#reminded of that one post about him refusing to turn mages in and i think his experiences of betraying people before add an extra layer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

laurelsofhighever · 3 years

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Alistair x f!Cousland AU

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

With a sigh, the King of Ferelden stared down at the mask in his hands, the red dye a match to the velvet of his cloak and the rich fabric in the rest of his clothes, the royal colours of the Theirin line, and the finely tooled likeness of a mabari snarling out of the leather in an elegant snub for the rules of the Game. A king’s mask ought to be made of gold, after all, as a way to reflect his station, but that scandal would be nothing to the one he planned to cause by not wearing it over his face. Already from below, strains of soft, unobtrusive music drifted above the murmur of voices gathered in the vaulted ballroom of Halamshiral’s Winter Palace, preluding the night’s extravagance. He couldn’t delay much longer in wading into that seething, perfumed mass, however much he wanted to.

Next to him, Fergus Cousland stood arrayed in similar finery. The golden Laurels embroidered into the deep blue velvet of his doublet marked his identity as the Teyrn of Highever, and the shadowed line between his dark brows revealed that his eagerness to attend the party just about matched that of Alistair himself. He caught the king looking, saw the fidget betrayed in his fingers, and drew in a weary breath.

“These talks might be just what it takes to secure lasting peace with Orlais,” he offered, an empty repetition of Alistair’s other advisors. “It’s more than Cailan ever hoped for.”

The king’s lip curled. “You and I both know that’s not the real reason I’m here. I could have left that stuff to Élodie.”

The Arlessa of South Reach had proven a capable ambassador in the time since the end of the civil war against Loghain, using her connections in the Orlesian court to divert the potential wave of old resentments that would have sought to take advantage of Ferelden’s instability as it recovered. It was thanks to her efforts that dignitaries from every Marcher port across the Waking Sea had gathered under the auspicious gaze of Empress Celene in the hopes of formalising a network of trade throughout southern Thedas, and no doubt she was already gliding through their ranks, smoothing the way for her liege lord to grace the crowd and start all the ladies fawning.

Too used to the hopes of noble daughters tilting for a throne, he doubted much of the flattery would be genuine. The only change to the usual pursuit was the fact that Celene now numbered among the hunting party, her desire to win him for herself and Orlais all but common knowledge. At their first meeting that afternoon she had been perfectly polite, but the weight of her gaze on the back of his head as he was shown out to his own apartments had sent a shiver like the lick of cold rain down his spine, and the thought of what she would do with any kind of sovereign power over Ferelden had thoroughly put him off his lunch. There had been a time when, in the entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle and with the warning of a witch ringing in his ears, he had told Rosslyn that the idea of being dangled like bait for political advantage disgusted him. And she had understood his distaste, had reached for his hand with softness in her eyes. He had kissed her hand that night, for the first time.

A sympathetic look from Fergus dragged him out of his contemplation, but thankfully he chose not to repeat the platitudes that had taken to following the king like footprints.

It’s been over a year, almost two, Teagan had scolded. We allowed you time to mourn but you must think of what is best for this country.

Only Fergus really understood. He was the only one in the same position, a lord with a domain left unsecured by the lack of an heir, with those roundabout all but scoffing at his lack of stomach to get one. Shared pain and politics had drawn them together after the army’s return from Ostagar, and now, aside from being a staunch ally in the Landsmeet, he was one of the few Alistair could class as a true friend.

“If I could spurn my duty in this, I would,” he said now.

“But you’re a Cousland.” Humour bled into Alistair’s voice, cold and tinged with grief. “I notice Karyna chose not to come.”

Fergus let his eyes fall closed. “She… ended things between us. She said she wanted to focus on her clinic, but I think part of it was wanting to get out of my shadow, and the expectations of…” a wave of his hand “all of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had once broached the subject of changing the law to allow mages to marry, but Fergus had refused, pointing out that what Ferelden needed after a year mired in civil war was stability, not an Exalted March called down because its new king wished to flout the Maker’s supposed Word. Too many would have accused him of playing favourites, too many more who would have raged against the idea of a mage being raised above them – even if Karyna Amell herself came from a line of Marcher nobles. She might be a talented healer dedicated to her people, kind, loyal, and level-headed, but none of that mattered to those who saw any unshackled mage as a prelude to the return of ancient Tevinter.

Fergus waved away his concern and set his own mask in place, pushed back from his forehead. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they appeared at the top of the stairs, the noise level in the whole room dimmed like a door closing on the roar of a great wind. All eyes turned to follow their progress into the melee as Guard-Commander Morrence, Alistair’s right-hand and bodyguard, peeled away from her post by the door and fell into line one pace behind her charge as a dour, watchful shadow. Curtseys and coquettish giggles fluttered up to them, but Alistair ignored them in favour of searching out the form of Élodie Bryland, smiling out from the crowd. Like the rest of the Fereldan entourage, she wore her mask as an accessory rather than a second face, the emerald green of South Reach’s colours rich against her blonde hair.

He felt like a ram walking into a den of blightwolves in broad daylight. Even after so long, so many days he could no longer count them from memory, a shard of his heart stirred in the tattered remains of his chest at the unbidden thought of Rosslyn’s disdain for his current company, the tight, tiny smirk she would have worn hidden at the corner of her mouth for only him to see. Her face was beginning to blur in his mind, but the reminder only ever added more layers to the pain. The pieces flaked away one after the other like rust on a forgotten monument – the sound of her laugh, her scent, the exact shade of her eyes – and every time he noticed another detail by its absence he found himself dragged back to the ruins of Ostagar, staring across the precipice into the void all over again.

Dwelling on his loss amidst the glamour of the Orlesian court would not be wise, however, so he shook himself into courtesy as he followed along after Élodie, smiled at every breezed introduction, and let himself slip into the easy gentility that had so far served him well as king. The meandering currents of conversation carried both him and Fergus at a steady pace to the other side of the vaulted entrance hall, where his left-hand waited for them.

“Ah, there’s my favouritest sneaky person in the world,” he called out when he got close enough for his voice to carry. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

Leliana’s red hair flashed like a beacon as she turned towards him. Unlike Ferelden’s ambassador, she carried her mask on a stick in her gloved hands, and she twirled it up to cover the purse of her smile as she answered. “Your Majesty – Your Lordship. This is a grand assembly tonight, no? Little compares to the full splendour of the Winter Palace.”

“At least not in the way of architecture,” he answered genially. To be polite, he let his gaze wander the rows of gilt pillars with their garlands of blush-roses, the delicate silk streamers hanging from the crystal chandelier. Even more than Élodie, who was Orlesian by birth, Leliana fit in with the glitter, the jewels and the compliments that cut sharper than daggers, and put together, the two of them made a formidable team.

Especially when they joined forces against him.

“Your Majesty, if you will permit me, may I present Lady Ellana Pontival, younger sister to Vicomte Tremane Pontival, and Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the throne of Nevarra and the Right-Hand of the Most Holy Divine Beatrix.”

Turning his gaze to the two women, Alistair dipped his head in a customary greeting. If Leliana had set out to find the two most contrasted people in the room, then she had probably succeeded; where one lady seemed about to drown in her layers of ruffled lace and pastel silks, the other cut an austere, imposing figure in the formal uniform of a Seeker of Truth, and like the Fereldans, she went unmasked. The ever-watchful Eye of the Maker, cut through with the Sword of Mercy, peered out from a pin clasped to her shoulder, a sullen reminder that if things had been different, the King of Ferelden would have ended up a templar instead.

“With so many connections, you must be used to parties like this,” he tried. The Seeker held herself with the economy of a soldier at ease, but the pinpoint of her onyx gaze made him itch.

“Hardly,” she said, in low, rich tones. “I am here at the request of Most Holy, who appreciates the unprecedented nature of this gathering. I myself am used to less… lavish surroundings.”

“But how do you find it so far, Majesté?” interrupted Lady Ellana. “Do you find it pleasing?”

He decided not to remark on the breathy quality to her voice, nor the sidelong way she was looking at him, and shrugged. “That would depend on whether we’ll soon have any sign of those – what are they called – cannapays?”

Leliana chuckled. “I’m afraid Your Majesty’s appetite will have to be content for now.”

“I’ve never known a society where it was considered polite not to feed your guests.”

“If one is full of too much heavy food, one cannot properly enjoy the dancing,” Élodie chided, laying a hand on his arm and less amused than her counterpart at his deliberate butchery of her native language.

“Ah.” He suppressed a grimace. “Yes. That.”

The indomitable Lady Ellana pressed forward with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Are you presently engaged, Majesté? For the first dance, I mean.”

Mostly to avoid meeting Fergus’ eye, Alistair cast his gaze out over the crowd. “Oh I’m sure someone has spoken for me.”

“I myself love nothing so much as dancing – and the waltz especially.” An elegant hand rose to cover a laugh. “So charming, yet so daring, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile. “It’s not one of my preferred pastimes.” The last time he had danced, it had been his wedding day. If he had known –

Lady Ellana gasped. “How tragic! That truly is a shame.”

The Seeker’s mouth twitched.

“I understand your ascension to society was fairly recent, perhaps you only have yet to acquire a taste for it. Perhaps the right partner –”

“I think it’s more to do with other demands on my time,” he interrupted. “Like keeping my people safe and fed. Besides, I prefer being outside.”

An uncertain silence met his words, discomfort at the bite in his tone that couldn’t be answered without causing a minor diplomatic incident.

Leliana recovered first. “The night is young and His Majesty is fond of modesty. I’m sure he will have time and attention for all those who wish it once his duties to his host are fulfilled.”

“Has Her Radiance arrived yet?” Fergus asked.

With a smile, Leliana nodded and motioned for them to follow her towards the doors of the grand ballroom. Neither she nor Élodie dared break their façades to scold him for being so taciturn, so Alistair pretended not to notice their silent disapproval. The cloying mixture of perfumes and sweat wafting through the hall, the crowd of heat from so many bodies in a confined space, all of it pressed on his already sour mood, and if he had to be rude to get out of an awkward conversation, what did he care? Whispers followed with the eyes on him, words just loud enough to catch his ear before darting back into the throng like birds flitting through a summer hedgerow. The speculative edge to them made him clench his teeth. There were insinuations, appraisals and judgements, musings on his preference for comme les chiens before the words dissolved every time into peals of muffled laughter.

“It’s almost enough to make a man jealous,” Fergus huffed at his side. “They didn’t even look at me. Not one pitying glance.” Time had healed most of the injuries he had taken in the months as Howe’s prisoner during the war, but some of the damage had been too much and too long neglected for even magic to fix; his cane tapped along the polished floor with every other step.

“How about next time I hide behind you?” Alistair asked. “You can do all the talking and I’ll stand and look aloof and interesting.”

“You just want an excuse to – what is it?”

He sensed a change in pressure in the eyes on him, an intensity of regard that set itself apart from that of the fawning mass seeking his attention. After almost two years on the throne, the concept of assassinations wasn’t entirely foreign, but as he watched Morrence scan the room he saw no sudden rise in tension to say she had spotted any maniacs with giant weapons about to pounce. A shadow did perhaps flash on the edge of his vision, but as he turned it was lost among the sea of faces waiting for acquaintances, for their turn to be announced, or for their own glimpse at dog-lord royalty.

He put the feeling from his mind. Empress Celene, resplendent in the purple and gold of House Valmont, stood at the far end of the ballroom above the sunken dancefloor and watched the obeisance of the people being announced, in the same way a fisher might wait with their spear poised to strike at a promising target. Already, dozens of couples mingled beneath the bright beeswax candles staving off the autumn dark outside, their fans held up to conceal the judgements passed on every newcomer.

When Alistair’s own turn to pace the length of the gauntlet came after a few moments of waiting, she smiled behind her mask and floated down the steps to meet him on an equal level, which only meant he got to see the avaricious gleam in her eye up close as she held out her hand. As he bent his head over it, he wondered if the look was meant to be alluring, but her fingers were cool and fine-boned under his, lacking callouses from swordwork, and the only thought that ran through his mind was that even when warmed by the fire a stone remained a stone.

“Majesté,” she crooned in delicately accented Common. “Be welcome. This meeting has been long anticipated.”

He had practiced his response for an hour in the mirror. “Thank you, Radiance. It is my hope that this moment can be the first step towards a better accord between our two nations.”

“It is ours as well. Please, join us in the gallery.” She turned. “And when the dancing starts, might we suggest the company of one of our ladies-in-waiting? They are all very accomplished dancers.”

“Uh…” He risked tripping over the considerable hem of Celene’s gown to a glance upward, to where three women of equal height watched the two of them from behind identical golden masks set with amethysts.

“Is this surprise?” the empress asked him, and laughed. “How very forward to expect a more prestigious partner so early in the evening. It seems the manners of Ferelden and Orlais have yet to fully understand one another.”

“Isn’t that why we’re both here?” he replied. “Though I have to confess, my mind wandered from the thought of dancing.”

“Oh? And where did it wander to?”

He nodded to the three attendants waiting at the top of the stairs. “It must get awkward on name-days if you can’t tell them apart.”

For the next half an hour, guests continued to trickle in as the mixed company watched from above, the steady ream of announcements and introductions keeping the threat of dancing at bay, and each name was accompanied by a whispered summary of all the associated scandals recounted by the waiting-women at Alistair’s side. He found their sameness disconcerting, as if at any moment they might steal away his mask and then ask which of them was hiding it under their skirts like a bait-and-switch scam in the marketplace.

When the castellan finally folded away his list of names and bowed an exit, the closest of Celene’s women reached up with a smile as thick and false as her makeup. “There is still some time until the dancing begins, Majesté – would you like to take a turn through the rest of the rooms while we wait?”

“Why not?” He forced a smile of his own. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Perhaps the long hall?” She began to steer him away from the rest of the party. “There are so many people you should meet!”

Before he could be disappeared entirely, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to Élodie. “We’ve been offered a tour of this fabulous palace,” he explained. “I don’t think we should miss it.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the ambassador replied, and stepped up to his other side

The tour turned out to be less a way to introduce him to Orlais’ finest and more a way to show him off as an accessory. With both Morrence and Élodie as chaperones to shield him from the worst of their dainty manners, he managed to stumble through pleasantries and inane topics of conversation, and even gave his opinion on Grand Duke Gaspard’s mission to quell giants in the Deauvin Flats without tying his tongue in any knots. He told bad jokes and people tittered behind their hands. In one room he was drawn into speculation about the merits of breeding nugs.

And throughout it all, the weight of the same mysterious scrutiny from before itched across his shoulders, making his clothes too tight, too coarse against his skin. Somebody watched him, or else he was in the first stages of some illness. In a move disguised as a readjustment of the faded leather bracers at his wrists, he checked the pair of daggers hidden in his sleeves, and then eyed the extra sword buckled at Morrence’s waist. Being his bodyguard permitted her to carry weapons where he could not, but he rarely went unarmed himself and the idea of being completely defenceless struck him as foolish – and so, the compromise, with the strict understanding that Maric’s runed blade would stay sheathed except in direst need.

The feeling followed him back to the dancefloor as the castellan announced the first cotillion and a charming smile appeared before him, attached to a name and a title that he forgot instantly. When the first notes cascaded down from the court musicians he took his partner’s hand and fell into the steps to distract from his unease, the beats f the dance like the repetitions of a battle drill that kept him turning, and facing, and weaving through the room. And then the music ended. Someone thrust another woman into his path, and then another, until he was breathless and overheated from the exercise, and relieved that he had yet to trip over his own feet.

In a pause between the sets, he tried to catch Leliana’s eye in the gallery above to ask to be rescued before he could be forced towards a refreshments table. To his dismay, she was too intent on the crowd to notice, watching for advantage or threat so that he could make a show of festive enjoyment – no easy feat considering how the entire room was staring at him.

No, not the entire room.

There. The flash of shadow that had followed him all night resolved itself into a woman who turned her face away from him as soon as their gazes met. Pearls were pinned in her dark hair, and the silk of her gown flashed with the violet-green iridescence of starling feathers, dazzling enough that Alistair wondered how he had missed it before. She retreated up the stairs, trying all too hard to disappear into the crowd in a manner that deliberately kept him out of her line of sight.

“Majesté?”

His current partner had noticed his distraction. He smiled down at her, but like the needle of a compass his gaze swung back to the strange woman, whose exit had been waylaid by a man with a shock of thin, greying hair poking out from under his yellow chevalier’s feather. He bowed over the Starling’s hand, boorish and insipid, and through her reluctance she cast her gaze around the room as if seeking an excuse. Her eyes lit on Alistair again, before skittering away up to the ceiling when she caught him looking.

Gotcha.

“Will you excuse me, my lady?” he begged of the young woman on his arm. “I have to talk to my advisor. You there, Ser! I’m afraid this beauty has been bereft of a partner, if you’ll oblige me? Thank you.”

He forgot the girl as soon as he handed her off. The music started. Leliana, noticing his approach up the stairs, nodded and plucked a glass of Antivan white from the tray of a passing server, handing it to him with a subtle gesture that let him sidle close enough to not be overhead.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

“The woman in the dark colours?” She tilted her head in amusement. “Of course. She has been watching you, and does not care for the crowd flowing around her. She knows how to walk through a room of nobles but subterfuge is not her strength. And yet… there is something familiar about her. It worries me.”

For a moment, they watched from their vantage point in the gallery. The Starling moved through the room with grace enough to catch the eye, but with too much economy to fit in with the flounces of the rest of the dancers, the poise of a warrior more than a courtier. Still, the patience with which she dealt with her partner had to be admired. Alistair winced every time the old boor overstepped the bounds of propriety to tread on her toes; part of him wanted to step in between them and pull her from the line, if only to save her feet from bruising, but the strange urge didn’t stop him noticing how she cast her gaze to every corner of her room to avoid the man in front of her – every corner, except the place where he himself was standing.

“Find out who she is,” he grunted to Leliana, and pushed away from the rail.

Momentarily freed of his obligations in the dancing, he wound his way through the press of nobles, exchanging pleasantries, until he spotted Fergus resting his legs in one of the gilt-backed chairs that had been set at the edges of the room and made for him, worried about the guarded expression on his friend’s face. The reason for the scowl became apparent when the couple standing between them turned and stopped Alistair dead in his tracks.

“Ah – Your Majesty, it is good to see you. You’re looking well.” Eamon, the former Arl of Redcliffe, straightened from his bow as if the man he was addressing hadn’t been instrumental in his exile from Ferelden over two years before. He wore a mask like an Orlesian, with only the grey trim of his beard visible beneath its swirling, enamelled lines. On his arm, the once-Arlessa Isolde wore one almost identical, save for the extra decoration of feathers around the rim.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair blurted.

“We are guests of Her Radiance, of course,” Eamon replied with a blink. “I can see time has not been generous in your perspective towards me, but I would not quarrel with you here and mar Ferelden’s standing.” He swallowed. “Though it is late to say it, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Condolences?” Anger coiled in Alistair’s gut, kept at bay only by the interested stares of the people around him. Eamon had done his best to make sure he and Rosslyn were separated – had nearly succeeded – and now he dared to offer remorse?

“How are you enjoying Orlais, Your Majesty?” Isolde asked before he could storm away and blow all their diplomatic efforts.

“The weather’s nice. Please excuse me.”

Below them, the dance finished. Leliana slipped into the dispersing crowd with the ease of a master and cut the Starling from the crowd like a shepherd singling out a ram. Fergus joined him as he leaned over the rail to watch their conversation, Eamon and Isolde already forgotten, and caught the direction of his gaze.

“Has someone caught your eye?” he asked.

“No.” Alistair waved a hand. “No, it’s not like that.”

The Starling was turned away from Leliana, shrinking back as if to avoid a blow, but his left-hand could not be outmatched so easily and peered closer nonetheless. And then she drew back. Her mask flicked up with a twitch of her wrist to fully cover her face, and the Starling reached out for her elbow in an urgent gesture that conveyed as much familiarity as alarm. They knew each other. The words that passed between them were too far away to hear. Leliana paused, then nodded, and together the two of them retreated from the bright lights of the dancefloor into the shadows at the furthest corner of the room.

Fergus noticed. “Well that was strange.”

“I don’t like it. Will you be alright here?”

“For now.” He shrugged. “Holding court in the corner holds much more appeal than sweating about with people I don’t care for. A younger version of me might have tried to forget myself in one of these pretty smiles, but now…” The liquid in his glass caught the light as he tilted it for inspection.

“It’s not so easy,” Alistair agreed.

He left his friend still contemplating his drink and rounded the gallery with Morrence in tow, not straight for Leliana but angling for Élodie, who had taken up entertaining the delegates from Ostwick and made a nice middle ground. He barely registered the answers he gave to their polite enquiries as he approached. The Starling had disappeared and Leliana was wending her way towards one of the quieter hallways, where there were balconies with doors that could be minded by one’s guards to glare at any passing eavesdroppers. She flashed him a brief glance and a nod.

He thought quickly, turning to his ambassador.

“My lady, you’re looking a little warm, and I’ve neglected you.” He shot her what he hopes was a winning smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me, you’ve worked so hard, after all. Why don’t we get you some fresh air?”

Élodie frowned at him, but nodded. “Your Majesty is very kind. I am a little flustered, now that you mention it. If you will excuse me, sers.”

Threading her hand through his arm, he hustled her away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, while she, sensing his mood, kept quiet. They met Leliana a few moments later on a trellised balcony overlooking the gardens, or as much as could be seen of them beyond the torchlight.

“Well?” he asked, almost before the door closed behind him.

“Have you two been hatching plans?”

His left-hand let the mask fall from her face, though she kept it close, fidgeting with it. “The lady… presents no danger.”

“Lady?” repeated Élodie.

“There’s no need to look so hopeful.” Alistair rolled his shoulders. “We caught someone acting suspicious. Did you find anything out? You looked like you were surprised when you found out who she was.”

“I… knew her in another life.” Leliana hesitated. “She thanked the King of Ferelden for his regard, but said she would rather not become a spectacle.”

“A disagreement with family, perhaps,” Élodie supplied.

The corner of Leliana’s mouth lifted. “I did not ask.”

Without even waiting long enough for him to draw breath, she bowed and swept back into the hall. He caught sight of Morrence, watching her go with something very like suspicion written in her features, but the expression flickered back into a blank before he could be certain.

Behind him, Élodie cleared her throat.

“It is a shame this woman is not what you hoped,” she said. “I would see you happy.”

He snorted. “I didn’t hope anything – and I was happy.”

“You could be so again, if you allowed it. You cannot fight your duty forever.”

He bit back the retort squeezing past the sudden lump in his throat. Reminding her that her own husband had died in the siege at South Reach would be rather ungallant, especially considering the genial nature of the evening so far, and he had tried hard to curb the spiteful edge to his temper over the past two years. He wanted to be better. Rosslyn would have wanted him to be better.

As the thought spiralled and led his mind towards the dark precipice that would mean yet another sleepless night, the nature of the sound inside the ballroom changed. The music died away. The thump of the castellan’s staff reached his ears, followed a moment later by the announcement of Celene’s arcane advisor, the mysterious apostate who had managed to charm her way to the centre of the Orlesian court and who now, according to some, whispered spells in the empress’ ear.

“No doubt people will want us introduced,” he muttered.

Élodie nodded. “We should not keep Her Radiance waiting.”

Just inside the doors, however, he stopped. Even from across the room the Starling drew his gaze with the furtiveness of her movements, the deliberate indifference with which she moved against the flow of people, and his patience ebbed.

He touched Morrence’s elbow, leaning close. “Do you see her?”

“Aye. I want a chat with that one.”

“Get her out to the terrace garden and make sure she’s alone. Hopefully it’s cold enough outside that any interested bystanders will be discouraged.” He sighed. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

“I shouldn’t leave your side. The danger to you –”

“What if she’s a danger?” he pressed. “What if Leliana’s wrong? Something is going on here, and I won’t be kept beyond the chain – or don’t you think she was acting strangely before?”

At that, his right-hand let slip a curse. “I’d still be leaving you in a nest of snakes.”

“I’ll be alright.” The hilts of his concealed daggers sat snug against his wrists.

“Fine – but if you die, I get to kill you for it.”

Nobody commented on his lack of a bodyguard when he once more joined Celene and her waiting-women at the head of the room. Morrigan, her advisor, spoke Common like a Fereldan, but she had clearly spent enough time in Orlais to learn the dismissive nature of their manners. For a long moment, Alistair was distracted by a nagging familiarity he could not place, until the witch rose from her curtsey and turned a pair of piercing yellow eyes on him. The breath stopped in his lungs. His hands clenched into fists. Even the smirk was recognisable, catlike and secretive, and the instant it appeared he was shunted back to a campfire in a glade under a star-strewn sky, and mocking laughter in his ears.

“You’re Flemeth’s daughter,” he said.

The smile froze. “I did hear you encountered my mother – during the war, was it not? What did she tell you of me?”

“Only that you didn’t like living in the Korcari Wilds.”

“She resented my wanting to make something of myself outside of her influence.” She drew herself up for better display of her plum-red gown, the gold links around her throat. “And now here I am.”

“I can see the appeal,” he offered, to laughs from those gathered around them.

Celene clapped her hands. “Ah, this is delightful. You must have many things to talk about, given you share a homeland.” Her head dipped in what Alistair presumed was amusement. “Though we must ask that Your Majesty does not steal her away from us! No promises of Ferelden’s new leniency towards mages, if you please.”

He made sure to chuckle along, schooling himself not to look round to see whether Morrence had caught the Starling yet. All he could do was wait for a break in conversation and make excuses to be allowed away for some air.

When his chance finally came, a brief interlude during an influx of new people wanting introductions, he slipped through the crowd and met his right-hand at the door to the terrace. The fresh, cold scent of the night washed in, frost and damp earth, and beyond the lighted windows a dark figure stood at the balustrade that separated the garden from the sheer drop to the ground below.

“She’s waiting for you,” Morrence said.

“Any trouble?”

“Only until I threatened to draw attention to her,” came the reply. “And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Good luck.”

He steadied himself with a breath as he stepped into the open air, a pause in which he studied the woman so invested in not being noticed. She faced away from him, hunched over as if still trying to make herself invisible, picked out by a rime of moonlight that glowed in her hair and reflected in the pearl beading on her skirts, rippled along the silk gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. Her head turned as he approached. Breath fogged silver in the night but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders and he felt it draw him along a knife’s edge as he realised too late how it might appear, a king ordering a woman to wait for him beyond earshot. A jab of self-disgust coiled in his stomach.

And yet, like Leliana said, there was something familiar about her.

He cleared his throat, set his hands behind his back. “You won’t come to any harm here, not from me.”

The Starling only flinched further away from him.

“Who are you?”

He waited, patient, until it became clear he wouldn’t simply give up and leave. The Starling’s fists bunched against the stone of the balustrade, and her shoulders heaved with a deep, almost panicky breath.

“Désolée, Majesté, le Marchandesse est –”

“In Orlesian, then,” he answered. “What’s your name?”

She paused. The line of her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’m afraid… the only name I can give you is Laurienne, Majesté. Laurienne de Savrenne.”

“Laurienne.” He risked a step closer, and she angled even further away from him, determined to hide her face even behind the mask. “You know, it’s strange – most people here tonight have been falling over themselves trying to catch my attention, but not you. You’ve tried very hard to remain unnoticed, not just by me, but by my guards and entourage as well. Why?”

“I might point out that of all those who wanted the king’s attention, I am the only one to have it bestowed.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps that was my plan.”

The sharp mockery ignited his temper. What was this but yet another sly courtier throwing jests at his expense? All night he had been nice, he had smiled, danced, dressed himself up in pretty words so the nobility would chase him for something he didn’t even want to give, and now he couldn’t even get one straight answer when he asked for it.

“A lot of people think I’m a fool,” he bit out. “It might come in handy sometimes but I assure you I’m smarter than I look, and I don’t appreciate being messed about, especially not after such a long day.”

“I’m…” Was that a fraction of a move towards him? Her head dipped towards her hands, and her eyes pressed shut. “I’m not here under my own power. In truth, Majesté, my debtor bid me come, but did not say you would be here as well.” A distinct note of bitterness entered her voice. “No doubt the thought of us meeting amused her.”

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She fell utterly still. “Do you know me?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No.”

“But you are hiding something.”

At that, she scoffed, and again that frustrating tingle of familiarity, though it was gone too quickly for him to examine. “We are in Orlais, are we not? Everyone is hiding something. I am no different to any other noblewoman, we are all the same. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His heart stuttered. His mind conjured a sweep of raven hair, the scent of jasmine, warm lips soft against his. “There are exceptions.”

“Is it the exception you were trying to find tonight?” The Starling’s tone rang cold. “All evening you have danced with one after another and tossed them aside afterwards like a wine-taster who finishes his sip and spits the rest away. How delightful the passage of your days must be to never want for such company.”

“How dare you.” He stepped closer. “What do you know about what my days are like – or what it’s like being passed around by all those magpies in there who only care about the shiny crown I could get for them? It’s all, ‘remember it’s your duty, Alistair’ and ‘just pick one and get it over with’. If I could even have one night where I could complain about it, or – or say no – that would be something, but everyone seems to think I should be flattered by all those people pawing at me and never giving me a moment to myself!”

He paused for breath. The tirade had winded him, as much for the emotion it let loose as for the wild gestures flung out with the words. The Starling had remained still, taking the onslaught like a tree against a howling wind, though now only fatigue was left in him she shrank as if he’d struck her a physical blow.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, horrified. “I wasn’t angry at you, it’s just…” What words could he say? “I wouldn’t expect you to understand – but don’t worry. You can go. Do as you wish, my guard won’t detain you any further.”

Still she didn’t move. Cursing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned for the door. He needed sleep, he needed –

“I understand better than you would think.”

Her voice. Common, not Orlesian. The quiet servility deepened into a clarion note – it stirred his heart from its withered slumber, called it like a dog to heel. Her voice. With pulse thundering, with hope and disbelief and horror wadded into a tight ball in his throat, he looked back.

The Starling no longer shrank into herself but stood tall in defiance of the cold, her shoulders thrown back, chin lifted, in the attitude of a general. He drank in the arch of her throat, the pale skin that gleamed like marble under Satina’s light, the shine of raven-black hair gathered in an Orlesian knot at the back of her head, all details he had ignored before because it was impossible. When he didn’t move, her head tilted, and he recognised the sorrow in the gesture, the self-deprecation in the curve of her mouth.

“The man I love is at this ball tonight,” she told him. “He’s the centre of attention, but I’ve had to watch and do nothing while everyone covets what I cannot touch.”

Her voice.

“Why not?” His tongue fumbled the words through the fog in his brain, the steps he took back towards her shaky and numb, desperate, his chest constricted trying to hold his breath in case it broke the spell somehow cast around him. “Why hide?”

“I owe a debt. Until it’s paid, I can’t – my life is not my own and I have to pay it back. Besides,” she added, with a new wobble in her voice, “what would I say? He – everyone thinks I’m dead.”

They stood so close now he could have reached out to touch her hand, but he hesitated, worried that that, at last, would make her disappear and prove him mad. She was shaking; her fingers had raked lines in the frost on the stone as she clenched them into fists.

“But you’re not dead. You’re –”

Their breath mingled heavy under the moonlight as he leaned in, his hand braving night-chilled skin where her glove had fallen to her wrist, and finally she turned into him, drawn, like him, and while he closed his eyes seeking in vain for the familiar scent of jasmine and sweetgrass, the weight under his fingertips and the stulted breath that left her lips made her solid, and all that was left was to beg her to say something, to let him hear her voice again.

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” came the whisper, so full of doubt.

“Never –” He caught the side of her face, pressed a kiss to her temple though the rim of her mask cut into his lips. “Never.”

“I – I thought you’d hate me.”

The absurdity of it made him giggle even as he shook his head in denial. He stroked her hair. Kissed her again. And then, because it was too much to have such certainty without proof he pulled back, searching for the ribbons that secured her mask in place, her pulse flying under his fingers as he worked at the knots. When the mask finally came free, he pushed it up over her forehead – and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes that were the grey of cracked ice on a winter sea.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #f!cousland #cousland #rosslyn cousland #queen cousland #the falcon and the rose #the mysterious falcon sequel #smoke and mirrors #guys it's happening

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monstersandmaw · 4 years

Text

Non-binary lich x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This has been up on Patreon for a week now on early release. New stories for Tumblr go up on Wednesdays at the moment and are available there for a whole week before they hit Tumblr, so if you want to have access to the next one (it just went up), make sure you’re on the $5 tier. I’d love to have you as the newest member of the Patreon supporters!

Anyway, contents: It's 7688 words long, features a non-binary, skeletal lich, is set in a fantasy setting, and I don't think it comes with any warnings. Looking forward to your reaction!!

“So, you’re the new librarian…”

The softly rasping voice behind you startled the life out of you, and you dropped the three-volume stack onto the thick, oak table with an undignified squawk. The boom rang out through the castle library and one or two scholars shot glares at you over the top of their research. Turning, you found yourself face to face with a moving skeleton and your eyes widened even further.

Wearing a long, unadorned, shapeless, black robe with the hood pulled right up over the bare ivory of the skull, the figure had a glowing green light in their eye sockets and one of their teeth had been replaced at some point by a silver prosthetic. More than that, you couldn’t say, but it was apparent that their entire body was just a humanoid skeleton beneath the billowing robes.

And then the penny dropped. “Oh!” you gasped, straightening a little. “You’re… You’re Avery… the court mage…” How many liches could one royal castle have after all?

They dipped their head in a curt bow. “Indeed.”

“I’m sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting…”

Another little bow. “It’s quite alright. I realise that meeting a someone like me for the first time can be somewhat… unnerving.”

You opened your mouth to counter them, but realised it was actually true, and just nodded. “How can I help you anyway?” you asked instead.

They seemed to appreciate the segue into safer waters, and told you the name of the tome they were looking for. “It’s essentially a compendium of plants and fungi that grow only on the fringes of Silver Perch Lake in Aragantia,” they added. “A somewhat… specialised catalogue, I’m aware.”

With a nod, you headed to the vast catalogue system and in almost no time at all, especially given how new you were to the post, you and the court mage were walking silently through the shelves of the royal library in search of the book’s location. Avery made no attempt to talk to you, and you assumed they preferred it that way. After all, you supposed, what could a humble librarian have to say to a necromancer and a mage as powerful as them anyway? In your relatively limited experience of mages, they tended to look down on anyone not powerful or supposedly intelligent enough to wield magic.

As you proceeded further and further into the dark stacks, the light dwindled to almost nothing, and in that moment you cursed the innate flammability of paper and parchment, longing for a lamp of sorts.

Slowing, and trying not to fumble, you squinted and ran your fingertips along the shelves to keep a straight course. During your interview for the position, you’d been told about the glowing crystals that the team of three librarians had access to, but apparently you were still too junior to warrant their secrets yet. It had not been expected, it seemed, that someone as important as Avery would require your assistance. Re-shelving returns in the main library was all you’d done so far in your short tenure after all.

“Here,” the lich said from behind you, the word spoken aloud making you jump all over again, and a moment later, a flickering ball of blue light wafted past you to float a pace or two in front of you. It moved when you did, bobbing slowly.

“Handy,” you grinned back at them over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

In the eerie pulsing light, the dark sockets of their skull and the smooth bone looked almost frightening, but you reminded yourself that this was not an old haunted castle from a horror story, and was in fact the hub of a great trading network whose machinations were aided by the work of the court mage, who also just happened to be a lich and, by extension, a necromancer.

With no expression at all to offer you comfort or reassurance, Avery just lowered their gaze and waited for you to move on again.

The book was right where it should have been - thank all the library gods - and once their skeletal hands had taken it reverently from you, little bones clicking softly as they shifted, Avery turned and left you in the stacks with a short ‘thank you’, the light light for company, and a thousand questions buzzing around your head.

Naturally, the first place you went after that was the section on liches and phylacteries, and there you lost yourself for well over an hour.

After that, the court mage found their way back to the library almost every time you were on duty. To your surprise, they were actually quite chatty, answering your tentative questions about their research with long and interesting answers, leafing through the book they’d just taken out to show you a diagram or ritual, constellation, or phase of the moon, and relaying its relevance to their work at the time without reserve.

“I’d always thought mages were secretive about their work,” you ventured one afternoon as sunlight flooded into the open study room at the back of the library where Avery had set up camp for the afternoon.

At your words, they looked up, an oddly tense and intrigued set to their head and you got the impression that, had they had the body to go with the bones, they might have been smiling curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” you began, feeling a little warm under the collar. Their close scrutiny made you shuffle and turn a little away from them to lessen it. “At the university, your lot always kept to themselves, you know? And no one else was allowed in their section of the library without a mage escort and a note of recommendation from about fifteen different tutors… I got it eventually, of course —”

“— of course,” they interrupted with a wry smile in their voice.

Their tone may have been light and joking, but it carried the weight of enormous respect too, and you choked for a moment before babbling on again. “I’m not suggesting that anyone should just go in and help themselves to dangerous magical texts, don’t get me wrong… It was just… frustrating to be treated like that, that’s all.”

You turned to find them still regarding you with that birdlike curiosity and for a moment you forgot that they were little more than an immense reserve of magic holding together a stack of humanoid bones and wearing a dark robe. It might have been comical to see them that way, but honestly, in that moment, their blazing intelligence and slightly off-the-wall humour endeared you towards them even more. It wouldn’t have been a secret to suggest you had the beginnings of an almighty crush forming. If you didn’t beat it back soon, it would become unwieldy and unmanageable, and it wouldn’t end well for either of you. A member of the castle staff you might have been, but the court mage was one of the most powerful figures in the entire kingdom, and not meant for the likes of you.

And anyway, who was to say that there was anything about you to interest them anyway? The whole point of becoming a lich was to strip away all earthly connections save for the absolute fundamentals - the skeleton - and become an entity largely made of magic, the better to channel it. There were, you had to admit, one or two cases of liches binding themselves to living lovers, and accounts detailing the fierceness and loyalty of those rare unions had left you breathless as you’d scoured the volumes on liches all those weeks ago, but you couldn’t assume that Avery would be such a person after all.

If they had given a reply, you didn’t hear it behind the buzzing, rushing disappointment in your ears at that thought. Closing yourself off a little, you excused yourself politely and returned to your duties in the library beyond, leaving them alone in the study room. After all, Avery still had to figure out a way to harness the power of the sea itself in order to reduce the risk to life of those currently engaged in preparations to dredge and deepen the large trading harbour along the coast. Such complex calculations were hardly in the realm of a librarian.

About a week later, as you sat in the servant’s parlour one afternoon, where most of the castle staff gathered during their time off, a bookish young satyr, with curly, ash blond hair and contrastingly dark brown skin and horns, the stoop of a scholar, and a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, approached and asked for you by name in a warm, stutter-laced tenor.

“Yeah, that’s me…” you said, turning from your conversation with one of the naga guards. “What’s up?”

“Y-Y-You’re the llll… the lllll…” the words just died on his tongue or stuck there like treacle, refusing to leave one syllable and move onto the next, but he took a breath and on the exhale said, “Librarian…?”

“I am,” you said. “If you need something from the stacks though, I think Timothy is on duty today.”

He nodded. “I… I know. Avery… sss-sssent me to… to llll… to lllllook for you. They’d llllike you to… to… to…” At the repetition, his cheeks flushed a bit, but you waited him out and he rallied. “To attend them in their t-t-t-tower to c-c-consult on something.”

“Oh. Really? What… now?” you asked and the satyr nodded. He had a flighty, twitchy energy to him, but his features were kind and open and you decided immediately that you liked him. You turned back to the naga with whom you’d been sharing tea and easy conversation, and shrugged. “Guess I’ve been summoned. See you later.”

She nodded and hissed, “Good luck…” at you and you followed the young scholar out of the parlour. His large hooves clopped conspicuously on the stone of the passageways and he set quite the pace for you to keep up with.

“Are you… like… Avery’s… assistant or something? I’m sorry, I don’t know the technical names…”

He nodded. “Name’s D-Devon,” he said as he ducked left through a doorway and held it open for you to follow. “Apprentice m-mmage and runec-c-caster.”

“Sweet,” you said, impressed. “I studied some very basic runes for another project a long time ago, but I’m not really magical in any way, so… I didn’t pursue it. Is it as complicated as I remember?”

He smiled sweetly and shrugged. “Varies…”

You smirked and said, “That sounds like you’re being modest and generous, but I’ll let it slide. What does Avery need from me anyway?”

With a soft chuckle, Devon pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and shrugged, beginning to climb a tight, spiral staircase. “Nnnot sure. They’ve been di-di-distracted all morning.”

“Guess I’ll just have to find out. I’ve never been up to the mage’s tower.”

The staircase went on and on forever and you actually had to stop for breath twice, rather embarrassingly. Devon was fitter than his scholar’s physique suggested, but he didn’t comment. You supposed doing this every day would build up anyone’s cardiovascular system in no time. “The view had better be worth it,” you grunted as you started up the last stretch of spiral staircase, and Devon nodded.

“Oh, it is.”

“Thank all the gods,” you hissed.

The door to Avery’s study was open, letting light flood in from the room beyond. For some reason, you’d imagined it would be dark and intimidating, and possibly full of bats and spiderwebs and creepy cursed objects in display cabinets, but theirs was a chamber full of bright light and warm colours. Taking half a moment to catch your breath again, you paused on the threshold while Devon headed on inside with evident and easy familiarity to inform Avery that he’d found you.

“Ah wonderful,” came that papery voice from inside. As you heard it, you wondered how a skeleton - with no vocal cords - could produce sound, deciding to chalk it up to magic and move on. “Thank you, Devon. Would you mind running over the plans for the layline ritual one more time while we have a quick chat?”

“Nnnnot at all,” Devon smiled, and disappeared into another room out of sight.

The delicate tread of footsteps on the bare floorboards announced Avery’s approach, and you stepped inside, not wanting to be seen to be lurking nervously. “Hi,” you breathed, still a tiny bit winded, as they moved into view around the huge trestle table that occupied the centre of the room. It was littered with books and pieces of velum, scrolls, and ancient clay tablets, all stacked at frankly alarming and precarious angles.

“Hello,” Avery said with a real warmth in their voice. You could hear the smile, even if they had no lips to form the gesture. “I apologise for making you come all the way up here. I realise it’s a long way from your usual quarters and duties.”

It was true - the library was in an entirely different wing of the rambling old citadel, and your sleeping quarters were again on the far side of that from the tower.

You shrugged. “It’s nice to see a new bit of the castle, I suppose.”

They tilted their head, the movement almost birdlike. “You haven’t seen all of it?” they asked.

You shook your head. “Only the bits I need to. Besides, I’ve only been here a couple of months now.” And in that time, you’d seen Avery almost every day at your library desk. “What did you need me for?” you asked with no small degree of incredulity in your voice.

With a little chuckle that honestly sounded a little nervous, Avery turned to a small writing desk that was tucked up against the stone wall beside a window with a spectacular view. They picked up a scroll and undid the ribbon that held it together, and you found your eyes fascinated by the tiny finger bones of their hands. You wondered what they’d feel like against your skin and flushed hot again, unable to look Avery in the face.

“This is a copy of an inscription that was found in a tomb just north west of here, and while I am familiar with the writing system used, I cannot crack the meaning of it. I’m sure it’s right there, but… I wondered, since you mentioned you’d studied the Early Peoples, if you might take a look at it for me?”

You blinked. “You can’t read it?”

“I can read it,” they said, “But I don’t understand the words. I know the symbols upon which the language is based, but not the language itself.”

“I thought there was nothing you didn’t know,” you murmured fondly as you stepped over and took the parchment from their extraordinarily delicate looking hand. The urge to touch grew once more almost overwhelming.

A soft snort of laughter almost in your ear sent shivers down your whole right side, the skin prickling into goosebumps. “Please,” they scoffed good-naturedly. “Besides, if I knew everything already, I wouldn’t need to make such frequent trips to the library, would I?”

“And here I thought you were coming all the way down there just to visit me,” you quipped self-effacingly, turning your attention to the inscription and missing they way they went completely still before shaking their head ever so slightly.

It took longer than your pride might have liked for you to figure it all out, and you sent Avery scuttling about their office for three different dictionaries and half a dozen grammar tables before you were happy that you’d got it right. Devon had long ago excused himself for the evening, but you’d barely even noticed him leaving, though the murmur of their soft conversation had drifted around you for quite some time while you teased out a bit of odd grammar.

When you looked up at last, you found Avery standing alone by the window, bathed in the rosy light of sunset. The rich, warm rays made the black of their robes seem dull and almost drab - humble beyond what you’d have expected of a court mage with the coffers of the castle at their fingertips - and the angle of the light blazing into their face almost eclipsed the green, misty glow in their eye sockets. For just a moment, they almost looked like nothing more than an ordinary skeleton in an anatomy lab. When they felt your gaze on them, however, they turned - every bone animated and shifting fluidly, bone scraping with a soft, familiar whisper over bone.

They cocked their head again and you smiled. “All done, I think,” you said, standing from where you’d been hunched over the small, cluttered writing desk, and cracking the tension out of your neck with a grunt.

“Thank you,” they murmured. “I am indebted to you yet again, it would seem.”

You shrugged. “What’s it for anyway?” you asked. “I mean… I don’t really see how knowing that the sun will hit the back of the tomb on the winter solstice is of much use to anyone…”

They gave another little movement of their head that seemed like a pout to you, though you had only the bare skull to go from. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure. The tomb contained artefacts that thrummed with energy, so it would indicate that the Early Peoples had access to - and some degree of control over - magic too. Perhaps that date was of significance to them too. I will have to return to the site on the solstice to find out. Then we’ll know if it was of any ‘use’ as you say, or if it’s just interesting.”

“I see,” you said and your stomach chose that moment to growl at you like a spoiled house cat.

“Would… Would you like to stay here for some supper? I can have food brought up here to my chambers if you’ve missed out…” they said awkwardly, turning away from the window and back towards the central trestle table. As they moved the line of gilded sunlight slid from their delicate brow bones and plunged their skull into shadow again behind the hood. You’d never seen them without it raised. “It’s… later than I realised…”

“I’d have thought you could just magic some food up for me,” you grinned, honestly hoping it would disguise the fluttering nerves you felt at the thought of sharing a meal up here. Plus, their tone had gone inexplicably sad somehow.

They looked down at the table and said, “I could do that, of course, but transmuted food tastes awful, or… so I’ve been told. I don’t eat any more for… obvious reasons.”

“Do you miss it?” you blurted.

They stilled and trailed a bony fingertip across the wood. “Yes and no. I miss the pleasure that eating my favourite things brought me.”

“You still remember the taste…?”

Fixing you with a steady, if sidelong, look, they said, “I’m not that old, you know?”

“I…” you said and then stopped when they started laughing. “What?”

“I have to admit that I find it immensely entertaining any time someone assumes I’m a thousand years old. I’m not. I’m only thirty.”

“Thirty?” you gawped. “That’s… That’s so young to —” again, you cut yourself off before you said something truly insensitive, but Avery didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m used to it. And it is indeed young to have your physical form completely stripped bare in exchange for unfathomable magical power. It’s not a choice made lightly, and it’s not a choice that everyone would be prepared to make. It’s rare these days for someone to undergo it willingly.”

Horrified, you blinked at them. “Willingly? You mean it’s inflicted on people?”

They shrugged. “Rarely. It’s hard to control a person’s soul like that, but with the right runes on the phylactery, it can be done. Mercifully, that wasn’t the case with me though, and if you’re caught, the punishment is severe.”

“So… how does someone so young get the position of court mage?”

With another rasping laugh like dry autumn leaves, Avery said, “As opposed to someone so old and experienced, you mean?”

You shrugged, still kind of mute with surprise at the new revelation, and they laughed again. “Sorry.”

“I went to university with the princess. We became friends, and she saw what I could do. I was still an elf then though.”

“You’re… You’re an elf?”

“I’m a lich,” they corrected, “But yes, I was an elf when I was officially alive. Did my short stature and particularly fine wrist bones not give it away?” they joked self-deprecatingly, proffering their pale wrist towards you to examine.

When you actually reached out and touched them, however, a spark like static jumped between you and you both gasped.

“Excuse me,” they gasped, withdrawing their hand immediately. “I… That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“What was it?” you asked, rubbing your fingertips and thumb together where the skin tingled. It hadn’t hurt, and it left your entire body tingling all over beneath the skin, and heat was rapidly pooling between your legs.

“My magic,” they said. “It’s usually not as forward and ill-mannered as that. I apologise if it startled you.”

“Forward? Ill-mannered?” you asked, amused and intrigued. “You say that like magic has a personality…”

“It does,” the lich sighed, the bones of their ribs creaking softly.

While, academically speaking, you knew what any elven skeleton looked like, you still ached to know the exact shape of Avery beneath the black robes that draped shapelessly over them; the exact way their bones fitted together; the exact colour; any breaks they’d sustained, leaving the evidence in their skeleton… “Alright, but why… ‘forward’?”

“And here I thought I was being terribly obvious,” they muttered.

“Obvious?”

A tilt of their head in your direction served perfectly as a rueful glance, the ardour behind it striking you in the chest with an alarmingly painful pang, and exactly as it occurred to you that you’d learned to read Avery pretty well by now, you also realised precisely what they’d been insinuating. “Oh…” you said, imbuing the sound with significance.

“Oh indeed,” they said bitterly. “Never mind. I quite understand that the attentions of a lich are not… not what everyone would aspire to after all… I apologise if… if I made you uncomfortable. I will not persist.”

“Wait, slow down,” you said, stepping forward suddenly and trying to catch their gaze with your eyes. It was hard to tell where they were really looking, given that all you had to go on was the rough direction of their head and the soft glow in their otherwise empty eye sockets, but when you got the impression that they were looking directly at you, you spoke up. “I’m sorry,” you began.

“Don’t be sorry,” they hissed, trying to turn away.

“No, wait, that’s not… that’s not what I meant!” Finding you had no choice, you reached out and latched onto their wrist. The bones beneath the long fabric of the sleeves felt so achingly fragile that you almost recoiled for fear of hurting them, but you made your fingers loosen just a fraction and stayed put. You needn’t have worried anyway; Avery was tethered and still at your touch in a heartbeat. “I mean, I am sorry, but I’m sorry for being dense, not that you… you know…”

“That I’ve been so poorly attempting to flirt with you for the last month?” they finished dryly.

“Now that I know, why don’t we start over…?” you said, releasing them and smiling hopefully.

Adopting a truly sarcastic pose and tone, they held out their skeletal hand and said nastily, “I’m Avery, I’m a lich, and I’m apparently an appallingly poor flirt.” The ugliness in their voice was not directed at you, however. Avery had turned it back on themselves and it galled you to hear someone so brilliant sound so defeated.

Unflinchingly, you took their hand and stared fiercely back at the lich who had become your friend in these first months at the castle, and perhaps something more. “I didn’t mean to start over that far back, but I’ll play your game.” You added your own name and profession, that you were human, and finished by saying, “And I’m very much open to being flirted with by you, however poorly you think you do it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Avery said, their thumb playing back and forth over your skin before promptly changing the subject. “You never did answer me about dinner though. Would you like to stay here and eat? Or would my not partaking make you uncomfortable?”

Sensing that they needed a moment’s diversion, you allowed them to skirt around the issue of being interested in you, and shook your head. “Dinner here with you sounds lovely. Plus the view is spectacular.”

“I knew it. You want me for my advantageous chambers,” they moaned, still deflecting defensively.

“I meant that there’s something to keep you occupied while you wait for me to finish, that’s all,” you huffed in response to their teasing. “But if the view bores you by now, I’m sure you could always read to me from some dusty old volume you’ve nicked from the library and neglected to return…”

“You wound me!” they said, placing both hands over their heart, or at least, where their heart would have been if they weren’t just a skeleton anymore. “Is there anything you don’t eat? Would you like wine?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m good with most things, as far as I know, and…” you bit your lip and then reluctantly admitted that actually a glass of wine might be really nice. Your salary was not so meagre that you couldn’t afford a drink or two in the local taverns, but you suspected a wine from the castle cellars might be a little more special.

Instead of ringing for a servant, Avery picked up a quill and a small piece of paper, and dictated their message aloud after a quick flick of their wrist had brought the quill to life. It skimmed across the page like a breeze-blown willow branch trailing through a pond, and as you watched, you wondered if that was what Avery’s handwriting looked like, or whether the script was a result of magic, or the quill itself. Either way, it was beautiful, and you suddenly thought of the rather romantic notion of having love letters penned to you in that hand…

Their voice turned more confident as they dictated the note to the quill. “I am entertaining a guest in my tower tonight. Please have a fine supper for one brought up to the mage’s tower at your earliest convenience, with a bottle of Aktissian red too, if you please.”

“Avery!” you gasped, recognising the quality of the wine purely from it’s location.

They shrugged and finished off the note with another brief gesture, and you watched as it disappeared with a little pop. “I like to dictate my messages in case the person on the other end cannot read. Not all of the castle staff have been blessed with our educations, after all. In such a case, it will read itself aloud.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” you commented.

They shrugged. “It saves me sending Devon, or going myself and terrifying the wits out of the kitchen staff, or ringing for someone to trudge all the way up here, only to have to go back and return later…” It seemed odd to you now that Avery could be frightening to anyone, but you recalled your own unease at your first encounter, and merely smiled at them again.

Wherever the note had gone, it must have reached the right ears, because twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at Avery’s door and a castle servant entered with a large tray.

“Thank you so much,” Avery said as the half-orc set the meal down on the table.

“Anything else you need, mage?”

“No, that’s all, thank you.”

You chimed in with your own thanks and the servant left.

Avery waved a hand at the table where they’d cleared a space amid the chaos of stationary and books, and you sat yourself down. They lifted the lid of the silver cloche and revealed a beautiful supper that looked fit for the princess’ high table. Eyeing Avery, you caught a little glint in their glowing eye sockets, and you assumed that they were pleased too.

In fact, Avery did not read to you while you ate, but they did watch you rather intently. “You’re going to make me all self-conscious,” you muttered. “This is delicious though.”

“Would you rather I not watch you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I’m just not used to such… intense attention…”

“You’re gorgeous,” they murmured awkwardly, voice rich and husky, as though their magic was crackling uncontrollably beneath the surface.

After a pause, during which you encouraged your heart to beat normally, and the poor organ took absolutely no heed of your pleas whatsoever, you said, “So are you…”

If Avery could have rolled their eyes, you were sure they would have. Instead, they just pressed their hands to the table and leaned back in their chair. “I’m just a pile of bones and magic now… I’m honestly surprised you permitted me the indulgence of courting you.”

“It’s not an indulgence, Avery. Well, maybe it is, but it’s an indulgence for me. Each visit you’ve paid to the library has left me in quite a state, I’ll have you know.”

The lich went still at that and then very slowly tilted their head to one side. “Oh?” they asked, voice dipping lower with obvious intrigue. “Care to explain that?”

With a half smile, you set down your cutlery on your empty plate and pushed back a little way from the table to make yourself more comfortable. Crossing your legs, you said archly, “Any time you come close to me, you leave me tingling all over. I don’t know if it’s your magic, or you, or what, but… When you were leaning over my shoulder back there —” you nodded over at the writing desk, memories of their right hand pressed to the wood as they peered over your shoulder at your progress, the heady scent of incense and ozone swirling around their robes, the particular timbre of their voice as they hummed in thoughtful understanding at your translation…

“Yes?” they prompted, voice cracking.

Heat coiled between your legs and in your lower body, slowly filling you with a warm, glowing sensation that shot up your spine and made your head spin. “I could hardly think,” you whispered. “It’s a miracle I finished the translation.”

The light in their eyes guttered and flickered before returning with a new, brighter intensity. Where before it had been a pale, pastel green, it now burned with a searingly hot blue.

“Avery?”

The lich sat there and stared at you before twitching their head and shoulders a little. “Forgive me. We… We probably shouldn’t move that quickly…”

You raised your eyebrows. “How quickly?”

“Quickly,” they said. “You deserve to be courted properly.”

“And what if I’m as impatient as you are?” you asked, heart pounding. Gods, you wanted whatever they had to give you and you wanted it now. You ached, inside and out. “It wouldn’t stop you from still ‘courting’ me if you wanted…”

Avery stood and then stalled. “I…” They growled softly in frustration and started again. “I am… I haven’t… not since…”

“Avery… I know what you are. I know what you must look like under that robe, and I still want you,” you said fiercely.

“Gods,” they hissed, turning to face you, eyes blazing blue.

“Your eyes?” you asked. “They’ve changed colour. Is that your magic?”

They nodded. “What… What would you like from me?”

“Touch me,” you said honestly.

“I can conjure… uh… a variety of physical… um… shapes…” they faltered awkwardly and your brain supplied the rest, but they raised one hand and you found that where the bones had been before, they now supported a ghostly hand. They turned it over to show you their palm and then flipped it over again. You could still see the bones through the spectral hand that moved like translucent, living glass.

You shook your head, “Come here,” you said, and they did.

You stood up and ignored their new spectral hand in favour of running one fingertip around the orbital bones of their skull. Avery shuddered, joints rattling audibly beneath the robes as it shivered down their whole skeleton.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked. “Could you create… a tongue for me?”

With a mute nod, looking stunned, Avery opened their jaw and you saw a glowing, green tongue inside, translucent and glistening.

Pressing your lips to their teeth felt odd at first, especially when the cool of that single silver tooth caught your lips, but when the tongue immediately lapped at your lips, begging entry, you forgot the strangeness of it. You came alive again beneath that kiss as Avery’s hands found their way to your waist and then up to the back of your head where they let their bony fingers snake through your hair before gripping you tightly and tugging until you pulled back with a gasp. Panting and dizzy you let Avery nip at your exposed neck, tongue occasionally laving at your skin, shockingly cool and leaving it tingling.

One of Avery’s hands palmed your groin questioningly and your knees nearly went out from beneath you. “Yes,” you gasped. “Oh gods, please… I want… touch me… please…”

Your chest heaved and you let them steer you back into your chair behind you. When you landed, they tenderly began to undo your waistband, and you lifted your hips to slide a little way free of your clothes. Avery’s eyes blazed as they stared at you, your arousal evident with your clothes around your ankles. “May I use this…?” they asked, opening their mouth to reveal that long, thick, prehensile tongue.

“Gods yes,” you blurted, lifting your hips weakly again. “Please… Avery… I need you…”

The lich knelt before you and hesitantly placed their skeletal hands on your thighs. Looking down at them, nestled between your legs, you felt like you could come just from that sight alone.

“I’m not going to last long,” you warned them, practically shivering with arousal. “Gods… Avery, you’re…” Whatever Avery was to you in that moment, you never got the chance to tell them.

The instant their tongue touched you, lapping teasingly at you to start with, magic and sensation roared through you, ripping along your nerves and wiping your mind blank of all but intense pleasure. The slickness of their conjured tongue, supple and almost like a tentacle as it pleasured you, and the coolness of the mouth behind, set against the firm, unyielding pressure of their bare bones digging into the muscle of your thighs hard enough that it would bruise, drove you to the quivering edge in minutes.

Your hands scrabbled helplessly at the arms of the chair, your hips bucked unbidden up into the sensations Avery was offering you, fire danced along your nerves, and your blood sang in your ears. “Avery!” you screamed in warning, and then, with one final flick and press of their tongue against your most sensitive spot, you shattered.

With your mind blank, vision dark, Avery tore your release from you and prolonged it, either with their magic or just by their presence, until you whimpered and slumped in the chair, limp and spent and ironically boneless.

Finally, after lingering just a little longer, Avery sat back on their heels and stared up at you, one hand still on your quivering thigh. “Beautiful,” they rasped. “Gods above and below, but you come so beautifully.”

“I’ve never… come like that,” you croaked, throat raw. Had you come so hard you’d made yourself hoarse?

Avery summoned a goblet of water from the table to their hand and stood. “Here,” they said.

You drank, and as you set the goblet shakily back on the table, you glanced at them and saw a glistening droplet slide down their exposed ankle bone and drip onto the floor. Seeing where your gaze had gone, they chuckled. “Am I expected to remain unaffected by what you just gave me?” they said archly as you did your own clothes up again, just enough not to be completely exposed any more.

“How…? What…?” You began, but then shook your head and leaned forwards. Tentatively, you reached out a hand for the front of their cross-over robes and unbuttoned them at the waist. Drawing the fabric slowly aside, you felt them tense, but you kept going and they permitted it.

As the final fitting came loose, the robes hung open like a coat and revealed their skeleton beneath. To your surprise, they were not merely an empty ribcage and spine, hollow pelvis and slender leg bones. Constantly swirling inside them like a mixture of phosphorescence and ink, was a kind of magical core. Like an entity all of its own, it pulsed and coiled, writhing with tendrils of light and darkness that played along their ribs and teased up their spine like ivy. “Gods, Avery, you’re stunning,” you murmured and looked up to find their face tilted downwards, regarding you carefully.

Your eyes roved down their body to their pelvis, where the phosphorescent light seemed to have coalesced, spiralling around their hip bone like swirling liquid in a glass and… dripping tangibly down their leg.

“Can I… touch it?” you asked and they nodded. There was a long drip of it running down their femur almost to the knee, so you brought your fingertip up and trailed it cautiously through the strange, glowing wetness. “Is it magic?” you asked as your finger went numb and then began to tingle rather enticingly. Gods, what would that feel like against your body… even… inside you? Now there was an unexpected thought.

“It’s… akin to… oh gods,” they hissed suddenly, their hand flying to your shoulder as you traced a circle through it on the very edge of their curving hipbone.

“Mmm?” you asked, not relenting but not moving anywhere else.

Struggling to form words, Avery tried again. “Akin to when a ghost becomes corporeal.”

“Your magic is coalescing like ectoplasm?”

“In a way, oh… oh… ohhhh,” they moaned, staggering as you moved further up the wide scoop of their hip bone towards their spine and back again. “I can’t… I can’t keep upright… if you do that again… I’ll fall… I…”

“You want to move somewhere else?” you asked and they nodded.

Turning and leading you unsteadily without a word towards a closed door that led off from the study, Avery showed you to their bedroom and then hesitated, as though unsure as to quite what you wanted with them now that you had then naked.

“Bed?” you asked and they nodded, encouraged.

The fact that they seemed to be waiting for you to balk and run stung, but it made you more determined than ever to show them pleasure. Especially since they’d apparently not been with anyone since becoming a lich.

“Tell me what you like best,” you said.

“Your touch,” they blurted immediately.

“Alright,” you said with a tiny laugh. That was a start. “Lie back then.”

They lay down on the dark green blankets of the neatly made bed, their robes pooling behind them like ink, and stared up at you as you followed and sank down beside them.

Watching that swirling magical core for a moment, you reached out and traced their wrist first, working up to their shoulder, and then to that ever-present smile on their bare skull. The light in their eyes now burned a softer blue, occasionally flaring to the intense cobalt you’d seen before when you skimmed a particularly sensitive spot, and their jaw worked as if they were panting and gasping but couldn’t summon the magic to make the sounds.

The storm of essence in their ribcage swirled and crackled, tiny forks of lightning dancing through the clouds where their heart would have been, and you watched their spine flex and arch. The bones of their hands clenched the sheets into balls and as you moved lower and lower down their enchanted body, you watched the phosphorescent light begin to condense again as it hit their bones, running down in thick, slow rivulets to pool in the fabric of their robes, leaving only glittering, darker patches behind.

“Where’s most intense?” you asked, assuming you knew already. The point where the two halves of their pelvis met at the centre proved to be extremely sensitive, and as you ran your finger around it, they lurched wildly, the magic in their chest flaring and sparking again. “There?”

“Yes,” they gasped.

The magic began to grow, solidify, and as you circled the cool bone of their lower pelvis, a long, thick tentacle of magic coiled out of it and wrapped around your hand. It was real and tangible, corporeal, and slick as sin. “Avery,” you moaned as it clenched tightly around your wrist like an octopus’ limb.

“Want you,” they said. In the next moment, the tentacle released you and coiled back on itself, creating a soft passage inside them. Taking advantage of this, you slid two fingers into the channel and crooked them against the solid wall of pulsing magic.

Avery yelled with pleasure, spine arching again like a bow at full draw, magic expanding out through their ribs like a storm cloud, unable to be contained. Pressing hard against their walls, you rubbed intense and tiny circles while the magic flared and reached for your hand in return.

Flowing back and forth like waves of the ocean, Avery’s pleasure enveloped you and you felt it in your own mind as suddenly and as keenly as if it were your own. Their magic was reaching out for you and you allowed the connection without hesitation.

“I’m so close,” Avery whimpered, body taut and thrumming.

“I can feel it,” you whispered.

At that, Avery chanted, “I’m… Oh gods, there, like that… I’m… I’m going to… I can’t hold back any more… I…”

“Come for me, Avery,” you begged, and they broke.

Tendrils of black shadow shot out from their body like vines, filling the corner of the room and staying there like webs, while the core of their magic pulsed and throbbed, blazing with blue light. Liquid magic rolled over your hand as they came and came, body undulating and heaving, jaw open wide in a rictus of pleasure. The sight of it was almost enough to make you come too, but instead you simply stared at the magic you’d brought out and the pleasure you’d wrought in them.

Eventually, the black tendrils evaporated into a fine mist and vanished altogether, and the cloud of roiling magic settled down again and retreated back within Avery’s ribcage. The phosphorescent magic lingered on your skin, however, and as you moved to lie down beside them, you slid your hand down the waistband of your clothes and touched yourself with it still on your skin.

Avery was barely able to turn their head to watch as you brought yourself to another blinding orgasm, but their fingertips brushed against your free wrist just as you neared your second peak and you tumbled over the edge with a grunt and their name on your lips.

In the aftermath, you both lay there for a long time before either of you moved. Swallowing, you turned to look at them and found that the light in their eyes had gone back to green again, though this time it was dark and almost imperceptible. “Avery? You alright?” you asked.

They hummed softly in response. “Tired,” they admitted. “That… That was a lot of magic. I didn’t expect…” they huffed a laugh.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked, horrified.

“No,” they smiled, gripping your fingers in theirs for a moment before they lost the strength and went limp. “Quite the contrary. But I’m spent, in more ways than one.”

“Sorry…?” you ventured and they laughed. “Can I stay?” you added.

“Of course,” they replied. “I’m right in the middle of the bed, aren’t I? Do you have enough room?”

“I could use a little more, but if I lie on my side, I can manage alright.”

“I can’t even lift a finger at the moment,” they admitted. “I’m sorry. If you need me to move, you’ll have to lift me yourself.”

The vulnerability they were offering you struck you deeply. “Alright,” you said. “You sure you don’t mind?”

The tiniest shake of their head was all they could muster.

Sliding your arm beneath their neck and your other behind their knees, you tentatively raised them and nearly gasped at how light they were.

As if sensing your surprise, Avery managed a dry chuckle. “Elf, remember? Bones of a bird…”

You set them back down on the further pillow and nestled in beside them. “Can I put my head on your shoulder?” you asked.

“It won’t be comfortable. Bring a cushion over…” they whispered, nodding at the other side of the room where a modest chaise longue, upholstered in what looked like silk, sat against the wall, adorned with a couple of dainty pillows. The sight made you smile for some reason, and you took the opportunity to clean up a little at a washstand in the corner of the room. When you returned with a cushion, you found that the light was completely extinguished from their skull.

The magic still swirled away inside their chest, and as you laid the pillow down on their shoulder and watched their core shifting lazily - contentedly - you found yourself following them into a blank and blissful sleep.

___

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inkribbon796 · 4 years

Text

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

Summary: Roman and Remus have always fought, always. But this time they’re teaming up for something they both agree on. Getting their mentors together.

A/N: for @aimasup and @pixeldragon45 I might have taken some liberties with the story but I hope you guys like it. I wrote this after seeing this amazing post by aimasup.

Two brothers, royal born but divided in every single way. The elder twin strove for honor and chivalry, raised in the royal court around the other knights and the tales of rulers and knights from the kingdom’s history in ages past. Some stories were true, others had been exaggerated more than a bit.

The younger twin had been mostly shoved into his elder brother’s shadow — a brother who was older by little less than an hour — and quickly began to act out as a result.

They quickly began to be divided on the battlefield. The younger prince had been kidnapped one day by a powerful shape changing mage when he was sixteen and just decided not to go back and the royal knights found him playing old maid with her in the tower, and he threw them out the door with a note for his parents and brother.

He had declared himself “the monsters’ problem now” and was not coming back.

It was Prince of Sanders Roman’s sword and “good” magic, versus Duke of the Dark Wood Remus’s pranks and illusions.

But that is not today’s story. The fight between good and evil is for another day.

On the edge of the city, bordering the untamable Dark Woods where monsters called home, there was a tavern. It was on a trade road that went around the woods and towards the neighboring kingdom. The tavern was a way stop before reaching the capital city of Roman’s kingdom.

It was absolutely pouring down rain when a cloaked young man ran into the tavern. He pulled down his hood after looking around the tavern. Prince Roman had come to this tavern frequently, it was considered neutral ground because the caravans that came through, the residents of the Dark Woods traded between each other and the merchants protected their clients.

Against a wall, Roman spotted his brother sitting at a table, a plate of food and three empty mugs of ale next to him.

Roman walked over and naturally turned up his nose at the magic keeping Remus from getting too tipsy. “You couldn’t wait until I got in could you?”

“Ahh, brother,” Remus smiled. “I got hungry, I got bored. There’s a very cute bartender over there.”

Remus blew a kiss and waggled his fingers at the young man in question.

“Focus,” Roman hissed at him.

Remus smiled, “So I take it you received my letter?”

“You contemptuous oaf,” Roman sneered at Remus. Roman was pulling out of his cloak a dirt speckled note that had a stick figure drawing of Roman’s fairy godmother and Remus’s mentor, the dragon witch, on it holding hands. The words: canon ship xoxoxoxo maybe?!?! Meet me at the Salty Unicorn at 10pm if you agree plz thx; were written, half scrunched into the left corner of the paper as if the second half was an unplanned addition. On the front it was addressed to: my horridly good brother, Roman; from: your bestest coolest brother, Remus.

Roman shook the note violently. “Did you write this in mud? Mother would have you raked over hot coal for a note this foul!”

Remus clapped in excitement, “So you’ll help me?”

“What type of cad do you take me for?” Roman scoffed, throwing the note down onto the table. “Of course I will.”

Shaking his hands, Remus just about squealed in delight, his smile widening. “The journey will be perilous, brother.”

“Oh please, it will be easy,” Roman scoffed. “It’s true love, and they are already smitten. Half of our job is done for us.”

It was, in fact, not easy. It was easy for the two princes to get back to their homes. But when they met back up at the border of the Dark Woods a couple weeks later, Roman challenged Remus to come out and fight him. The royal prince had to fight several goblins before Remus showed up, mace in hand and swinging it around wildly like a maniac. He managed to hit three goblins, who didn’t scramble away fast enough, in the face before he made contact with Roman’s shield.

Buzzing around Roman was a bright blue hummingbird, a little puffball of feathers and magic. She was fluttering around the royal prince, magic coming off her wings like glitter.

During the twin’s duel for honor and a bit of fun, a flash of shadow flew across as a large bat flew towards him and hit the hummingbird out of the air.

“You fiend!” Roman spat as the hummingbird seemed to glow and in an explosion of feathers a woman appeared in a billowing blue and white dress, the little jewel beads of the dress glittering and sparkling in the light. For a second or two she looked like she was covered in soft down before having more human light tan skin.

“That was a cheap shot,” Althea the fairy godmother reminded tersely as the Dragon Witch turned from a bat to a bony witch in a very dark red dress, her skin an ivory ash color.

“Please it’s almost like you wanted to get hit,” the Dragon Witch reminded. “Besides you two were gaining up on my sweet Remus.”

Althea swept her hair back, which frustrated the Dragon Witch because even in a fight it always looked flowing and fluffy.

“Give up,” the Dragon Witch smiled. “These woods are ours.”

“Never!” Althea shouted. “Your reign of terror is over.”

Lights and magic flew across the battlefield. In the end Remus and Roman had tied again as the Dragon Witch was thrown back by a gust of wind.

“Meddling child,” the Dragon Witch spat.

“Surly, caustic witch,” Althea snapped back. “Be gone and go back to your unhallowed woods. We are victorious.”

“I clearly won,” the Dragon Witch smiled smugly.

Althea made a little angry pout, crossing her arms in a huff, “You’ve done no such thing. Even if you two did win, it would only be because you both cheated.”

The Dragon Witch had some big gloating tirade of sarcastic insults, but seeing her little pout where she puffed out her cheeks a bit and looked like she was sticking her tongue to the inside of her cheek and . . . she . . . what was she going to say again? Something about her cute face? No, Althea would just make fun of her for that.

“Yeah? Well you . . .” The Dragon Witch tried not to look absolutely flustered. “. . . you’re just a poor sport.”

Althea looked angrier while the Dragon Witch was just internally screaming. Poor sport? Who says that? What are you five? Did you just get kicked out of the academy?

Remus was standing behind them, a huge toothy grin on his face that made the Dragon Witch want to have his face dragged in the mud or put worms in his stew.

Glancing at her student again she saw that both he and Roman had stopped fighting and the two of them were just watching the two mages arguing. The whole thing smacked of a trick of some kind and right now the Dragon Witch couldn’t figure out what type of trap that meant.

So she appreciated whatever the hustle was, even though she doubted that Remus had turned on her. He would be up front about it, and predictably violent.

He was a good kid so . . .

She looked over at Roman who seemed to be just as excited as Remus was, except he was staring at Althea . . .

“Wait a second,” the Dragon Witch realized.

“I will not be waiting any seconds,” Althea refused, not understanding.

The Dark Woods mage immediately remembered that the good witch had been talking to her and she had been ignoring her. But one look at her face reminded the witch why she had a crush in the first place.

“Yes or no?” Althea ordered, pointing at her?

“Uh,” the Dragon Witch stalled, staring at her, “no?”

Althea’s face got a bit fuzzy with her anger, the feathers around her face was almost a pinking color.

She looks so adora— no, don’t she’ll just turn you down.

“I can’t believe this, you’re so frustrating,” Althea huffed out. She stomped her feet a bit and grabbed Roman, “We’re leaving.”

“But you didn’t . . . I mean, justice,” Roman sputtered as he was dragged towards a carriage that had been hiding up the road to stay out of the fight.

“Don’t say a word,” the Dragon Witch ordered Remus as they watched them walk away.

“Why Maggie?” Remus smiled, setting his hands and chin on the hilt of his mace.

“If you don’t, I’ll use your tongue for a gibberish concoction,” she threatened.

“Awwww,” Remus’s grin was particularly sharkish. “Someone’s just being a poor sport.”

The Dragon Witch whipped her staff around and lightly cuffed him on the back of the head.

Inside Roman’s carriage, the royal prince was just listening to his fairy godmother rant at him.

Althea was sitting with her face buried in her hands, her face red as a tomato. “That woman is so infuriating! Ugh, what kind of game is she playing?”

“Who knows with them?” Roman shrugged.

“Maybe if she wasn’t so cute, I’d know what to say,” Althea accidentally said out loud.

She blushed even harder with embarrassment and looked up at Roman. “Uh, I mean—”

Roman stared at her for a second before pulling apart the divider behind them and turning to yell, “Cam! Turn this cart around, we got a date to catch!”

“Roman!” Althea yelled, her face getting even redder. “She’s the queen of the Dark Woods!”

“And the Dark Woods is about to get themselves another fabulous queen,” Roman proclaimed.

The cart had stopped, the driver turned around in his seat to verify, “Are you sure you want to go back to the Dark Woods, Sir?”

“Oh yeah,” Roman smiled. “I know we’re only three minutes out. We could walk there. Oh, and you and Quil are about to cough up five pounds a piece.”

“Roman!” Althea shrieked as the carriage began to move back towards the haunted woods.

“It’s true love, my darlingest mentor,” Roman insisted, “and I have it on good authority that she thinks you’re good looking.”

Althea got even redder, “Who told you that?”

“Well Remus was cruder but I understood the intent,” Roman answered.

“He could be lying,” Althea accused.

“Please, my brother is the worst liar in all the kingdoms,” Roman defended, almost offended for the brother he fought on a regular basis’s honor. “He’s crude, rude, and violent, but he is no liar.”

“She really likes me?” Althea asked.

“How could she not?” Roman demanded. “Now, we have true love to prepare for my dear.”

“Let’s just start at a first date, Roman,” Althea insisted. “It’s a little soon for anything like that.”

“You’ll see,” Roman smiled, looking out the window. “She’s over the moon for you.”

Eventually the carriage stopped because Remus was standing in the middle of the road with the Dragon Witch next to him.

Roman opened a top hatch in the carriage, “Ahh, good, we were just about to go and find you two again.”

“I’d like your men to stop accosting my woods,” the Dragon Witch spat.

“When you get your marauding bandits to stop attacking my people,” Roman bargained.

“How about when you pay my woods back for generations of war crimes?” The Dragon Witch’s eyebrow shot up.

“We shouldn’t have to defend ourselves from being set on fire,” Roman reminded. “I’d be happy to start calling off the war if we could trust you won’t pick up arms against us the moment we have our backs turned.”

“Ugh!” Remus complained. “We’re not here to talk about politics! We’re here to talk about two lovely ladies getting freaky!”

“Ah, thank you Remus,” Roman clapped his hands, smiling. “Thank you, for once, for getting us back on topic.”

Roman waved his hands and when his hand came back up Althea in her hummingbird form was perched on two of his fingers. The royal prince exited the carriage with her, clearing her throat. “Queen Dragon Witch of the Dark Woods, I present to you the Good Witch of the Sanders Kingdom. She is as intelligent as she is brave and you shall be permitted to court her on the grounds that you vow to honor and cherish her, to treat her as the lady she is.”

“That’s it?” The Dragon Witch asked, clearly braced for more.

“Yeah, she has to vow the same,” Remus cut in.

“Naturally, my mentor is no brute,” Roman agreed.

“No I meant is he going to demand anything else of me,” the Dragon Witch told Remus.

Roman briefly ran over his speech in his head and ducked back in to grab the paper he had rehearsed with, reading back over it, “honor and cherish . . . no I got everything.”

“No land, no unfavorable terms?” The Dragon Witch seemed surprised and astonished.

The royal prince made an offended gasp, “My great-great grandfather’s petty squabbles have no bearing when love is on the table. Naturally if any deals for land and power are to be carried out, our courts should both be here for that.”

The Dragon Witch just stared at Roman for a bit before smiling, “You know, you’re a spoiled rich human brat, but I think you’ll actually make a good king one day.”

“Thanks?” Roman wasn’t sure if he’d been insulted or not. “I think?”

The Dragon Witch held out her hand and Althea transformed back, looking a little bit nervous. “You really are the most beautiful fairy in the lands,” the Dragon Witch told her.

Althea was just staring at her, “You are too.”

The twin brothers were standing close to the carriage and Roman’s driver, the three of them just watching the two of them talking.

“Janny owes me big for this,” Remus was almost cackling.

“Are you making deals with that snake?” Roman critiqued.

“How about you get off my ass and let me live my life?” Remus glared at him. “Besides his mother is happy, what could be better than that?”

“You do have to admit,” Cam said to Roman from his seat above them, “they do look happy.”

“Yeah,” Roman sighed, acquiescing on that front.

The two witches talked for a bit before they inevitably had to part ways. They would meet again on the battlefield, but next time it would be a not-so-quiet show of magic, designed to impress rather than harm.

#The High Tower #fantasy au #Roman Sanders #Remus Sanders #dragon witch x fairy godmother #Dragon Witch #Fairy Godmother #gay panic

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potatowitch · 2 years

Note

yes! my party composition is similar but i'll sometimes switch out for aveline specifically to gain rivalry with her or i'll switch varric out for bela instead. i assume she was in dai, so what were her thoughts on liara lavellan? how did she react to the dai party? and what can you tell us about liara? :D

my friend you are spoiling me here i love you

she was in inquisition! her initial reaction to liara was "dammit varric you could've told me she was CUTE" bc rian is, above all things, a disaster lesbian. they agree a lot, and liara actually snort laughs at rian's terrible jokes, so she's automatically one of rian's favourite people bc of it. liara is also vehemently, violently anti-templar, to a point where rian is almost taken aback by it bc liara is not a mage (it stems from having a mage parent who was murdered by templars, so. y'know) but she's glad for it.

rian's thoughts on the inquisition companions are as follows:

varric my most beloved. love of my life. my soulmate. we were fated to be the best of buddies

cole is weird but i like him. sweet dude. has not told me it is unjust to steal money from the chantry donation boxes yet, so i like him more than the other spirit in my life

solas is weird. in a good way. i think? he is very cute with lavellan and reminds me of an old, cranky merrill

i am going to torment cullen the entire time i am here ehehehehe suck it noodlehead

leliana scares me. i am also very attracted to her

josephine is sweet. i like her

cassandra is unintentionally fucking hilarious lmao. not cool with her locking my best dude up in my own damn estate though, i will forever be salty about that

bull is dope as hell i love this guy

sera is dope as hell i love this girl

dorian is dope as hell i love this guy

something is Up with blackwall. i don't know what it is but something is Up

vivienne is so hot but so scary and she hates me so much

bonus: holy fuck harding is cute. varric are you seeing this shit, she's so cute

rian was uh. left behind in the fade, but i don't really see it as playing out the way it does in game - it wasn't liara's choice, it was rian's. she refused to let anyone else stay behind, she's already got survivor's guilt coming out her ears. alistair wouldn't be staying behind even if he wanted to lmao

liara is. complicated lmao. if rian is purple, and lyna (my warden) leans red, then liara leans blue, but it's very surface-level blue. she cares, she's full of compassion, but she is also full of so, so much hate. she's able to keep it under wraps, and it's very difficult to tell, but she is so incredibly angry under the surface, and it doesn't make itself apparent until trespasser when she loses her shit and everyone except leliana is so taken aback by it.

trespasser is kinda a turning point for her - she stops trying to fight back against how angry and bitter and in pain she is. the world has taken enough from her, it no longer deserves her understanding or her patience or her humility. she is scary post-trespasser, and not just because she leans into the whole "girlfriend of the dread wolf" thing as a power play. think leliana - how in origins she is deeply wounded and hurt, but still idealistic and willing to try, whereas you hit inquisition and she is brutal - that coldness was always there, she just had other things to temper it with, but she can still be pulled back. that's sort of the narrative i lean into with liara - there's hope there still, but she's definitely been hardened.

maybe obi-wan kenobi is a better comparison lmao. you see how many times that man leans dark side, especially in the clone wars series, but ultimately pulls himself back bc despite his feelings he has a definite sense of right vs wrong? yeah. that.

liara also hero-worships anders and justice. she's got a wee bit of a crush on justice specifically, too, and yes varric has pointed out that she doesn't know what he even looks like but he is the embodiment of justice, varric, how could anything be sexier, cmon

#rian #liara #blorbo talk

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queenxxxsupreme · 4 years

Text

The Fears of a Father (pt 2)

A/N: You all can thank @thecomfortofoldstorries because I completely forgot to post this when I finished it like a month and a half ago. It’s just been sitting in my docs. I could’ve sworn I posted it but I guess I didn’t. I have the memory span of a fruit fly.

Warnings: none, just fluff

Word Count: 1.8k

Summary: Geralt is a great dad. That’s all you need to know. Here is part 1.

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

You turned your head to Yennefer. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a naked Lana by the hand. The mage has just finished chasing Lana around the house after the little girl decided she didn’t want to get in the bath. That’s when Yennefer found you sitting at the kitchen table looking out of the window to the dirt path leading to your house.

“I’m sorry. I was-I was just thinking.” You shook your head.

“The longer you sit there and stare out that window, the more you’ll feel miserable.” She reminded you before taking Lana back towards the bathing room.

You stood to your feet and rubbed your hands together, looking around for something to do.

Something tugged at your skirt. You looked down to see Bram standing next to you, his hand holding the skirt of your dress.

“Hi, love.” You smiled down at him, bringing you hand up to cup his face.

“Are you sad, mommy?” He tucked his head into your stomach, his arms wrapping around you as best as they could.

“Of course not, love. Why would you think that?” You brushed your fingers through his ash blonde hair.

“‘Cause you’re always sitting here looking out that window. Are you waiting for daddy?”

You smiled a little.

“I am.”

“I miss him.”

“I miss him too, love.” You leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “It’s getting late, Bram. Go on to bed. I’ll be in in a moment to tuck you in and tell you a story.”

You watched your oldest pad off to your room. He started sleeping in the room with you after the second night of Geralt’s absence. Bram insisted on keeping you safe, on protecting you just like Geralt did.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling lonely. You knew you weren’t alone. You had both of your children and even Yennefer to keep you company. You just missed your husband dearly.

Outside, you heard your horse and Yennefer’s begin to snort and whinny, alarming you that someone was nearing the stables out back.

Hopeful that it was your husband, you ventured out of the house and into the dark. The air was cold and bitter but you didn’t worry about it.

With the help of the moonlight, you could see the door to the stable was open. A sigh of relief left your lips as you saw Roach leave one of the stalls and gallop out into the fence.

You hurried into the barn, your heart beating frantically. You ran straight into Jaskier. The bard grabbed your arms to steady you and laughed, pulling you in for a hug.

“My gods, Y/N! It’s so good to see you.”

“Jaskier, you too.” You squeezed him tight and quickly looked him over for any injuries, running your hands hastily along his arms.

“What-What are you doing?” Jaskier furrowed his brows together.

“Were you hurt?”

Before he had a chance to answer you, your hand pressed against his left clavicle, causing him to wince.

“What happened?” You looked up to him.

“Got into it with a barmaid.”

You turned to face your husband, who stood near the stall your horse was in. Geralt had just finished putting away Roach’s saddle.

“She stabbed him with a fork.”

The smile on your lips grew as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. For whatever reason, you were waiting for his okay to approach him.

He held your gaze, a soft smile crossing his lips.

“Come here, dove.” He beckoned you over with his hand.

You closed the space between you two as quickly as possible, throwing your arms around his broad shoulders. He winced under the pressure, his hands coming down to grasp your hips. You pulled away quickly, letting him go and looking up at him. Your brows drew together.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just sore is all.”

“His first hunt in five years!” Jaskier moved to Geralt’s side and patted his shoulder. “It was a glorious one, wasn’t it?”

Geralt looked over to Jaskier, grunting.

“Jaskier, Bram is in my room laying down. He should be waiting for me to read him a story. He’d love it if you surprised him.” You looked to the bard.

“That’s my boy! Always eager for a story.”

Geralt watched Jaskier leave while you studied the witcher’s face. Your hand came up to hold his jaw. Your thumb brushed over a scar on his cheek, one you’d never seen before.

“I missed you, dove.” Geralt tried to pull you in for a kiss but you refused, wanting to ensure he was okay first.

“As I’ve missed you. Are you okay?” Your hand gently clasped his chin, turning his head from one side to the other. There were no other new scars on him, no markings that proved he’d put his life on the line.

“I’m fine. I’d just like to kiss my wife that I haven’t seen in three weeks.”

“You can kiss me in a moment.”

When you were satisfied with his face and neck, your hands found the ties to his tunic.

“Smile for me.”

“What?”

“Smile and show me your teeth. I want to make sure you’ve still got them.” As you untied his top, you looked up at him. He flashed you a rare white smile, tilting his head to the side just a little.

“I missed how worried you get.”

You said nothing, continuing your examination of him. When his top was untied, you pushed the material aside, revealing his chest. You slipped your hand into his shirt, feeling over his cool skin for any wounds. You felt the cold metal of his medallion that rested beneath his shirt.

“Dove, you’re not going to find anything. I wasn’t hurt.”

“There’s a new scar on your cheek.” You spoke quietly. Your hand brushed over his collarbone and then up the side of his neck so you could cradle his cheek. “You’ve no idea how fearful I was that you wouldn’t return to me.”

He took your hand, pulling it from his face and placing a kiss on your opened palm.

“I’ll always come back to you.” His golden eyes stayed on yours. He could see the tension slowly melting away and the fear in your eyes dissipating.

He leaned down to gently kiss your lips. You slipped your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you. His hands gripped your waist before one of his arms slipped around your lower back and pulled you in to him. You were then pushed back against one of the stall doors. When you were close enough, his hand slipped down to your upper thigh. He pulled your leg up, hooking you around his hip.

You pulled away, pressing your hands to his chest.

“We can’t do this here, Geralt.”

“Sure we can.” His lips found your neck.

“You’ve got a daughter and a son inside eagerly awaiting your return.”

He pulled his head away from you, looking down at you with liquid honey eyes.

“How were they?”

“They were good. Bram formed a habit of sleeping with me and Lana.” You pulled the medallion from his shirt to study the pendant. You knew it like the back of your hand but you still admired it. “He wanted to keep his mother and little sister safe. He’d try to stay awake through the whole night. He said he wanted to be just like you.”

“He’s going to be better than me.” Geralt took your hands in his and brought them to his lips.

“That’s what every parent wants, my love. You’re a great man and an even grander father. You’ve nothing to worry about.” You smiled gently at him. “Let’s go see our children.”

He slipped one bulky arm around you, holding you close as you two moved from the barn to your home.

***

Jaskier was sitting on the edge of your bed, telling Bram a story of his first time accompanying Geralt on a hunt. It was a story you’d heard many times, one that Bram always loved to hear.

“Dad!” Bram exclaimed, jumping from the bed and running to Geralt. He released you to hold his son, kneeling down to the six-year-old’s height. He cradled Bram’s head to his shoulder. “I missed you, daddy. Did you miss me?”

“Even more than you could ever imagine, my son.” Geralt’s eyes slipped shut and he inhaled softly.

You placed your hand upon his shoulder, gently squeezing him. You knew how dearly the witcher loved his son and how grounded the boy kept him. He was Geralt’s first born, a true testament that the Butcher of Blaviken was capable of more than just murder and brutality.

“Daddy!” A high pitched squeal came from behind Geralt. He didn’t have time to stand and turn before Lana ran into him, hugging as much of him as she could. Her little arms just barely reached his sides. She nuzzled her face into his back and giggled when his hair tickled her face. “Hi, daddy.”

Geralt reached back to grab her, his arm wrapping around her little torso. He effortlessly pulled her around so she was next to Bram and Geralt could hug them both.

“Hi, little dove.” He kissed the top of her head.

“You’re lucky she had clothes on this time.” Yennefer sighed out. She stood just a few feet behind your husband in the hallway. You gave her a thankful smile to which she nodded her head.

***

Geralt sat in the kitchen with a sleeping Lana in his arms. Jaskier and Bram sat in front of the fireplace. The bard was telling the boy a story of dragons, involving both Yennefer, Geralt, and Jaskier himself.

You had just finished cleaning the kitchen and were ready to get the children to bed. You agreed to let them stay up for a little longer while Geralt and Jaskier ate. Bram insisted on staying awake with his father while Lana just wanted to be held by Geralt.

“I can take her and put her in bed if you’d like.” You offered, wiping your damp hands off on the skirt of your dress.

Geralt softly shook his head, looking down at the ash blonde girl.

“I’d like to hold her for just a while longer.”

You nodded your head and decided to pull a chair up next to him. You crossed your knees and leaned your head against his shoulder, brushing your fingers through Lana’s hair.

“She missed you dearly.” You hummed. “We all did.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt turned his head to press his lips against your shoulder. “It won’t happen again.”

“But it might.” You tilted your head up just a little so you could look him in the eyes. “You’re one of the last witchers left. The world will need you.”

“I know a handful of others in my guild that I will point the world in the direction of. As far as I’m concerned, I’m no longer a witcher.”

“That isn’t true.” You shook your head, turning so you could comb your fingers through his hair.. “You’ll always be a witcher.”

“But I’m a father first.”

“And a damn good one.” You smiled at him.

Taglist: @riviawitch3r @notyouraveragemochii @dev1lbella @rosyghosty @merendis @lalalalemonade11 @wayward-dream @whatanicepanohthatsjustme @tshuuls @havenoffandoms @queen-sands @crazzyter @katiejmac @bucky-did-nothing-wrong @jennylovelyheart @whitewolfandthefox @itsallyouhavegotinsideyourhead @hm-fck @mactho @msgeorgiarae @tragicmisfits @randomzxx @alwayshave-faith @rahdaleigh @lizliz3107 @turtlefordestiel @d14n4ol @asix122747483 @minervalavender @agniavateira @hina-chans-stuff @dressed-up-heartbreak @persephonehemingway @bitterstar88 @scarlettwitcher @ayamenimthiriel @romancebibliophilia @jessevans @xoxoarts @jocelynscloset @soulslaststand @grumgoblin @thefishmongersdaughterwrites @silverkitten547 @rebel4fandom

#geralt of rivia #dad!geralt #geralt #the witcher #the witcher netflix #netflix #witcher #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt oneshot #geralt fic #oneshot

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kaibacorpintern · 4 years

Note

hi i forgot the ship name but would u write something thats seto and ryou? (platonic or romantic) where they play a ttrpg together or somethin idk

“or somethin idk” give me an inch, i have run a mile. a mile of 4.7k words.

platonic euroshipping. post-canon. ryou applies for a game writer position at kaibacorp and makes it to the final stage. contains: dragons, swords, some very sexy things about solidvision and the virtual world, kaiba covered in blood and having a great time, me the writer having a great time, hopefully you the reader having a great time, and ryou, not covered in blood, having a very, very, very anxious time

tw for some fantasy violence

++++++

Ryou inhaled, taking a deep breath of: the fresh, sweet smell of grass, the coolness of river water, something dry and grey in the wind, slightly rotten - smoke? And sulfur. The grasses were filled with the restless susurrus of the wind, each blade quivering with anticipation. Above him, a hawk tilted in lazy, wide circles, tracking the hidden paths of its prey. He stood on a dusty path halfway up the long slope of a steep hillside, the farmlands of the valley behind him peeled back to reveal the burned, blackened devastation beneath. The village from this distance looked like the charcoal remains of a bonfire, the air still shimmering with heat.

The sun itself was hot, making him sweat in the thick, coarse silk of his mage’s robe, every purple thread saturated with light and heat. Mopping sweat from his brow, Ryou opened his options menu, the holographic display falling open, in the guise of an illuminated manuscript, and hovering at waist-height in thin air, perfectly tilted for reading. The parchment was old and yellowed, almost velvet to the touch, the edges frayed with age, and he couldn’t resist the urge to smell it, leaning in cautiously to take an experimental whiff. Strong notes of dust, old ink, age; an undertone of knowledge, of the forbidden kind.

He selected Player Appearance and the page turned, with weight and heft, to reveal another. Kaiba didn’t miss a beat. Ryou had no doubt if he knelt down to drink from the stream that flowed down the slope, folding in clear ribbons past the rocks, the water would run cold over his fingers until they pruned. And the magic effects?

He swallowed. It was not just the sun that was making him sweat.

He’d just changed into something more practical - a short-sleeved green tunic, a pair of white breeches, leather boots that had just a bit of bite to the fit, like the player had to wear them in - when a chime pealed out from six feet away, as though someone had rung an invisible bell. The air tore apart, in odd, geometric anguish, like a broken mirror twisting into itself -

and there was Kaiba, standing in the knee-high grass in his customary black turtleneck and tight pants, frowning with his arms crossed.

“Hello,” Ryou said. “It’s so nice to see you again. Your technology is... this is amazing. The attention to detail is incredible. The player screen, with the parchment - it even smells like - ”

“What is this? Medieval?” Kaiba said, glancing around at his clothes, the distant village, taking no notice of his praise; Ryou bit his tongue in self-rebuke. As if buttering him up with compliments was going to help.

“Western Europe. From the mid-11th century to the 12th. The age of knights and chivalry,” he said, deciding that maybe his best strategy was to simply be straightforward.

“I’m familiar with basic history, thank you. How... classic,” Kaiba said, in a tone that screamed disinterest, and Ryou’s heart began to plummet - already starting from behind? No, no, no, he reminded himself, straightening the slouch out of his shoulders. Yuugi had warned him about this. Kaiba was fantastically tough to impress, in general, and the Virtual World was his world, a realm he'd built with sweat and tears, and stolen back with blood. So he hand-picked every writer that wrote for Virtual World games, refusing to squander a single pixel on conventional nonsense and uninspired cliché.

The last step - before he brought the axe down - was a short, playable demo, as proof of concept, written by the applicant and executed by the Virtual World team.

Ryou had come this far in the application process. Trust that, Yuugi said. And trust yourself.

Kaiba was looking at him, eyebrows arched with expectant curiosity.

“Er,” Ryou said. “Let’s get started, then. You’ll need to change.”

He pulled up the menu, revelling in the hovering parchment once more, and changed Kaiba’s appearance, like - like magic, the lines of Kaiba’s silhouette rippling like a sine wave from the bottom up, his modern-day clothing becoming a knee-length tunic of chainmail under a belted dark blue surcoat. Kaiba held still throughout the entire transformation, in smug admiration of the effect, his arms held out in a ballet dancer’s pose as chainmail draped down his shoulders to his wrists.

In his right hand appeared, with a sharp, diamond flash of light, a long arming sword, the edge nicked with age and bloodspill. The hilt was black, with a sapphire gleaming in the pommel. A plain shield dropped onto his left forearm.

He gave the sword an experimental spin, testing the heft with practiced ease, and slid it back into the leather scabbard on his belt.

“A knight, the charred, smoking remains of a village… I’m assuming I’m on a quest to kill a dragon?” he said, pushing back the hood of the chainmail so that it draped off his shoulders, and nodding up the slope to where the grasses tattered into rocky shale.

“Yes, you can assume that,” Ryou said politely.

On cue, a child no more than twelve years old staggered up the dusty path from the village, her small torso heaving with breath, sweat and tears running in clean streaks down her soot-stained face.

“Sir Knight,” she choked out. Flashing a look at Ryou that said cheap blow, but unable to deny his own fraternal instinct, Kaiba dropped to one knee and caught her, his hands swallowing her thin, shuddering shoulders. Playing along, at least.

“Calm down,” he said, steadying her. Ryou imagined his anxiety as a small, hard rock, packing in the twist of every fraying nerve, and leaned all his weight onto one foot, grinding the rock into the dirt with his heel. "What is it?”

“They sent me to warn you, about the dragon,” she panted. “They said only the Chosen One can truly defeat the dragon, and bring peace back to the land. Many have tried. All suffered the same terrible fate - a fate worse than death.”

“I see,” Kaiba said. “And who is the Chosen One?”

The girl glanced at Ryou over Kaiba’s shoulder, her eyes glinting with fear.

“No - no one knows,” she said. “But all the oracles say they’re coming… a knight with a pure and worthy heart. Sir Knight, don’t go. Come back to the village. It’s safe there. What do you gain from this? Our humble lands aren’t worth the danger!”

“I think they are,” Kaiba said, thumbing soot off her face, and frowning as her cheek pixelated, briefly, and resumed a skin-like texture. "Open master commands, user ID 000002510. Initiate master log. Begin recording: skin-to-skin contact glitch reappeared during writer play-test, candidate Bakura, R. Begin patch work immediately. End recording. Disperse to Virtual World team, flag Sawada, project manager. Close master commands. Did you know, one of the most compelling unsolved problems in physics is the lack of a theory that realizes both general relativity and quantum mechanics?”

The girl gave him a wary look, wide-eyed with faint alarm. Ryou sucked in a breath, grinding the anxiety rock down, down, down.

“You - you speak in tongues, Sir Knight," she said. "Are you also an oracle? Has your future-sight failed you? Don’t you see that only death lives on the mountain?”

Kaiba snorted and stood up, turning to Ryou. “A solid response to non-standard player input. Doesn’t ignore modern concepts, but re-contextualizes them in the setting of this world via a framework of prophecy, and redirects the player to the plot.”

“Um... thank you?” Ryou said. “I wanted this world to feel like it has a future, too, not just a history. I wanted to place it on a timeline, like it - ”

Kaiba’s attention swung back to the girl, still standing there with her eyes darting between them, full of bafflement.

“Return to the village, girl. Tell them my future-sight never fails me.”

The girl retreated backwards, warily, twisted on her heel, and fled down the path.

"If I go down to the village, what'll I find?" Kaiba said.

"More information about the Chosen One, and an outlaw who tries to recruit you to her band of thieves, with the option to join them for a stealth-based quest.”

"Hm. You have the imagination and the decency to offer me something other than blatant bait, which I don't always bite. The cliché of the Chosen One is boring as hell, it’s both over-done and deterministic, but I think... yes. Yes, I'll bite. Let's go see your dragon."

In the wake of this... compliment?, Ryou could only offer him a small, tentative smile, his heart clenching tight around Yuugi's advice.

Kaiba started up the path.

“Er, Kaiba - you might want to check your inventory before you encounter the dragon."

Kaiba’s hand padded around his waist until he found the small satchel that sat on his hip. Another parchment unfurled in the air before him, listing its contents:

Two full healing spells;

Two glamour spells, for changing the guise of a person or object;

Two transformation spells, for changing a person or an object into an animal;

Two scrying spells, for locating people or objects;

Two ignis spells, for commanding fire;

Two aqua spells, for commanding water; and

Two ventus spells, for commanding wind.

Ryou watched him as he read. He'd carved a small, thick groove into the dirt below his foot. Surely, that was enough for Kaiba to get creative?

Kaiba only closed the parchment with a brisk flick of his hand. Then he started up the mountain, Ryou following nervously behind.

***

The mountain path was rougher than Ryou expected, a tightly-coiled spring of switchbacks, leading to the curved lip of a high pass. After several minutes of trudging the dust in silence, he was panting for breath, his feet aching and blistering in their boots, and deeply regretting adding this little detail to the story. Next time, he was just going to put the dragon on a rolling, grassy plain, and he’d make it like an American autumn corn maze, because it still needed to be a challenge, and when the players got to the center they’d find the dragon’s decaying, rotting corpse and realize they’d been stuck inside the maze for five hundred years and everyone they loved was dead, and if they wanted to go back to their own time they’d have to find out how to resurrect the dragon, but only at a terrible cost, a sacrifice of some kind... Not his best off-the-cuff work, but there were usable concepts in there, somewhere. If there was a next time.

Despite being laden down with the chainmail, each tiny link flashing like fish scales in the airy slanting of the afternoon sun, Kaiba seemed unaffected by the demands of the hike, propelling himself forward with long, energetic strides. How?

Ryou thought about asking for a break. Or drinking water from the stream. Or changing his boots for something comfier, but he didn't have anything else in his outfit inventory except the mage robes, and the slippers might be even worse… he stopped, hands on his hips, gathering his breath.

From here the valley sprawled below them, a wide, velvety plain, its edges rising and scalloped by mountains. The village fit in the circle of his thumb and forefinger, a smoking black thumbprint. The team had done a fantastic job: the stream ran down the mountain, flattened into a river, and ran south, lazy and serpentine, a green-blue ribbon cutting through the yellow plains, just like he’d outlined in his initial description of the world….

Wait.

This was all virtual.

There was no such thing as air, here, or rivers or sunshine or grasses.

His real, physical body was half-asleep in a Virtual World testing pod on the 17th floor of the Kaiba Corp Tower, and his body here was just a series of algorithms, and if he didn’t want to sweat, he didn’t have to fucking sweat! Thank God!

Up ahead, Kaiba noted the absence of his footfalls and turned around, one hand resting easily on his sword hilt. From his position on the path, he looked down at Ryou from several feet up, which doubled the intimidation of his already formidable bearing.

“I’m fine,” Ryou said. “Just... admiring the view.”

“Are you having your Matrix moment? That’s what my programmers call it,” Kaiba said.

Ryou laughed. “I think so. I was tired but I don't feel it at all, anymore. Like all the fatigue's just melted away and I could run a marathon.”

“Is that something you enjoy?”

“Oh, no. I hate sports.”

Kaiba snorted.

“So, tell me. Why do you want this job?” he said. “At my company? Writing stories with my technology?”

“Er - ” Blindsided by the swerve in topics, Ryou tripped over his thoughts. Surely he must’ve read his application? Maybe he didn’t have the time. Stick to straightforward. “I’m sure you remember my performance in Battle City?”

“Yes, I remember,” Kaiba said, which was honestly more than Ryou expected of him.

“Well, I don’t play much Duel Monsters anymore,” he said, “but I still.. every once in a while, I turn my Duel Disk on and play a few cards, just to see my monsters come out, see them breathe… you know I run a Zombie deck, full of demons and dead things, but SolidVision makes them feel so - so alive. You took these fantasy monsters that exist only in our heads and put them in our world.”

“Virtual World game writers don’t work on SolidVision products,” Kaiba countered.

“Right, I know that. To me, Virtual World and SolidVision are the inverse of each other, or opposites that contain each other, like, like yin and yang - with SolidVision, the unreal enters the real, and becomes real. In the Virtual World, the real - ” Ryou motioned to himself - “enters the unreal, and becomes unreal. We like to put walls between imagination and reality, you know, taxes are real and unicorns aren’t, but with SolidVision and Virtual World, there is no wall. That’s the world I want to write stories for.”

“Hm,” Kaiba said, the corner of his mouth curving up in a smile. “Interesting take.”

And he waited, saying nothing more, until Ryou realized he was waiting for him; and trotted lightly up the path to join him.

***

By the time they reached the top of the mountain pass, the air had turned a clear, dusky gold. The mountains cast long, black shadows across the valley, like dark teeth, chewing up the farmlands. The mountain pass was saddle-shaped, one side sloping down into the valley they’d just come from, the other flattening into a smaller, higher bowl, cupping a pale blue-green lake between its rocky palms.

Kaiba scrambled onto the nearest large rock, his head swinging as he scanned the lake valley. Ryou wrapped one arm around his waist and bit his thumb. They had found a deep, penetrating quiet, the kind of wilderness quiet that was devoid of texture of any kind; no bugs or burbling streams or bird song. It was not even like holding your breath, waiting, because that implied a coming moment of exhale, a sigh of relief. This was a perfect stillness.

And hidden somewhere inside it was a dragon.

Ryou bit harder, until he remembered the pain was fake and did nothing, and he had to come up with something else to temper his anxiety, which was definitely, definitely real.

Kaiba's gonna flip his shit when he sees your dragon, Yuugi said, from the back of Ryou's mind, Ryou's demo manuscript in hand. In a good way or a bad way? Is it too derivative? What does it matter that he'll flip his shit for my dragon when he flips his shit for ANY dragon? He's a slut for dragons. Oh my god, you can't say that! Yuugi, please, help - nope. You got this. You know what you're doing.

Even the metallic shing of Kaiba’s sword coming out of its sheath seemed small, in an unnatural way, a pointless, petty defiance.

A shadow fell across the lake valley.

Both of them looked up -

and an enormous dragon hurtled out of the sky, landing with thundering force on all four clawed feet, flattening trees and boulders beneath its reptilian bulk. Ryou staggered backwards and fell, in an awkward, clumsy crab pose; Kaiba threw his shield over his face and dug in, undaunted.

"HAVE YOU COME TO KILL ME?" the dragon boomed. “MISERABLE WRETCH?”

Kaiba lowered his shield, just enough for his first full look at the dragon. From his spot, crumpled on the ground, Ryou saw, in the shadow below the shield, another slender smile. The dragon’s hide was a dark, luxurious blue-black, mottled like snakeskin but textured with the heavy crags and knobs of crocodiles. It lowered its head on its long, arching neck, gracefully bearing the weight of two massive, curving horns, and stared down at them with fathomless acid-green eyes.

Even Ryou, who had designed it, sat enthralled: every movement it made - the eager flick of its tail, the claws, curling into the dirt, glinting under a layer of blood and grime, the shuddering of its leathery wings as they folded into its long body - hinted at indomitable power. It was a true creature of legend, a titan from the youngest days of the world, demanding both reverence and terror.

“I have!” Kaiba replied blithely, despite announcing it in a ringing voice.

“ONLY THE CHOSEN ONE CAN DEFEAT ME,” the dragon said. “YOU ARE NOT WORTHY OF SUCH A FEAT. I SEE YOUR HEART, BLACKGUARD KNIGHT. I CAN TASTE THE BLOOD YOU’VE SPILLED WITH YOUR SWORD, BRIGHT AND PUNGENT. I CAN HEAR THE CRIES OF ALL THE LIVES YOU’VE LET EBB INTO THE DIRT AT YOUR FEET!”

“I’m here to avenge the village!” Kaiba shouted.

“YOU COME UP HERE TO DEFEND SOME PATHETIC SCRAPS OF BRICK AND WOOD, THINKING YOU CAN KILL ME, AND CALL THAT HONOR? REDEMPTION? YOU CALL THAT COURAGE? ITS TRUE NAME IS VANITY! EMPTY AND FALSE! IT WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN BEFORE I DO!” the dragon boomed again. “LEAVE. I WAS ONCE NAIVE AND VAIN LIKE YOU. COME BACK WHEN YOU ARE MORE THAN A MERE WORM, OR ELSE SUFFER MY FATE!”

Ryou had clambered to his feet and bolted for the safety of a low ridge, which gave him a perfect view of Kaiba, head held high and proud as he gazed unflinching at the dragon, several hundred times his size. He’d written those words in his notebook on the metro, leaning his head against the cool midnight glass, pausing every other line to ferret out another piece of sour candy from his bag. Then he’d missed his stop. That trundling, light-washed world of a train car seemed impossibly distant now - a rapidly fading dream, to be remembered only in flashes and silence. To hear the words come out of the smoking jaws of this dragon, each syllable flowing in a delicious, indulgent baritone from its shining teeth, filled him with a breathless exhilaration, his heart hammering in his throat - this was real!

“Only one of us is suffering fate today!” Kaiba shouted back, a laugh in his voice, and then threw a glance at Ryou. “‘Suffer my fate?’ Is that a typo?”

“VERY WELL. COME KILL ME! THERE IS PEACE IN DEATH, AND ONLY ONE OF US CAN CLAIM IT!”

“I - watch out!” Ryou yelled, as the dragon lunged forward, its jaws snapping shut on the empty air where Kaiba had been standing half a second before. Kaiba threw himself out of the way, a nimble tuck and roll, and scrabbled across the shale towards higher ground. Behind him, the dragon swung its massive head, nostrils red and flaring, mouth curled up in a savage draconic grin, glinting with the promise of violence.

No sooner had Kaiba flung himself behind a scattering of boulders, shield raised, than it unleashed a jet of fire so hot and scorching the boulders glowed red, their rough faces melting in sheets. Ryou felt the heat wash across his face, from several dozen yards away.

The fire died out. The dragon snorted in satisfaction, horse-like, a loud, wet huff of smoke. The boulders sizzled as they cooled into their new, bizarrely dripping forms.

Kaiba emerged from behind a boulder, sweating and singed, his face streaked with ash and his eyes shining. He tossed the warped, melted wreckage of his shield aside, where it bounced and clattered against the rocks.

“SO YOU STILL LIVE? A MISTAKE. WHAT COMES NEXT WILL HURT WORSE!”

“For you!” Kaiba hurled back, and threw his hand into the air, a gesture Ryou had seen countless times on a duel field - a lightning rod, a summoning. “VENTUS!”

The wind picked up, in a giddy, howling whirl, bringing with it a cloud of dust that descended gritty and blinding and pale across the valley. Kaiba and the dragon vanished from sight inside it. Mentally Ryou subtracted one spell from Kaiba’s satchel.

“THIS WON’T HELP Y - ” Cut off by a wet chop and an ear-splitting draconic scream, a raw, awful sound, torn out of an unwilling throat. Just below it, a glorious, cascading laugh. “WRETCH! WORM!”

The dust settled, revealing glistening, dark-green blood splattered across the rocks, and a single severed claw, its flesh still twitching. The dragon seethed, its wounded foot curled in agony. Kaiba was clear across the other side of the pass, by the dragon’s tail, grinning open-mouthed as he panted for breath. His chainmail and surcoat dripped with dragon blood; his hair was thick with it.

“COME GET YOUR PEACE, DRAGON!” he bellowed, and the dragon slung its head around, tail coiling in an ominous whip.

Again Kaiba lifted his hand, shouted “VENTUS - !”

And a second dust cloud barreled into the valley, as the dragon roared back, “THAT WON’T WORK AGAIN!”

It whipped its tail through the dust cloud, a scythe-like sweep - smacking something hard into the rocks with a thick, fleshy crunch of bone that made Ryou’s insides clench tight with terrified sympathy.

The dragon whirled around, clearing the dust with several storm-gathering wingbeats.

This was not real. This was just pixels, neatly arranged and running in rivers of algorithms - just a clever series of ones and zeroes - and yet Ryou gasped, the dragon laughing, at the sight of Kaiba lying in a crumpled, motionless heap in the rocks. He hadn’t considered Kaiba might actually fail to kill the dragon - all thoughts of jobs and game-writing abandoned - unreality aside, the mind had a way of making it real - what the fuck happened if Kaiba died?

“IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE, WORM?” the dragon said, nudging Kaiba’s limp body with its claws, rolling him over. His head lolled, his body twisted into a horrifying, broken-boned slouch. How on earth was Ryou going to explain this to Yuugi? Hell. “I TOLD YOU, YOU'RE NOT W - ”

Ryou almost didn’t see it - a hawk in a dive, arrow-straight, from the top of the sky, diving through a blinding flash of light several stories up - and out of the light came Kaiba, alive and whole, plummeting towards the dragon’s head, gripping his sword with both hands - plunging it straight through the top of the dragon’s skull.

He left the sword hilt-deep in dragon flesh as he pitched forward with the force of impact, rolling over the dragon’s brow, flailing to catch himself - on the massive horn. Clinging, victorious, as the great dragon swayed, its green eyes filming, and finally slumped, in agonized slow motion, to the earth, body first, head last, with a thundering, bone-rattling crash.

It released one last, rattling breath, the trees shuddering in the fetid breeze.

The valley descended into stillness once more.

Ryou sat down on his low escarpment with a limp thump, burying his face in both hands. This was just a Virtual World, where at one point everything would power down and they’d wake up safe and sound in the squishy, air-conditioned comfort of a pod, and he had, after all, planned on Kaiba killing the dragon, but Kaiba’s sheer nerve seemed beyond that. Yuugi was right. The guy was, maybe, a little nuts. Completely off his rocker.

“Ryou,” Kaiba said, above him, and Ryou lifted his head. Kaiba rested the sword jauntily across his shoulder, the rest of him filthy with dragon blood and human blood and dirt. “I have to say, I enjoyed your dragon. A shame it had to die.”

“Your strategy... You used a glamour spell? On a... rock? To make it look like your dead body,” Ryou said. “And then a transformation spell.”

“Correct. Is that all for your demo?” Kaiba said, cocking an eyebrow, both bloody and disdainful, and Ryou swallowed. “I was hoping for more of a cha - ”

His words stopped hard in his throat, a harsh, hacking sound. His free hand flew to his neck, mouth dropping open in pain and confusion, eyes widening. He coughed - or tried to, achieving nothing more than a thin, ugly retching, his face going white - and Ryou watched, in fascinated horror, as his gamble began to play out. There was nothing he could do to help; he’d written it that way.

The sword clattered to the stones, green blood dripping off the shining edge, as Kaiba staggered sideways, gasping for breath, both hands on his neck - what was the algorithm doing to him? Ryou had only written ‘a suffocating, squirming pain, concentrated in the lungs,’ and resolved to think more carefully about what types of pain he might inflict on the player characters, if the gamble paid off... But how interesting to know even the creator of the Virtual World himself suspended his disbelief - his knowledge of the truth - sometimes, and indulged in pain...

He collapsed to his knees, stretching one hand out, fisting it around Ryou’s collar and dragging him closer -

“What - ” he choked out, eyes glaring into Ryou’s, in baffled, furious agony - terrified - they rolled backwards, the blue sliding away to white, as he slumped over himself.

His hand went slack and fell. What life remained slipped away in a low, shaking sigh.

Ryou took him by the shoulders and gently lay him down, passing a hand over his eyes to close them. Dead, but not really.

“Just hold on a moment,” he said. The body had been vacated. The soul - the player - was awakening elsewhere.

He waited a few moments, absorbing the stillness, the detail on the leaves of the pine trees; the way the lake water shimmered in golden flecks with late afternoon light. It was maybe his last few seconds to enjoy the world he’d written, rendered in full splendor by the magic of technology, and he’d banished his anxiety from both his mind and body, to live out its exile in the real world. It didn’t belong here.

The great dragon body began to stir, drowsily, waking up from a deep, deep sleep. The deepest sleep.

Ryou stood up and slid down the escarpment to the dragon, pebbles and dust avalanching around his feet. The stab wound in its skull was knitting back together; the severed claw was crawling back to its slow-bleeding joint. There was an agonized hiss, forced through the dragon’s tightly-clenched teeth, and a vibrating groan, deep in its chest, as it gathered itself out of death.

Its eyes opened, in wary slits - not the bright, acid green, but a stunning, oceanic blue.

“OW. FUCK,” it growled, in Kaiba’s voice, magnified and twice as resonant. “OPEN MASTER COMMANDS, USER ID 000002510. SUSPEND ALL PAIN ALGORITHMS. CLOSE MASTER COMMANDS.”

He rolled upright, flexing his wings with experimental care. He arched his neck, looking down at Ryou.

“YOU TURNED ME INTO A DRAGON.”

“Yes,” Ryou said cautiously.

“NO ONE HAS EVER TURNED ME INTO A DRAGON BEFORE,” Kaiba said. ”SO I WASN’T WORTHY? IS THIS WHAT IT MEANS TO SUFFER THE DRAGON’S FATE? EVERYONE WHO KILLS THE DRAGON BECOMES THE DRAGON, AND ONLY THE CHOSEN ONE BREAKS THE CYCLE. IS THAT HOW IT GOES?”

“That’s how it goes.”

“HOW DO I FIND THE CHOSEN ONE?”

“You choose them,” Ryou said. “You decide what makes them worthy.”

"SO ANYONE CAN BE THE CHOSEN ONE? ANYONE CAN BREAK MY CURSE?"

"That's right."

Kaiba pondered that for a moment, flexing his claws idly in the dirt, the massive slabs of muscle in his shoulders shifting as he tested the strength and fit of his new draconic body. His gaze drifted out over the lower valley, eyes clouding briefly with memories of another story, another game, another man; one who had always seemed real and unreal, all at once, no matter what world he lived in. Ryou had heard it all from Yuugi.

Then Kaiba looked at him and started to laugh, a sound that echoed and rebounded across the small lake valley, the water shivering as each delighted peal of laughter rolled across. Ryou blushed as it buffeted him from all sides.

“IS THAT SO,” Kaiba said, with dry relish. “YOU’RE HIRED.”

#sibbinthegivengibbon #fanfiction #euroshipping #(platonic)#oh my goddddddd this was a blast to write i just enjoyed myself the entire time #thanks for the prompt!!#its 1 AM i'm going the FUCK to sleep

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sword-dad-fukuzawa · 3 years

Text

black glass in the desert, an au about teyvat after the fall

Summary: In the wasteland of what had been Teyvat, Diluc picks through the wreckage. Part of a post-apocalyptic Genshin AU that I may or may not finish, and the product of my obsession with the Mare Jivari. Diluc-centric.

Rating: G/T

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, death

Ships: None explicitly, though you could read into this what you like. Jeanluc and Kaeluc are both kind of implied.

Diluc has always been the sort of person who hates anything that inconveniences him, mild as it often is, and the dangerous hot sun is no different. He can feel it lancing hot pain over the unprotected skin of his neck and he knows, with the burden of prior experience, that he’s going to be scorched bright red in the morning. But he keeps walking. At the rate he’s going, he won’t reach the Mare Jivari before sundown. And with the endless desert stretching as far as the eye could see, that just might kill him.

But he survived the Night of the Burning Citadel and he survived the earthquakes that followed. He adamantly refuses to die in the middle of an empty desert, not when he’s so close he can taste it.

It’s the ash on the wind, Diluc thinks, a little deliriously. It’s a familiar taste in his mouth.

There’s also sand in his mouth, sharp and gritty. There’s sand in his collar, sand in his boots, sand worked so far into his hair that he’ll spend weeks washing it out if he survives this. Even having chopped most of it off just before venturing into Sumeru’s desert sea hadn’t stopped it from collecting particles. He’s not used to it being so short, either. Every so often, Diluc catches himself rubbing at the back of his head, expecting a ponytail where there isn’t one.

He stumbles and nearly falls to his knees in the dunes, but he stops at the last moment. The sudden movement makes him woozy.

Diluc doesn’t remember the last time he’s gotten a proper night’s rest. It can’t have been since the fall of Mondstadt, or even before, not when he’d had his hands full dealing with all the minor crises leading up to it. Those days remain a wash of black ash in his memories, the sort that Abyss Mages became once whatever kept them from dying ran out.

Lots of ash. Diluc’s sick of ash.

He walks until the sun stops bothering him, though he only realizes that it’s stopped being a problem because it’s setting. And that, more than the evening breeze, sends a thrill of fear through him. He could face a hilichurl band or an Abyss Mage any day, but the small outpost of Sumerian refugees—scholars, mainly, who had rode out the earthquakes by holing up in the Academia and fled the subsequent fires—had warned him against the plunging temperatures of desert nights. Even his Pyro Vision might not be able to save him, they’d said, and eyed the gemstone dangling at his waist with barely repressed curiosity.

Diluc hadn’t had the heart to tell them that he couldn’t conjure flames if he tried, and that he mostly wore his Vision out of habit and because it reminded him of home. He’d tried once after the earthquakes, still standing in the smoking ruins of Mondstadt, and he hadn’t been able to conjure up so much as a spark. It hangs from his hip like a dead weight and sometimes he smacks into it while he runs.

He grits his teeth and keeps walking, slogging over the sand like one of those Ruin Guards that always haunted Brightcrown Canyon. Though Brightcrown Canyon is markedly less of a canyon, now, and more a shallow divot in the earth. He assumes the Ruin Guard meandering through it on a patrol route nobody understood, least of all him, had been buried by landslides.

The breeze blows past him, still warm from the heat of the day. Diluc is from Mondstadt, born and bred—even with the Anemo Archon gone and any Anemo Visions long since gone dead, it carries a familiar pang of comfort.

He’s never been all that religious. Not like Jean—and he thinks of her with some regret—or his father had been. Too many terrible things happen on a daily basis for him to accept that there was really some benevolent god watching over him. And that belief was only solidified when he met that god, because it’s hard to worship a bard wearing bright green and standing a good two or three heads shorter than him. Especially one that drank his weight in alcohol at least once a week.

Nevertheless, the wind against Diluc’s cheek feels like a promise. An encouragement.

And so he keeps walking.

He thinks that there might be some truth in the old clan sayings about the wind when he sees what must be the border of the Mare Jivari, illuminated in broad strokes by moonlight. Since he’d made up his mind to travel there, he’d heard it called many things.

The silent sea of ash. The edge of the world. A windless land.

He knows it by the way the breeze abruptly stops, as if controlled by some unseen hand, as soon as he steps over the last few sand dunes. In front of him is what looks like a flat plane of grey and black dust—the ashes of the lava that had, once upon a time, made up the bulk of the Mare Jivari. Now, only ash and charcoal stretches before him, seeming to go all the way until the horizon. Inexplicably, the air is warm—much warmer than the air before the border, which had begun to cool as the moon climbed higher in the sky.

And there, standing ankle-deep in the ashes, stands a tall, familiar figure.

“Fucking finally,” Diluc spits, hauling himself fully outright.

The figure turns at his outburst. He’s missing his elaborate cloak and he’s put his hair into a bun, but it is still, unmistakably, Kaeya. He still wears his old clothes and his Cryo vision dangles over his left hip, and his eyepatch is the same gold-trimmed black it’s always been.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, and Archons, he even sounds the same. It doesn’t look like a single day has passed since the last time Diluc had seen him—perched atop the statue of Barbatos, silhouetted against the burning cathedral—and yet it’s been over a year. The time spent wandering is engraved in Diluc’s bones, but some days, he wonders if this aching feeling is what the Traveler had felt in those halcyon days before. Before Celestia fell from the sky and broke the world into pieces.

“Cut the shit,” Diluc snaps. “You know what I’m here for.”

Kaeya has the gall to look vaguely amused, his visible eye crinkling into a mockery of a smile. “What, to kill me? You’re welcome to try, Master Diluc.”

The old title grates on his ears, insincere in a way that he’s long since learned to tolerate but not to enjoy.

“I’m not you,” he says through gritted teeth, because as much as he desperately wants to see Kaeya bleed for what he knows he’s done—because cathedrals don’t set fire to themselves, and he had gone missing for weeks before the night Mondstadt burned to the ground—there are things he wants more. He’s travelled this far, and for so long, that to lose sight of what he wants in a fit of passion is unthinkable to him.

“You wound me,” says Kaeya. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, as casually as if he were standing across the counter the Angel’s Share. Diluc feels the pull of home more viscerally than ever before, looking at Kaeya. If he fixes his eyes on his face and not on the Mare Jivari, he can almost imagine he’s behind the counter, wiping down glasses and putting bottles in the correct order. He can hear the ever-present music on the breeze and the low chatter of bar patrons, smell the scent of cecelias on the wind—

Diluc cuts off the thought. He can’t afford to think of Mondstadt now.

“Answers,” he says, the words low in his throat. “Answers, Kaeya, you owe me that much.”

The wind doesn’t blow here. He’s utterly alone, now—and if he’s being honest with himself, he’s been alone since Mondstadt burned, and maybe even before that. He’s spent this last year searching for answers. Looking, desperately, for a clear description of what had happened the night of the earthquakes. Wandering around and talking to the survivors had told him three things that he could hold as fact.

First, that the earthquakes had happened simultaneously. Each one had been centered on a region with a major quake for each city. Mondstadt, just barely recovering from the fires in the previous day, hadn’t stood a chance. As it was, most of the larger population centers had been decimated. Liyue’s ports had crumbled and the rest of the buildings flooded or destroyed after a massive tsunami. Snezhnaya’s Zapolyarny Palace had apparently tumbled down around the Harbingers’ ears. Similar stories could be heard all across what was left of the seven nations, though there hadn’t been a single word from Inazuma. As far as Diluc knew, the islands may as well have been drowned by the sea.

Second, that none of the survivors from Mondstadt had seen Kaeya that night. He’d been the only one to see him standing atop Barbatos’s open hands, and when he’d looked again, he was gone.

Third, that something had happened to Celestia, and so everything that drew upon a connection to it ceased working as soon as the aftershocks had ended. Visions turned blank and dull, like masterless Visions, and nothing could bring them back to life. Most damningly, not a single person could see Celestia hovering in the sky anymore—though no one had seen it fall, either. But the Abyss seemed to have gone quiet, too—as if the hilichurls, Abyss Mages, Abyss Heralds, and other monsters had all quietly vanished from the face of Teyvat. Even the pulsing blue leyline trees and flowers were gone.

Diluc looks at Kaeya and he sees Mondstadt burning, but he doesn’t pull out his sword. Not yet. “Explain,” he says roughly.

Kaeya considers him with a blank expression, inscrutable to the last. Finally, he sighs. “Wouldn’t you prefer not to know?” he asks, patronizing. “You might not like what you hear.”

Diluc has never, in his entire life, wanted to kill someone as much as he wants to kill Kaeya in that moment.

“Jean is dead!” he roars, feeling something inside him, something held tight for so long, snaps. “She died of injuries sustained hauling civilians out of the cathedral, the cathedral you burned down! I had to watch as her little sister tried to heal third-degree burns and couldn’t, because they’d gone down right to the bone, and I had to carry her body back to Lisa. You owe me! This is the least of your debt!”

Kaeya takes a step back, his face contorting into surprise. Good, Diluc thinks viciously. He doesn’t know how Kaeya has the audacity to look surprised at the destruction he’d clearly wrought with his own two hands, but he hopes the knowledge that he’d killed Jean—Jean, the best of them, the one who had deserved to live—hurts. He hopes it rips open a wound and he’ll get to watch Kaeya bleed.

Diluc takes a step forward, pressing his advantage. “And worst of all,” he hisses, seeing Kaeya’s jaw tense, “is that I had to leave. I had to leave, Kaeya, had to leave the last survivors of Mondstadt’s collapse behind because there was one person in this place who could possibly answer for everything we’d lost. The last Knights remaining are Klee and Albedo, did you know? Did you even care that they survived? I left Mondstadt with two knights and a librarian, one of whom is a child.”

“Had to leave?” Kaeya shoots back, as if regaining his footing somehow. “Or did you run away, like you always do?”

“Lisa told me to go!” Diluc shouts. He finally gives into the urge to pull his sword out, the familiar heft of it in his hand both a comfort and an assurance.

Kaeya's hand comes to rest on the hilt of his own sword, still hanging at his hip. But he smiles, sharp and slow. "I'm getting deja vu," he says. "Isn't this familiar?"

Diluc bites down on the instinctive, frustrated snarl. "If I have to beat the answers out of you, I will," he promises.

"Bring it," Kaeya snaps, unsheathing his blade in one smooth motion.

And then Diluc is lunging forward.

#i'm still on hiatus but #i just thought i'd start with uh #cleaning out my wip folder #because they're making me feel guilty #this one has been languishing #honestly lmk if you want more of this and i'll see what i can do #black glass in the desert snippets #diluc ragnvindr #kaeya alberich #genshin impact #genshin impact fanfiction #i dunno why i like writing diluc centric fics #yes this is post-canon #yes i have more hcs about the apocalypse

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bxthharmon · 4 years

Text

Never Go Home Again, Pt. V || JJ Maybank x reader

Words: 3628

Series Warnings: violence / talking about abuse / toxic relationships / talking about nudes sex tapes and sex tapes / drugs / underage drinking

Pt. Warnings: underage drinking / drug use

Series summary: A new girl, a shoebox of old memories, a past she’s trying to forget coincide with a hotheaded, but selfless, boy. teenagers getting in way over their heads

Pt. Summary: A trip to the cemetery and talks of the future

A/N: Okay THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT and as always, let me know what oyu think and if you wanna be tagged <3

Chapters linked in my masterlist.

“masterlist”

“I mean it’s obvious, right?” John B looked around at the group, “A family heirloom, what better place to hide a message? He had to know it was gonna get back to me, right?”

“Yeah, it’s possible.” Kie assured her friend, looking back at Pope’s skeptical face and you and JJ, currently sharing a spliff.

“It could also be possible that you’re concocting wild theories to help,” Pope started, “you know, deal with your sad feels.”

“Bro, you know how I process my sad feels?” JJ piped up.

“Do we want to?” you quipped, taking a hit off the joint.

“Dank nugs and the stickiest of ickies.” he continued, making you snort., “That’s how I do it.”

“You know,” you looked at him, as if about to make a psychological evaluation, “you’re like, such a stereotype?”

“I’m not concocting, okay?” John B snapped, cutting off your tangent, “My dad’s trying to give me a message.”

“If it helps you believe, John B.” Kie assured.

“Look, I - I don’t need a therapy session, okay? I’m not trippin’ out.”

“It’s okay to trip out, bro, but-”

“Look my - my dad is missing, okay? Missing. You don’t know what it’s like to have the person closest to you vanish and then have no idea what happened. To just wake up every morning wandering.”

“It’s been almost a year.” Kie soothed.

“Hey,” JJ piped up, again, “He could have been kidnapped - that’s definitely a possibility.”

“Yeah, could be in a Soviet sub being interrogated by the KGB somewhere.” Pope offered.

“Absolutely. Or Atlantis!”

“Because a fictional, Ancient Greek allegory is the most plausible option.” you deadpanned.

“Y/N,” Kie warned, turning back to John B, “What do you think the message is?”

“Redfield.” he thought for a second, “Redfield Lighthouse, that’s my dad’s favourite place.”

He pulled into the woods, the group leading you to a picket fence overlooking the grey and white tower and the platform of rocks it stood on.

“I didn’t even know there was a lighthouse on this island.” you muttered, shielding your eyes from the sun.

“Alright here’s what’s gonna happen,” John B walked over to JJ, “You’re gonna post up and look out for bogeys, okay?”

“Wait,” JJ frowned, “why me?”

“‘Cause you’re not coming.” Pope said, as if it was obvious.

“Why?”

“Look JJ, there are independent and dependent variables.” Pope explained.

“You’re an independent variable.” you confirmed.

“We don’t know what you’ll do.” Pope added.

“Shut up!” he yelled at you both, “just shut up!”

“Listen to me for a second!” John B shouted over him, “Just listen. Pope and Y/N, stand look out with JJ, okay? If we get split up we’ll meet back at JJ’s house.”

You made eye contact with JJ, thinking of his dad, passed out on the sofa the night before.

“Great.” Kie interrupted your thought, walking away with John B.

“I’m gonna work on my merit scholarship essay.” Pope excused, “and I’m tryna keep felonies down to a minimum.”

“A’ight, will you just shut up?” JJ said, kicking around his hacky sack. You pulled yourself up onto a joint between a tree and its branch, watching JJ kick the sack around. You watched for a couple of minutes, admiring the way his eyebrows pulled in when he concentrated and his blonde locks fell over his face, or the way he pouted when the ball fell into the crisp leaves, before twisting around and kicking your feet out to rest on the branch. He looked up at you, a determined curiosity in his eyes. You looked back down at him, bracing yourself for the oncoming question. “What happened last night?”

You glanced over to Pope, who was too busy thinking to pay any attention. “My dad got drunk and started saying shit, I didn’t wanna stick around and I had no clue where to go. Thanks, for all of that.”

“It's nothing you haven’t done for me.” he reminded you. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You smiled a tight-lipped smile, nodding quickly, “Of course.”

You dragged Pope into a game of hacky sack, and he was beginning to get the hang of it (after much teasing from you and JJ) when you heard the sirens. You swore, running to the Twinkie as the cars pulled closer, sirens wailing and lights flashing. You all jumped in, driving away despite your point that “Pogues don’t leave pogues behind, right?”

John B had picked up you, Pope and JJ, and after a short delay caused by Kie’s refusal (you explained to the boys that John B had kissed her and been rejected, which was all Kie had told you during your shift at the Wreck) you found yourselves on the way to the cemetery.

“You mind if I just relax on this one?” JJ spoke up, “It’s been a long day, and a lot of weird stuff’s gone down. I’m just gonna lay low,” he turned to you, “Did you want a hit of this?”

You took the blunt, inhaling the weed and exhaling the smoke. You offered it to Pope, who shook his head. You groaned. “Popey, you’re a total buzzkill!”

“How much have you had?” you flipped him off, “I keep the signal clear.” he shook his head, and you handed the blunt back to JJ.

“Dude, okay.” JJ leaned forwards like an old mage about to give the wisest advice of the century, “Do you understand that your problem is that you don’t get creative? If you got creative, then-”

“Look, John B interrupted, sparing you all from JJ’s wisdom, “I - I know I was wrong about the lighthouse, alright? And wrong about everything else going on. But I was right about one thing, okay? My dad is trying to tell me something.”

“Come on.” you hopped out of the van, and turned, grabbing JJ’s handed and trying to pull him up from the floor with all your might, frustrated when he giggled at your efforts, not having moved an inch. Kie scolded the pair of you, so you let John B lead you into the cemetery, tickling Pope on the back of the neck with a bit of long grass so that he panicked, spinning around like a deer in the headlights, searching for whatever ghost he thought had touched him. You and JJ giggled.

“This place is scary.” Kie shuddered, the torch lights swaying in time with the footfalls. “John B, what are we doing?”

“Shut up!” he hissed, “Okay, so you know how you’re trying to remember a song,” you prepared yourself for an unnecessarily long explanation, “and you can’t remember who sings it?”

You all hummed in understanding.

“So. Redfield. This whole time I thought it was a place, right? But it’s not a place.” He held up the light to show the word “REDFIELD” written over the door of a tomb, “It’s a person.”

“Voi-effing-la.” JJ snarked, and you elbowed him playfully.

“See,” John B continued, “My great-great-grandmother, Olivia Redfield.” he glanced back at you, “That was her maiden name. Look, help me with the door, come on.” he stepped forwards, him and Pope beginning to push on the count of three. JJ joined.

“Are you pushing?”

“Yeah, I’m pushing.”

“Hold on, I got it.”

“This door is, like, 700 pounds man,” Pope sighed, “it’s not gonna budge.”

“We didn’t come this far, to get this far, alright?” JJ countered. You and Kie looked at each other, fighting back giggles at the macho-man display in front of you. Your stifled laughs were interrupted by a hissing, the pair of you squealing slightly as you stepped back.

The boys pulled back as well, JJ throwing his arms out dramatically in front of you. “Snake!” he yelled.

“No shit.” you whispered.

“That’s a moccasin, alright.” he confirmed, “Ye olde Dr. Cottonmouth. Death in tall grass.”

He barked loudly at the snake, crouching slightly.

“JJ, Shut up!” Kie hissed, “Shut up!”

“You’re gonna wake the frickin’ dead, man!” Pope whisper-shouted.

“They’re afraid of dogs.” JJ shrugged like it was common knowledge, ignoring your confused faces, “Everyone knows that, man. Wait, hold on.” he pulled Kie and John B back, the four of you turning back to him with unimpressed faces. “If there’s one, there’s probably dozens.”

“What?” Pope fretted.

“JJ,” you groaned. “Stop being dramatic, it was just a snake.”

Pope and JJ looked at you almost offended, with terror stricken faces.

“Can you stop? You’re scaring me.” Kie begged. JJ started barking again.

“Oh my God, Jay.” you seethed, “stop fucking barking!”

“Just making sure it’s clear!” he argued, making you roll your eyes.

“Shut up!” Pope finalised, “John-”

“It’s a snake!” JJ countered.

“We’re not gonna get in there.” Pope continued, as Kie nudged you, pointing to the whole in the door. “It’s not budging. We should probably just go.”

“I can get through.” you spoke, Kie glancing at you with a worried smile.

“What?” JJ stared at you, concern striking his face, again.

“What?” echoed John B, “No, no, you think you’re gonna fit through the hole?”

“That hole?” JJ confirmed, and you nodded.

“Look,” you turned to face John B, “I know we only met like a week and a half ago, but I can see how much this means to you. If this helps you find him, or, at the very least, find out what happened, then of course I’ll climb through that whole. You deserve to know the truth. I’ll do it.”

Kie went forward to clear the vines away, and JJ frowned at you. “Are you sure?”

“For John B,” you reminded him, “I’ll try not to get possessed, you know, like the Tutankhamun shit. Though, if I did, I’d take all of you down with me.”

With that, JJ helped pull the vines to the side, allowing you entry. “I’m gonna boost ya,” he said, leaning against the wall in a crouch position with his fingers interlocked, “I’ve seen it in the movies several times, ready?”

You turned to John B, “Remind me what we’re looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see it.” he said, arms crossed and staring straight on. You nodded, not really assured, but ready to go in.

“Hold my flashlight.” You passed it to Pope.

“Okay,” JJ instructed, “Put your hand right there, and your foot. Alright, on three.”

You ignored him, pushing yourself up and clambering through the whole, jumping down onto the dusty ground on the other side. You brushed yourself off in the darkness, hearing JJ mutter “Okay, nevermind, just forget about three then.” the lights from outside were moving, and you saw the shadow of JJ moving away, and Pope moving towards the gap.

“Okay, flashlight?” you called, and are greeted by the feel of Pope thrusting a flashlight in your face, barely an inch away. You took it from him, clicked it on and shone it around. You could see the shapes of the individual tombs, and shuddered.

“You alive?” John B called, “Got like a - a heartbeat, and everything?”

“So far. No Howard Carter shit yet.” you confirmed, hearing JJ mutter something about Tutankhamun, and you slowly turned, looking at the dusty tombstones and plaques for clues. “Uh, I need some more light.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He handed you another light, “I got ya.”

You shone it towards a gap between two stones, stepping forwards slowly, trying to make out exactly what it was. An envelope of some sort?

“You got something?” JJ asked, “Is there gold?”

“Oh my God.” you muster, picking it up. You read the front, “FedEx”, and then next to it, in handwritten block letters, “FOR BIRD.”

You stepped towards the hole, holding the envelope and light out blindly as someone took them from you. You heard Pope say “That’s not gold.”

“Holy shit.” You heard John B murmur as you tackled your way out of the tomb, tumbling out of the whole with JJ’s help, “This is from my dad.”

You and Kie smiled softly, turning at the sound of a vehicle. JJ took a hit from his Juul, “Code red.” he called, “Code red. Square groupers. Square groupers!”

“Go!” Kie said, the five of you running from the headlights.

“It’s the guys who robbed your house!” JJ yelled as you all collapsed behind some tombstones, leaning around to try and see who they were.

“Lights!” You hissed, as the boys struggled with their flashlights. You clicked JJ’s headlight off for him, and he smirked in the shaky light. “John B - your light!” he tried to stuff in his shirt, making you smirk, idiot.

You could hear shouts, “Do you think it’s them?” Kie asked.

“Homie’s got a gun.” observed JJ.

“Screw this.” You grabbed Kiara’s hand, pulling her up with you and ran towards the gate. You let go, grabbing the gate and climbing, throwing your legs over one by one, and then hopping down the other side, only then noticing that the boys had, in fact, followed. Kie jumped down beside you, then JJ and John B. You looked back, seeing how Pope’s shorts were hooked over a loop, and he was stuck. You could see him panicking, and ran back to him, grabbing his waist as he yelled complaints. You pulled him back, stepping away from the gate a cackling at the sight of him standing awkwardly in his pants.

“Nice,” JJ commented, “It’s a little tootsie roll!”

Kie grabbed your forearm, the pair of you jumping in the car in fits if barely-contained giggles.

“Dumbass,” you mumbled through your laughter, helping him in, “Ain’t you ever jumped a gate before?”

“I have limited experience!” he countered, John B driving away.

“Guys,” you wheezed, you and JJ still giggling your heads off, “I’m pretty sure that was just the cemetery guards.”

You watched JJ spread jam over two slices of mouldy toast, disgust pulling at your features.

“That bread had mould on it three days ago.” Pope said, in passing.

“I’ll just pull off the bad parts,” JJ shrugged, “Plus, mould is good for you, it’s just a natural organism.”

“Jay, deadly nightshade is also ‘just a natural organism’, and, clue in the name, it’s deadly.” you pointed out, and he shrugged, joining you next to John B as Kie called to him.

“Hot damn, let’s do it.” he came, watching as John B pulled the seal off the envelope. He took a bite from the bread, and immediately gagged, spitting it back into his hand, and going to throw the bread away. Your face contorted in disgust, again, but softened at the sight of his sheepish grin. John B unfolded the map, and the five of you leaned over to check it out.

The map showed the island, a hurricane and ‘x’ marked in with a black marker.

“Holy shit.” John murmured.

“Well, ‘x’ marks the spot.” you pointed to the ‘x’ situated on the sea.

Next, John B pulled out an old fashioned tape recorder.

“What’s that?” JJ asked.

“A tape recorder, dummy.” you chuckled, “Where’d he get it, the 90s?”

“Dear Bird,”

“Who’s Bird?” you asked.

“That’s what my dad called me.” John B explained.

“I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I told you so. And you doubted your old man. I suspect, at this moment you’re filled with guilt and self-loathing about our last fight, but don’t kill yourself just yet, kid. I didn’t expect to find the Merchant either.” you looked at the others, seeing their matching expressions of shock and wonder, “You were probably right to call me out, I wasn’t exactly father of the decade. What can I say, kid? I could smell the barn. And hopefully we’re listenin’ to this in our brand new sugar-shack down in Costa Rica livin’ off passive investments and pulling on permits. If not, and you find this for less optimal reasons, well, that’s what the map is for. There she is, the wreck of the Merchant. If somethin’ happens to me, finish what I started. Go for the gold, kid. I love you bird, even if I didn’t always act like it. I’ll see you on the other side.”

The tape went static, and you could see John B tearing up, your heart breaking for him. He clicked the recorder off, standing up and grabbing onto a door frame, sobs racking his body.

“Holy shit, he did it!” JJ grinned ecstatically, “Big John - He found, he found the Merchant!”

You slapped his arm, eyes widening in warning as you nodded over to John B. “Can you… can you please?” JJ nodded, looking down and muttering an apology. You could hear John B’s sobs from feet away. You watched Kie hug him from behind, and leant your head on JJ’s shoulder.

You lay between JJ’s legs, head resting on his chest as he played with your hair, and you watched Kie strum at the ukulele, your faces lit up by the fire beside you, the soft, glowing light illuminating your small circle.

“How much was it again?” JJ broke the relative quiet.

“Four hundred mil.” You responded in a low murmur, looking up at his golden face.

“Alright, let’s talk the split.” he lightened up, hands leaving your hair and coming down to meet your hands. “Now, before we say ‘evenly’, may I remind you that I am the only one that can properly defend us from those groupers who are after us.” he lifted the gun to show you all, ignoring the collective groan, “Protection, not cheap, okay?”

“You haven’t trained.” Pope pointed out. “You’ve done zero training.”

“Nada.” You emphasised, “Zilch.”

“Youtube, bro!” JJ justified. “That’s at least a five percent bump right there. Any objections?” he ignored you and Pope’s muttering, “Didn’t think so.”

“Yeah.” You and Pope said in unison, and you sat up, twisting to face him.

“Complaint right here!” you leaned away from him.

“I don’t hear any.” He pouted as you pulled away, reaching out for your waist and pulling you back down to how you’d lay before.

“Guys,” you twisted your head to look at the pogues. “I’m like, new here, and y’all don’t really know me, so like, are you sure you want me in the cut? ‘Cause I’d understand if not-”

“Y/N,” Kie shut you up, “quality over quantity. You’ve helped us, we’re all getting 80 mil, JJ.” she glared at him, making you snort. “what are you gonna do with your 80 mil, Pope?”

“Pay for college in advance. And also textbooks. Those are expensive.”

“What about you Kie?” you asked.

“Yeah, what does a socialist do when she’s rich?” Pope smirked.

Kie chuckles, shrugging, “Just wanna make a double album. About OBX, the pogues. You know, the way Catch a Fire’s about Kingston. Record it at Marley studio, Peter Tosh producing.”

“Peter Tosh is dead.” Pope said.

“Peter Tosh is dead, I know.” Kie grinned, “Spirit of Peter Tosh will never die.” she toasted with her beer, “What about you, Y/N?”

“Pay off my brother’s student loans.” You paused, “And travel. I wanna see Europe. And Asia, and South America. I wanna see other cultures, you know? Might come back here, one day, I might even go back to LA for a bit, but probably not, just come straight home after a couple of years, and go full kook.”

“Yeah,” JJ agreed, “I’m gonna get a big ass house of Figure Eight and go full kook.”

“You’re gonna go full kook?” Pope asked.

“Yeah.” JJ nodded. “Gonna get a marble statue of myself and then I’m gonna get a koi pond.” You giggled, grinning up at him. “Put a bunch of those fish-”

“I’m never visiting.” Kie laughed.

“What are you gonna do, JB?” Pope brought your attention to your other friend.

He looked back around at the group and toasted, “To going full kook.”

“To going full kook!” you all cheered, all of you laughing, drinks raised, and heads stuck in your temporary bliss.

Eventually, John B clocked out, heading to his room, and Kiara gave Pope a ride home, leaving you and JJ alone for the first time since last night. You had been drinking and smoking all night, while he had stopped uncharacteristically early. As a result, he was almost sober, and you were nearing wasted as you went to grab your stuff and head home. He put his arm around your waist, letting you lean on him as you ambled slowly towards your house.

“Jay?” you mumbled, and he hummed, helping you further down the road, “When we go full kook, we should combine our money to get an even bigger house.”

He smiled at the thought of sharing a house with you.

“You wanna share a house with me?” he stopped by your door, and you turned to face him.

“Duh.” you slurred, blinking up at him.

“I’ll warn you, I’m a messy person.” he gazed down at your drunken smile.

“I’ll manage.” you mumbled, leaning up into him.

You pressed your lips to his, feeling pure bliss for a split second, but sobering when you felt him move away, punching against the kiss. You stepped back, cheeks reddening as you realised what you had done, feeling stupid and embarrassed, wanting to disappear. You felt your vision go cloudy, and he was talking but all you could hear was the voice in your head screaming that you had ruined this perfect, happy friendship You frowned, trying to keep the tears in as he stepped away from the door, backing into the road.

“JJ, I…” you watched him walk away, his shape turning into a smudge that crawled away, and disappearing completely when he turned the corner. Then, you let yourself fall.

Tags: @tangledinsparkles @jellyfishbeansontoast @lolitstiana @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch @teamnick @thoughtsofthestars @obxmxybxnk

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meteor752 · 3 years

Text

I made a joke post about Legolas and Aragorn adopting a baby Geralt and raising him a few weeks ago, but I can’t get it out of my head, so I’m gonna expand on that AU. First post can be found here

So Legolas and Aragorn are basically just out on a vacation in the eastern part of Middle Earth, just taking a break and chilling around you know, when they stumble upon a child just outside the kingdom of Rivia (Yes I am keeping that)

The child is about three or four years old, with the peculiar outward appearance of big Yellow eyes and almost white hair, and it doesn’t seem to mind being out alone in the middle of the forest.

Both Legolas and Aragorn decide though that they will try to find the child’s parents, and they spend two days in Rivia searching for the parent of the child, or just someone who knows something, but they get no results. Most people are repelled by the child, saying that it’s cursed or the result of witchcraft, and both Aragorn and Legolas take offense by that as they had gotten attached to the child.

On the third day they eventually give up, and after a long discussion they decide to adopt the child, as again, they both got attached real fast.

When the two return to Gondor with the small boy whom they named Geralt, a lot of people get quite surprised, mostly because what and why. Their respective families have the same reaction.

The two realize quickly that Geralt is not a normal child.

First, they have no idea what he is. They first thought human, but when small bursts of magic started to come from him, and when his acute sense of smell was discovered, they scratched that idea.

Second, he refused to part with his wolf medallion. They didn’t know why, it had been inspected by a lot of people, including Gandalf himself, but it didn’t seem to have any type of spell or curse on it that made him so fiercely attached to it. And he couldn’t tell them anything about it because-

-Three, he barely speaks. At first they thought he was mute or deaf or something alike, but that didn’t seem to be the case as he could hear, and he did utter a few words here and there. He just chose not to speak, and mostly made cute little grunts when people spoke to him.

Legolas became a mother hen very quickly, and was very loving towards his strange child, and as a child Geralt didn’t mind it too much. As an adult however, then he just wishes his ada would stop smothering him (He secretly loves it).

Aragorn is a lot less lovey dovey, but still very caring and Geralt loves to be around him. He was very quick with teaching his child both sword techniques and manners, but his major priority was teaching him how to care for a horse.

Geralt was not a shy kid as many people believed, When it came down to it he was more than able to voice his opinion. He just, doesn’t like to talk. And because of that fact, he also grew up to be very poor with words and having a problem formulating himself, which backfired a few times in his life.

The thing is, he doesn’t like when others talk either. He just wants to sit around and brood in silence like the angsty boy he is, but none of his family members allow him to, as they are all very chatty and cheery.

Especially his two uncles Elladan and Elrohir and his aunt Tilda, like whenever either one of them are around he can kiss peace and quiet goodbye for at least a few days. It’s even worse when it’s all three.

Geral’t strange magic became a problem early on, as it was very unpredictable. He could do more simple things like start fires and create a protective shield, but also literally manipulate minds, which was not a pleasant thing, especially as he had a hard time controlling it in his youth.

Gandalf tried his best to teach the boy to control his magic, and he did manage to get a hang of it, but sometimes it could still act out in his adulthood when he felt particularly stressed out or angry.

That wasn’t the only problem that came with Geralt being of unknown origin, as sometimes Aragorn and Legolas didn’t know how to properly raise the boy, and what he really needed.

For example, when Geralt was around seven he fell ill. And with that I mean really ill, many feared that he would not survive.

Both Legolas and Aragorn were devastated and the former spent nearly all his time holding and cuddling his shaking and whimpering baby who was in too much pain for the caring parent to handle, and he started to stop eating just to always be able to be by his son’s side.

Aragorn couldn’t afford to drop all of his duties as king, even though he wanted to, but his mind was very absent during everything he did that did not involve caring for Geralt.

Geralt eventually got better, thankfully, but neither Aragorn nor Legolas would ever forget the fear they had felt for almost five months of their still small and fragile son being so close to death.

Geralt’s magic wasn’t only a bunch of negative stuff, it did also come to some benefits in his youth, especially when it came to worrying his Ada.

At around nine Geralt found out that he could temporarily vanish, aka become invisible, if he focused on it enough, which meant that his parents were forced to place a bell on him just to make out where he was. He took it off quite often and would usually be hanging around his frantic Ada, sipping his juice box and watch the scene unfold,

(And I know that’s not really in the Witcher canon, but I just thought it would be cute and this is my AU so fuck off)

Not too long after Geralt got a half elf cousin by the name of Brand, at at first he was confused by the small thing and why he was supposed to care, but as Brand grew older and learned to sit up and make noise, Geralt hated the small thing and just wished for it’s demise. It did not help that his parents loved the kid and would gladly babysit when the thing’s parents were busy, which meant he was forced to be around it.

When Geralt turned twenty two he left Gondor to find his own path (Much to his Ada’s terror because there’s so many ways for him to get hurt Aragorn how are you so calm about this), only equipped with the bare essentials for a life on the road, including a mare he named Roach, a descendant of Brego.

Geralt was very quick to pick up on his father’s habit of having conversations with his horse, and Roach was quite a good listener.

Geralt found his purpose when a child ran up to him while in a village and asked if he could slay the monster that had killed his sister in exchange for money, as his family had seen his swords.

Geralt complied, partly because he could need the money and partly because it would be nice to help, even though his facial expression remained a grim scowl.

And after killing the thing and nearly dying himself in the process, he figures that he needs to do some research on different types of monsters and how to beat take them down before he starts going about.

He also starts carrying potions with him that he acquires from mages and witches across Middle Earth, just to make it easier to hunt and to heal himself after the fact.

But it is not everyone who appreciates his help unfortunately, as many turn him down just by his strange and uncanny appearance, and by his grim attitude that often scare people off.

It does not help that he introduces himself as Geralt of Rivia instead of Geralt Greenleaf of Gondor, just so people wouldn’t know who he was and treat him differently, but it does result in people having no idea he’s the son of a king and a crown prince so they treat him like shit if they want to.

It does not get better by the events in Blaviken, that Geralt would rather not speak off, especially to his parents.

It is first when he meets a young cheery bard that reminds him of an annoying bird that people start to respect him more, after the bard creates a ballad about him.

(Toss a coin would obviously sound a little different since in this AU the term ‘Witcher’ doesn’t exist and I doubt he would “Thrust every elf far back on the shelf” if he himself is part elf by adoption, but it is till toss a coin)

And both Aragorn and Legolas are just delighted at hearing the song because they are just so happy for their son, if not a little confused on why he is called Geralt of Rivia, but still yay!

(The bardlings love singing it together when they are around each other, as they love their nephew and is also all music loving people)

There’s also the mage that he encounters from time to time (And with encounter I mean they fuck, because well, Geralt is related to both Legolas and Tilda after all), whom the Bard, Jaskier, hates.

And then he gets an invitation to the wedding of Arwen and Éowyn while around both Jaskier and the mage, Yennefer, and they both are just as confused because “Wait you have a family?”

And the minute they find out about Geralt’s large, loud and quite famous and royal family, they are both pestering him about following to the wedding because they want to meet the people who raised Geralt, and he gives in after a lot of nagging and begging.

So when Geralt shows up in Rivendell with a brightly dressed bard and a gothic mage, well let’s just say it’s interesting.

Legolas is delighted that his little Gerry has made some friends while also checking on him that he is alright and Geralt hates in while Yen and Jaskier are having a blast.

Jaskier is really smug about the fact that Geralt is actually related to a bard in a way, with his Ada’s step siblings mother being one, and the three take after her with their own musical talent.

Jaskier and Sigrid gush a lot about different songs together.

And Tilda is just shamelessly flirting with the sexy gothic mage while Geralt regrets every single decision he’s ever made.

And of course Brand is there being an asshole while flirting with Jaskier, and again, Geralt regrets everything.

A betting pool is set up on who they think Geralt will end up with, Jaskier or Yennefer.

Geralt just craves death.

***

I tried to incorporate as much of the Witcher lore as I could, but I also had to take into account how Middle Earth works, which is very hard.

I mean, one is Polish and the other from New Zealand.

I don’t know what Geralt is supposed to be exactly, maybe some sort of Fae or Elf half breed, or maybe he is a mutant like the actual Witcher’s.

Anyways, this was fun, and I really wanna make more of this AU, because I love it. It’s not canon in my Universe though, sadly, because it just wouldn’t work.

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luminess-brightcoil · 3 years

Text

No Matter What You Do

All instruments recording the ongoing spread of the scourge pandemic indicated a rapid increase in risk of safety, up to and including the roaming dead in the very streets of Stormwind. What was once recommended to simply be a matter of staying off the streets and increasing security measures has changed with similar rapidity, up to and including the recommendation of immediate evacuation for all citizens of Stormwind, leaving only the Stormwind Patrol, the Argent Crusade, the Ebon Blade, and any of Azeroth’s Champions that were so moved to contribute to containing the absolute carnage at hand.

As the topic was broached for what this means for the great underground metropolis of Mechagon, Luminess Brightcoil balked at the data, though she Observed it in totality and took it upon her processing parameters to integrate this new data into her daily routine. To say the outlook was grim would be an understatement. To say that she was growing exhausted of grim outlooks would be even more of one.

Even a Beacon is prone to bouts of personal dismay. It was quickly becoming one Titans-damned thing after another for her. Starting and ending a revolution. Joining and ending the Fourth of Four Wars. Defeating the encroachment of the Old Gods. The Return of the San’layn. And now, this: Death itself, and whatever forces direct it upon Azeroth. And all of this within a single year.

On days like these, a Beacon would wonder why she ever left the island in the first place...

Luminess sat amongst her peers in the Think Tank that was assembled for the purpose of analyzing and developing an expedient solution to the matter of the scourge invasion with the Gnomish population at its focus. The scent of recirculated air through coppered ducts intertwined with the effervescent presence of warm, freshly applied toner as gnome and mechagnome alike scanned through document after document. Every finer point addressed, every corollary counter-examined, every contingency remodeled and re-assessed… And yet it was the general consensus of those present that not much headway was made just yet.

Except for Walton Cogfrenzy, Chief Architect of Mechagon, who maintained that he had a very simple and direct plan of response, that in any other context would have been seen as antithetical to their current societal trajectory, and now perhaps its only chance for survival:

Complete Lockdown.

“We will establish a temporary teleportation network between here and Tinker Town,” Walton explained. “Citizens of Gnomeregan can be funneled into our now half-vacant halls along with all our Gnomadic kin. Following that, remaining available space and resource accommodation can be afforded to our Dwarven cousins, though it is projected very few would be willing to retreat from their own beloved city. Still, we must press them to do so, and once we have evacuated all that we may hold and accommodate safely, access to the network will be severed from all entry points.”

The King shifted his weight from one side of his seat to the other. By far, the once High Tinker but now King Gelbin Mekkatorque would be the least Kingly King you could meet. He was conscientious to others. He yielded space and listened more than spoke. He sought counsel for all decisions, tall or small. Betraying the good will of his people was unthinkable, just as he would strive against working against their humbler wishes. And more often than not, you had to remind him of his now-regal station. A station, it is said, he has been working to reform away from the obsolete protocol known as the 'Divine Right of Kings.' Perhaps such topics could be addressed more directly when things were Quieter. But in either regard… Luminess, for one, was grateful to have someone so unlike the Mad Tyrant that, for now, she was willing to give the whole Monarchy thing one more chance.

“It will be difficult to convince the Gnomereganians to take refuge,” sighed King Mekkatorque wearily. “Many believe they’re perfectly safe within the walls of Ironforge, despite the surrounding snowy climate being far more tactically advantageous for the Scourge than even the tranquil forests of Elwynn or the unimpeding flats of Durotar. And even so, their pride is at stake to some extent. They won’t take easily to being confined to another underground kingdom, even if it is ostensibly theirs. Over time, we of Gnomeregan have become more and more like our Gnomadic cousins than not as the impossibly high toll taken by Thermaplugg continues to plague our once-hallowed halls, figuratively AND literally.”

“And so I would hope they would be difficult to convince, your highness.” Intamin Diveroll, renowned prosthetist and out-speaker, swiveled his chair towards Mekkatorque just slightly as he respectfully interjected, but kept his gaze upon the Chief Architect. “Your plan puts our now-combined kingdom at risk of recreating the exact same scenarios for destruction that had befallen either of them. Suppose we are all holed up here and one of our vaunted city’s life preservation systems should fail, or worse: sabotaged by ne’er-do-wells known or unknown. Suppose the invasion never ends, and to quell a dissatisfied populace, a new Mad Tyrant emerges to place them back into order under the guise of Public Safety. And should neither fate befall us, and we merely survive through the ordeal to a ruined Azeroth or… continued indefinite life underground, even in prosperity… that would make cowards of us all.”

“It is not… Cowardice to prioritize survival! It is the only acceptable option,” pressed Cogfrenzy with just as much proud conviction on display as he hid his secret guilts. His servos whined under his weight as he leaned forward against the conference table with the coiled-bulb lamps glowing above his exhausted, perspiring brow. “And the only safe one. Our Kingdom is the most secure against external threats of any on Azeroth. Our doors open and close only to us, and our walls are impenetrable against all alien threats. Anyone who enters without the aid of our own kind is instantaneously vaporized by our unparalleled city defenses. For five hundred years, a full-length default gnomish lifetime... our security was so assured that the rest of the planet knew not even of our existence. We were effectively anonymous. Fel, we even have the capability of sealing off all access to the Azeroth’s vast network of Arcane Leylines, guaranteeing that not a single soul enters or leaves through the mightiest of mage portals!”

As the King ran his fingers through his whiskers, Luminess’s face belied only a hint of bemusement as her gaze slide sideways to one of her closest companions to examine his face for a reaction to that last sentence. Indy would offer none. But she knew. They both knew.

“My King,” Indy gently prodded, turning his trademark winning smile towards his liege. “The Rustbolt Revolution demonstrated to us that the answer to our prosperity lies not here exclusively in Mechagon. It lies in Greater Azeroth. And to that end it is not only such that we should not run away, but we should fight to defend it alongside everyone else.”

King Mekkatorque smiled at Indy gently, reassuringly. “On that, we are in total agreement, Good Doctor. We are no longer two kingdoms of Gnomes. We are one, and beyond that, we belong to the mighty Alliance as well. And defending our world from imminent threats within and without is the Alliance’s primary function, after all.”

The Beacon stirred in her seat, squeaking it at the hinge as she leaned forward onto her elbows, fingers tented before her face. She refused to comment on the political trajectory of the Gnomish populace, for now. Instead, she turned to another of her companions that she insisted be included on this Think Tank for the sake of the wealth of information he contains as a single entity. “Cornelius,” she addressed him from across the table.

“Hello, User!” came the chipper response from Mister Tribulatus, self-aware as ever, and the Beacon remained quite proud of him for achieving that.

“Known methods of Scourge Incursion, please, listed."

“Query accepted! Running diagnostics…”

The room fell silent, save the soft stirring of seats in anticipation, and the soft ting-ting of a spoon inside a cup of coffee, one of a great many that were filled and spilled on this auspicious day.

“Results compiled. Scourge are known to make entry into populated areas through the following means, alphabetically: Aerial Delivery. Burrowing. Contagion. Localized Necromancy.”

All eyes in the room, save Cornelius’, slowly drifted over to a mechagnome seated at the end of the table, brow bedecked with ostentatious horn modifications. His focus was trained on an asymmetrical paper football formed out of one of the documents on the table, and his attempts to ‘kick’ it through a ‘goal post’ made from used coffee creamer cups and stirring rods. His clamps fail to provide the manual dexterity needed to perform the maneuver, but after eighty-seven attempts so far, the man was not about to back down now. However, he felt the familiar sensation of an entire room of his alleged peers judging him all at once, and so he looked up.

“... What?! Titans Testes, I’m not a Necromancer, I resurrect myself with CLONES,” protested one Doctor Theodorp Wimblewomble the Sixth. Or was it Seventh, now? The people of Mechagon had only his word for the answer.

“The Fel practices are adjacent to Necromancy are they not?” the Beacon inquired, with earnest sincerity. “Perhaps in this way you can offer us insight?”

“You’re asking an electrician to fix your toilet,” chided Theodorp as he unceremoniously failed his eighty-eighth attempt to score a field goal. “Fortunately for you I am learned of a multitude of means of delivering Doom.”

The King rubbed his eyes with a gloved hand before flipping open the box of donuts on the table, deciding which of the remaining flavors might quell the madness he felt in this moment for including a pseudo war criminal on this Think Tank. Take him away, Blueberry Glazed.

“For certain, this Kingdom is advantageously impervious to outside threats, as the Chief Architect asserts. Titans know I’ve tried and nearly succeeded countless times to perviate it myself. Yes, that is a real word.”

All of the eyes that were cast upon Theodorp quickly volleyed to Cornelius. Instinctively, he clicked and whirred in place before speaking: “Perviate. Transitive Verb. To enter, bore into, or run through. Would you like me to search for more information regarding Perviation?"

Professor Theodorp Wimblewomble the Sixth silently threw his clamps into the air, victorious over all who dared to doubt him, once again. As the gnomes around him (save Cornelius) collectively stifled their groans, he permitted them immediate reprieve of a well-deserved gloating, and continued...

“As my criminal record shows, I’ve only had so much luck attempting to bring various forms of Fel into our kingdom. The Titan-Energy Interference from the Engine that we’ve made our home into is a natural repellent to both the Fel and Necromantic efforts from exterior sources. Our Previous King spared no effort or expense at seeing such impure practices all but eradicated or imprisoned.”

He takes a moment to feel very smug about being the only practitioner of either who isn’t currently technically imprisoned before continuing: “Ultimately, our greatest concern, second only to simply allowing the plague to enter our halls through contamination of persons or produce… would be someone like me infiltrating Mechagon and finding a way to succeed. For the Fel, we have no particular need of concern as ever. But in the case of Necromancy, they would not need to open a portal, they would simply need to locally source some corpses right here. Which could be remarkably easy, considering the whole proposition to keep the walls closed and sealed that no one could possibly enter or leave.”

The Think Tank of gnomes, already silent, somehow fell even more deathly quiet. No one liked that.

“Then it would not be enough to simply close the doors and shutter our windows,” the Beacon spoke wielding a voice laden equally with certainty as hesitance. “It would require a near-constant monitor of every individual’s vital signs, and restricted movement for all throughout the densely populated areas. We would effectively not be merely bunkering in for our physical safety, but we would need to place the population under a functional quarantine for the first few weeks simply to ensure there is no undetected viral agent is able to spread. We would require anyone taking refuge here to comply with these regulations, or…”

She gulped as she choked on her words in this moment. Indy peered at her searchingly. Cornelius smiled at the wall. Theodorp was on the edge of his seat, waiting for her to finish her thought. King Gelbin Mekkatorque simply listened, chin upon thumb, cheek against finger, elbow against armrest.

“... Or be placed under secure, supervised quarantine. Just for the duration. And ethically, of course. This is for… public safety.”

Theodorp clinked his clamps excitedly under the table with a wide, toothy grin while Luminess attempted to meet Intamin’s gaze. But when her optics searched for his, he had already turned away. She sank in her seat just slightly as her lips tightened and her face drooped just a bit.

The King nodded slowly as his own eyes searched in the far distance, into the invisible thinkspace we all have for flaw in this reasoning. And whether he found zero flaws to be had, or he simply accepted the known flaws as they were, it was not made clear in his exhausted sigh that set his moustache billowing in the wind blown forth from his lips.

“You speak the Truth as ever, Beacon,” decreed the King. “If we are going to do this then it would be folly to employ any half-measures. BUT... we will make sure that all who are so quarantined for the duration will have the inconvenience of their sacrificed time compensated, their needs of survival and personal comfort fully provided for. They are our people, our family and friends, and we will make their stay at home a veritable paradise until the situation is under control. To do any less would call into question the foundations and integrity of our very society’s principles in a manner we simply do not have time for right now, or possibly ever. Have we reached consensus?”

The assembled members of the Think Tank all offered their agreement in unison in low grunts of affirmation and/or raised hands. Even Intamin, after a moment. Luminess quietly sighed in relief, allowing her jaw to finally un-clench itself.

“Then the matter is settled upon. Beacon Brightcoil, I am counting on you to ensure that the quarantine efforts are carried out in a safe and ethical manner the people will find agreeable. Spare no expense. The rest of us will reconvene after a one hour biological break to discuss our efforts abroad aiding the campaign in Icecrown and the Eastern Kingdoms. Titans Observe that it will be Gnomish Ingenuity and Determination that brings a swift resolution to this crisis!”

The King’s counsel and subjects before him all responded with an assured nod and an equally assured utterance of “Titans Observe,” even Doctor Theodorp Wimblewomble the Sixth or Seventh.

With that, King Gelbin Mekkatorque bowed his head with a soft chuckle and made haste towards the door, eager to get out of being in a meeting for however long he can manage it today. Luminess, making similar speed, exited behind him as the others shuffled their belongings in order.

Intamin gave chase.

“Beacon? Oh, Beacon?” cried the man playfully behind his companion, who laughed as she slowed her pace to allow them to walk on parallel paths. “I was simply wondering which personal liberties I would still be afforded while imprisoned in my own private paradise prison.”

Luminess rolled her eyes and nudged him with her elbow, shaking her head as she chuckled softly. “Really, Indy, the situation is dire enough without you nagging at my personal principles over my duties as a Beacon.”

The prosthetist cackled quietly beside her, grinning all too wide as he satisfied himself with her acknowledgement of such a Truth. “I am teasing, of course, my dear… Nothing about this is easy, and though it burns at my very soul to admit it… this is a necessary action to take. So long as it remains a stopgap, and not a solution. And Titans Observe that I may rest easy knowing you are at the lead of such a project.”

“Titans may Observe it so… but they shan’t,” Luminess responded softly.

Intamin jogged in front of her to impede her movement, narrowing his ocular sensors to thin lines as he looked over her features for any sign that she might be joking. She was not.

“... You will not be staying? But you said--”

“I know that I spoke in favor of quarantine and I stand by that. It is what is right for our people, both of them, all of them… But it is not my place. For certain, This Unit could perform the task and do it well, but I am by no means the only one capable of doing so."

Intamin looked her over curiously. "Did not the King ask you to do it yourself?"

Luminess allowed a sly smirk. "He merely asked me to ensure it will be done. I will reach out Wenzli Cogsalvage to manage this in my stead. She is the finest community organizer I have seen since the end of the Revolution. And though I am beloved by many, as a Beacon I am still mistrusted by the same amount or more for our ties to the Mad Tyrant’s Orthodoxy and the work that remains in our reform thereof… By contrast, she is of the people in a way I can never truly be ever again, and will therefore be more efficient in inspiring trust in this time. In addition, since it is Wenzli... I will have the added bonus of most people simply mistaking her for being me anyway, as normal."

The prosthetist clicked his teeth. She certainly had a point, if not several, but he was not letting her off the hook so easily. "And so if your place is not here, Miss Brightcoil… Then where is it?"

A brief question inspires an eternity in a split second of consideration. Where, indeed? Was her place in Stormwind, with the Embassy as an Ambassador? Was her place with Prince Erazmin and the Rustbolt Resistance, now expanding their field of operation to fight back against the emergent Scourge threat? Was it with the other medical professionals of the Azeroth Medical Association, searching for a long term solution against the contagion and the short term efforts of caring for those currently afflicted? Was it with her mercenary allies in the Dragon Corps or the Fence Macabre, beating back the hordes with them and other Champions? Was it by the side of those she held dear, one small clutch of beloved friends or another?

Luminess smirked just for a moment before lifting her gaze to Intamin. Her eyes flickered Gold with the Light before she answered him with a warm tone.

“Uncertain. But what you said earlier rings true again: Wherever my place might be… it is quite clear that the answer is not here, in Mechagon. It is out there… in Azeroth.”

Intamin couldn’t help but allow a smugly satisfied grin plaster his face, flashing that perfect one-millimeter gap in his front teeth as they bit lightly upon his tongue to stifle a boisterous guffaw that would otherwise spoil what could be looked back upon as a tender moment.

“Titans Observe,” he said simply, and embraced his friend tightly with both arms, squeezing as hard as he can, as he always did, knowing that once again, this could be the final opportunity to do so. “But I shall not allow you to continue your adventures abroad unaided. Your previously requested modifications are complete and awaiting installation back at my workshop over a splendid Torcolato I’ve been saving for just such an occasion.”

“Mister Diveroll, there is absolutely nothing that I would enjoy more at this precise moment,” said Luminess, as she sniffled once and dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the collar of her ceremonial garb after returning the embrace of a beloved friend and confidant. She then grabbed hold of his arm for escort down the winding path from the High Tinkertory, down to into the city which she held so dear, the city which until only still so recently was all she had known.

And as she walked, audibly promising the matter was settled to her companion, she continued to silently deliberate within herself over it all... whether she was making the right or wrong choice, whether there was an optimization to their plans she failed to find, whether or not it was hopeless to even try, endlessly as she would, as she does, and as she has, every single day of her life.

And as such... she prayed to the Titans, as she did, every single day of her life, that they may Observe her following the ideal path.

Tell me what your spirit says Show me what you pray Teach me every single part I'll be your guide You are a prisoner Looking for to be You can change your face But can't change your mind No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do No matter what do you do

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#World of Warcraft #WoW RP #Wyrmrest Accord #Luminess Brightcoil #Theodorp Wimblewomble #Cornelius Tribulatus #Intamin Diveroll #Walton Cogfrenzy #Gelbin Mekkatorque #Gnomeregan #Mechagon #Gnomes #Mechagnomes #Death Rising #character writing

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mi6-cafe · 4 years

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HERE ARE THE DRABBLES FOR WEEK 2!

Ready to READ&VOTE?!

Well, let’s refresh your memory first.

This week our competitors were asked to write exactly 200 angsty words inspired by the phrase: ” to strive, to seek, to find, but not to yield ”

HOW DO YOU VOTE?

Read all the drabbles. (they’re below the line)

Choose three that you like the most.

Fill out this VOTING FORM, telling us your favourites. (You can even leave anonymous feedback for the author).

NOTE: If you are a competitor, you CANNOT vote for your own fic. But please, do vote. :)

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday.

Title: Sisyphean Author: Anyawen Warnings: MCD (Major Character Death) Summary: Cause. And effect.

He had refused to give up when the signal was lost. If there were the slightest chance, the smallest trace, he would find and make use of it. He wrestled with technology, fought bureaucracy, and ignored his own limits. Like Orpheus, he followed a trail gone dark and cold to find the hell where his beloved was held. A team already en route for rescue, he activated a camera. Like Orpheus, his love was lost as he laid eyes on him. An indicator light on the camera blinked to life, betraying their surveillance, and they gained visuals only to watch his agent's execution. Unlike Orpheus when he lost his Eurydice, he did not fall prey to despair. He would not betray his lover's memory or dishonor his sacrifice by pining away. He channeled his grief into ingenuity, political savvy, fierce protectiveness, and an icy, vengeful fury. He focused on the interests of the country for which his lover had given his life, and the other agents who continued to risk everything in that same service. He would do everything in his power to keep them safe and bring them home. Gods have mercy on any who tried to stop him.

Title: Savvy Author: stormofsharpthings Warnings: no Archive warnings apply Summary: Bond is missing...

He couldn’t find James.

He’d often had to remind the newer techs that the double-oh agents might play dumb to get out of filing reports but the nature of their job these days required them to be almost as computer-savvy as Q Branch themselves. And Bond was more skilled than most, though he kept it quiet. So an unaccustomed panic threatened to overwhelm him the longer James was missing.

There was no trace despite hours of desperate searching through surveillance footage. He’d even hacked into dashboard-camera databases online. Bond had walked into that bloody meeting and all electronics had gone dark.

“If he were dead, there’d be a body!” he’d shouted at M. Other agents were out looking, but there was no evidence at the location. If Bond had been abducted, there was no rescue possible yet. Q refused to think of torture.

James would leave a sign...somehow...somewhere...if he could.

In frantic desperation, Q started checking logs of internet-connected devices. A smart bulb in an industrial warehouse was reporting an intermittent error, probably from faulty wiring, but Q mapped the errors and times from the online log and found a rough pattern: long long short long. Morse code for Q.

Title: Blind Author: SouffleGirl91 Warnings: None. Summary: He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see.

He needed to find them, but he couldn’t see.

Fear. A fist, seizing his heart. Squeezing his chest until all he could feel was sheer panic. Struggling to breathe.

A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, a warning of what might happen if he failed. Cyber attacks going unprevented. Terrorist attacks unthwarted. Agents dead. All because of him.

Because the Quartermaster wasn’t at his post.

He needed to find them. The Quartermaster needed to return to his post.

But he couldn’t see.

Where were they? All the intel said they would be here. They must be here. They had to be.

What if they weren’t?

How would he explain?

What would he say when M asked him why the Quartermaster was missing?

There was no other option, he had to find them. He couldn’t give up.

But he couldn’t see.

Blindly, he reached out, feeling around. His fingers brushed over the debris of a life interrupted. He recoiled as his hand came into contact with a pool of liquid. Still warm.

Oh, God!

More urgently now, he sought, knocking things aside. There wasn't enough time!

There!

Q put on his glasses, finally ready to face the day.

Title: Tennyson Author: sorion Warnings: - Summary: Bond loves more easily than he would like to.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

"What utter nonsense," Bond said, drink in hand. It wasn't his first. Nor his second.

If he could travel back in time, he'd choose not to love. Every time.

Love brought him nothing but betrayal and pain. How could loving and losing be better than never loving in the first place? He wouldn't be blind to the inevitable betrayal (and death) without love.

Today's reason for the drinks was that time travel didn't exist, and Bond had once more been confronted with the frustrating fact that he couldn't not love, time and again. Much as he would have liked to.

"Just how drunk are you?" someone asked, sidling up to his solitary spot at the bar.

'Not drunk enough to purge you from my system,' Bond thought. Despite his best efforts and iron will, he made the mistake of lifting his head, meeting questioning but undemanding eyes.

Reflected in those eyes, he found the truth that love was as much his constant companion as death. Neither weakness nor enemy, but the backbone of his very nature.

"Perhaps... 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world."

Title: Hunger Author: sunaddicted Warnings: canon typical violence, toxic relationships Summary: the truth hurts more than a bullet wound He pursed his lips, eyes contemplating the ruin spread out at his feet: his life, his career, his dreams - everything lay shattered on the ground, all of his hard work and his striving aspirations turned to dust. "Hungry - you were always hungry for more than you can chew, clever boy" Q pursed his lips, refusing to look at the other - stubbornly staring out at the moors, fog slowly raising from the earth like poisonous vapours "It's your fault, Raoul" "Shut up" "It wasn't the plan!" "¡Callate!" Suddenly there was the cold circle of a gun's barrel pressed in the middle of his forehead - so icy that it almost burned against his skin. Q swallowed, tightening his hands in fists that would do nothing to protect him from a bullet straight to the brain "She doesn't give a shit about you, she never has" Raoul sneered "And you do?" "Yes, I do" Raoul laughed, derisive and cruel: it hurt more than a bullet ever would but Q wasn't giving up on him - he wasn't sure he could; yielding under pressure and escaping just wasn't an option, they were together for life, inextricably bound together. No matter how deadly Raoul's love was.

Title: Lost and Found Author: Ksania / starrboned Warnings: implied canon-typical violence Summary: James made a promise he couldn't keep.

James finds him kneeling in the ruins, a dark silhouette against the fiery sky.

His sword makes a quiet "slink!" as he unsheathes it, flaring in the dying light. The blade's pale as it kisses Q's neck.

"Hello, James," Q says. "I hoped it would be you who'd find me."

Waves clash beneath them, salt heavy in the air.

"Nothing to say?" Q asks. "You always were a man of few words."

"They're coming," James breathes, watching as Q rises to his feet, turning.

His eyes are bloodshot, face pale. Black cloak hanging from skinny shoulders. A shadow of the man who held James's heart.

"James." Q cracks a smile. "You promised."

Once upon a time, when they were a Queen's mage and her knight.

James grips his sword, knuckles white.

He lets the blade drop. "I'm not killing you."

"You must." Q takes a step closer. "You know what she'll do -"

Footsteps approach. James pulls Q into his arms.

"Then we both die!" Q hisses, clutching at his cloak. "And everything was for naught!"

"So be it," James smiles, kissing him. "We both knew it was going to end this way."

Q sighs. "They're here."

James raises his sword.

Title: Adamant Author: IrishWitch58 (captain-magicalkitty) Warning: Effects of violence Summary: Q ponders the similarities between himself and 007

The monitors beeped steadily, monotonously. Q hated the sound that screamed the fallibility of his systems, that made him face the ways in which he couldn't keep his agents safe. He shifted in the chair, the same he had occupied for the past 10 hours. He was connected to his branch, overseeing ongoing activities but that mattered less than the silent battered figure in the hospital bed. James had once again both succeeded and failed in that spectacular fashion that made him the best MI6 had. The mission goal had been accomplished but the medical evac had been a skin of the teeth exercise. More damage done, more scars. Bond's resume was written clearly on his body, scars upon scars marring the skin Q valued more than his own. Q acknowledged that his technological efforts could only do so much. It was the indomitable spirit of the man that was at issue. His nature was to push beyond the known and see for himself and to never give in to circumstance. In his own way, Q was the same, which was why he would sit and wait and plan how to avoid the next disaster, as unyielding as any agent.

Title: The End Author: Venstar Warnings: angst(?) Summary: farewells.

It was all coming to a close with this next mission. It was a death trap. Once he went in, there was no coming out.

“Duty calls, I must go.”

“That's bollocks.”

007 smiled down at Q and brushed a finger across his chin and down his jaw. “This will be your first resurrection to witness, won’t it? Every story has an ending.”

“There’s only one 007 in my books.”

007 laughed at the jokes Q valiantly made with effort.

Q’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a straight line. “I’ll find a way to get you back.”

“Seek and you will not find me,” Bond whispered, “It will be a new 007 when you finally yield to the inevitable.”

“Never!”

“So they replace me and they will replace you.”

Q shook his head. “We could leave. Would that be so terrible?”

007 looked at Q with pity in his eyes. “That would be treasonous.”

“It’s not like you’ve never skipped town before!” Q blurted out, his cheeks red.

“I am no traitor.”

“No, you’re a loyal dog. Now I understand why M kept that hideous thing on her table.” Q spat his words at 007’s feet.

“Goodbye, Q.”

Title: Never Yielding Author: iambid (flantastic) Warnings: None Summary: James is bullish, Q just wants him to stop.

Q waited for him outside M’s office.

“What the hell, Bond?”

James didn’t miss a step as he carried on down the corridor forcing Q to trot to keep up with him.

“James! Talk to me!” He pleaded.

James stopped abruptly and whirled around.

“About what? What exactly would you like to talk about?”

“This!” Q responded hotly, gesturing. “Why are you going back out into the field?”

“Because they need me.” James snapped.

“But I thought…”

“What exactly? That a gunshot wound would put me out of action permanently? That I would want to spend the rest of my days hanging around your house like some kind of rescue dog? I have a job to do, Quartermaster.”

He went to turn but Q grabbed his wrist.

“What about us?” Q asked quietly.

“There is no us.” James said and then, when he saw the hurt in Q’s eyes, he added; “It was a dream. Thank you for taking me in and taking care of me, but it can’t continue.” He looked down at Q’s hand, still resting on his wrist, and regretfully shook it off. “People like me don’t deserve people like you,” he said sadly before walking away.

#10

Title: ghost Author: azure7539 Warnings: none Summary: Question and answer.

What went wrong?

By the time he arrives, there’s nothing of value left. He takes in the sight of the cramped room—one bare mattress in the corner, energy bar wrappings pushed into a pile, empty water bottles strewn around the floor—and stops at the coffee table. The near humid scent of cigarettes lingers in the air, unseen but winds like spidery gossamer, spooling from the crushed fags in that full ashtray next to an abandoned laptop.

His eye twitches.

Barely gone but not within chasing distance, his mind grudgingly concludes, and he sits down on the cracked tiles with a grunt. Despite the Caribbean sun flaring outside an unrelenting spot of heat as it pierced in through the windows, the place sustains a perpetual coolness that settles on his shoulders a phantom weight.

Really, he should worry more about potential booby traps in the laptop, but the thought doesn’t even stir his apprehension, and he opens it anyway.

The words he finds on the screen seize his breath before flickering back into an empty void.

His earpiece crackles to life with a hissing fit. “Status report.”

“He’s gone,” Bond growls, shutting the device with a harsh click.

/I went wrong./

#11

Title: The Perfect Gift Author: Shush_MummyWriting Warnings: None Summary: "to strive, to seek, to find, but not to yield."

The moment he saw her, he knew she was perfect.

Madelaine was not just beautiful, but brave, smart and had a backbone of steel. Knowing her background, she was the ideal partner for an old warhorse like James Bond.

Q felt the tiny flame that had been nurtured by every bit of banter, every special look sent his way, every promise extracted, compounded by every risk he had taken for Bond, flicker and die.

When he returned to his favourite workstation in the bowels of Q Branch, the information he had requested from the Archives had already arrived. Q had followed Bond’s career even before their first official meeting and as he looked over the old blueprints, he realised this would be the perfect farewell gift for Bond.

Besides, it would make an excellent project for the Garage minions. With a little creative accounting, sketches already flowing from his fingers to his screen, he would pour every ounce of his brilliance into the DB5 and it would be ready when Bond got back.

Then Q would be able put all those inconvenient feelings behind him and say good-bye to James Bond, with a smile, like the friend that he was.

#12

Title: 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world Author: scarytheory Warnings: mention of character death, depression Summary: James's got his happily ever after with Madeleine. Still – he's struggling every day.

...you should know-

James wakes up from a nightmare, panicking, trying to catch his breath. Madeleine is used to it by now. She just whispers ‘you're safe, you're home’, still half-asleep. But he gets up and pours himself some whisky because he doesn't know what home means anymore.

Everything is blurred. Maybe he made the wrong choice. Even though she's here, and he loves her.

But he's still thinking about that phone call. It's been six months, and he can't stop thinking about it.

“Q died. I thought you should know.”

Wrong home.

More whisky.

And more nightmares.

There is a weird inner ache that James can't even name; he is too afraid to do so. A little bit of it belongs to Madeleine because they can't be happy together; it will never be enough. It's also about Q because James failed him. He knew and he left anyway, left everything that could have been.

But mostly it's about James himself. Because he's so tired and scared to go back and fight again. But in the end, he knows that he will do what he always does.

Not yield.

Not yet.

Even though the whisky is burning in his throat.

#13

Title: Unyielding Author: AtoTheBean Warnings: None Summary: Q will hate that fucking poem for the rest of his life...

“You’re going to lose him.”

“I’m not,” Bond grunts over the comms.

“Repositioning 006 to intercept,” Q replies, signaling to R.

He looks back at the screen to find Bond has stolen a motorbike.

“007, stand down. The plaza’s too crowded.”

“All the more reason to stay with the bomb.”

Q sighs, switching screens to an aerial view. Bond’s so stubborn since his return.

Though, not at first. At first he was accommodating… practically deferential…. And Q was unyielding in his anger. It’s taken months to find their rapport... for Q to acknowledge they still make a good team, ignoring the dull ache of what else he wishes they might be.

“Approaching the bridge.”

“I see you,” Q says, refocusing.

“Good place to douse a bomb...”

“But how would…” Cold dread fills Q. 007 is still fast, but even he acknowledges his reaction times have slowed...

The motor revs. “'We're not now that strength which in old days—’.”

“James Bond, don’t you dare quote Tennyson at me!”

Q watches Bond grab the mark—

“JAMES!”

—and hurl them both off the bridge. He hears the rush of wind, a splash, and then static.

The water-muffled explosion on the screen is silent.

#14

Title: The Balad of Sir Bond Author: ladymars Warnings: Implied Major Character Death Summary: A prince seeks for his knight.

Lady Moneypenny, from her kneel and still wearing her tattered armor, presented a scrap of burnt fabric to her prince. "This is all we found of him, Your Highness." Cold ice ran through the prince's veins. His breath left him. "No, that can't be..." "I saw him go into that cave myself," the knight interrupted, her voice tight, "I told him we should return, call for reinforcements, but he pushed inside." "Stubborn bastard..." Sir Bond had escaped from dire situations, deadly situations, returned to life with a smirk, a swagger, and the head of their enemy in hand (never his sword, of course, always losing and breaking those), but from a man-eating monster? Of course he's stupid enough to jump in without hesitation. Something pushed the prince up from his throne and to his feet. He staggered as if grief had possessed him and moved his limbs like the automatons he assembled, a yearning pulling him forward. "I'll find him. He's out there. I'll search the ends of the world for him." Moneypenny paled. "But sir—" "No!" His voice did not sound like his own, strangled and high. "He's out there!" A fury flickered in his eyes. "I'll never yield."

Thank you all for writing these wonderful drabbles!

Thank you all for voting and making this properly fun!

Here is the post announcing the winners.

#LDWS #angst #signal boost #writing competition #james bond fanfiction #last drabble writer standing #drabble

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powerovernothing · 4 years

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And now for something entirely different to help breathe a bit of life back into my blog! After having a dry spell in terms of content around my three favorite boys, I thought I would add a touch of variety to the many numerous things that I have written in regards to the Knight, the Emperor, and the Assassin!

It should be no surprise that I oftentimes find inspiration in the strangest of places, but one thing that is always a constant source of inspiration for me is music. Or rather, certain songs that remind me so much of the boys that I cannot help but fit the lyrics to different parts of Korbin and his brother’s lives, or some scenario that they have went through – or will go through with time.

I very rarely post lyrical write ups on my blog, as they are what you would consider – by using an ancient term from fan fiction’s past – song fics, or even animatic scripts if you want to get a bit more clever, but since I was quite fond of the work I did for this song in particular… I thought that it may not hurt to upload it and see what the reactions may be!

So sit back, relax, and buckle down for almost nine thousand words worth of an emotional rollercoaster with the boys and their story that was born from the wonderful song Found/Tonight by Ben Platt, and Lin-Manuel Miranda! Thanks so much for reading~! ♥

We may not yet have reached our glory But I will gladly join the fight - The entire premise of this write up starts with the opening line, and the opening scene. And that, of course, begins right before the Battle of the Great Gate. Before the brothers, the Blades, and members of the Cheydinhal Family walk down to that field, and face off against the worst that Oblivion has to offer, all in the hopes of turning the tide back in their favor, and getting the last thing needed for the Portal to Paradise.

Martin, already in his Dragon Armor, stands in the main hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, and speaks to those before him. He tells them that they may be in an unspeakable position, that lives may be lost, they everything could go wrong... but even so, he will not stand around and simply watch. He will join such a battle and will fight for their freedom against Oblivion itself.

And when our children tell their story They'll tell the story of tonight - Lucien, in his Legends style of armor, comes to stand at Martin's side, and speaks to the crowd just as well. He explains that everything is against them, that so much could go wrong, and he is not certain how this battle will play out... but he has faith.

He has faith that whatever happens, whatever will come to pass, when those who remember this battle -- the children who are here in said battle, such as Ocheeva and Teinaava, and those that will come years afterwards -- will think back to this moment, be it glory or ruin, and know what they risked to put an end to the Crisis once and for all.

They will stand together, or they will fall together, and it all depends on how much they are willing to give to push back the forces of Oblivion.

They'll tell the story of tonight Tonight - Korbin stands away from the crowd, watching from the shadows as his brothers speak to the crowd before them. The army that is before them. And he feels himself uncomfortable with the entire situation. He looks down at his feet, listening to what his brothers say, and how confident they are in their abilities, and he feels... uneasy.

He has been here before, in another time, in another life, and yet he knows that there is so much more that is placed on the line. Not only do they have more people to stand with them, but Korbin knows that they have far more to lose because of it. Friends that he has made over the half year, family members that he loves and cares about... he knows that he could lose it all, once again, if he is not careful enough.

A bitter smile touches his lips, and his shuts his eyes to the memories that flood in his mind. The story of tonight? He's already lived this story, and he will do anything to make absolute certain that it does lead him down the same path as it did in the previous timeline. He refuses for such a thing to happen, and yet...

He doesn't realize that his brothers are feeling the same worry, the same discomfort, the same paranoia of what will happen in this battle, and yet keep a careful mask in place for the sake of their loved ones. For the sake of being strong. Of encouraging them, believing in them, and hoping it will be enough to help them fight.

Have you ever felt like nobody was there? - Lucien looks up from the crowd, and notices Korbin in the distance, and frowns softly. He thinks back to his childhood -- if you could even consider it such a thing -- and the time he spent with his family, and how he often fought, struggled, and desired to have affection, and love from them, and yet never received it. It made him feel as though he was alone.

And then into his adulthood where he feels as though he is being left behind. He was shunned by his parents, he was cared for by the previous Speaker of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, and she perished. He loved his previous Silencer, and yet she died trying to prove to him that she was more than capable. He was betrayed by the Brotherhood's traitor, and nearly lost his entire family because of his own paranoia.

And, worse of all, he feels next to useless during the course of the Oblivion Crisis compared to Korbin, and Martin. Korbin is the Hero of Kvatch, and Martin is the future Emperor. And what is he? A taker of life? An Assassin? They do so much good, so many amazing feats, and he... feels himself being forgotten, and he loathes such a feeling.

Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere? - Korbin isn't aware that Lucien is looking at him, and dealing with his own concerns, his own worries. He is so lost within his own mind, and it is clouding his judgement, and silencing everything else around him.

He too, thinks back to his childhood -- and like his brother, although unaware of the similarities, wonders if he could consider it such a thing -- and how he was suddenly abandoned by his parents in the Waterfront District. Never truly understanding why they would simply leave him, and then walk away as he cried and reached out for them. The memory of them faded over the years, and became something repressed, and as he grew... he adapted to the cruel world around him.

He took his first life over his blanket and continued to kill to survive. He was brought into the Brotherhood, and he wound up losing the members of his family because he was following Lucien's commands to the letter. And then... he lost Lucien because of the very same mistakes.

And, just when he assumed that the world hadn't taken enough from him, hadn't tormented him, or laughed at his misery... then he lost Martin, and suddenly... he was alone again. Alone just as he had always been. And he just continued to walk, passing by everyone as he sought out a desperate source of comfort, and knowing all too well that no one cared for his pain, and that he had been forgotten by the world yet again.

Have you ever felt like you could disappear? - Martin doesn't look from the Blades, from the members of the Brotherhood, he holds his gaze, and yet his eyes slowly show an incredible amount of pain hidden within blue eyes that normally held such love, such comfort. He thinks of what he is doing, where he is, and what he has done throughout his life.

He thinks back to his childhood with Darius -- and although he took it for granted, especially compared to his brother's and their past, he did value it, he did treasure it, just not as much as he should have if he had known -- and he remembers his mistakes. His terrible, awful cycle of mistake that seemed to grow, and grow, and nearly consume him entirely.

He never realized that his dear adoptive father was sick until it was far too late. He wished to try and go to his farm, to say goodbye, to beg forgiveness after he had passed for never being there, for never seeing the signs, but he couldn't. He was too afraid.

So, he turned his back on what used to be his home and ran back to the shelter of the Mage's Guild. And when he returned, his friends did what they thought would be best for his guilt... by taking him to Sanguine. He let his past mistakes fall off of his shoulders for a time, he shed himself of the life he used to lead, he disappeared into something that he thought would help him -- the drink, the parties, the temptations --and then he made another mistake, and lost his friends because of it.

And what did he do? What did he do when he realized what he had done? He ran once more. Disappearing into Cyrodiil for a time and hoping that no one would piece together what had happened, what he had done. What he had continued doing, and how much of a foolish coward he truly was.

Like you could fall, and no one would hear? - During this lyric, there is a gentle piano beat that occurs three times whilst these words are sung in an equal amount of gentleness.

Thus, from this sort of thing, you can imagine that for a moment Korbin would clutch a hand over his chest. Wondering if he is doing what he needed, wondering if he will be able to protect his brothers from their fate, protect his family from suffering in a worse way than in the Original Timeline, and if he will, truly, be able to fix everything that he believed that he ruined the first time around.

The second beat is Lucien placing a trembling hand over the dagger that is sheathed in his belt. He wonders if he will be strong enough, protective enough, just simply enough for those he cares about in this upcoming battle. If he will be able to stand, next to his family, as well as the Blades, and not be assumed that he would turn against them and bring about their death because an Assassin never changes his shadows.

He wonders if he will be able to stand next to the Hero of Kvatch and the Future Emperor and keep them safe. Show them that he is strong, that he is capable. He wonders if they would believe him. He wonders if he believes himself.

The third and final beat would be Martin finally looking away from the Blades, from the Brotherhood, away from his brothers that linger beside him, and just in the distance, and he sighs deeply to himself. The feeling of self-doubt, and self-hate is beginning to creep upon himself, and he feels almost smothered in his armor.

In Tiber Septim's armor.

And questions if he is truly doing the right thing. If he is truly being what these people -- his people -- need out of a future Emperor. He wonders if he can march into battle and do what is needed to spare Cyrodiil from it's terrible fate at Mehrunes Dagon, and the Mythic Dawn's hands. Is this right? Is this who he is? Can a Bastard son of a dead Emperor truly lead this people to glory itself? To freedom? Or is he... simply going to run away the moment that the battle becomes too much? He isn't certain, and the thought terrifies him.

Well, let that lonely feeling wash away All we see is light - The sound of the crowd around him slowly pulls Lucien out of his thoughts, out of the darkness of his own mind, and he looks out towards both the Blades, as well as the members of the Cheydinhal family, and he feels a wave of relief come over him.

Perhaps, he is merely worrying about nothing. Perhaps he is more than capable of proving himself in the coming battle. Perhaps he will be able to prove himself to Martin, as well as Korbin.

And, when he thinks of his brothers, of those who remain at his side -- despite everything, despite all of his paranoia, worries, and everything else that darkens his thoughts -- he instantly sees Korbin smiling at him in the distance, and the feeling of Martin's hand suddenly coming to rest upon his shoulder. He sighs and returns their smile with one of his own. (These two lyrics are Martin and Korbin to Lucien)

'Cause maybe there's a reason to believe you'll be okay For forever - Lucien senses the feeling of Martin beginning to doubt himself, even despite the fact that he went out of his way to try and soothe his own worries. He feels as though his Light Brother is beginning to doubt that he deserves to be in this battle, that he does not belong in such a battle, and so many other things that he cannot even understand.

But what he does know, however, is that he absolutely despises seeing Martin doubt himself when he has been so strong for so long. Perhaps even Korbin senses that as well. The shine of their Light Brother has dulled slightly, and they know that should not be.

Lucien turns, takes Martin's hand in his own, and carefully pulls him into a half embrace -- or rather, as much of an embrace that he can manage, considering that the latter is in heavy armor -- and Martin relaxes slightly.

As they embrace, Martin looks over Lucien's shoulder, and sees Korbin smiling at him genuinely. And that is enough to cause Martin to feel as though the armor that he wears... is not nearly as heavy as it was only moments ago. (These two lyrics are Lucien and Korbin to Martin)

'Cause when you don't feel strong enough to stand You can reach, reach out your hand - Martin and Lucien eventually break from their embrace, and Martin continues to hold Korbin's gaze as he does so. Whatever that he may have felt in his moment of self-doubt, whatever he may have questioned about his place, and his strength... he sees it flickering in Korbin's own golden eyes, and he does not believe that such a thing should be allowed to continue.

He cannot simply reassure his siblings, and then take none of that reassurance for himself. Martin shares a secret look with Lucien -- one in which the Assassin understands all too well the meaning, and why he is giving it to him at all -- and the two of them move away from their place in front of the fire of the main hall, and over to where Korbin lingers in the distance.

If he does not believe in himself, then Lucien and Martin will do whatever they possible can to help him believe. They will stand at his side, as they always have done, and they will reassure him with their presence. If Korbin is reaching out, seeking comfort, seeking reassurance, then they will take his hand, and they will give that to him willingly.

That is what brothers are meant to do. Care for each other, and Korbin is going to help them, then by both Sithis and Akatosh, they are going to do the very same for him! (These two lyrics are Martin and Lucien to Korbin)

And oh - Korbin looks up from where his eyes had fallen back upon the hardwood floor in front of him and is instantly taken aback when he sees the familiar boots -- despite one of them paved in gold -- of his siblings standing before him. He finally looks up, meets their eyes, and is shocked to see them standing before him, and so willingly.

Did they... somehow know? Was it truly so obvious what he was feeling at the moment? They both seemed to be in much better spirits, and he was thankful for it, and yet... they were here? In front of him? To try and help him as well? He doesn't know what to say. He genuinely doesn't, and simply remains in stunned silence for a moment.

Raise a glass to freedom Something they can never take away - Martin and Lucien come to stand at Korbin's side, each of their hands coming to rest upon each of his shoulders, and they turn to face the crowds that had seen them move away from their prior place in the main hall, and walk over to where the Hero of Kvatch was waiting.

They had not even been aware of his presence, they had no idea, would have had no idea that he was even presence in such a crowd, if it was not for the fact that Lucien and Martin all but forced them to be aware of him. They speak up, keeping their -- almost protective -- grip on Korbin, and reassure the crowds -- and Korbin just as well -- that they will face the hordes of Oblivion, and they will conquer!

Because as long as they stand together, as long as they hold onto the connections that they have made in knowing one another, then that is their greatest source of power, and even the cruelest Daedra cannot dare to stand against them!

No matter what they tell you - Even as Lucien and Martin stand at his side, and speak to the crowds -- intentionally including him in such a speech, and reassuring them that they will stand against the forces of Oblivion with the Hero of Kvatch, the Future Emperor, and The Great Assassin protecting them -- Korbin still feels somewhat unsure.

It isn't as though he does not trust his brother's words, it is not as though he believes them to be lying, but he feels himself being pulled. Almost as though he's being pulled back away from his siblings, away from those that he loves, and would protect with his life.

His vision begins to darken, the sounds of his brother's words begin to fade, and he feels chains slowly beginning to wrap around his body. And a laugh, a terrible, truly horrible laugh ringing in his ears.

He's felt this feeling before; he knows very well what it is, and he wishes that it wouldn't happen right now. That he wouldn't interfere right before a battle that could either turn the tides in their favor, or drown them completely, and cause Korbin to lose his chance.

But he knows that is exactly what he would want. Mayhem. Mischief. If he could make his Little Raven squirm and doubt himself. It is what he lives for, after all. Anything to pull his future vessel closer to his side. Anything to remind him of what he will gain, and Korbin will lose, the moment the Crisis is over with.

Someone will come running To take you home - And yet, even though Korbin feels the pull of the Mad God in the back of his mind, even though he feels himself being yanked back, away from his loved ones, and the allure of drowning underneath layers, upon layers, upon years, and an entire lifetime of guilt seems oh-so tempting, especially when he believes himself to fail once again... he feels the pull, the allure, the waves beginning to fade.

He doesn't understand at first, he doesn't know why such a feeling is happening -- when he knows that Sheogorath wishes to play, wishes to torment -- but when he looks up; focusing his gaze upon what is in front of him... he sees Martin and Lucien smiling at him. Genuinely smiling at him with as much love as two men could feel towards their adoptive little brother.

That is the reason why he feels Sheogorath fading in his mind for a time. That is the reason why he growls under his breath, swears a line of insults in regard to his brothers -- the helpless, pitiful Assassin, and the worthless, blinding Priest, as he would surely say -- and then finally lets the chains fall for a time.

Because he knows that if he did not, their sheer presence alone would cause the game to lose it's fun for a time. There would always be other opportunities, other ways for him to remind Korbin of what is at risk, how that he will undoubtedly fail, and that there is no such thing as a third chance. But until that time came, until Sheogorath tormented his mind once more... he holds onto his brothers.

He holds onto their presence and knows that -- even in the darkest of moments -- they will be beside him to quiet the madness for a time.

Raise a glass to all of us - Finally believing that he knows his place in this battle, in this timeline, and believing that there is indeed a chance -- no matter how slim it may be -- that they will claim victory in the coming battle, Korbin moves forward and holds up a fist and speaks to the crowd.

He smiles; a real, genuine smile, and tells the Blades, as well as his fellow members of the Dark Brotherhood that they will surely win against the Daedra. He will rush into the Great Gate himself, destroy whatever creature is there lurking within, and then come back with the Great Sigil Stone in hand, and do whatever is possible to retrieve the Amulet of Kings, and end this Crisis once and for all!

And for a single moment, he looks less like the self-doubting man that was tormented by his actions in the previous timeline, and more like the leader he had become at Lucien's side in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. More like an actual hero that Martin sees him as. And in such a moment... the two elder brothers smile with pride.

Perhaps they did very little to dissuade the worst of Korbin's thoughts, and fears... but at this single moment; they share in Korbin's glory. They share in his renewed strength. And they carry it upon their shoulders and allow such a sight before them to strengthen them, and quiet their own doubts, just as well.

Tomorrow they'll be more of us Telling the story of tonight - Korbin turns away from the crowds and flashes a more playful grin at his siblings after he is finished speaking. Before they have a chance to match his smile with one of their own, or even begin to question what he is so very happy about, he quickly pulls them into a tight embrace.

One arm over each of his brothers, and he shows his appreciation, and his affection towards them, towards what they are doing, and where they are, by doing what he does best. Hugging them and smiling as though the weight that he carries -- that they know he carries daily -- has now somewhat faded. They accept the embrace, and their own smiles grow.

Perhaps the battle will end up changing things. Perhaps there will be some of them within this temple that will not walk away unscathed, and perhaps some of them will not even come back at all... but Korbin believes in them. He believes in his brothers, his friends, his dark family, and -- for whatever possible reason -- they believe in him as well.

So, he holds onto such a hope, just as he holds his brothers in his actual embrace, and he keeps smiling. Hoping that the result of such a battle will be okay, that they will walk away from it with their heads held high, and not collapsed into a bloody pile somewhere.

Whatever may come, whatever happens, they will face it together, and they know that they will have a story to tell.

Or, there will be a story that is told. Somehow, somewhat, Korbin will make sure that his brother's actions, their strength, their journey -- as well as their survival -- is not forgotten. And secretly -- just to themselves, as they share another knowing look towards one another -- Martin and Lucien promises each other that they will do the very same on Korbin's behalf.

No matter what comes, no matter how the Crisis ends, no one will be forgotten. They will make absolute certain of it.

Out of the shadows The morning is breaking (they'll tell the story of tonight) - And then this is where the scene would fade away from the Battle of the Great Gate. From where the Emperor and the Assassin, as well as the Blades and the Dark Brotherhood fight for their very lives and hope and pray that their Hero of Kvatch will return back with the Sigil Stone, and close the Great Gate before the Deadra somehow manage to overthrow them.

The scene would fade, away from Korbin returning, Martin rushing over and embracing him, and Lucien smiling in the distance, and it would cut to a scene of Korbin, Martin, and Lucien walking away from the destroyed Temple of the One.

Lucien and Martin would be helping -- a newly revived -- Korbin walk away from the Temple District, and back towards the Imperial Palace, and then suddenly... they stop. Because Korbin is looking up, Korbin is smiling up at the clouds above him, and both Martin and Lucien are confused.

They do not know what he is staring at, they do not understand why he is smiling -- after just being brought back from death's cruel hand -- but when they follow his gaze, and see that the dawn of a new day is peeking out over the walls of the Imperial City... they smile just as well.

Because it is the start of a new day. It is the start of a new Era. The Oblivion Crisis is over, they are all three alive, and well, and they won. It's finally done.

This is the story that they wish to tell. The story of three brothers who, when faced with the worst that life had to offer, the very worst that all of Oblivion itself tried to throw at them -- to separate them, to break them apart, to destroy them -- they still stood at each other's sides.

They still relied on each other, protected each other, and now... now nothing is in their way. Now they can live their lives, and they can continue to write whatever story they wish to continue telling.

And all is new All is new All is new - And then the scene shifts away from the brothers walking away from the destruction of the Temple of the One, away from the memories of what happened just before Martin tapped into the power of the Amulet of Kings, as well as his own blessing, and Lucien followed suit in a desperate attempt to keep Martin from using too much power.

Instead, the scene would fade, and then you would see Martin's coronation in the chamber of the Ruby Throne. Once more, as there is three different lyrics, it would show three different scenes accompanying each.

For the first one, Martin would be walking out of the crowd, coming up to Ocato with a look of nervousness upon his face, but steeling himself for his future. Knowing that he is to be Emperor, and that Lucien told him that he was ready. That he was more than ready, and perhaps... he believes it himself.

Then, the next one would be Korbin coming next to Martin one he is finally crowned, and appointed Emperor officially, and bowing respectfully before him... before being pulled into a tight embrace by his brother. He may still be Emperor, but that doesn't change how he feels about his little brother.

And then finally, the last would have Lucien coming up to his pair of -- incredibly sappy -- siblings with a shake of his head, and a look of amusement over how they are acting in the middle of a crowded room, and then being pulled into the embrace by Martin and Korbin just as well.

It's only a matter of Time - One of the reasons why I genuinely love this song so much, and why I believe that it fits my Oblivion Verse -- outside of the lyrical obvious, of course -- is how often the lyrics play up the aspect of threes. I've done it twice now, and yet this lyric here is sung three times, and then finally a fourth to crescendo to an emotional climax before carrying on the rest of the song.

And because of such a thing, you know that I am going to take complete and utter advantage of it each and every time that the opportunity presents itself. Thus, carrying on from the above with the boys at Martin's coronation... the scene would continue with them being brought into a tight, overly emotional embrace with one another.

Lucien would be pulled in suddenly, a look of genuine surprise on his face, and then the boys would look at one another -- each of them accompanied with one time for each -- Korbin, then Martin, then Lucien, and they would simply laugh emotionally; tearfully, and not at all care what Ocato, or the other royalists or higher ups believe of such a show.

Right now, all that truly matters to them, is one another. They endured the Crisis, and they came out on top of everything. They endured the worst that Oblivion had to offer, and they survived. And whenever when it seemed that everything was against them, even when everything attempted to take away what it was that they cherished most... they still managed to turn the tides of fate itself and keep their family together.

And then the scene would fade, and much like the instance of the three brothers within the main hall of Cloud Ruler Temple, they would each endure some sort of thought, some sort of fear, and reach their lowest possible points.

Doubting themselves; doubting who they are. Being afraid of something coming to pass; or something that had indeed came to pass without realizing. Carrying the guilt of mistakes that were not theirs in the first place; and feeling as though the weight of the world has crashed around them.

Even when the dark comes crashing through - Lucien feeling absolutely consumed with the suffocating darkness of where he is in life. Normally such a darkness would be a comfort, a reassurance. It should be a means of showing that he is cloaked in the shadows of the Dread Father, and the Night Mother, and yet. He still feels himself at a loss for everything that happened over the course of his life.

Such as the loss of his previous Silencer, and how he believed that Lara resented him in her final moments for never being able to grant her what she desired most out of her beloved Speaker. The traitor's betrayal that had been lurking just out of view for so many years, and how such a thing nearly cost him everything because of his own mistakes, his remaining family included.

How he believes that he is still stuck underneath the terrible memories of his parents, almost looming over him when he believes himself to be healing, to be in a better place, with actual people that love him, and how he worries about becoming exactly like them, and never providing those, who he genuine cares for more than anything else in this bloodstained world, the trust and love that they so willingly deserve.

When you need a friend to carry you - Lucien's worries fade, and then the scene turns to Martin. Martin who feels himself stuck underneath the genuine terror of everything that he endured throughout his life that led up to the events of Kvatch.

He thinks back to when he was younger, and how he had so many dreams, so many things that he wished to accomplish, and then... before he knew what was happening, before he realized anything was wrong whatsoever -- swimming about in the waves of his own ignorance -- he lost his adoptive father Darius.

The man who raised him, the man who taught him everything, the man who loved him, even if Martin was not truly his flesh and blood child.

And in the aftermath of his guilt, he wound up underneath the foot of the Daedric Prince of Debauchery Sanguine, and how such a choice in his life ended up causing the deaths of his friends, those that he cared for, just as much as Darius... it only made the waves of what was once ignorance, turn into overwhelming guilt.

And then, making matters far worse, and foolishly believing that he could find something better if he kept his focus on those who needed his so-called caring healing hand.

But it was not enough, it was never enough, for then the invasion of Kvatch happened -- all in a means of finding him -- and he struggled to understand. He struggled to understand the Gods, and their plans, and struggled to make sense of knowing that so many people -- so many good people -- died because the forces of Oblivion wished to bring about the end to the Septim Dynasty once and for all.

He was unable to continue on by himself. He needed someone to be there for him, and to give him the strength that he desperately lacked.

When you're broken on the ground - And then, much like how Lucien faded to Martin, then Martin would fade to Korbin. Korbin who is deeply overwhelmed with the guilt of everything that took place throughout the course of the Original Timeline.

Feeling as though his knees can carry him no longer, and that every step forward is a step that causes the death of someone that he loves, someone that he cared about, and for some reason that he cannot even begin to understand, the death of someone who cared about him in turn.

What good would it be to keep walking? To rush out of the ruined Temple of the One, away from Ocato, away from Baurus, and Jauffre, and everyone that he deemed to be allies, when the two people that he loved the most... were now gone, and gone because of him?

Because of his naive, foolish, and awful choices that took away the only family he ever had. The only ones who ever truly saw him as something more. Someone far more than simply the shamefully abandoned child left upon the filthy streets to fumble about in his own ignorance that he so often saw within himself whenever he looked into the nearest mirror.

He crumbles to the ground in the harsh rain that followed in the aftermath of the events of the Temple of the One in the Original Timeline; overwhelmed with knowing that he is alone again, that there is nothing that can be done, and he simply cries.

You will be found - The boys have now reached their lowest possible point in their lives. Lucien is overwhelmed with doubt, Martin can no longer carry on with the weight of his past mistakes, and Korbin is broken because of his own actions, and yet; even despite the fact that they have crumbled, they have fractured, broken down, and are past the point of even trying to hold their own against the countless amount of numerous, unspeakable, terrible enemies... suddenly something finally changes.

Something that they never would have thought possible. Something that they would have never expected. Not in their lives, not in this world, and yet...

Suddenly Lucien no longer is drowning from the concepts of what ifs and what could bes, fueled by the worst aspects of his own paranoia because of what he could lose, and what he has lost.

Martin no longer believes that he has to force himself -- past his breaking point, and even past that just as well -- to use some sort of strength that he no longer has, that he never believed he had in the first place, and doesn't have to carry it all on his own.

And Korbin doesn't have to remain broken, forgotten, and suffocating underneath layers and layers of guilt of something that wasn't his fault; no matter what his own mind, what his own madness tells him otherwise.

Because, even in their darkest moments, even when they can no longer stand against it all... they have each other. They found each other. They no longer have to be alone and endure the torment of what terrifies them most in their most shielded, private moments, because now they have someone beside them.

Someone there to pull them up, brush them off, smile at them, and reassure them that everything will be okay. And, if it isn't -- not at first -- then they will continue to be beside them until it finally is. They don't have to be alone anymore, because they are wanted, they are cared for, they are finally found.

So let the sun come streaming in - As the darkness attempts to suffocate everything that Lucien ever knew, everyone that Lucien ever loved...a sudden light cuts through the terrible darkness -- not born of the Dread Father, not gifted by the Night Mother, something worse, something far worse, and frightening -- that is surrounding him; clouding his thoughts, and causing him to worry about every single action that he makes going forward.

The once infinite darkness then slowly turn to a soft grey, and even though he strains to see through the rays that appear, almost out of nowhere -- and he tries to see through his fingers that shield his eyes -- he doesn't turn away from such a sight. He doesn't reject it as he would have other such things.

This light is somehow warm, somehow almost inviting, and because of this feeling, this comfort, he actively moves forward to try and seek out the source.

'Cause you'll reach up and you'll rise again - In the destruction of Kvatch, when everything that Martin thought he knew -- everything that he thought he followed willingly, and hardly without question -- suddenly made no sense, and he began to doubt... only then does the door to the half ruined Chapel of Akatosh open up. Martin assumes it to be Daedra, that fate has finally come to bestow whatever he believes is proper to one such as him, and yet... suddenly there are two saviors rushing in instead.

They're terribly dirty, covered in blood, soot, and Divines only know what else. They're both tired, angry, and even despite their emotions during such a horrible situation, they call out for him specifically. One even calls him brother -- despite the fact that he is indeed referred to by such a name, by such a title -- and he does not quite understand why he feels drawn to such strange men.

Everything else is telling him to heal those who are injured, who are dying, and then finally get back upon the road, and put it all behind him once again. And yet these men will not allow him to do such a thing. He is told of his lineage, of who he really is, and they explain how they are there to protect him, to rescue him, to take him to safety... and, despite everything telling him otherwise, he believes them. He follows them. He trusts them.

If you only look around - Korbin still remains in the rainfall, crumbled upon the ground as he did in the aftermath of the events of the Temple of the One in the first timeline. He does not know how long he has stayed in such a position; he does not know how long the rain has fell around him, and he does not care.

But even despite the pain and the agony that he feels, two gentle hands come to touch his shoulder. He looks up in shock -- no one had ever thought to do such a thing to him before, not when he was broken, fractured, in his most venerable, and weakest state of mind -- and there are both of his brother's standing in front of him.

They smile gently down at him -- despite how he looks, despite how he cries, despite how much weakness he is showing -- and they pull him up. As they do, they instantly begin to soothe his cries, and comfort him. They embrace him tightly and tell him that it will be all right. That he doesn't have to face such emotion, such darkness alone. That he is never alone.

For even though he is often overwhelmed with his emotions, his guilt, his pain that lingers from the previous timeline, and it causes him to often second guess himself... his brothers are always there to hush those fears. Because they are with him, they'll always be with him.

You will be found - And at last, Lucien finds the source of the light that cut through his darkness. The light that followed, willingly, and without question, and at the end of the light, he finds Martin and Korbin waiting for him with open arms.

Martin goes with the strange men that he met in the destruction of Kvatch, as the Oblivion Crisis first began, and he follows them upon their path, upon their shared journey, until he finally moves forward as the Emperor with Korbin and Lucien at his side as his Knight and Adviser.

Korbin finally stands from where he had fallen, the storm that was raging behind him beginning to slow to a light trickle, and he allows Martin and Lucien to hold him close. To soothe him. To comfort him, and he embraces them just as tightly in return.

They may endure hardships upon hardships, they may suffer underneath the weight of their own fears and their past choices, they may second guess themselves if they are truly doing what is needed, and what will make the others around them proud... but they have each other throughout every doubt, every worry.

They're never truly alone, because they will be found by the other, and have be found, because they found each other and became a family.

And when our children tell their story - And then the scene suddenly fades away from the brothers being found by one another, and it cuts to a shot of three children.

Three children -- a young boy holding a large book, with dark skin, shining eyes, and a golden circlet around his forehead, a young girl who is nestled close to the boy, with two toned hair of shades of brown and grey, and golden eyes, and then another that sits on the opposite side of the two with shining black hair in a braid, and piercing eyes -- excitedly reading about the many numerous adventures, and journeys that have come before them.

The journeys that had happened before they were even born. Those of which they had heard about in passing and were eager to know more of the time in which Shadow and Flame clashed, and what exactly brought about the End to Madness at last.

You will be found - The shot of the children reading begins to close in on the words within the book, and the scene slowly fades away to a nearly empty chamber. A chamber that is filled with nothing but darkness, and the most unbearable, unimaginable pain.

Two men stand together, side by side, and their blessings begin to appear to the eyes of the one who dares to defy them. Who dares to come between them, and the one that they would face off against the very depths of Madness itself to protect.

They'll tell the story of tonight - A pair of sharp golden wings appear upon the shoulders of the one who stares up at the Mad God with protective fury in his eyes; the wings coming to drape around his shadowy companion, and the one who had fallen behind them.

A thick smoke of red tinted mist falls off of the one who carries the artifact that would bring about even a Daedra's doom, and they block his attempts of getting to his Little Raven with as much power as they are able to wield.

In the distance, floating in the height of his supposed victory, floats the spectral form of Sheogorath himself, and he looks down at them with a cheerful smile. Taunting them, encouraging them, seeing if they are capable of coming between what is rightfully his for one final time.

Would they defy fate itself for the sake of keeping The Mad God away from their little brother? Without a doubt. They had done so before, without even realizing it, and now that they knew. Now they understood their own powers, and what their brother had given up, what he had sacrificed... they would do so again a second time.

No matter what they tell you - The children turn the page, and sudden the scene changes as well.

Martin and Lucien face off against The Mad God, and finally defeat him. They strike him down with their combined strength, their combined rages of what he has done to their brother over the course of so many years, and how close -- how often -- he came to ripping him away.

And that was Sheogorath's first mistake. He may have seen his Little Raven as nothing more than a broken bird, and yet... Lucien and Martin still wanted him. Still loved him. They saw his faults, his flaws, and accepted them all the same. And when it came time for the Mad God to come for his due, to get what he was owed, they stood in his way... and he did not expect such a thing.

And when it is done; when it is finally finished, and Sheogorath's spectral form fades away with a bitter, ironic, defeated chuckle... they rush back over to Korbin and heal him of the injury that he sustained in such a risk.

They had one shot. One small shot to free their brother from the pain, and the agony, and now that the one who had hurt him for so long was finally gone... they are desperate to bring him back from the brink of death itself. They had come so far, too far, and would not let him go so easily.

Tomorrow they'll be more of us - The children are hanging on the edge of their seats; their eyes widened, and desperate to know how it all ends. They continue to flip the page -- excited, overjoyed stars shining in their eyes -- and then the scene fades once again.

It fades to Korbin being brought back from the brink. To him waking up, much to the relief of his two terrified older brothers, and genuinely smiling for the first time in months. He looks towards Martin -- who laughs with gentle tears in his eyes at such a sight before him -- and then he turns towards Lucien. He speaks a clever quip, hoping to invoke some sort of emotion from Lucien, hoping that, in doing so, he would force his brother to speak... and when such playful words leave his lips, Lucien grabs him in a sudden, overwhelming tight embrace.

The two Assassins fall backwards into a collective heap, laughing as they go, and rest their foreheads against the other as they weep openly in knowing what they actually managed to achieve. In what they saved, despite everything saying that they would fail. That they would lose. That they would remain incomplete and be fractured in such unimaginable ways. In whom they saved from a Mad God's cruel hand.

Lucien pulls Korbin into a sit after a moment, they turn to Martin, and hold out their arms for him to come into the tearful embrace as well. It feels familiar, as though they did this so long ago, within similar chambers, and yet with a far greater audience.

They laugh to themselves; they hold each other close, and they allow themselves to breathe, and savor their hard-earned victory against the wrath of Oblivion a second time.

Telling the story of tonight - The scene slowly fades away from the brothers and their tearful embrace, and the young children close the book with large smiles on their faces.

They had heard the tales in passing, they had heard of such a remarkable feat from those that they cared for, and those they loved, and yet... now they have actually read it thoroughly. They actually had their chance to know it all in the most in-depth, gloriously detailed way possible. And knowing all that three great heroes had managed to accomplish -- against Oblivion, against the Mad God -- simply causes them to latch onto one another as well.

They laugh happily, albeit with far less tears, and suddenly familiar stars twinkle brightly in their eyes, and they want to know more.

They want to hear more adventures. They want to know everything that happened before their time. They want to grasp onto the strength and inspiration that such tales give to them, and possibly form their own story in turn. To follow in their footsteps, place down the roadwork to their own wonderful tales, and amazing adventures, and somehow make those that they admire most of all proud of their hard-earned accomplishments.

The story of tonight - As they break away from their emotional embrace after an extended moment, they look out to the distance, and see three men standing there in waiting. And it was somehow possible, the stars in their eyes twinkle all the more, and they instantly are up on their feet.

Running forward, smiling widely, and asking so many questions in breathless gasps. Did they know what they just read, did it really happen in such a way, did they really face off against Mehrunes Dagon himself, and The Mad God as well?

How did they find the courage of being able to keep going when everything around them seemed impossible? What sort of strength did they truly have when they were together? What new adventures are they going to have, and can they come along as well?

The children want to know everything; every possible thing about what they read, what they just learned, and they refuse to take no for an answer.

Three brothers look down at their children and laugh warmly at such intense curiosity. They hold out their hands to them and promise to tell them everything with time. But for now, for the rest of the day, all they wish to do is walk alongside their children and see where the road takes them.

And if, by some chance, they stumble upon a new journey that was ten times more amazing than what their children just read... well, then they would surely greet such a thing with open arms, and an ever-playful smile.

Not only because the thought of something new, something exciting, made them eager for new opportunities, and a brand-new adventure, but because whatever was out there, whatever was waiting... they would face it together. Just as they had always done, and just how they always will.

The children smile up at their fathers, and back towards each other upon hearing such wonderful words, and they nod their heads. It sounded amazing, absolutely amazing, and they couldn't wait to see where such a road would take them together.

After all, it was only a matter of time~

#hero of kvatch #martin septim #lucien lachance #the elder scrolls oblivion #tes oblivion #The Knight The Emperor And The Assassin~#My Fan Fiction~

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sweetmemories2606 · 4 years

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Day 2: Alluring

Took me a while to finish this one, but it was worth it.

By the way, important to note that this is a prequel to my prompt for day 3: perverse, which will be posted tomorrow.

Title: Reflection

Pairings: Gruvia

Summary: Like water, Juvia alluring, clear and dangerous. Though Gray wouldn't admit it yet, he was drowning.

Timeline: Tower of Heaven to Grand Magic Games Arcs

Warnings: Major Plot Twist at the end.

Word Count: 1774

Happy reading! (and Happy Easter too!!)

______________

September X784

After apprehending the guards, Gray took a look around to see how everyone else was faring. Predictably, Natsu had no trouble taking them down and Lucy seemed to be doing well too.

When he turned towards Juvia, the ice mage was speechless. Though he was aware that she was a powerful mage; it never occurred that she might also be cool, collected and patient.

Watching her in action was magnificent. With a single word Juvia managed to trap guards in water locks or knock them down with a water slicer. She made no movement to fight them which Gray found strange but also practical.

It was a contrast to the fighting style he was used to from Fairy Tail members, but he guessed Phantom Lord had a different strategy. Or perhaps this was due to Juvia's ability to turn her body into water thus remaining unaffected by her opponents' attempts to harm her.

In any case, Gray had to admit that she was turning out to be quite a useful ally. Maybe it would be a good idea if Fairy Tail had someone like her on their side. If he had someone like her….Thankfully, his train of thought was interrupted by Lucy's call of his name.

Looking for the celestial mage, he realised that she had Natsu joined in the centre of the cave. Juvia had been approaching them, but had stopped to glance at the ice mage. Her eyes showed worry, so Gray quickly offered a reassuring look.

"I'm coming." He ran towards his friends just as Jellal's familiar voice welcomed them to the Tower of Heaven.

______________

October X784

During the Miss Fairy Tail contest Gray realised another thing about Juvia that he hadn't been expecting. She was gorgeous.

It's not as if he had found her ugly before, but usually her beauty would be hidden behind a heavy coat and large hat. Well, not anymore, for she now stood in a bikini in front of everyone.

Gray was surprised that someone he had deemed shy would expose herself like this. Then again, she was hardly the only participant in this contest or the only one wearing a swimsuit.

Ignoring the loud reactions of his friends, Gray focused his attention solely on her. His eyes roamed over her body; appreciating how flawless her pale skin was and how she had curves in the right places.

As Loki put it, she was hot. However, this wasn't what impressed Gray since Erza, Lucy, Mira and so many other girls also had beautiful bodies.

What amazed him was the fact that Juvia could turn her body into water. She embodied the element so perfectly; with even her hair and eyes matching it.

He admired how deeply connected she was with her magic. She was water; the rain and the sea.

Once his gaze met hers Gray was entrapped by those mesmerising blue eyes. They were so huge; even from a distance. Her gaze was intense but also warm and welcoming. He couldn't look away nor did he want to.

In the end, she was the one to divert her gaze first. Glancing around the crowd, Juvia smiled nervously. "Do you like what you see?"

Many people cheered, but Gray remained silent. He assumed, though, that she didn't need verbal confirmation to know he did.

______________

December X784

Gray learned that Juvia wasn't just beautiful on the outside, but also on the inside. Though it had become clear that she was kind and compassionate, their experience on Tenrou Island taught him that she was selfless too.

Juvia had just surprised them by showing up after their battle against Grimoire Heart was over. He quickly noticed that something was wrong when she didn't stand. Recalling she had mentioned an injury on her leg before, he volunteered to help her get to the tent.

After he and Erza had pretty much carried Juvia there and helped her sit on the mattress, the re-equip mage gave him a pointed look before leaving.

"So, what happened to your leg?" Gray asked while sitting in front of the water mage.

"It was nothing." Juvia replied, conjuring water to clean her injuries.

"Doesn't look like nothing." Gray observed, concerned.

Her face grew somber and he knew that look all too well; it was on his face whenever he thought about his past. "Was it….Meredy?" He struggled to recall the young girl's name.

"No, she...she didn't do this." Juvia barely suppressed a moan of pain upon starting to clean her leg.

Gray moved closer to her. "Can I?" Receiving a nod, he gently pressed a hand against her leg, letting his magic cool it down.

"That feels nice." She smiled, slightly relieved.

A few moments passed in silence. "You know, I'm confused." He frowned. "I thought physical attacks couldn't hurt you."

Juvia avoided his gaze. "Not when someone else uses them."

"Wait..." His eyes widened. "Are you saying that you did this to yourself?" He removed his hand from her leg, inspecting the wound which was quickly blackening.

"I didn't have a choice!" Juvia yelled before the somber look returned. "She was going to kill you."

It took him a while to understand. Thinking back to the strange pink bracelet that had suddenly appeared on his arm, the unwanted emotions he had been overwhelmed by and the immense pain which had crippled him; the truth became clear.

It had been her emotions, her pain. His heart started beating faster once Gray realised this meant that the love she claimed to feel for him was true.

Unwilling to dwell on the repercussions of that, however, he focused instead on her last statement. "That bracelet...it connected us somehow."

"It's Meredy's magic. She linked me to you so that you'd share my pain." Juvia confirmed.

He failed to understand what the young girl might have against him. "But why? What did she have against me?"

Her voice trembled as she finally looked back at him. "She was doing it for Ultear. She said you...you killed her mother."

"Ur." Gray whispered, realisation dawning on him.

"I knew that wasn't true. I remembered Erza told me about your master." Juvia informed.

He offered an apologising look. "I'm sorry you had to become involved in this."

"It's alright." Her gaze fell down to her injured leg before she tried cleaning it again. "I'm just glad I was able to stop Meredy."

Watching her, Gray suddenly felt guilty. "You hurt yourself...to save me. Why?"

"I thought you knew by now that I'd do anything for you." Was her honest response.

Beautiful, strong, kind, clear and selfless. Resisting her was getting harder, but Gray was stubborn and still refused to give in.

The memories of those who lost their lives protecting him were a constant reminder of how dangerous it was to let someone get too close. Death had followed him like a curse but he couldn't allow it to take her away too.

______________

July X791

Gray learned that he wasn't the only one who found Juvia incredible after Lyon seemingly fell in love with her. At first he had assumed it was some sort of prank, a strategy to bother him and reignite the brothers' rivalry.

If that was so, it certainly worked. Though he tried to appear unaffected, Gray couldn't deny that he disliked all the attention Lyon was giving her. Even less so knowing he had no right to tell the other man to leave her alone.

Juvia should've been the one to push Lyon away, but she hadn't. Gray wasn't sure why, but convinced himself it had nothing to do with her actually enjoying being flirted with.

He couldn't phantom that she would have interest in someone else after claiming to be in love with him for so long. He expected her to always be there for him, thus made no move to advance their relationship.

Some people claimed he was taking her for granted and unfairly misleading her to believe that he would someday reciprocate her affections. Others warned that if he kept dismissing her, she would find someone else.

What they didn't know, though, is that Gray had already been reflecting about his feelings for her. Since getting confirmation that she truly loved him on Tenrou Island, he had begun seeing her in a night light.

Yet the answer still evaded him as the conflict between fear and hope remained. His heart was such a mess it was no wonder he couldn't figure out whether he loved her or not.

Meanwhile; Lyon kept flirting with Juvia, asking her on dates and offering gifts. He wasn't backing down and soon Gray realised this wasn't just a prank.

On the second day of the Games, he was dragged to an uncomfortable conversation during which Lyon pressured him to give an answer regarding his feelings for Juvia.

It seemed the older ice mage wanted to prove to her that Gray didn't feel the same way so she might consider accepting to go out with Lyon.

Gray figured this out quickly and escaped without saying anything. Returning to the inn, he came across Erza on the balcony.

Another uncomfortable conversation ensued. She reminded him that Juvia wouldn't wait forever and finished with the words that wouldn't leave his mind for the next two days. "She deserves a straight answer."

______________

Ironically, Juvia would be the one required to give answers soon. For even though it was still unknown to them, Lyon was not the only man who had taken an interest in her.

"You've been staring at her picture for a long time." Agent Doranbolt from the Magic Council finally looked away from the picture of the water mage and towards his partner.

"What is it, Lahar?" He asked with disinterest.

"I've got news from the Council." Lahar answered, approaching the messy desk where files were scattered.

"What did they say?" Doranbolt asked while placing the picture inside an envelope.

"They said we have permission to question her."

He smiled. "Good. It's about time we find out if our theory is true."

"If we're right, she could be dangerous." Lahar warned. "So we must act cautiously."

Doranbolt took another paper which showed the schedule for the Grand Magic Games. "We can take her after the Naval Battle since she'll probably represent Fairy Tail Team B."

Lahar nodded. "That's a good idea. We just have to be discreet about it."

"Not a problem." Doranbolt chuckled as he stood. Quickly gathering the papers and organising them, he picked Juvia's picture again.

"You know, I never would have suspected her of all people to be a spy."

#fanfic #gruvia week #gruvia #fairy tail #plot twist #day 2: alluring #gray fullbuster #juvia lockser #erza scarlet #lyon vastia #mest gryder #grand magic games #tower of heaven #tenrou island #magic council

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officialleehadan · 4 years

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Diamond Spy

(Forgot to post this one yesterday, so hey! You get two stories today!)

+++

“You may find that your evening is significantly more complicated, should you give me reason to be annoyed.”

Rennan was, yet again, at the human court in his favored robes. As she often did, these days, Cambre matched him, all in silver with black beads at the bodice and hems. Today she wore his scale at her throat in place of any jewel, and it had drawn more attention than he honestly expected. Then again, the younger princess did tend to set fashions, and here she was, wearing something unusual.

He amused himself at the thought of humans attempting to carve dragon scales of polished onyx, and reminded himself to tell Cambre later. She would enjoy the thought.

But at present, he was threatening someone.

Not, for once, Duke Gavid. That odious nobleman was pleasingly absent this evening. Rennan knew. He spread his little-used magic through the keep and hunted about until he was convinced that the duke was nowhere to be seen.

Unfortunately, his absence was conspicuous in itself, and now Rennan had discovered the duke’s favorite lacky in the balconies, his eyes on Cambre.

He was getting rather tired of these attempts to steal his princess.

Unfortunately, Cambre felt that lighting people on fire without warning them first was rude.

So here he was.

Issuing a warning

“Don’t think I know you,” the man replied. Rennan dipped shamelessly into his thoughts, seeking his name, and his plan for Cambre for the evening. Fortunately for the elegant evening, all the man, his name was Barneed, was doing was watching. Apparently a plan to learn Cambre’s habits, and decide where it would be easiest to snatch her away to wherever Gavid planned to hide her. Unfortunately, Barneed had no idea where that was. Rennan would just have to hunt it down by wing when he got a minute. “Seen you around, here and there, but I don’t think you’re nobility.”

“Why is that?” Rennan asked, curious to see what this objectionable man, who would be terrifying Cambre if she did not know Rennan was already here, had to say. Barneed had an interesting voice. Educated as a noble, but his words slipped almost imperceptibly here and there. A man educated in his youth, who then spent time in the slums. Bastard-born if Rennan was any guess, and probably raised above his meagre fortunes by Gavid in exchange for his loyalty. “Was it supposed to be a slight?”

“No, see, you look like power,” Barneed said and leaned forward on the railing, the image of a man at leisure. “The real kind. The kind that can wander into half a dozen royal parties, dance with the princess, and vanish like smoke. The kind that makes the crowned heads and their lackeys nervous.”

“You’ve been watching me as well?”

That was interesting. Rennan rarely paid attention to the stares of Cambre’s court. It wasn’t as if any of them could threaten him. Not without a very capable mage and a good deal of preparation that would be not at all subtle in an elegant party.

“It’s my job to watch powerful people. Never saw a mage brave enough to wear dragon scales. Don’t they usually get testy about that?”

“Usually,” Rennan allowed himself a smile. Cambre stole a glance up at him, saw his smile, and returned it. She could not slip away just yet, but he looked forward to the later hours of the dance, when she could. It turned out his human form had more advantages than just kisses, and he was very pleased to enjoy the company of his lovely mate, safe in his nest in the sea stacks. “Dragons take offense to those who wear their image without permission.”

This was turning out to be surprisingly enjoyable. He hadn’t expected that. Then again, maybe he should have. After all, it was the rare dragon who didn’t enjoy riddles, and spies were just humans who knew more riddles than most. It also offered an intriguing chance to buy this man’s service, although he personally found purchasing people to be unpleasant. His brief foray into Barneed’s mind told him that the spy would be amiable, however, if the price was right.

The price wasn’t especially high, in fact. Perhaps Gavid was a worse master than Rennan thought, or maybe Barneed knew when he was speaking to a man who could easily be his death if he said the wrong thing.

It was the work of a minute to bring a bad of diamonds, rough and uncut, but far more valuable than Barneed’s price, to Rennan’s pocket. He often collected small valuables, kept separate from his horde, for gifting, trading to other dragons, or just because he thought they were interesting. He produced the bag and set it on the railing between them, hidden by their bodies, but in easy reach. Barneed took it with the clever hands of a thief, checked the contents, raised a brow, and slipped the bag into his pocket. “Alright. You have my attention.”

How odd it was to be buying a favor, rather than trading one. Still, it was certainly easier than dragging the man out a window to learn what he wanted to know.

“Why does Gavid want my princess?” he asked when the diamonds were hidden away in Barneed’s pocket. Perhaps it was tipping his hand, but he was under no illusions of loyalty. Barneed would almost certainly return to Gavid and tell him all about this encounter. That was alright. Rennan didn’t mind Gavid knowing that someone was watching him right back. “I find his constant attempts on her to be tiresome.”

“He’s been trying to marry her the usual way since she came of age,” Barneed shrugged, although he wouldn’t have missed Rennan openly claiming Cambre as his princess. “He doesn’t tell the help his plan, but it’s not hard to figure. See, marry the younger princess, get a child on her, murder her father and sister, and suddenly the princess is a queen. Give it another year or two, maybe get a second child on her, and murder her. Takes a stern soul to refuse a man the right to be regent for his own children, after all.”

Murder. Kidnapping and rape since Cambre would never willingly allow Gavid to father her children. More murder.

Rennan closed his eyes and determinedly swallowed down the fire behind his teeth. He wasn’t powerful enough to allow his true nature to show. If Gavid knew Cambre was under a dragon’s protection, he would have time to find a way to keep Rennan from her.

Humanity serving as better protection than scales for him and his mate. Who would have thought? It chafed. Rennan ached to simply carry Cambre off to his mountain lair, safe and loved, but she wouldn’t leave. Not with her father and sister in danger. Damn his beautiful, brave, determined human mate.

Barneed watched him out of the corner of his eye, his mind hot with the fear that most humans got when they knew a predator of their kind was in the room, but couldn’t figure out where.

He was also the sort to keep his head against his fear.

“Remember what I said about power,” Barneed said, casually pulling his handkerchief out and wiping his fingers and pretending he didn’t stink of sudden terror. “And what I said about people who don’t have it. Good evening, Lord Mage. I hope we will not meet again.”

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The Dragonscale Token:

A gift can mean more than it seems at first, and one good turn deserves another.

Sometimes a good turn can turn into more, even between two unlikely friends.

Magic Net, Magic Knife

The Sea Stacks

Comments from Above (Free on Patreon!)

Dress of Scales (Subscriber Only!)

Sapphire Trouble (Subscriber Only!)

Storm Winds Blow (Subscriber Only!)

Murmurs of the Future (Subscriber Only!)

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