that he gave her the lead and she decided whether to forgive him or not.

When she didn't hear his footsteps anymore she sighed even though she knew he would hear her. She clasped her neck again and shook her head slightly. ,, He really did it," she said softly before lying down again and closing her eyes, hoping not to end up in another nightmare. But fate was merciful to her and she slept without further incident. It was not until late afternoon that she was gently awakened by Michael.

He waited for her at the door to the bedroom to not overwhelm her. Slowly she rose and put the blanket aside. Her body was revealed, but it was covered by one of her pajamas. He dressed me afterwards, it went through her head before she walked slightly wobbly on her legs into her living room. ,, Here, I hope it tastes good for you, unfortunately it tastes disgusting to me" he said and sat down next to her at the table.

He had made scrambled eggs with bacon and toast full and yet she knew she needed it. To her own surprise, she ate much faster than usual. ,, It's good, maybe a little more seasoning, but it tastes good, don't worry," she reassured him, and Michael smiled briefly. After she finished, she got ready and it was a relief to feel the warm relaxing water of her shower on her skin.

After she stepped out of her bedroom she buttoned her pants before she reached for her shoes. ,, I'll wait here for you two and set up all the technical stuff," he said, lifting one of the boxes onto her table. ,, Thank you, I will hurry" said Y/n and she took her car keys in her hand. ,, Y/n be careful out there I don't think he'll do anything now but even if I am I know where you are" he said and for a moment his eyes changed to an intriguing blue and white pattern. She nodded to him before taking the elevator and walking out to her car. She drove to the hospital faster than necessary but still within the legal limits.

Fortunately for her, Martine was already waiting in front of the hospital with a small bag. ,, Get in," she said, but the moment Martine saw the bandage, she knew her friend's mood had changed.

,, What happened?" she asked after they left the hospital. ,, Michael and I were having sex and then out of bloodlust he... sucked my blood " she said and Martine had an angry expression. ,, All this was a bad idea Y/n you could have been dead!" she said loudly and almost the younger one flinched. ,, I told him that I would forgive him, but only he could forgive himself," she confessed, feeling Martine's hand on her shoulder. ,, That was the right thing to do, after all, everyone has to fight his own demons, only he can forgive himself," she said, and Y/n was relieved that she had acted that way.

The ride didn't last long and when she left the apartment she felt another breeze. ,, Where were you Michael?" she asked, locking the door so that her back was to him. But when nothing came and Martine fell silent, she knew something was wrong. ,, What happened?" she asked quickly and walked towards him, giving him his space. ,, Martine, please prepare the building blocks for the antidote," she said after seeing Michael clench his hands into fists. She went with Michael to her bedroom and asked him what was going on. ,, Milo he killed him he killed Nicholas...he died in my arms Y/n" he said brittly and she could see the dark stains of blood in the pale bright moonlight on his top.

She knew that Nicholas was like a father to him as well as to Milo. But for her it only underlined how crazy Milo had become. ,, I'm sorry, my condolences, he seemed like a very nice and caring man," she said sympathetically, hugging him gently and loosely. To allow him to disengage at any time if it was too much for him. She felt her heartbeat go up as he responded by burying his face in her neck.

And yet she knew that he would not bite her this time. After Michael had released himself, they went back to Martine after a short wait. She had already started the equipment and began with the remedy. ,, If the good renowned doctor now looks at this with his charming girlfriend, I'm sure we'll get the antidote ready quickly," she said encouragingly and smiled at the embarrassed reaction of the two. And so the three of them began their work on the antidote, which was relatively easy and quicker than they had thought.

It was the middle of the night when they finished, but Michael had three vials of the slightly orange liquid standing in the hallway. ,, Why three?" Martine asked, raising an eyebrow. ,, Just to be on the safe side in case one of them breaks," Michael muttered before looking at the window. ,, I should take Martine home, it's too late for her to go out alone. The last thing I want is for Milo to get you," he said and Y/n nodded. She couldn't bear to lose another friend.

While Martine was putting her shoes back on, Michael gave his heart a chaste quick kiss on the head. ,, Don't worry, I'll be right back," he said, and Y/n gave him a knowing smile. After the two disappeared, their eyes turned back to the windows and the darkness behind them that seemed to be closing in. But what they all didn't know was that they were being watched all night long.

#marvel cinematic universe #marvel #michael morbius x reader #morbius the living vampire #michael morbius #blood #tw implied death #angst #hurt/angst #hurt/comfort #little fluff #nightmare #horror

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