#the family is mourning in silence and the griev is to heavy to speak up
Text
Prayer
Summary: The God of Ambition has returned to Elysium, and you did not follow him. You grieve for Gale, and you struggle to move on with your life.
Featuring Tara the Tressym and Morena Dekarios.
Word count: 3.8k
Non-18+. Gale x Tav. God!Gale. Heavy angst. Grief/mourning.
AO3 link
You let yourself into his tower. Morena had given you the keys, after your first few visits. She had welcomed you like the family you had always yearned for. The family that he had been to you, before he left.
You had moved to Waterdeep after the reunion party. You had not known what else to do. For six months, you had stayed in Baldur’s Gate, helping rebuild the city after the threat of the Netherbrain had passed. You were waiting for him to return. For a sign from him, from anyone, that he still lived.
But he did not. And after you had seen Him, and He had returned to Elysium without you, you had no idea what to do. Where to go. Your parents and brother had died of consumption when you were a child. Your companions had scattered. The man you loved, who you had given yourself to, was no more. Tara and Morena were all that was left of him. So when they asked you to stay in Waterdeep, you accepted. There was no other choice.
Dust swirls in the dimness of the hallway as you walk, your bags swaying around you as you call out.
“Tara?”
You meander into the library. After all this time, it still winds you – how much it smells of him. You blink away the memories that come to you. His hair brushing against your face. The musky warmth of his skin. The softness of his embrace. You set your package on the table, anchoring yourself.
Tara lifts her head lazily from the plush armchair which is the centre of her universe.
“Good morning, Tav,” she yawns, her wings fluttering.
“I’ve brought you a present.”
She patters over to you, heavy-lidded and languid. “You are a dear.”
With a flourish of claws she tears open the wrapped pigeon that you have offered her. Her razor teeth glint in a grin.
“You are so kind to me.”
You dip your head with a smile.
Tara takes her breakfast with you on the balcony. Mrs Dekarios is seeing her sister, she tells you, and will likely not be back until the evening. Your eyes roam over the bustling docks, the stillness of the sea. You cannot help but remember the first night, when he had brought your spirits here, while your bodies remained far away. The moment when you had become one. Another life. Gone forever.
You wonder if He is watching. You are almost certain He is not.
Tara licks at her paw with satisfied laps. You are grateful that you can sit in silence with her. That no words are needed to express the tumult of your memories. The cracks that open and re-open in your heart. You take a sip of your tea.
“You don't have to keep coming, dear. I'm perfectly capable of finding myself sustenance. And watching over Morena, if that’s your concern. Not that we don't appreciate your visits and marvellous company."
“I know.” You set your cup down. “But it's nice to see you all the same."
Tara regards you, her bright eyes wide. She misses nothing.
"Don't take this the wrong way, dear.” She stares, appraising you from head to toe. “But when was the last time you had a change of clothes, or went to the hairdresser's? You are looking slightly..."
You tilt your head.
"Dishevelled. Not at your best.”
It is something you already know, but you do not care. You have little energy for these things now. Your energy is consumed with getting through the motions of your days. That is effort enough.
"It's not a look I'm unfamiliar with.” Tara grimaces. “And I wouldn't wish for you to embark on the same trajectory…"
You shift, waving a hand. It is too much, to speak of him. Of the man he was. Even indirectly.
"I'm fine, Tara. I don't know what you're worrying about."
She frowns. She draws herself up, commanding your attention with her gaze.
"It has been two years, my dear. You are allowed to move on with your life. To move on from Waterdeep." Her voice softens. "From Gale."
You stand. Your cup and saucer rattle on the table. You hold them down, so nothing spills over. So nothing breaks.
"My apologies, Tara,” you hear yourself say. “But I must go. I need to pick some medicines up on the way back, to drop off at the hospice. And it's getting late."
Tara narrows her eyes. Her wings twitch.
"You are stubborn to a fault.” She sighs loudly, then slumps. “But I suppose, that's part of why he loved you.”
You look down, so she cannot see your face tremble.
“Take care of yourself, my dear."
You give her cheek a gentle scratch before you turn away.
"Until next time, my friend."
--------------
You walk along the sea front, as you do every evening. You rent a husk of a room within the hospice that you can never call home. You spend as little time there as you can.
The orange sky is bruised with purple streaks of encroaching night. He had conjured the smell of the sea so truly and vividly, a lifetime ago. He had wished, then, that he could have stood here with you. He had missed this view with an anguish that you felt in your bones. He had wanted nothing more than to take you home. But he is not here anymore, and you are alone.
Sometimes, you pray. You were never religious, even before you awoke on the nautiloid. You have seen so many travesties committed in the name of the gods, to people you love and care for. And from you, the gods have only ever taken away. They ignored your childish prayers for your parents’ healing, your cries as you watched them waste away. You could never praise or worship any god, after all that.
And now, you have seen this god that wears the likeness of the man you love, who speaks with his voice, but not with his heart.
And yet. Sometimes you still pray to Him.
You have never been ambitious. Your parents’ death taught you early on that everything could be ripped away from you without warning. You took nothing for granted – not the clothes on your back, the food in your belly, the people you held in your heart. It was enough for you to cling to them tightly, while you had them. No lofty ambition could tear you away from cherishing the things you held dear.
Now, you do not desire anything. You do not hope for anything. You are empty and numb, as though all hope and life in you died the moment you realised he was gone. Now, you try and fill your time by being useful. By serving. You work at the hospice, mending wounds, cooking and cleaning, giving comfort to the dying. You feel you are dying too, and this is all you can give.
You know he would have approved of these acts of kindness. Of these efforts to remedy what the gods do not, including the god who wears his face. Part of you does it for him, even though you will never again see his smiling eyes that radiate with the pride of love.
You do not pray to Him for ambitions. To Him, you know your prayers will be futile. Meaningless. You know He will not hear them. Within His domain, He will not deem them worthy.
But the tears come as they will. The sorrow is like the darkness he had shown you long ago, when he clasped your hand against his chest and you felt the orb eating away at everything within him that was good and pure and true. You do not think time will ever staunch its hunger. You break apart in secret, consumed by the shadows of all you have loved and lost. You are powerless to fight it.
“Come back to me.”
You pray it, more fervently than anything you have ever wished for. You weep and whisper the prayer again and again. It is a rending inside you that you think will never heal. You would trade your life for it, what little remains of it, if it could restore him as the man he was. The man whose eyes twinkled in passion at the most trivial morsel of knowledge, as though he could never get enough of this world. The righteous anger that reached out from his heart to defend those around him. The earnestness of his hands, the sincerity of his questions. The kindness in him which burned bright, even when despair threatened to snuff it out. The spark of humour that lingered, even in his irritation.
You thought you had shown him how much you loved him, but it was not enough. You had failed to convince him that you loved him not for his magic, not for a grand destiny he could seize among the stars. In loving him fully and without conditions, you had thought that you should stand with him in loving his dreams. His ambitions, even though they were so far from your own.
But you failed to show him that you loved him, just as he was. That he was all you ever wanted, and more than you ever dreamed.
The god that claims his name does not answer your prayers. And you know He will not. The man who would have listened has gone forever.
But you still pray, hoping that he has not.
--------------
People whispered about it in the hospice, when you first arrived in Waterdeep. You could not help but overhear them. ‘The hero who saved Baldur’s Gate,’ they gossiped. ‘The lover of the god of ambition. The foolish woman who turned down the offer to become a god.’
You tried to ignore their disbelief, to avoid their derision. But some of them cornered you. They demanded to know why. Why did you refuse His offer, when you could have had eternity? Why did you not become His Chosen? How could you turn down such glory? Such power?
You could not answer their questions. Nor could you make them understand. You could not show them how it felt to see Him after six months of silence, fearing he was dead, paralysed by not knowing. How it was to watch Him descend on you - an immortal stranger, draped in an imitation of the man who was the other half of your soul. A poor likeness, a travesty of memory. A garish monument to his hubris, to the darkest parts of him which he had battled against and lost. All his tenderness swallowed up by arrogance, the fire of his warmth extinguished by the indifference of silver.
When you refused his offer, you could barely see Him through the mist of your tears. You did not wish to become a god. You always knew what godhood would cost. Knowing the death of your greatest love confirmed it.
But there was something that remained in the steel of His voice and eyes. The faintest shadow of what you dared to hope was love. It made you ask, even when you knew what His answer would be.
“Is there no way we could still be together?”
Your voice sounded so frail, so desperate. The man you loved would never judge you for your vulnerability, nor shy away from it. He would have embraced it, drawing ever closer to you. But under His eyes of silver ice, you felt nervous. Exposed.
“I'm sorry, but no. I know what comes of love between the gods and mortals. I would never expose you to such risk.”
Even in this calculation, there was a semblance of tenderness. He would not make you his Chosen. In that decision, there was respect for the man that once was. The suffering that he endured. His wisdom, his kindness. And that tore you apart.
When He kissed you for the last time, a shock ripped through you that scarred your soul. It was dark as the mark of the orb that he carried and could never shed. His blazing face twisted for a moment in an approximation of pain.
“You may not wish to enter the heavens, but you do a fine job conjuring them here.”
They sounded like words that he would have said. Embers of his poetry. Ashes of his love.
He ascended in a haze of lightning, and was gone forever.
--------------
No one understands it. For how can you grieve for a man who died by becoming a god? It is folly, they think, to mourn an ascension to greatness, much less refuse to embrace it.
So you do not speak of him. You try not to think of him. But much as you try, you cannot forget. You cannot forget how it felt to see and love him so entirely, and to be seen and loved by him in return. To have everything in the boundlessness of his embrace, and be left with nothing on its withdrawal. You cannot let go of half of your soul, and the traces of his love that might remain.
Perhaps this is why you are drawn back to Tara and Morena again and again. An invisible cord joins you in your loss, stronger and more enduring than what is spoken or unspoken. You mourn together, yet you remain alone.
The next time you let yourself into his tower, you can hear them bickering. You make your way towards their voices.
“Frankly,” Tara drawls. “I don’t think those drawings are for our eyes, Mrs Dekarios.”
Morena chortles. “Indeed, Tara. I confess, I didn’t expect-”
As you enter the library, she spins to face you. Grey curls spill from the messy bun at the nape of her neck. You glance around in confusion at the boxes and crates that now clutter the room.
“Why, hello, Tav,” she exclaims, hobbling over to you through the chaos. “You’re just the person we need. Do you recognise this?”
She thrusts a worn leaf of parchment under your nose. It is peppered with elaborate diagrams, lined with arrows, arrayed with his neat cursive.
“No,” you say immediately, busying yourself with the flowers you have brought.
You do actually recognise it. There was an evening when he had decided to show you, in great detail, a technique he had memorised from ‘The Art of the Night’. One which you had both enjoyed at length in his tent, more than a few times.
Even that memory hurts beyond bearing.
Tara flutters onto the chair next to you, nodding at you in greeting.
“I think we should move on, Mrs Dekarios. To preserve our dignity, at the very least.”
Morena smiles wryly. “You’re quite right, Tara. I won’t push at a closed door, Tav, don’t worry.” She peers at the parchment again before burying it under a pile of books. “Still, it’s fascinating the things that you can learn, even when you’re as old and senile as I am.”
She squeezes you lightly on the arm, and you reciprocate.
Tara ushers you towards her armchair. You lower yourself into it, while Tara nestles herself into your lap. It took you months to earn this position of honour. You scratch the side of Tara’s ear as she starts kneading with her paws.
“You missed a great kerfuffle, my dear,” Morena remarks.
“Is that the source of this…?” You gesture around you.
“It is indeed. We were honoured with a visit from His Chosen.” She spits the word out like it is a curse. “That insufferable upstart from Thay. That loathsome boy has come to me three times, and it’s three times too many.”
Tara hisses.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Tara,” Morena mutters.
You do not point out the twist of the knife - that He never comes himself. Not to Morena or Tara. Not to you. The idea of Him having a Chosen, after your final conversation, is devastating enough.
You are almost afraid to ask. “What did he want?”
Morena’s scowl tightens the wrinkles on her thin face. “Apparently, there was a range of ‘personal effects’ that Gale neglected to pass onto us when he ascended. Now, two years later, His Chosen says his god is remedying this oversight, with apologies.”
“The man did not look apologetic,” Tara seethes.
“No, he did not.” Morena flicks a piece of lint off her sleeve with unbridled fury. “He looked offended to have been tasked with something so beneath him. When I asked him why it took him so long, he had the gall to tell me that the gods have more important matters to concern themselves with, and that time passes differently in Elysium. ”
You flinch. He had said the same to you, when you asked why He had been silent for six months. The man you loved was not capable of such casual callousness.
You need not to remember. You reach for the nearest box and pull out a book of recipes from Amn. You imagine him standing in the kitchen, tracing his slender fingers across its pages, his eyes intense and narrowed in focus, brown as fresh earth.
“My son was hopeless about many things. He was forever cluttering this place with a mess of trinkets and potions. Well, he did before his…affliction.”
“That certainly helped with the clutter,” Tara observes.
“That it did.” Morena sniffs. “But he was always meticulous about his books, his shelves. His correspondence. His affairs. He would never have left these things in this…state.”
She throws her hands around her in disgust.
“This Chosen. This god.” Her jaw clenches. “He makes a mockery of everything my dear boy stood for.”
She looks out the window, her chest heaving. Tara and I wait. We all have such moments, when his absence is suffocating, and it takes time to find our breaths.
“Well. I shan't bore you with the same ramblings that you’ve heard so many times before.” She laughs bitterly. “A god’s shit is a mother’s treasure, I suppose.”
You lay a hand on hers. She pats it briskly. She clears her throat.
“Speaking of treasure.”
She scuttles away. From a nearby shelf she retrieves a small envelope, creased and stained with brown marks. She holds it out to you.
“This is marked for you. There were a few others, crossed out and scrambled up. I take it that this was the letter he would have given you, but decided not to.”
Your breath catches. You try to hide the shaking of your hand as you take the letter from her. You stare at his cursive, more jagged than usual, bearing your name. Again and again, you run your eyes over it, over the places which his lithe fingers would have touched. The letter is unopened. None of you know what it contains.
“Go on,” Tara urges. “Open it.”
“Or do you want some privacy, dear?” Morena’s hazel eyes quiver.
You shake your head. You are not sure if you are ready. But then again, you are not sure you will ever be. And you are desperate, frantic, to cling to whatever trace of him that remains.
You open it and start to read.
--------------
The tears come and come, and they do not stop. The pain surges out of you like an endless flood, and the agony is so sharp that you think you will die. You curl into yourself, keening, wailing. And still, the grief gnaws at you like a bottomless hole which you do not think you will ever escape.
But Tara shelters you with her wings. Morena holds you in her arms, sobbing silently as you weep. And when it is finally, mercifully over, you clasp his letter to your chest. You close your eyes, soaking up the smell of him that lingers all around you, in every page and book, in every rug and armchair that bore witness to the miracle of him. You reverberate with the warm tenor of his voice, speaking his last words to you from the blue-green skies of another life, a light which washes over all the shadows within you.
You open your eyes, and you begin anew.
--------------
You are standing on the docks, clasping a bag in each hand. Morena and Tara had insisted on helping you pack for the journey back to Baldur’s Gate, but there had been little for you to gather. You had sold most of your possessions, except for your daggers, your surgical implements, a couple of books. A change of clothing. The carved duck from Halsin. A teddy bear from Karlach.
You have nothing left of him except his letter. You had not thought to gather mementos when you were with him. You had given yourselves to each other so completely, you had thought you would have time enough to build a life together.
Now you must rebuild your life alone.
“Gale.”
You let yourself speak his name now. It is not a prayer, but you hope he hears you, though he is no more.
In the distance, the faintest lightning bolt dances across the yellowing sky. It is gone in the blink of an eye. You are not sure if you have imagined it.
Then the air in front of you flashes and flickers. You step back, squinting as blurred streaks of violet and brown and grey form a misty image before you. A shadow in his shape. His soft face in a hazy whirl, his chest bare and unmarked beneath a familiar and well-worn robe. You are gasping, choking. You reach towards him, grasping for his hands. But they slip through your fingers like star dust.
“I love you.” You are smiling and crying all at once. “I’ll always love you.”
It is an illusion. A vision. A figment of your imagination. It does not matter, either way.
“Goodbye, my love,” you whisper.
His smile blazes, bright as the northern lights. He dissolves into you as he fades away. Through the space he leaves behind, you gaze at his tower for the last time.
Your heart is broken and bleeding, but it still beats. You are alive.
You turn and board the ship to Baldur’s Gate.
--------------
My love,
Firstly – please forgive me the scrawled nature of this note. My handwriting is no match for the Netherbrain’s tremors. Or perhaps my hands shake of their own accord. At this juncture, it is difficult to tell.
Do not misunderstand me – I am not afraid to die. But I am afraid of what I might leave behind me. That my sacrifice might hurt you so that your life becomes an echo of my own, your chest corrupted by heartache as mine once was by the orb.
I hope and pray this is not the case – that in the time since I left you, you have lived a life full of beauty, happiness, and wonder. That is what I will picture when the time comes. Only you. You were all I ever needed.
You are calling to me – I have truly run out of time. But you will not – that I promise. When this is over, your life begins anew. Treasure it, as I treasured you. That is all I ask.
Yours forever,
Gale
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The sequel/counterpart to this fic is Absolution.
Liked this fic? You can find more of my work here.
#baldur's gate 3#bg3#gale dekarios#gale of waterdeep#bg3 fanfiction#baldurs gate 3 fanfiction#gale fanfic#gale fic#gale x tav#gale romance#god gale
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Healing Hearts
Warning for implied Animal and Child Abuse, though nothing graphic, please take care of yourselves.
***
Cloud was a very small and very hopeful cat. Her fur was as gray as the storm clouds she had been born beneath and her family had expected great things of her. She had been very energetic as a kitten, looking forward to finally being big enough that she could help out and be of use.
To finally be as proud as her big brother, as strong as her mother and as crafty and swift as her father. There was plenty to do with climbing trees to look for birds, tracking mice and keeping lookout for the pack of wild dogs.
But as it turned out, Cloud wasn't very good at many, many things. She fell out of trees when she tried to climb them, she rarely landed on her feet and couldn't stealth through tall grass if her life depended on it. She got distracted watching out for the wild dogs and failed to warn her family in time.
"Maybe it's better if you leave," her brother told her one day, annoyed and tired. His heart was clearly troubled and grim with unpleasant determination. "You are ruining the hunt for all of us and it's unfair that we work hard just to keep you fed when you can't do anything for us."
"I'm doing my best," Cloud protested, upset and hurt and panicked at the idea of being all alone. Of being cast out. "Where would I even go?"
He flicked his tail dismissively. "Anywhere that's not here. Mom and Dad already expect a new litter of kittens and it will be hard enough for us to get them through winter without you there, mooching off of us."
When Cloud looked beseechingly at her parents, her father was studiously looking to the side, tail flicking restlessly. His heart was dark and heavy with what they had decided to do and yet he was too scared to meet her eyes, too scared of seeing the pain he was causing.
Her mother was tired and half asleep, her eyes were apologetic but she didn't speak up. Her heart was worn and exhausted and busy guarding the growing lives beneath it in her belly.
"Go," her brother said quietly, brushing past her. "I'm sure you'll find your place somewhere out there."
Cloud didn't leave right away, even as her heart felt cleaved in two. She lingered and skulked along the edges of her home, until at last the silence of her family drove her fully away.
She felt so desolate, it was nothing but pure luck that she didn't run into the pack of dogs or any other trouble. She walked until it started to rain and then she curled up within a hollowed tree along one of the dirt paths humans had made to travel along.
It took her a long moment to notice the whimper over the gentle, steady rain. Her ears flicked and for a second, she considered not getting up. She was grieving and tired and felt as though her heart had turned to paste, but at last she dragged herself to her feet.
Following the noise, she soon came upon a big, black dog, scars across its muzzle and it was tied down to the ground with a fraying, rough rope. Cloud stilled, startled, but the dog didn't react. He just remained curled up, shivering a little.
"Are you alright?" Cloud asked after a moment and the dog blinked one eye open. He looked very sad and very small, even though he was big. His heart was the darkest and heaviest Cloud had ever seen, filled with pain and grief and worthlessness.
"I was a bad dog," the dog said at last, quiet and so mournful it broke her heart a little. "I always mess up everything."
Despite herself and all her family's warnings, she felt a pang of understanding sympathy. She hesitated, then approached the desolate dog, noticing that he was lashed down so tightly he couldn't get up even if he wanted to.
"What happened to you?" she asked, aghast and the dog closed his eyes again, curling up tighter.
"My master didn't want me," the dog said in the tiniest voice and Cloud was horrified, before anger overtook her. She marched up to the dog and started to chew and claw at the rope until the frayed part snapped.
"Get up," she said and nudged at the startled dog until he clambered to his feet. He was too thin to her liking. "You can't stay here."
"Then where do I go?" the dog asked, fur matted and ears drooping. "I'm not gentle enough with children, too stupid for tricks, too dumb for guarding and too cowardly for fighting. I'm good for nothing."
The words hit home harder than Cloud had thought. She, too, was good for nothing. Too clumsy for climbing, too loud for sneaking and too easy to distract for keeping watch.
"I don't know," she answered at last. "I don't know where to go either." At least he was free now.
When she turned around to leave, the dog hesitantly crept after her. When she didn't protest, he followed her all the way to the hollowed and now they were both curled up within. The space was just barely big enough for them to fit.
After a moment of staring outside Cloud got up again and he looked visibly startled when she curled up against his side. He was warm, even if he smelled of stale air and dust.
They remained there as they waited out the rain and night fell. Some owls hooted and a fox screeched and the dog flinched a little, but stayed calm when she didn't react.
At the first hint of dawn, hunger drove Cloud to her feet. The dog followed her again as they walked down the road in the direction most of the humans traveled.
"Where is your family?" the dog asked quietly after a moment.
Cloud had to wait until her throat stopped aching with grief until she could respond, "They don't want me." She glanced up at her big companion. "I'm not good at anything either."
The dog looked upset on her behalf and hesitated, then offered, "Maybe we can be good at something together?"
That made Cloud thoughtful. Maybe the dog was right, she decided as they walked. Maybe if they worked together, they could make it. "Alright," she said at last and the dog perked up hopefully. "Come on, I think I know where to get food."
The dog looked relieved and eager. As they crested the hill, a settlement came into view. Cloud's family had always warned her away from those places, but she had overheard birds chatting with each other, as they watched her try and fail to climb. They found her clumsiness greatly entertaining.
"People leave food they don't eat outside," she told the dog when he hesitated to set foot into the small town. "We'll be careful. And look, it's still early, so barely anyone is awake."
Hesitantly, the dog followed her at last, almost crawling with how small he tried to make himself. Now came the tricky part. Cloud had heard the birds talk about food, but she had no idea where exactly she was supposed to find it.
She made sure no one spotted them, winding around corners and ducking into hiding spots until the dog suddenly lifted his head.
"I smell something. This way." They followed his nose and soon Cloud smelled what he had caught on the wind. The scent of blood and meat.
There was a building where humans clearly did their killing, which was strange but she wasn't going to question it. Not when bits and pieces got tossed outside. The downside was, they weren't the only ones. Other dogs milled nearby, while wary cats watched from the shadows, ready to swoop in and grab what they could.
"We can find food elsewhere," the dog whispered, looking scared of confrontation. Cloud was about to agree, when their stomachs growled. It hurt and the sound his stomach made was so much worse than hers. He needed food. They both did.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward, her new friend whispering in warning, but to her surprise, he followed still. The dogs paused in their excited staring at the big window and four heads swiveled to look at them.
"Fuck off, kitty," the meanest looking one growled at her, heart sparking in warning like a fire about to blaze bright. "Or you're part of our breakfast."
Her heart was pounding, but even if she was good at nothing, at least she could be brave. She had to be, or they'd go hungry. So when the dog lunged forward with a snarl, she lashed out. It was nothing but pure luck that she had moved when she had.
Her claws dug deep into the dog's nose and with a pained yowl they flinched back, dripping blood and now they looked scared, the fire in their heart doused swiftly. The rest of the pack lunged to attack and it became a frenzy of clawing and biting and her new friend joined the fray, determined but just as bad at fighting as he had said he was.
"Enough!" someone shouted above and they all flinched apart, staring up at a disgruntled human. "There is enough for all of you, so stop or you'll get nothing at all."
Cloud backed up a step and the pack reluctantly did the same. The human sighed and reached inside to start emptying two buckets, making sure to spread it out as much as possible so everyone got something.
"Hungry lot," he muttered as they all started to snap up pieces. Even the other cats hurriedly grabbed whatever had fallen closest to them. The man's heart was kind despite his rough voice and sharp words and Cloud found herself relaxing a little.
Cloud's big friend managed to snag a piece the size of his head, along with something smaller that dangled from one tooth. Cloud herself grabbed the biggest piece she could and they hurriedly retreated until they felt safe enough to eat.
They laid in the sun together afterwards, sated at last and they enjoyed the sun after a rainy day, keeping an eye out for trouble. They soon explored the town and started to map out the alleys and streets. Cloud made a note of which people were nice and which weren't.
There were so many hearts, good and nasty, bright and dark. Many shifted throughout the day, reflecting the emotions people went through. It helped Cloud in figuring out which humans would be willing to share their food, making her seek out the ones who had happy or soft hearts.
The dog managed to sniff out more places that tossed food outside and Cloud managed to be fast enough to swipe a small fish and later a sausage from someone handing it out to other humans in exchange for something shiny.
"We're doing good so far," Cloud said and the dog hummed in agreement, looking tentatively happy.
They found a place for the night and as the days passed, they settled into a new routine. In the mornings they waited by the butcher, as the man and his employees were called, who threw them all the bits and pieces humans didn't want to eat. Sometimes he tossed them things that smelled a little old, as though they were about to rot, but those were still edible enough for the alley animals.
In the afternoons, Cloud and her friend lingered by the market or other places that had nice people and they ate whatever else they were given or tossed. They sometimes got into fights over food or territory, but managed to establish themselves well enough to get by.
She was vicious and her companion was big and even if he wasn't good at fighting, he learned to pin down whoever recoiled after getting hit by Cloud's claws. It wasn't pretty, but they made it work.
One afternoon, while Cloud was looking up at a woman with a kind heart with big, pleading eyes, she noticed a struggling crow overhead. The bird looked to be young and one wing was clearly injured. It flew from the roof to the next, barely making the journey. When it tried to get further away, it tumbled and disappeared in a nearby alley.
Accepting the piece of ham Cloud was given, making a quick, sweet noise in thanks, she hurried to where the bird had fallen. She found it crouched between a half broken crate and a trashcan, looking like it was panicking.
Upon looking closer, the wing wasn't just hurt but tangled up in some kind of see-through, tough string or wire of some kind. The crow's heart was so heavy with grief and fear it might as well have been made of a large stone.
"Do you want some help?" Cloud asked politely around her piece of ham and the struggling bird froze in place, staring at her with wide eyes. "I promise I won't hurt you. Where is your family?"
"Gone," the little bird croaked faintly at last, heart growing even heavier. "I'm alone."
Cloud winced a little. Losing one's family was awful. She set the ham down and carefully approached. The small crow was clearly too terrified to move, but when Cloud started to carefully pull off the string tangled around the wing, the crow inhaled sharply.
When the string was removed entirely, the little crow stared at her in astonishment. A small gurgle of hunger came from the bird's stomach. Cloud thought for a moment, then offered her the piece of ham.
"Can you eat that?" she asked and the bird bobbled a quick nod. "Don't stay here too long, or someone will find you."
With those words, Cloud departed, only to hear struggling hops behind her. Glancing back, she saw that the crow was following, only to stop, ham pinched in her beak.
"Come on then," Cloud decided after a moment and the crow hop-walked to her side hurriedly, glancing around nervously.
Cloud lead the crow back to where the dog was dozing in their hideout and introduced them to each other. It quickly became clear to the bird that she had nothing to fear and the dog was more worried about getting pecked than she was about getting bitten.
And thus, Cloud gained another friend.
They became known as an unlikely trio around town. The little crow, once her wing healed, flew overhead to scout around. They managed to swindle and steal enough food for themselves and kept each other safe from those who did not like having them around.
The hearts of her companions slowly lightened, losing some of the unhappy dimness. They were still burdened, but they had perked up a bit, had regained some of the spirit the world had stolen from them.
Cloud thought they scraped by just fine and she thought about her family in the forest less and less. Her life was going well, most days.
Sometimes they had to fight harder than usual to have something to eat or to avoid mean people and sure, sometimes she was envious of the pets that had cozy, warm homes where they were always well fed, but those feelings always faded away soon.
She could have found a human for herself, but that would have meant abandoning her friends. She wasn't going to do that. Not when she wouldn't have come as far without them.
It was a gray day, as gray as her fur, with a storm rumbling in the distance, shaping up to be as wild as the one she had been born beneath, when she heard crying. It was human-crying as well, not animal-crying.
Humans usually took care of themselves just fine, but something about the sound didn't sit right with her. Peeking around the corner, Cloud saw a young girl sitting crouched beneath an awning, clothes torn at one shoulder. She was pressing herself against a firmly closed door.
"Please, let me in," the girl begged in a keening voice and her heart was an open, bleeding wound in her chest, oozing despair and panic. "I promise I won't do it again!"
"Go away," someone shouted from beyond the door. "Be lucky we don't just burn you at the stake!"
"I promise I'll never do magic again!" the girl begged around a sob. "I promise I'll be good!"
"Don't lie, we both know you're good at nothing and good for nothing," the voice answered harshly. "Go, this is the only chance I give you, for your late mother's sake. She should have never let you live when you were born with the witch mark."
The girl cried harder and begged again, but no voice answered this time. She slumped down the door at last, curling up tight and cried. Cloud hesitated, then slunk forward. The girl looked up at her meow and when Cloud nudged her leg, she found herself scooped up by trembling hands.
The girl was warm and cried until she was too exhausted to continue. The door didn't open and no one came for the girl. Cloud stayed with the girl for so long, waiting, that the dog and crow came looking for her.
"Come on," she said at last and nudged at the girl until she got up and followed them.
The hideout was a little small for a human girl, but they made do, curling around her to keep her warm. Her heart was still open and bleeding, still oozing despair, but the panic had softened and was nearly gone, instead replaced by exhaustion.
They were going to take care of her, Cloud decided and when she looked at her friends, their hearts and gazes reflected that same decision.
It was more difficult to keep a human fed, that was for sure. Cloud and her friends worked hard to get enough food and the girl never complained and helped as much as she could, begging for the shiny coins that the crow started to look for.
She once came back with a piece that made the girl gasp and they didn't go hungry for an entire week. They ate the best food they had ever gotten that week.
The girl was smart, Cloud realized. She knew exactly where they could go to get food and as time passed, Cloud observed her doing strange things. Things no other human did. She stood beneath the full moon and her skin seemed to glow the faintest bit, sometimes she held things in her hands she couldn't have gotten on her own and sometimes she got little glimpses of the future.
Other people started to notice as well sooner or later. They got no more food from the butcher or the other shops and previously nice people avoided them in the streets.
"We don't feed witch-cats," one man who had always given her a piece of fish hissed at Cloud when she meowed sweetly at him. "Leave!"
"My uncle says I'm a witch," the girl murmured when she lit a fire with the snap of her fingers. They had no food tonight, hadn't had much to eat that wasn't stolen out of trash cans in days. "It won't be long now before they decide to burn me. And...I fear what they will do to you."
There was only really one solution then. Cloud exchanged a glance with the dog and crow and that night, while the town slept, they left. On the way out, they stole everything they could.
The crow stood guard outside and sat on windows, watching people sleep as the girl whispered at doors so the locks clicked open. They left with sacks of shinies the girl had used in the past to get food and old skins to stay warm. Next they grabbed food and better, good skins to wrap up in and then they disappeared into the night.
They managed to find their way through the dark, with the crow's eyes in the sky, the dog's nose and Cloud's ears. They fought off whatever dangers came their way as they traveled with cunning and sheer viciousness and a healthy dose of desperate determination.
But as the air grew colder with the passing days, Cloud realized they needed some place to settle. The girl wasn't strong or old enough to make it through winter out in the open and it was slowly growing colder. Luck was on their side at last, when they stumbled across an old cabin, surrounded by a crumbling stone wall.
"A witch's hut," the girl whispered. "I heard rumors that those places draw witches to them when they stand empty for too long, but I didn't think that was true."
It was dusty and smelled old and stale inside, but all the walls were intact, the roof didn't leak and the windows didn't creak. A fire was lit swiftly in the chimney and they curled up, their hearts glad for a dry, warm place to sleep in.
Soon the downright dreary, slightly creepy place transformed. It was as though it came alive the more they made it their home. The floorboards gleamed like they had been recently polished when they were dusted and washed, the walls looked freshly made when the cobwebs were all swiftly removed.
The garden grew and transformed and with each day, the crumbling garden wall seemed to repair itself. Weeds disappeared and vegetables and herbs grew strong and vibrant instead, offering a last, big bounty before winter came.
The brighter and warmer the place became, the more it turned into their home and Cloud watched the hearts of those around her to grow lighter in turn. Relief at having finally found a safe place softened everyone and allowed hope to shine brighter and brighter the more time passed.
They had found a true, proper home at last and after some exploring once winter had passed, they discovered a village nearby. They cautiously ventured into it to trade shinies for things. Soon it was a normal sight for the residents to see the girl with her animal companions.
The local herbalist was willing to take the girl under her wing and as they were accepted by the village, they settled into a better, warmer and well-fed life. The girl grew older and as the years passed, Cloud noticed that she didn't really age anymore and neither did the dog and crow.
"Well, you're my familiars now," the witch said, carefully cleaning off small crystals she had found in a river. She smiled wide and happy. "That means we're family for as long as you want to be."
Oh, that was very sweet. Cloud cuddled up to the witch and got the best scratches in return.
"You know," the dog said that evening as they dozed on the thick, soft carpet in front of the warm fire. Snow was slowly falling outside, but they felt none of the cold bite inside. "I'm so glad you found me that day. Even if I'm good at nothing, I still have a life I could have never dreamed of."
Cloud frowned at that. "But you are good at many things," she said and when the dog looked ready to protest, she hurriedly tacked on, "Your nose saved us many times and you always found food for us no matter what. You kept us from going hungry."
The dog ducked his head, bashful but hopeful so she kept talking, "Even if you say you can't fight because you're too cowardly, you always helped me no matter how scared you were. That's real bravery, you know?"
"Oh." The dog was quiet for a long moment, then whispered, "You really think so?"
"Yes, there is no doubt," Cloud said firmly.
The crow flapped down from her perch in the rafters and nodded. "You're strong and big and warm and you always take care of us," she said. "Whoever told you you're good for nothing lied to you. You guys..." She hopped a little closer, voice going warm. "You're my family. When I had nothing, you came and gave me everything."
The dog gently nudged their heads together with a little rumble. "And you're mine." He was quiet for a long moment. "I...never thought about it that way. Do you really think I'm pulling my weight?"
"A hundred times over," Cloud said with certainty, then nudged the crow as well. "And you're our family too."
The crow chirp-cawed happily and they laid snuggled together on the carpet. The crow was asleep and Cloud was about to doze off when the dog murmured, "You're no good-for-nothing either."
Cloud opened one eye and he shifted his head to look at her. "You saved me when no one else would have and you have done the same for our crow friend and our witch." The dog tipped his head a little to the side. "And then you helped us figure out how to survive. We wouldn't have made it if we hadn't all stuck together, if you hadn't found us. So, you know, you're definitely good at something."
Cloud was wide awake now while the dog fell asleep, snoring ridiculously loud within moments. She watched the dog and crow a moment longer, then looked up to where their witch was making a protective charm for a worried villager.
When the witch noticed her staring, she looked up and smiled. "Sleep," the witch whispered. "We're safe here. Safe and happy and we're going to stick together, won't we?"
Cloud chirped a little noise in agreement and settled down. Her heart felt full and as warm as the fire they laid near.
Without realizing, without even meaning to, she had ended up getting everything she had ever wanted. A family that loved her and a purpose, as strange as it may look to others. And sure, she wasn't good at any of the things other cats were good at, but now she didn't have to be. Now it was a good thing that she was strange and different.
She fell asleep with a smile and in the morning the world outside was snowy and cold, but her heart still glowed bright and warm. And when the witch looked knowingly at all of them, when Cloud noticed that they all walked unburdened, she realized they had done it.
They had healed the wounds on their hearts.
#my writing#short story#finding love and family in the most unexpected places#just a little thing I found myself writing#hopefully someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it#a bit of a different thing to my usual stories I think#hopefully I didn't overlook too many mistakes#implied child abuse#implied animal abuse#just so you know in case that is a no-go for you#be sure to take care of yourself#i have no idea how tagging works#magic#witch#familiars#and families
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Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Sorry for your lost - Part I “I will grieve”.
Serie Masterlist here || Part II|| Read on AO3
Summary: When your wife Natasha passes away in a car accident, a part of you dies with her. It takes a few months of mourning for your psychiatrist thinks the best alternative is for you to join a grief group. And there you meet Wanda Maximoff, and learn to live again.
Warnings: (+16) mentions of death, panic attacks and anxiety, grief, self sabotage, mentions of abusive family background, mutual attraction, explicit consent, therapeutic conversations about death, self-deprecation, healthy methods of coping with grief, possible triggers about anxiety, hurtful behaviors, domestic wanda.
Chapter warnings: Heavy angst, death.
Author’s notes: Hello readers! I'm finally back to posting something, but I disappeared for a good reason, I was writing three new series. And here is the first of them. I really enjoyed this work and it's something I've been trying to write since I watched WandaVision, and only now I've managed to put it into words. I am not finished yet, but there is only one chapter left, so your reading will not be affected. Pay attention to the warnings, and good reading!
Tag list (let me know if you wanna be tagged)
@mionemymind / @abimess / @stephanieromanoff / @yourtaletotell / @tomy5girls / @justagaypanicking / @thegayw1tch
//-//
Chapter One - I’ll grieve.
You wished you could go back to sleep as soon as you opened your eyes. The sound of your alarm buzzed loudly throughout the room, and after putting it on snooze mode at least four times, you finally got annoyed enough to grab it and throw it across the room. But the sound continued.
Letting out a grumble of dissatisfaction, you pushed the comforter off you, and sat up in your bed. Your room was a mess, but you just skipped through the clothes on the floor to reach the phone, turning off the alarm through the new crack you made in the screen.
"Honey, are you up?" you heard your mother's distant voice calling you through the door, probably from the living room or the kitchen. "Don't forget your therapy today."
You sighed impatiently, running your hands through your hair. The damn group therapy.
Grumbling lightly, you forced yourself to take a shower, not wanting "poor hygiene" to end up on your progress report card.
A while later, when you were finished, you went into the kitchen. Your mother was using her laptop on the counter, and just waved at you.
"Are you going to take me?" You asked her with your hands in your pockets. Your mother took her eyes off the screen to evaluate the sweatshirt you were wearing, and you rolled your eyes at her disapproving expression.
"You know, you could try driv-"
"Mom" You cut her off in earnest, your heart racing momentarily. You don't drive. An she knows. Your mother sighs, putting her hands up in a sign of surrender.
"It was just a suggestion dear." She retorts as she stands up, reaching for her car key on the key rack exiting the kitchen. "But I'm busy with the store, you'll need to take the subway next time."
"Thanks for the support." You grumble as you step out in front and your mother lets out a wry chuckle.
You frown and let out a dissatisfied exclamation as you step outside feeling the sun's rays on your face.
"You're not a vampire, cut the drama." Mocks your mother by pushing you lightly to get you out of the way.
You grumble as you walk to the car. And when you are sitting on the seat, your mother is starting the vehicle and she asks:
"Are you sure you're not going to eat anything?"
Looking out the window, you just mumble that you're not hungry, and she shakes her head in disapproval before you back the car up. You don't speak any more on the way.
//-//
Your mother dropped you off in the parking lot of a gymnasium where the therapy group would be meeting. You sighed as you got out, and thanked her for the ride and the money she gave you to eat, even though you probably weren't going to use.
Resisting the urge to run away, you forced your feet to walk toward the place.
There were a few people at the door, but you didn't smile at any of them, entering the place with your head down and your hands in your pockets.
And then a woman greeted you, and put a little sticker with your name on your shirt when you gave her your papers.
Then she signaled the way you should go, and you ended up on the gymnasium court, where there was a wheel of chairs, and a table with food and drink, and several people scattered around, who you thought were part of your therapy group.
Sighing impatiently you made your way to the bleachers of the venue, hoping to be alone until the session started and you could leave.
Fortunately it wasn't long before the leader signaled for everyone to sit in the circle, and you sighed as you stood up. You ended up with one of the chairs on the far left opposite the therapist, which could be bad since he would see you clearly.
"Thank you very much for coming." Said the therapist smiling gently as his gaze roved over everyone in the circle. You kept your gaze on your shoes. He made a noise with his throat. "Who would like to start today?"
The silence lasted for a few seconds, but then someone was speaking. You forced yourself to come back to reality and pay attention.
"[...] and this is my fourth week around here." Said a woman in a leather jacket. You noticed the army lanyard around her neck. She was talking about an accident when you got distracted again. Lightly poking your eye with your finger, you tried to focus again, letting out a low sigh. And then the therapist was talking again.
"We have new faces today." He said and you felt your heart speed up. You absolutely did not want to talk in front of strangers. "Why don't you share with us, miss?"
You raised your gaze to meet that of the therapist, smiling gently at you. The rest of the group looked at you as well. Taking a deep breath, you began to wiggle your fingers on your leg.
"I don't... I've never been in a group." You say clumsily. "What should I say?"
"Whatever you wish to say." He answers with a smile. You swallow the urge to tell him you didn't want to talk at all. Realizing your lack of response, he is quick to add. "Why don't you tell us why you are here?."
You let out a dry laugh.
"I really didn't have much choice." You retort wryly. The therapist looks slightly surprised, but makes no mention of interrupting you. You let out a sigh before clarifying. "My psychiatrist, she...she didn't approve of my social ratings. She wanted me to talk to other people. People who... went through the same things I did." You count staring at the floor. When you look up again, the group still waits for you to continue, and you sigh, running your hands through your hair. "I haven't... I... I haven't talked to other people outside of my family in six months. Not since..."
You move your head, sniffling slightly as you straighten your posture. The therapist clears his throat.
"You just need to share whatever you are ready to tell us." He says gently, you nod slightly feeling extremely vulnerable. "But remember that this is a safe space. There is nothing to fear here."
And then he is talking about methods of easing the guilt, and dealing with the pain and you were distracted again. You would like to go back to bed. It must have taken a while, but the session is finally over.
The group dispersed around the room, and you went toward the therapist's desk to have him sign your schedule. He smiled as you approached.
"Miss Y/N/L, I was happy to hear that you would be joining us today." He said greeting you with a handshake. You nodded, taking the paper from your pocket. He chuckled, but accepted it. "You know, I'd like you to try to have a partner in the group, it's recommended for cases like yours."
"What do you mean cases like me?" You ask snidely, but he doesn't care.
"Doctor Harkness gave me your chart." He explained as he signed the paper you gave him while you frowned. "Extreme Social Anxiety in the first few months of treatment. Tendency to complete isolation, introverted..."
"Yeah I know my problems, buddy." You interrupt him with irritation. "You don't have to list them for me."
The therapist gives a lopsided chuckle, and holds out the signed paper to you. But he adds with a serious look:
"I'm here to help you, Y/N." He says. "Don't forget that."
You don't respond and take the paper, turning toward the exit.
//-//
Your week passes slowly and tortuously. Which is surprising because you barely get out of bed. And then it is group therapy day again, and you are making a new crack at your cell phone screen.
Your mother greets you with a pat on the back as you enter the kitchen, and she is walking past you toward her own room.
You know you have to take the subway today, and you are trying not to think about it too much. As you are walking out the door, your eyes pass quickly over your car key, and you think you have a flash of memory, but you shake your head quickly, pushing the thought away. And then you walk forward.
And you are late for the session, because you can't take the bus to the station, since your feet simply didn't obey you. But that's okay, you don't really care.
You weren't the only one who was late. When you went to enter the door, a red-haired woman bumped into you, also running to get in. She smiled slightly as she apologized, and you just made room for her to enter first.
"Sorry Stephen." She said to the therapist as soon as you two entered the gymnasium, "I had an emergency with the kids."
The man just shook his head with a smile, and waved for you both to sit down.
"And why were you late today, miss Y/L/N?" He asked you. You shrugged your shoulders.
"I didn't wanna come." You retorted and the group giggled, and the sudden sound startled you slightly, but you just sat with your arms crossed.
"Do you want to try again?" He retorted with light humor in his voice. And you bit the inside of your cheeks. And then you looked down at the floor.
"I couldn't get on the bus." You confessed next. Stephen looked at you tenderly, though, and you didn't like the feeling of your chest heaving slightly.
"And why do you think that happened?"
You shrugged, uncomfortable.
"I don't know. I... There were too many people." You said embarrassed. And then you started twiddling your fingers, feeling all eyes on you. "I just... I knew I'd have to say hello to the driver, and the conductor. And then I would pass strangers in the hallway, and one of them would sit next to me. And I just... I couldn't."
Stephen nodded slightly in agreement.
"It's okay, Y/N. " He stated. "No one is judging you here."
You let out a dry laugh, and Stephen blinks in surprise, which spurs you to explode.
"Everyone is judging me, Doc." You say through gritted teeth, swinging your leg. "It's as if I can hear the gears in people's brains forming opinions about me." You state with a sigh. "Like my mother for example. She...she...acts like I'm past the time of mourning." You explain with tears in your eyes. "Like there's a limit, and I'm extending her goodwill. Because it's been six months, and she doesn't want me to be sad anymore. But guess what? I don't know how to move on!" You state angrily. "I can't! If I don't miss her, what's left for me? If I don't... God, I can't do this."
And you stand up, wiping your tears away, and walk out of the gymnasium, heading for the restrooms. You feel your heart racing, and it's hard to breathe.
As you rest your hands on the sink, your brain starts to wander back to the day of the accident again. You choke, because it feels like you're sinking again. You see the water rising through the metal of the car. Your hands on the steering wheel, and then on the seat belt. You shake your head, pushing the images away, and rush to turn on the faucet in front of you and pour the water on your face.
You take a deep breath, trying to stop the tears. And then there is someone entering.
"Are you okay?" Stephen asks and you nod lightly, ignoring the trembling in your hands as you stare at him through the reflection of the mirror. "I gave a break to the group, wouldn't you like to walk with me?"
"I'm not good company right now." You grumble but he smiles, nodding slightly as if to repeat the invitation. You take a deep breath before turning around.
You walk silently and slowly to the outside of the gymnasium, and then he is speaking again.
"You were very brave today." He comments, and you let out a dry laugh. "Why don't you believe me?"
"I panicked today." You say. " It doesn't sound very brave to me."
Stephen smiles guiding you through the gymnasium entrance toward the parking lot.
"You talked about a trauma to a group of people." He says. "That takes a lot of courage, even if you don't believe it."
"I don't believe in anything." You grumble, but Stephen doesn't mind your hostility. He stays with his friendly posture.
"I would like you to accept my request from before." He said after a moment. "About a group partner."
You let out a sigh.
"I don't even know what that means." You retort with slight impatience as you reach the edge of the parking lot. You notice the garden a few feet ahead of you.
"It's like a therapy buddy." He explains with a smile. "We encourage socializing here. That's why Agatha recommended this group to you."
"Oh, of course you do. Agatha is a bitch." You wryly wipe your hands across your face. Stephen laughs lightly. "How does that work anyway? Do I have to hold someone's hand? Exchange friendship bracelets?"
"No, it's much better." He says with a chuckle. "You talk to that person. You exchange experiences with them. You learn to trust somebody else again."
"My god, it looks like a fucking Disney movie." You retort with irritation and Stephen lets out a laugh. And then you let out a sigh, shrugging your shoulders. "Okay, I'll do it. I have nothing to lose, and it seems that neither you nor Agatha will leave me alone if I don't agree."
"We want you to feel better. Don't take this as a punishment." He says, guiding you back to the gym. You nod slightly, thinking that it really does feel like punishment anyway.
//-//
You see Agatha the same week. Your appointments have been switched to monthly meetings instead of weeks as they were at the beginning of treatment, and while you appreciate the familiarity of seeing her, you can't help but feel irritated with her.
"Someone's grumpy." She comments as soon as you sit down on the couch in the room, to which you roll your eyes.
"You are always so very tender, Agatha." You mock as you cross your legs, hoping the time will pass soon.
Agatha laughs lightly, finishing tidying up a few things on her desk. And then she gets up and sits down in the armchair a few feet in front of the sofa where you are, carrying a small notebook in her hands.
"So, why don't you tell me how your your first two sessions in group therapy went?"
You let out a dry laugh.
"Like Stephen didn't tell you everything." You sneer and Agatha just smiles, waiting for you to speak. You let out an impatient sigh, before stating wryly. "It was amazing, doc. It only took two sessions for me to have a panic attack, so thank you for that."
"Why do you think that happened?"
You squeezed your eyes.
"I have no idea." You retorted. "I'm not the doctor here." Agatha laughs lightly, and then opens her notebook and starts writing something. You sigh impatiently. “Really, you're going to start that again?”
"If you don't talk, I write." She states simply, and you roll your eyes, shifting on the couch uncomfortably.
"Agatha, I just... I couldn't get on a bus, okay?" you tell her, and she closes her notebook to look at you attentively. You take a deep breath. "There were a lot of people. I don't mind walking anyway. It helps me think."
"You don't mind walking eight blocks?" She asks with a slight irony. "That's pretty athletic of you."
"It's weird that you know my address off the top of your head." You play lightly, and she just laughs, straightening her posture.
"Why don't you just tell me what you want to tell me?"
"Why don't you ask me what you want to ask?"
Agatha blinks slightly in surprise, and then she shakes her head slightly, opening her notebook again. You sigh.
"Okay, sorry." You say, and she looks at you for a moment before closing the object again. I... I thought I was drowning again.”
"Are your nightmares back?" She asks seriously, and you deny it with your head.
"I feel too anxious to sleep." You tell. "And then I black out from exhaustion in the night or in the morning. I don't dream anymore."
"Have you been taking your medication?"
You sigh.
"Of course I have." You say. "I don't... I'm having trouble keeping my mind still. Like the first few months, you know. Everything seems so noisy now."
Agatha nods slightly, becoming thoughtful for a few moments.
"I know it may sound strange to hear that, but that means you're getting better." She declares and you frown in surprise, then let out a dry laugh.
"How is my peak anxiety a good thing?"
She opens the book again, but before you can ask what you said wrong, she is reading.
"The first day you were here, you said you felt like you were empty." She narrated and you swallowed dryly. "During your first two months, you continued to describe that you felt like an empty shell. And that you no longer had any dreams, thoughts, or opinions. Without your wife, you said you were no longer here."
You felt your eyes fill with water at the mention of her. But you swallowed your emotions. Agatha turned a page, and read for a few seconds, and then looked at you.
"With your history of anxiety, your mind was remarkably quiet after the passing of your wife." She says. "But now that you're on medication, and therapeutic treatment, plus you're socializing even superficially with the world again, you're starting to feel things again. That's progress."
You look away from her, nodding slightly, trying to believe her words, and trying not to be so terrified at the thought of learning to live again. Without Nat.
You choke slightly, holding back a sob, and then Agatha hands you a box of tissues, but you refuse with a nod, wiping away the tears that have slightly escaped.
"What do you want to talk about now?" She asks after a moment. You take a deep breath, still trying to calm yourself.
"Last week I took a cold bath." You count. "It was snowing."
Agatha blinks in surprise at the information and then lets out a giggle.
"You want me to write it in the book don't you?"
You laugh, wiping away the last of the insistent tears. You just hope Agatha could help you.
//-//
You hate coffee. But you barely slept last night, and now you need to stay awake during the group meeting, so instead of walking to the chair in the corner like you used to, you detour your way to the food and beverage table as soon as you arrive at the gym.
There are a few members around, but you don't look at them, just sidestepping as you extend your arm to the coffee bottle. You pour some, and as you touch the cup, you notice. It's cold.
"Hey sorry about that." Said a girl you thought was named Val or something, as soon as she saw you touching the cup. "We mixed up the shifts yesterday and nobody made new coffee."
You rolled your eyes, picking up the cup and throwing it in the trash. Then you forced a wry smile on the girl and walked outside.
It was cold, but you are boiling with rage. It was just a damn cup of coffee, you thought as you closed your eyes and tried to reduce your anger. Just coffee.
You stumbled with fright when Stephen called out to you.
"We'll get started in a minute." He said looking at you curiously. You just nodded, following him after a few seconds.
You bit the inside of your cheek when you noticed the same coffee girl as before, now sitting where you usually sat. The universe was testing you today.
You just sighed, twiddling your fingers inside your pocket, and walked over to one of the free chairs.
After Stephen gave the briefing, he asked if everyone was all right, and the group lied in unison. You were almost asleep when he called your name.
"I would like to choose your partner today." He says and you feel your heart racing as you straighten your posture. "But I want to know if you have any preferences."
You blink in confusion, and roll your eyes.
"I don't know anyone here, but I'm sure they will all hate me equally, doc." You tried to joke, but Stephen only looked at you with concern.
"No one does or will hate you." He says and you swallow dryly, looking away as you mumble that it was just a joke. Stephen pauses momentarily before continuing. "You know that everyone here has their own experiences of loss and they are unique in their own way, even if they have similarities." He begins and you just wish he would speak soon who your partner is at once. "Usually we don't put new members together, but with the release of one of our members, the number ended up getting odd." He explains. "Anyway, I'm sure you and Mrs. Maximoff will get along very well together."
You frowned slightly at the whole explanation. Then you looked around the group, and realized that this Maximoff woman was the late redhead from the previous session who looked at you curiously. You looked away from her to Stephen.
"Thank you, doc." You said with a slight irony and Stephen just nodded smiling.
"Partners are grieving companions ladies." He says. "We will assess your progress at each session, and then switch partners once the necessary improvement has been achieved."
You grumbled in understanding, and looked away to your lap. When Stephen began to ask about the stories, your mind wandered to the departure time.
And when the session was over you wished you could go to sleep. But Stephen made a slight movement of his head in Maximoff's direction, and you understood that you should talk to her.
Ignoring the urge to show Stephen the middle finger, you just sighed as you got up from your chair and lazily walked over to the woman at the exit. She was talking to a man, and you were even more anxious to address not one, but two strangers.
"Hi." You greeted awkwardly, and both of them turned to you with mild curiosity.
"Hey, you're Y/N, right?" Said the man with a smile as he held out his hand to you. "I'm Bucky. James Barnes actually, but everyone calls me Bucky." He said and you shook his hand, smiling awkwardly. Then he quickly pointed at the woman. "And this is Wanda Maximoff, your grief partner."
"Hi." Wanda said shyly as she offered her hand to greet you. You accepted as clumsily as she did.
"Sorry, I don't know how this works." You say. "Should we exchange numbers or something? Or is that just a therapy thing?"
Bucky gives a little chuckle.
"Oh believe me, they'll know if you're not making it work." He counters. "My first partner was Sam Wilson and we wanted to jump on each other's necks whenever we saw each other. And then Stephen asked us to move in together." He says and you blink in surprise. "We're married now, but that's not the point. I guess I'm getting off topic..."
"Bucky." Wanda interrupts with a smile, and he smiles half-heartedly as well. You frown, annoyed by Bucky's story. You didn't want to marry anyone. "I guess we'll make it work, I hope you don't mind having the company of two tiny restless creatures on our walks."
You look at her with confusion and then you understand, smiling shyly.
"No, it's okay." You say. "I like children."
"Really?" She asks in surprise.
You nod slightly. "Unlike adults, they tell the truth."
Wanda seemed to be thoughtful, but then Bucky lets out an exclamation.
"As group guide, I have to pass the to-do list to you ladies." He says pulling a small notebook from the back pocket of his pants. He pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to Wanda. "Partners need to develop these habits of socializing and coping with grief together. And yes, there is a test."
You sigh impatiently, tucking a loose string behind your ear.
"That sounds fun." You mock lightly making them smile.
"Anyway, good luck to you two." He says tenderly. "And Wanda, call me if you need help with Tommy. I know a good therapist."
You frown slightly, not understanding what he is referring to, but you prefer to stay out of matters that are none of your business. And then Bucky kisses Wanda on the cheek in farewell and waves to you smiling before leaving. You switch foot weights when you are alone with Wanda. Talking to other people is not exactly your strong suit these past few months.
"So..." You start clumsily when she turns to you.
"So." She repeats equally embarrassed. You then clear your throat and rush to pull your cell phone out of your pocket and hand it to her.
"Give me your number." You say. "That way we can arrange...whatever this is."
Wanda smiles weakly as she accepts the device, and you ignore the curious look when she notices the cracks in the screen. A moment later she hands the cell phone back to you.
"I gotta go." She says. "I need to pick up my kids from school."
You nod slightly and force a smile to say goodbye, and Wanda copies your movement before leaving.
You stare at your cell phone next, noticing the slight anxiety in your stomach as you read the contact "Wanda Maximoff" on the screen.
//-//
By the weekend, you are miserable. Just like the first few months.
You spilled some tea under your bed, and when you went to clean it up, you ended up taking the objects that were lying there. And then you found a crumpled piece of paper.
It was your farewell speech. The words you wrote down to speak on the day of the funeral. The paper you pulled out of your pocket when you got home from the ceremony and probably fell under the bed when you collapsed on the floor from crying so hard.
Suddenly your chest tightened and you couldn't breathe. But you didn't want your mother to worry, so you concentrated on remembering the exercises your therapist had taught you.
And when the room started to get too small, you left.
But because it was cold and rainy, you had just taken a hot shower and had decided to brew tea before you finished putting on a sweater, you had bent down to pick up your socks, and the liquid fell on the floor.
You went outside without your shoes, and your mother let out a worried exclamation when she saw you standing outside, staring at nothing.
"Honey?" She asked walking out the door after seeing you through the kitchen window. "Honey, what is it?"
You didn't answer. Your face was wet. Your mother's hands wrapped around your shoulders, and she gently pushed you inside, worried that you would end up getting hypothermia.
"I'm fine." You gasped as she led you inside, but she just shook her head. "I'm fine."
"No, honey." She retorted making you frown. "You're not."
"Mom."
"Sit down."
And then there were blankets around you, and socks on your feet. And your mother was in the kitchen, on the phone, but everything seemed stuffy. You began to be absent again. Thousands of memories flashing through your eyes.
An image of yourself on that living room floor, laughing while your girlfriend had her arms wrapped around you. Your mother was pouring a glass of wine for each of you, and you were happy to tell her about your engagement.
Then an image of you running across the room, trying to dodge the tickles your father tickled you while you laughed.
Then a puppy in your hands on the floor. You looked at it fondly, laughing at how cute it looked.
Looking down, you saw a hand on your thigh. It was your wife's, the ring on her finger. She smiled at you. You were happy because that was the day you told your mother about the house purchase.
You gasped slightly when you felt someone's hand on your shoulder suddenly.
"I need you to tell me three things you can see." It was Agatha. God, you should have been out of reaction long enough for her to get here. Wiping away your tears, you took a deep breath, trying to reason straight.
"I... I..." You started, but your brain didn't seem to obey you. You took another deep breath. You could see the carpet, so you told her so.
"Two more." Agatha asked tenderly, her hand caressing your back from top to bottom.
"The... table." You replied crying. "I can see the table."
"That's right, honey." She said. "Just one more now. Tell me what else?"
"My feet." You add breathlessly. "I can see my feet."
"Now breathe with me, okay?" She asks. "Like I taught you."
The exercises help you to calm down again. You apologize for scaring your mother, and for making Agatha drive to your house, but neither of them is upset with you. You feel exhausted, but the doctor wants to talk to you after she accepts the cup of coffee your mother offers her.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" She asks as you sit on the covered porch, fluffy pillows around you.
You lower your gaze to the floor, sniffling lightly.
"I found my grief speech." You count. "Under my bed. The next minute I was outside."
Agatha sighs.
"You ready to talk about the accident."
You raise your eyes quickly, frowning, because it wasn't a question.
"W-what?"
She takes a deep breath, crossing her legs.
"It's suffocating you." She clarifies. "You need to talk or these attacks will happen again."
"I-I don't..."
"It won't be today." She interrupts with a tender smile. "Tonight you need to sleep. But we won't prolong this any longer. You need to talk about it, even if it’s only to scream."
Clenching your jaw, you hold back your tears as Agatha takes one last look at you before getting up. She murmurs that she will see you on Monday, but you don't look at her.
//-//
You don't sleep well on Sunday. And it's definitely because you can't stop thinking about your appointment.
And it goes well for the first twenty minutes. Agatha doesn't pressure you, and agrees to hear about your week, without mentioning the incident on Thursday.
There is a pause after you have told her about the dog barking noise in the early morning and then you know it is time to speak up.
"I was driving." You say softly suddenly, ignoring the feeling that your throat wants to close up. Agatha has her hands folded in her lap as she listens to you. "She...she was sleeping in the passenger seat." You swallow dryly, trying to count and not get caught up in the memory again, your heart racing. Talking is almost like going back there. "I looked at her for a moment and I got distracted... and then... we just..."
You only realize that you are crying because tears fall on your hand. You blink, sniffling. Taking a deep breath, you continue.
"We fell into the water, and Nat...she just...I couldn't get her belt off." You gasp breathlessly. "The water just...kept coming up around us. And she looked at me, and... she just shook her head like she knew what was going to happen." You tell between sobs. Agatha's eyes water, but she doesn't interrupt. "I just...she pushed me. She pushed my hands away and she told me she would follow me. And god... my dumb brain believed her!" You confess angrily. "She told me she was right behind me! And I swam out and when I came up she wasn't with me."
You shut up, not being able to tell anymore through the sobs. You can't even see the office clearly because of the tears.
It takes a moment for you to speak again, your head down.
"When I swam back, the car was completely covered with water everywhere" You recount. "I...I was going to dive again.... I wanted to get her out of there. But the people who saw the accident jumped in after us. And they pulled me out of the water. And I kept thinking that if I hadn't been distracted, she...she would be...."
"No." Agatha interrupts by offering you a tissue. "Natasha had a stomach injury, don't you remember?" She counters and you gasp, the words echoing in your brain. "That's why you couldn't remove the belt."
And then you were remembering clearly now.
Soft music echoed in the car as you hummed the tune and drove to your friends' house. Your wife mumbled softly beside you, making you smile as you watched the sleeping figure. The red hair in front of her face.
"Hey sleepyhead." You called softly, looking away from the track for a moment. "We're almost there."
Nat muttered in agreement. You bit your lip, thinking she looked beautiful. And then you heard a noise, and a white light in the window. You barely had time to frown when the impact threw your car off the road.
Your body tensed immediately as you sat up, looking around with desperation. The car was sinking fast and you turned to Nat.
A wound on her forehead was bleeding, and she was clearly disoriented as you touched her hands. You hurried to unbuckle her belt, but it was jammed tightly in her waist, and you gasped in shock at the wound.
"N-no." You grumbled, trying to move the metal, but Nat gasped in pain, pushing your hands away. You could barely breathe in desperation. Your feet were freezing, because the water was already at your ankles. "Babe, move please. We have to get out."
Nat advanced toward you, taking off your belt. You tried to touch her, but she pushed your hands away again, intending to guide you out.
" Sweetheart, go! Open the door! " she commanded and you shook your head, the water on your knees. Nat forced a smile, the tears in her eyes made your stomach turn. "Don't worry love. I'm right behind you."
As you opened the door, the water moved all the way into the car, and you held your breath Nat repeated the words "I'm right behind you" one more time. And then you swam out.
When you reached the surface, you were alone.
Sobbing, you couldn't say anything else to Agatha, and she proceeded to stroke your back, trying to soothe you with words of affirmation.
"I need you to remember some things honey." She says tenderly. "You couldn't have helped Natasha. She got stuck. You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened." Agatha whispers to you, and you sob. "Remember the investigation, okay? The police said that the driver of the truck was drunk and hit your car after he fell asleep. It wasn't your fault." Agatha says trying to remind you. You gasp, countless memories flooding your head at once. "Say that for me, will you?" She asks and you gasp. "Tell me it wasn't your fault."
You sob, burying your face in your hands. It takes a moment, but you repeat the words.
"It wasn't my fault." You whisper breathlessly. "It...it wasn't my fault."
When you leave therapy that day, you feel different.
You think that it is the healing process that is beginning to work. You still have a long way to go, but you have the feeling that a weight has been lifted off your back, because you have started to believe your own words. You could not have saved Natasha.
There is still a deep sadness in you, but you still buy your favorite drink on the way home, and try to stay in the living room for a few hours before going to your room when you are inside.
#wanda maximoff#wandaxreader#wanda x you#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda x reader#wanda imagine#wanda imagines#sorry for your lost#wandaxyou
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How would the Batch react to Hunter's s/o having a miscarriage? (Coming from your recent post.)
OMG ANON.
This made me so sad and like I’ve admittedly thought about this before but having someone ask really got me deep in my feels and this is very sad, I cried writing this, I hope this is compelling to you. This is kind of more from Cyare’s point of view but it does briefly mention the Batchers.
Tw for talk of pregnancy and miscarriage and heavy emotional angst, please take care of yourselves.🤍
———
Surprisingly or not, she finds solace in Echo.
Maybe it’s because he knows loss, a bitter taste on his tongue but sweet and saccharine in a way that makes him soft, sympathetic to her plight.
He finds her after the dust settles, lying in a broken field of heartache, curled around herself in the co-pilot’s seat seeking respite from all those providing sympathy. She’s welcomed a thick shadow of mourn around her, a penitence to go with it.
It reminds him too much of grieving vode.
“I lost the baby,” she croaks finally, when Echo’s silence has tactfully paved the way for catharsis.
His face contorts in pain. “Damn Cyare, I am… so sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, wishing to offer more than wormy sympathy she’s heard a hundred times up until this point. This is uncharted territory for the former ARC Trooper, who suddenly feels entirely out of his element even though Death is no stranger to him.
Cyare’s breathing is slow, dormant, her eyes somewhere far from the present.
“Me too,” she says finally, with a bitter tang.
“It’s not your fault.” The words are immediate, an echo in her ears meant to soothe but merely raucous all around her.
She quivers in it. “Please.” She doesn’t deserve the pardon. “I need time.”
Echo affords her that and more.
He gets up and exits then, leaving her presumably to her sorrow until he returns some minutes later with piping hot tea and a stiff smile. It’s not much to alleviate these stressors, but Echo thinks the potent steep of lavender is a start.
“Do you have anything stronger.” It’s almost wry, if Echo really examines it; whittled humor fit through the mug between her lips. It’s all she has in this trying time, a coping mechanism Echo knows all too well.
“Later; drinks on me,” he promises with only a distant regret. It isn’t his place to endorse unhealthy habits but if it eases some of the woman’s acute suffering then it’s his galactic-given duty.
Her shoulders slump then as a full, labored breath finds her, and she looks forward to the buzz that helps her forget.
She doesn’t want to forget.
Just the pain of not having him.
Her son.
It’s an all-consuming pain; strained and carried through every member of their family, weaving through the broken pieces that she’s at a loss for how to pick up.
Crosshair is too quiet, too unsure, gauging her with a trajectory he’s not sure how to plot this time.
And so he says nothing.
(He basks in his own grief elsewhere; on the shooting range.)
Tech speaks too fondly, with scientific prowess, and an unintentional flippancy that has her thin-lipped and silencing him with a clipped plea, “I need time.” She doesn’t want to hear about the percentages of nat-born miscarriages, vexing biological components that make her fold in on herself further.
Wrecker’s padded embrace is not her savior, it’s not what she seeks, when all she can imagine is the small being robbed of hers. Because of her.
It’s not your fault, she reminds herself, and the reassurance mixes like oil and water.
It doesn’t.
She doesn’t know about Hunter these days, how he fares in the wake of a devastating loss, or if his grief has turned into something accusatory, calloused.
Towards her, she’s convinced.
And it’s a juxtaposition to his comfort laid bare in the emergence of news - he was there with her, sunken to the bathroom floor after the words “I’m sorry for your loss,” reached them in tandem.
She hasn’t seen him since.
Or she has, his soothing presence whispering at her from afar, never too far in the condensed square inches of their home that seem ever-suffocating.
She refuses to look his way.
Even at night, whilst tucking in their other precious gems - of whom a newfound thankfulness for blooms - she is careful to keep her eyes trained on these beautiful home-spun versions of him. Their children are their only vessel of conversation, of which even then is scarce. The bed dips as he moves closer, their band of girls both a bridge and a chasm between. They inveigle him for a story, and he obliges without fail.
And Cyare’s only half-listening, admiring her husband’s dedication while she wishes to be anywhere but here. It’s times like this, as she aims to slip away undetected, she’s reminded that he is strong, and she is not.
“Mommy. Stay.”
The warm, dainty hand grasping her own orchestrates a thick lump in her throat she pointedly forces down. Her eyes sting, and it takes her a moment to finally look her youngest daughter’s way.
“Stay for Papa’s story, Mommy.”
She can feel his eyes on her, but she does not seek an audience. His plea for her attention, recognition, perspires zealous in the air. She refuses to look. To acknowledge the loss.
“Okay,” she whispers, and it’s so frail. “I’ll stay.”
So frail.
So she listens to Hunter’s story, and she doesn’t even have to look at him to detect the weight of his burden slowly creeping through, giving way to a pained lilt even through the “…and they lived happily ever after.”
Something she wonders if they’ll ever have.
His sturdy sonance of words usher the girls into a blissful remiss, unassuming and untroubled by their parent’s turmoil; their minds mellow with a peace she covets.
A chaste kiss to their heads, and Cyare’s fled the room with the hopes he doesn’t follow.
He does.
Because he can’t stay away, because their pain is a shared endeavor, and isn’t that what he promised in their marriage vows?
“I want to be left alone,” she says, at the sound of his lumbering steps into the bedroom.
“No you don’t,” he absolves, moving in a furtive manner. Cyare remains steadfast with her back to him, hoping if she ignores his very presence, like some fever dream the hurt will cancel itself out.
It doesn’t - it won’t.
Hunter’s presence is a conduit of the pain made apparent in finer details; in her threadbare, vulnerable state, she wonders how much their son would’ve resembled him.
She wonders, and she bursts into tears.
It’s alarming, to Hunter; not that he has never bear witness to his wife’s tears, but that they threaten to ricochet off his own. He moves to her swiftly.
“I had a name for him,” Cyare cries.
“…‘Him’?”
It’s the final thread of grief, lilted disbelief shattering the last remnants of composure; his and hers.
As he gathers her close, Hunter also wonders if his deceased namesake would’ve taken after him in appearance.
Hunter closes his eyes and an image slides into place: a boy, with luscious curls not unlike his sisters’. Hunter shuts his eyes tighter and his son has his smile, but Cyare’s kind eyes.
He misses those eyes.
He misses everything all at once.
“Cyare…” his voice is broken and displaced, but so is she, and it’s his job as her husband, her partner, to put her back together again. “We’ll get through this.”
Even if he doesn’t believe he can.
———
Edit: This ask was sent to me an embarrassing long time ago, I’ve had it written and queued for months but could never bring myself to post it (as with most things I write lol) but in light of the recent ask revolving around miscarriages I thought it might be appropriate to just share this little thingy. Enjoy.
#bruh I’m fucking sobbing#been saving this#anyway#may I present#Archer#Archer Davan#Archie#THE Hunter Junior#:’)#Archer Davan Ruuso#tw pregnancy#tw miscarriage#tw loss#tw angst#tw relationships#papa hunterverse#papa hunter#sergeant papa#sergeant hunter#hunter#cyare#y’all I am crying#the dad batch#echo#arc trooper echo#clone trooper echo#echo bad batch#bad batch baby#hunter junior#it’s a lil thing
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Right Where You Left Me
Ship: BAU! Gender Neutral! reader x Spencer Reid
#Request - Could you do some angst with “you dont deserve my forgiveness?” Any ship!
Word count: 2.2k
Warnings: Mention of death, violence, injury (not serious), angst, mourning, a lot of tears. Also, swearing, anger, fighting (verbal, not physical.)
Summary: You and Spencer Reid had been together for a year before he ‘died.’ You grieved him. You mourned him.
A/N: Title stolen from my (current) favourite Taylor Swift song. Not sure how I feel about this one but! Here it is anyway! My requests are open & pls feel free to let me know what you think!!
14 days and 30 minutes exactly
You don’t think about the day Spencer Reid died. You can’t, because even remembering he’s dead feels as if an ice bucket has been tipped over your head. Not even now, two weeks later, have you really gotten over the initial shock that you felt. Every waking moment felt like you were trying to solve some kind of never-ending puzzle. Each emotion was overwhelming, too much to process. It felt like things would only start to get better, like everybody promised they would, when you started to be able to name the emotions rather than describe them as the physical sensations they brought on.
And you didn’t think that’d happen anytime soon.
The shared apartment was too much. You hadn’t slept in your bed since he’d been gone, and forbid anyone else from going into the bedroom. It was a sanctuary.
You understood now more than ever why victims families never changed a thing about the room of their loved ones. Every single thing felt deliberate. Theirs. It was a reflection of the time they were most alive, living. A unique snapshot of them in motion. The mess they left that they expected to come home to.
Rationally, you knew that wasn’t true. There wasn’t a sock hanging off Spencer’s bedside table, or a clean cardigan balled up on the floor, for any reason other than he’d been in a rush that morning, and had left an uncharacteristically large mess in his wake. In more ways than one.
***
2 months, 5 days, 8 hours
Being back at work helps somewhat, but the office feels empty without him there to ramble off factoids about anything and everything, to hear Morgan calling him ‘kid’ every five minutes. He only called you that now.
Simmons is nice, really he is. It isn’t his fault he’s there in place of Spencer and you try hard not to feel personally aggrieved by his presence. He doesn’t do anything to antagonise you, he stays out of your way more than anything. You don’t do anything to purposely make him uncomfortable: you do try to be agreeable and make small talk. But it’s hard not to look at him without thinking how, if everything was how it should be, Spencer would be stood in his place.
***
3 months, 26 days, 3 hours.
There is no ‘new normal.’ You’ve heard the term tossed around a few times in relation to grief, but if there is a new normal you’re still struggling to find it. When you’re not on cases, there’s no ‘normal’. You still don't sleep in your own bed. Sometimes you stay on Rossi’s, or Morgan’s, or Garcia’s couch. Sometimes, read: maybe once, it’s in the spare room at the place you and Spencer used to share. Sometimes, when you get worried about being a burden, it’s a hotel. It’s easier to feel as if you’re choosing to stay away from home, rather than acknowledging that home, as you understand it, no longer exists.
You still wake up and instinctually search for Spencer most mornings. Sure, work is keeping you occupied and you smile a little more these days. You even allowed yourself to be dragged out for drinks last weekend. But nothing feels like it should. You don’t know if that’s normal for grief or if you just aren’t moving forward at all, doomed to tread yourself deeper into the melancholic quicksand that’s got a hold on you.
You talk at length about it with Garcia over wine one night.
“Nothing feels right,” you admit, “Everything just feels...”
Garcia waits, just tipping her chin slightly to encourage you to continue. She’s got the counsellor act down and you’d have the decency to feel embarassed if you weren’t just so damn exhausted all the time.
“I feel trapped, I guess. Like I’m frozen. I keep thinking maybe it’ll get better once the trials over. Once the whole legal aspect of it is over and put to bed, then maybe I’ll have some closure on the whole situation,” you mumble, “I just don’t know how to move forward. I don’t feel like I’ve moved forward. And I know it’s only been three months but I’ve only stayed at our apartment twice and I can’t bring myself to move any of his things and...”
She just waits. In that moment, you’re so grateful for her.
“I’m stuck here. I can’t change anything. I can’t bring myself to move any of his things. I’m paying rent on a place I don’t live in but I can’t move because how can I live somewhere he’s never been? I feel like I’m stuck. I can’t move out of the world he lived in but the world is moving on even without him. And I’m just...I’m just here, Garcia.”
She nods sympathetically, placing her hand on your arm, “Maybe it’ll help when the case is wrapped up. When you have that closure.”
“Yeah,” you agree, “Yeah. I hope so.”
“There’s something you’re not saying,” she says, gently, “And you don’t have to say it. But if you’re holding back because you feel guilty then you don’t have to feel guilty about anything you say to me, my darling.”
You start to well up then. The pressure in your chest is heavy, something akin to guilt. It slices into your chest, cut glass sitting between your ribs and slicing you open every time you breathe in. You’ve been thinking it a lot lately. Too much. It’s making you feel awful and you can’t decide if putting it out into the world verbally is going to be a release or make it feel too real.
Garcia waits patiently.
You decide to believe it’ll be the former, then whisper, “I wish I loved him less. I wish I’d loved him less so this wouldn’t hurt as much.”
And then the sobs come. The sobs that wrack your chest and sting your eyes and leave you looking like you’ve been on the receiving end of an upper cut. Because how could you? How could you possibly want to take back any of the love you had so willingly, freely, given to the person you loved most? What kind of person did it make you to want to take back the good memories: to wish that instead of having waffles on the couch that last Sunday, you’d had a fight about the library fine he’d gotten because of you? How could you want to switch the puzzle pieces to create a less idyllic picture of your life together, just so you wouldn’t feel so much loss when you looked at it?
She just rubs your back through it, knowing that no words can help but still saying the thing she thinks you need to hear most, “That doesn’t make you a bad person, sugar plum. That makes you human.”
***
4 months, 6 days, 14 hours.
Hotch calls you all into the briefing room.
“A few months ago a decision had to be made. Somebody had the potential to make an incredible breakthrough on a case that had been airtight for years. But it wasn’t possible for that individual to complete that work without cover. They needed to be officially gone,” Hotch’s voice booms but you swear you can hear a hesitation, “It wasn’t necessary at the time for you to have that information. Providing you with it would have compromised the safety of one of our agents, and the integrity of their investigation.”
You glance around the room, confused, noticing everyone is sharing the same bewildered look. Except Emily.
“I apologise completely for having to keep this from you, it was a decision that was not taken lately, and I did not have the final say. That being said, any discontent about this decision should be directed towards me,” he glances towards Emily, and she’s looking nervous now.
Hotch lets out a huff, somehow more tense than usual, “SSA Reid was not killed after the attack in Seattle. That was his cover, but he was investigating a case.”
He’s still talking but you can’t hear anything. SSA Reid was not killed. SSA Reid was not killed. You flip the sentence over a hundred times. And for the millionth time since SSA Reid was killed, you have no idea what you feel.
There’s uproar from everybody. Shouting. And then Hotch says something and everybody is looking at you, scanning you for a reaction and you have nothing. Nothing at all.
“Hi,” a voice from the doorway, nervous and shy, a voice you’ve only heard in dreams and voicemails and recordings from nights out that you must have watched hundreds of times by now, if they were tapes you would have worn them out long ago.
And you know you can’t face him. You can’t face any of them.
You look around the room, first at Hotch whose eyes flicker with what looks like remorse. Then, at Emily who just looks guilty as all hell. You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him.
The tension in the room is palpable but in your peripheral you see Garcia and J.J flock to the doorway, embracing him.
Rossi, is the one who comes to you, “____?”
You stare at him, completely blankly, “Yeah?”
“You need to speak to him. Need to hear him out.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, allowing him to help you to your feet. His reassuring hands on your shoulders turn you around and you meet his face. The face of the boyfriend you spent the last four months mourning while everybody watched you fall apart. And half of them knew.
So that’s what you feel. Anger.
“Glad you’re back,” you snipe, pushing past him, “Glad you’re alive.”
Everybody watches you go. A tense silence fills the room. Spencer clears his throat, after what feels like an eternity, muttering, “I-I’ll go after ... I’ll go and see if I can...”
It wasn’t the reaction he was hoping for, if he’s honest. Although he wasn’t sure what exactly he’d been expecting.
“____ please, just let me talk to you, I’m sorry, please just let me have a chance to explain,” He manages to catch you at the elevator just in time, slipping through the gap with his lithe body, “Please. I need to explain. I need to apologise.”
“You can apologise as much as you want. You don’t deserve my forgiveness. You’ll never deserve my forgiveness.”
The venom in your tone leaves him floundering.
“___ please,” he’s begging, and you won’t look at him because you can hear the tears in his voice and he’s begging again, “Please, please look at me, please listen to me. You have to understand, you have to give me a chance to explain, please.”
You’ve never been this angry at him before. But you are now. It consumes you, you’ve never understood a crime of passion before and you’re not going to put your hands on him, of course, but fuck do you understand it now. How a person could just snap. The rage swells in you, screaming. Every muscle in your body is tense. It takes all you have to ball your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palm so hard you’re sure they break the skin. You’re furious. Furious at every single one of them.
“You lied to me,” you spit, “You lied to me and let me think you were dead. You and Hotch and Emily. I didn’t sleep in our bed for four months, Spencer. I’ve spent the past four months frozen, like, I couldn’t move forward without you. I didn’t start to move on. I've spent the last four months falling apart and trying to find a way to put myself back together without you, and then what, you just come back? You think we can just go back to normal? Spencer, I didn’t feel alive this past few months. I’ve been floating through, barely keeping it together. And for what? A case? That was important enough for you to do this to me?"
It’s true, you’ve spent the last four months feeling like you were the one who died. That you were united in being ghosts, except you were haunting all the places you used to go together, and he was just haunting your dreams. And he’d been alive. This. Whole. Time.
You storm out of the lift, lifting your head to look at him for only the second time in four months, “Please. Just leave me alone. You’ve done enough.”
He knows you aren’t wrong. Knows he doesn’t know if he could forgive you if the roles were reversed. Knows, more than anything, that he’s really fucked things up. You’ll never forgive him. That’s what you said, and right now, seeing anger like never before in your eyes, he has no reason whatsoever to doubt that isn’t completely true.
You don’t even make it to the parking lot before you feel your resolve melt into absolutely nothing. Anger descending into relief, hot tears cascading down your cheeks as the mantra starts again on a new loop in your head: SSA Reid was not killed.
#spencer reid fanfic#imagine spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#reid x reader#spencer reid angst#spencer reid#imagine criminal minds#criminal minds x you#bau!reader
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Eulogy [One Shot]
≫ Word Count: 1420
≫ Summary: Cole gives the eulogy at a funeral.
≫ Warnings: Mentions of death and loss. Maybe have some tissues on hand...
≫ Also posted on Ao3 and Wattpad
Cole has never been a funeral type of guy.
He's only been to two in his life. The first was for his Aunt Daisy, which he was too young to even remember. The second was for his father's father, who he felt bad about, but hadn't known well enough to really mourn over. As such, he's forgotten how uncomfortable it is to stand in a stuffy funeral home, trying (and failing) to not sweat through his suit. He's also forgotten how completely and utterly depressing it all is.
The few guests—a handful of relatives from both sides of the family—make idle conversation as they head to their seats. Does it make things a little less awkward? Sure. But it does nothing to dispel the aura of sadness that permeates the room. As much as everyone tries to remain positive, they all know they've lost someone, and that knowledge hovers over them like a thick, suffocating smog.
It's all the more depressing considering who they've lost.
Cole sighs. His eyes are already red and burning, and he blinks to keep a fresh wave of moisture from spilling. He's cried enough tears these past few weeks to last him a lifetime. A few escape anyway, forcing him to squint through them as he turns his head. Across the room, away from where the warm light of the windows can reach, sits his mother's casket. His feet feel like bricks as he moves toward it, each step heavy and painful.
She's wearing a simple dress the color of lilacs in the summer, a stark contrast from the plain nightgown he'd gotten used to seeing her in. Her raven hair is pinned in a neat updo, now secured by what must be a gallon of hairspray, and her skin is coated in a layer of airbrushed makeup. He isn't sure why. Maybe it's to make her look more lively and refreshed, as if she's only resting. If that's the case, he doesn't get why they'd bother with that, since everyone knows she'll never leave that casket again. All he knows is she never would've dressed up that much.
Even so, she's still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Nothing in Ninjago could ever change that.
Cole sniffs, wiping harshly at his eyes with his sleeve, at the sound of light footsteps drawing near. A familiar presence appears by his side. He knows who it is, but he doesn't look up.
"She looks lovely, doesn't she?" Lou murmurs next to him.
His son's eyes remain trained on the casket. "When didn't she?"
There's a few beats of silence. The two of them stand there, side-by-side, as father and son. Neither dare to look each other in the eye, so instead they gaze downward, at the woman they've both lost. It feels like an eternity before Lou finally clears his throat. "I just wanted to say...thank you for planning the brunt of this, son. I know this hasn't been easy on you."
"You should've been there."
The older man's expression falters. "Cole..."
"You should have," his son repeats, more forcefully this time. He stares at his father, his gaze cold and unflinching. "She was my mother as much as she was your wife. You should've been at home with me, helping me plan this funeral. Not palling around with your dance buddies."
Lou winces, eyes glimmering with the faintest hint of tears. "People grieve in different ways, son. Maybe you'll understand when you're older." A strangled sigh escapes him and he averts his gaze. "But, for what it's worth...I am sorry."
Cole scoffs. Maybe it's just him, but singing and dancing doesn't seem like a proper way to mourn a loved one. Some choice words for his father sit on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back. Lilly probably wouldn't appreciate her son and husband cursing each other out at her funeral. Instead, he gives a stiff nod before staring at his feet.
"Well," Lou says quietly. "Are you ready to speak?"
Cole straightens up. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small stack of note cards on which he'd written his speech. When his father asked him to give the eulogy all those weeks ago, he'd almost refused on the spot. After all, why do anything for the man who'd done nothing for him? It took some time, but the young Brookstone had ultimately agreed—not for his father's sake, but for his mother's. He chews his lip as he makes his way to the front of the room, moving to the podium and clearing his throat.
"Um, good evening."
The small crowd hushes at the sound of his voice. Cole's heart drops to his stomach, his chest constricting, as a dozen pairs of eyes focus on him. He's acutely aware of his father watching him from off to the side. The young man swallows, taking a deep breath, before continuing.
"My name is Cole. Cole Brookstone, but um, you probably knew that."
He coughs and grits his teeth. Keep going, Cole. Get it together.
"As you know, we're gathered here to celebrate the life of Lilly Brookstone. She went by a lot of titles...daughter, lover, wife...but I knew her as my mother. And she was the best mom in the world." He takes a scant breath before continuing. "She was sick almost my entire life. I never thought much of it when I was little...I thought it was something like the flu or a cold, something that would go away after a while. But as I grew up, I watched her get sicker and sicker, and there was nothing I could do about it."
His mind floods with childhood memories. Many of them are faint and fuzzy, sanded away over the years, but still very much there. Others have been lost to time, leaving nothing but bits and pieces in their place.
"I remember so much and so little about her at the same time," he says. "I remember how she and my Pop would dance in the moonlight in front of our old house, and how amazing it was to watch from my bedroom window as a kid. At the same time...I can't remember a time when her laugh wasn't tinged with pain, or when she didn't cough when she spoke to me. I can say, though...I do remember the promise I made her."
He pauses, his chest heaving as he takes a deep breath. Tears start to well along his lashes, burning like flames, but he pushes himself to keep going.
"I've never really believed in promises. After all, half the time they're not even kept." His mind wanders to the words his father used to tell him: "Don't worry, son. Your mother's going to be just fine, I promise." When that turned out to be a lie, he'd said, "We'll get through this together, I promise." So much for that.
Cole exhales. His mother's words come drifting back to him, whispering softly but clearly in his head. He swears he can still hear her voice, feel her strong yet gentle embrace. For a few moments, it fills him with fire, pulsing from his core through the rest of his body.
"But before my mother died, she asked me to promise that I would always stand up to those who are cruel and unjust. I told her I would." He swipes at his moistening eyes. "Sometimes, I wonder if I'm strong enough to keep that promise. But...well, for her, I have to try. So I'm gonna. And I ask all of you to do the same. Promise that, no matter what happens, you'll continue to do what's right. Always."
He sniffs as, just as quickly as it had been born, the fire within him dies. "Thank you."
Courteous applause fills the room as the speech draws to a close. Given the atmosphere, nobody cheers, but it's clear from everyone's expressions that they're impressed. Cole nods to his audience and makes his leave. Lou waits for him as he makes his way down from the podium. His eyes shine with pride through their sadness, a small smile on his face as he pats him on the back. "Well said, son.”
Cole can only nod with thanks. His gaze shifts back to his mother's casket, noticing how the glass shines in the dim light of the room.
He closes his eyes, hoping that even in the Departed Realm, she's proud of him.
#ninjago#lego ninjago#ninjago one shot#ninjago fanfiction#ninjago fanfic#cole brookstone#cole hence#cole bucket#ninjago cole#cole ninjago#angst#ninjago angst#funeral#one shot#motherslove#motherson#lou ninjago#lilly ninjago#loss#ns13#ninjago season 13#violetpixwrites
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this night seems so long!
~Notes: I’m reposting this and i’m still not happy with it :S rip XS
SEND ME A PROMPT | A REBLOG MEANS THE WORLD!
.-
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
TS Eliot
.-
The late summer chill seeps through the creeping windows into the flat that they once called home— the feebly standing, slowly disintegrating haven that was painted with laughter before lies, with hopeful kisses before hesitant touches. The cold burrows itself into Sirius’s bones and coats his every thought and nests deep inside of him until he’s more frost than man.
But then he sees Remus— beautiful and golden and perfect Remus— padding out their bedroom clad in Sirius’s oversized jumper that swallows his hands whole, and that familiarly gentle smile that makes his eyes glitter once his soft gaze rests on Sirius, and his sleep supple skin tastes like the things too beautiful to name. He tastes like Remus— like sunlight and parchment and whispered laughter and raspy groans and that’s all Sirius ever wants, has ever wanted.
“It’s September first.” He says once Sirius finally unlatches from his neck, red faced and pleased, and Sirius swears that Ganymede has nothing on him. That if he could he’d restructure every celestial star from above to follow the precise slope of his nose, and the pedal soft curve of his cheek, and the path of his jawline to temple. For everyone to worship him in ways he’s always deserved.
“We’ve made it another month,” Sirius retorts, mixes the splash of milk with the sugar in Remus’s Earl Gray, which is a travesty and a point of teasing throughout their whole relationship since they were nothing but lads. Sirius blames Remus’s beverage faux pas— including his preferential nature to black coffee—to being raised by a Frenchman for a mother, and Remus always counters that if Sirius was any more bloody English he’d be afraid that Queen Elizabeth would poach him for her next husband. Which of course always ended the argument because then Lily would laugh from besides him, and Sirius would glare along with James— both hating it when Remus and Lily’s Muggle references go over their heads like a second language they couldn’t speak.
But Lily’s not here, and neither is James. They’re tucked away in another safe house— the fourth in a calendar year, and they’re both going a bit mad if the letter Lily sent him only a few weeks ago is anything to go by. And Sirius aches for the both of them, aches for baby Harry— his one year old God son who he loves like nothing else. And how could he not? He’s Lily’s bright eyes set into James’s open face, has James’s warm, brown complexion but inherited Lily’s freckles too. He’s Sirius’s God son, and there’s a mad man after him, and sometimes it feels like Sirius’s brain is a mushy, muddled stew melting out of his scalp when he’s forced to contemplate on it for too long— to contemplate on how little Harry seems incapable of escaping the danger— because it goes back to the same name over and over again. The name of someone Sirius refuses to ever let himself contemplate for longer than a breath.
“Aye,” Remus says in that lilting, Welsh bread accent of his before he takes a slow sip and Sirius is left to study the sweep of his long lashes against his fine bones and how less than a fortnight ago that face Sirius adores so endlessly came home caked in mud and blood that was only partially Remus’s own and Sirius wasn’t allowed to ask what happened while he cleaned the cuts and kissed the healed pink skin with gentle reverence. “Maybe 82 will be our year Paddy.” Remus says with such raw yearning that it blows the wind out of Sirius like he’s just taken a bludger to the gut. And he feels so stupid and thankful all at once. Because of course those idl contemplations are nothing but ridiculous fodder. Of course Remus would never— could never.
“Yeah moony,” he says quietly. “Maybe it will.”
Sirius steps forwards, and he kisses him and Remus breathes out like he’s been holding it for a long while, and then his fingers slide into Sirius’s overgrown hair and tugs, and they’re lost in one another for the rest of the morning.
.-
Three days later Remus leaves again under demands that he won’t ever disclose to Sirius— penance for the trust Sirius broke as a schoolboy with a prank that proved near deadly— and a week after that the Order gets news that the Prewettss were compromised, that it took five of those Death Eater bastards to finish them off, and that their older sister with seven kids of her own can’t bare to hold a public wake.
The cold gets worse, and Sirius doesn’t know where to step to avoid another avalanche; is afraid that with every move he takes, a landmine is waiting to blast.
.-
The bare branches of the elderly tree outside their flat knocks against the partition that once bathed them in spilt sunlight and stolen serenity and careful comfort. It scrapes against the glass like the fingers of an inferi, accentuated by the sound of the whistling wind, crooning like the menacing melody by a milky eyed, haggard looking banshee. And everything is unmoving, everything is still— petrified for a moment in frozen history.
And Sirius feels his insides collapse when he remembers that he’ll never hear Gideon’s laughter or see Fabian sat next to Benjy again. It’s a generation lost, Sirius thinks morbidly, the way he always gets when Remus isn’t home and he’s tossing back shots of Fire-Whiskey like it’s what keeps his veins pumping life. A generation of them that’s being killed off one by one, a generation of Hogwarts graduates being obliterated and there’s not an end in sight and Sirius wants to scream. He wants to fight them with his bare hands. He wants to ravage each of their hideouts and use them as target practice for his unforgivables and he wants to run, God he wants to run. He wants James and Lily and Harry to come with him, wants to steel Remus in the middle of the night before he knows what’s even happening. He wants to escape it all and hold onto his family with a iron grip that can only be severed through death.
Sirius wants it so much that it begins to ache, to twist in his stomach and weep within the hollows of his bones.
But then the branches knock against the window once more, and he’s brought back to a reality the makes even idyllic daydreams like that something treacherous and awful. So he pours himself another finger and raises the glass to fallen friends and pretends that the throbbing in his heart is something that can be spelled away if he only works hard enough.
.-
Remus comes home a week later and Sirius feigns that the sight of his lover doesn’t make Sirius picture Marlene’s twisted face of agony and Dorcas’s limp body at the feet of this dark wizard that has destroyed everything Sirius has ever known and tainted everything he has ever loved.
.-
The safe house is sparsely decorated, save for the candle Lily’s always got burning and the succulent she keeps on a shelf besides a small portrait of Harry, tucked between one of her and James on their wedding day, and another of the five of them at their Hogwarts graduation.
It’s no home, especially not one for a baby that’s as curious and boisterous as little Harry. It’s a prison at best. still packed boxes strewn about the ground, and a tension permeating the air and it’s awful. But Sirius manages to forget about it when he glances to his right and sees a giggling Harry bouncing happily on Remus’s lap, and Remus is glowing in a way Sirius hasn’t seen for edging on a year. The stiffness threaded through his shoulders has dissipated and his smile is wide and he’s dotingly kissing Harry’s chocolate splattered cheek while James and Lily roll their eyes fondly from across the breakfast spread. And Sirius thinks that if this is all he sees for the rest of his life he would thank every God and every spirit above.
“Uncle Moony, you better be convincing Harry that if he doesn’t eat his berries that the boogie man will come and munch on his toes tonight,” Lily scolds half heartedly, which makes James drop a kiss to the crown of her head before topping off her tea.
“No toes, mommy! No toes!” Harry babbles in that in-between state of gargling and speech that is as precious as it is incomprehensible.
“Saucy boy,” Sirius chuckles, tousling Harry’s already hopelessly disheveled hair and kissing the corner of Remus’s lips that taste like hazelnut and blueberries and a bit like sunlight too. And he thinks that this is what happiness feels like— He’s nearly forgot.
“I’ll get’m washed up, shall I?” Remus says as he rises swiftly from his seat, Harry clapping excitedly.
“Good man,” James winks and Lily blows him a kiss. Remus looks down at Sirius, a brow cocked slightly.
“I’ll be up in a minute, yeah? Just wanted to help these plonkers with the dishes.”
Remus grins brightly and nods, and then, he stilts— like in hesitation— before kissing Sirius’s temple, promptly shuffling off and humming Harry an old French lullaby that he knows Hope once sang him when he was a boy.
And Sirius’s heart feels so full, so fragile, And Sirius hates that he didn’t tell him I love you, is afraid that the space of time that they’ll get to say that to one another is rapidly dwindling.
“We’re finishing up all the kinks in the plan,” James says, saddling up besides Sirius, handing him a sponge and keeping the dishcloth in his own. “You still want to act as secret keeper?”
“Course you daft wanker,” Sirius bristles. “I’d do anything for you lot.”
“I know,” James says unflinchingly. “You and Moony are the best friends a bloke can ask for.”
And God that hurts like nothing else, so Sirius doesn’t even try to retort in any meaningful sort of way. “Don’t forget Wormyy.”
James laughs. “Would never dare.”
And then silence drops over them like a heavy quilt threatening to smother them to death. And Sirius scrapes off the grime from the dishes and pretends that the plate isn’t still scratched and battered even once the debris is gone. And he swallows down the lump in his throat when he remembers that Remus is leaving again in a matter of hours.
.-
Remus is still curved around Sirius like a blessing stroked to life with heavenly colors the morning after he gets back. Sirius wraps his arms around him, squeezes tightly and berries his head into his neck, wanting to feel him, to smell him all over. And as they lie down in that heap in the bed Sirius has always called theirs, but Remus has only ever referred to as Sirius’s, he sobs.
“Don’t go Remus, don’t leave me anymore. Just stay here, stay with me. I love you so much that I’m afraid I’ll crack with it and I know you don’t— that you can’t feel the exact same way— but please, just don’t leave us. Stay here, stay and love me too.”
Remus’s even breaths never falter, and he never flutters his eyes open, but Sirius has known him for nearly half his life, and he knows it like he knows his own name that Remus is awake and simply doesn’t answer him.
What Sirius doesn’t know is what that means.
.-
They’re sitting on either end of the couch now.
Sirius is pretending to fill out a crossword but is actually trying to decode a letter they had been able to intercept between McNair and a lower ranking Death Eater about some assignation that was meant to be held in the wee hours of October seventh. But every few minutes his eyes wander to Remus, to how he’s curled up with a book of poetry in one hand and his blanket swathed around him. His fringe is hanging in limp curls and the circles beneath his eyes are only that much more prominent, that much more sickly. And his gaze is large and fragile in a way Sirius has never seen. And he wants to slide the novel out of Remus’s hands and he wants to kiss away his frown, and he wants to lock his fingers through the holes in his green sweater and he wants Remus in every way imaginable, to tell him I love you and I love you and I love you so much its like I’m dying. He wants to kiss the inside of his elbow and the knot of his ankle and beneath his naval too. He wants him and knows that he’ll never stop wanting him, and is sure that this— this love— will prove his Achilles’ Heal, and Remus is Patroclus destined to leave him first and Sirius is destined to wallow in ruin.
Sirius wants to beg him to stay here, to stay with him, to love him like he knows he does.
But Sirius simply does not— Does not tell him any of that.
They haven’t spoken to one another with words for days now, and it feels pathetic and hopeless— the way they only regard one another with stiff lips and cautious glances in the daylight, but that doesn’t stop them still clutching for one another once the sun dips into the horizon. Like if they can convince themselves that the sex is still miraculous that they still love each other too. As if their bodies aren’t just vessels, aren’t just sacks of skin and bone. And it feels like they’re both giving up on one another and holding on to each other with equal fervency. And Sirius doesn’t know anything any more.
It’s pathetic and it’s painful and it’s pointless. It’s so obviously over, it’s been over for nearly half a year, but they’ve always been cowards when it came to one another. And Sirius doesn’t think that will ever change.
So he only settles deeper into the couch, and he keeps the Shakespeare in Remus’s grasp, and he moves his free hand to deftly clutch around one of Remus’s cold feet, and he squeezes and Remus freezes, and they both breathe for the first time in far too long. But then Remus pulls away, and Sirius lets go before he can feel the sting of rejection and they go back to pretending to go on.
.-
Remus is gone the next morning for a council with Dumbledore, so Sirius wanders the flat like a ghost with no direction, no idea what’s next.
He decides to tidy up the space, like it matters, like anything is normal. And when he reaches for the empty mug on Remus’s nightstand, he sees that his book of poetry is still open, and he lifts it to glance at the sonnet written their in black and white…
When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
And Sirius throws it hard against the wall before he can read another word.
.-
Remus is preparing for another mission for reconnaissance, tells Sirius that night over their curry take away. And it feels like the world is dissolving right in front of Sirius’s eyes, like his lungs have forgotten how to breathe during those interludes where Remus leaves without a trace— only starting up again when he returns smelling of blood and fear and the outdoors. And Sirius hates everything so much— Is afraid that he hates Remus most of all some days, even if he’s the one person he can’t fathom existing without.
.-
The sky breaks open that night and rain pellets down like the bullets from the Muggle films that Remus loved showing him, before the war, and before his disappearing act, and before it felt like a knife was plunged into Sirius’s chest every time he looked at him— and the only worst thing than this would be if he stopped seeing Remus all together, because he knows it like the innate way he knew how to move his lips against Remus’s on that feted day towards the start of seventh year— that the knife would simply be pulled out and he’d bleed to death bit by bit.
It hurts like nothing else loving him, but Sirius can’t fathom a world where he does not. Where he doesn’t get to trace the consolation of freckles dusting his high cheekbones, where he doesn’t get to kiss the singular mole at the nape of his neck that’s ordinarily covered up by his thick jumpers. A world where they don’t intwine in the ways that lovers are want to do.
Sirius loves Remus even if he knows it’s fruitless because there’s a war destroying the world and there’s a spy in the order and Remus is the only one who’s brilliant in a reserved way and cunning when he wants to be and the only one who knows how to properly keep a secret from his friends like it’s a second skin that he wears as effortlessly as a cloak.
And God.
Remus is sitting besides him now, a pinky’s breath away from his perch on the sofa.
There are words that writhe in Sirius’s throat, clacking against his teeth, begging to spill out. He wants to tell Remus he loves him, that he’d forgive him anything. He wants to tell him that Remus can Avada Kedavra him in the cold morning light and Sirius would still only see him bathed in an etherial glow, but can’t see him doing that to their dearest friends, to Harry who is sacred and should always be protected. He wants to beg him to just speak, to tell Sirius the truth, to tell Sirius he still loves him. Beg Remus to run away with him. To go off to Prague or Cordova or maybe even the states, to say sod it to the whole damn war and just spend their days and nights tangled up with naked limbs and sweaty sheets.
And he thinks he will, thinks that the burning sensation of want within him is too furious to tempt down anymore.
But then the dying sun shimmers through the window, unspools in Remus’s honey curls and twinkles in his butterscotch eyes that were once always dancing with a quiet humor that enthralled Sirius to him like a drifter to a prophet. And it’s not healthy, this vigil he’s always held for him— especially now, especially with his suspicions that James begrudgingly agrees with and Lily fumingly does not— but Sirius’s never been one for self preservation, has never known how to let a scab heal over naturally. He has to poke and prod until it scars, until it becomes a indelible part of him.
They stay there like that for either a minute or hour more, and when Sirius sees that Remus finally has enough of their staring match, he begins to move away, and it is Sirius— with a quick hand and desperate need— who presses him back down to the cushions with a hot mouth and wandering palms and he pretends that all he feels at the sound of the whimper Remus lets out is pleasure and not pain from his heart chipping that much more.
And this is vacant of words too. This is just instincts and moans and intuition of knowing another’s body and pleasure points and wants for half a decade now.
They make it to the bedroom and Sirius refuses to be gentle, refuses to deprive himself of anything, and Remus is matching him with every thrust.
When they kiss its wet, and Sirius knows its the tears leaking out their eyes, and he knows in that unspoken, understanding way that this is the final time. That when Remus leaves later tonight, he’ll stay gone, that he won’t ever sleep besides Sirius again, won’t ever hold him like this. Sirius will never get to see him in the splendid, golden hours of morning and never get to run away with him after all. So Sirius blunders Remus’s mouth with his hard tongue, and he relishes the way Remus bites on his bottom lip until he tastes blood. And he throws them onto the mattress and they wrestle together in the sheets, scratching and pulling and canting obscenely. And when Sirius kisses his protruding collar bone it’s I’m saying I love you, and when Remus sucks on the hinge of Sirius’s jaw it feels like an apology. And when Sirius squeezes the scar on his inner thigh where the very first bite mark lies mangled and knotted in his skin, he’s begging him one last time to stay, and when Remus tells him in a voice that’s tenuous and tender and filled with sorrow, “Fuck me” the syllables slot together in a different formation that sound like “I’m already gone.”
They’re having parallel conversations and they’re not speaking and it’s the end.
So Sirius bucks against him and Remus wraps his long, long legs around Sirius’s narrow waste, and Sirius codes his fingers with the lube they’ve always kept in his nightstand and is fast when he plunges them into that ring of tight, tight muscle, when he stretches and scissors and slicks him open, spurred on by Remus’s gargled words begging him. “Now Sirius, now, now. Do it now.”
So he doesn’t bother with any of the rest of it. He barely sheaths himself half way before he has to stop, has to catch his breath, to re acclimate himself to the pressure. But then he hears Remus whimper and he surges forwards and doesn’t let up this vicious rhythm that he hears pulsing in his fucking ears. And it’s graceless and it’s hard and it’s a bit rushed but it’s what they need. And when Remus tosses back his head— features twisted up with emotion— Sirius berries his face into his neck and he feels his tears intermingling with Remus’s own and Remus’s loud pleads for him to go rougher, to stay longer, to keep fucking into him. So Sirius listens because there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Remus— even now— and he focusses on his hand circling Remus’s length, on pumping it with a tight fist and a bit of a twist, the way Remus has always preferred it. And he hears Remus croaking out an “I’ve always loved you,” and even if those words are too late, too little, too hollow, they still work to bring him off the edge, and Sirius thrusts deeper only twice more before he’s releasing himself into him— into the love of his life— quickly followed by Remus’s own cock whimpering out it’s own climax. And it feels like the ending to the story Sirius never wanted to stop being told.
But before he can pull out his overstimulated prick from Remus’s arse, Remus just squeezes him with his legs, eyes fluttering shut while he rests his arms around Sirius’s broad shoulders. “Just stay.” he asks. “Stay until I have to go.”
And the sound of him— so desperate so pliant so tired— breaks the rest of his heart so much so that Sirius feels the remains splintering in his lungs and shattering open his ribcage with a sob he never lets out until Remus is gone.
“Anything you want Moony. Whatever you ask.”
And Remus’s lips twitch up into the best approximation of a smile that he’s given Sirius in far too long, and Sirius rests his head against Remus’s chest, and kisses the freckles that he was so elated to find their the first time they had done this. And he takes in deep the scent of cinnamon and citrus and sunlight that’s always clung to his skin, and he thinks that this is the first time they’re letting each other feel hopeless together.
.-
The cold has turned over to a blizzard, and it seizes the flat once more the next morning.
Remus is gone and Sirius is left alone and nothing is right.
So he grabs the floo powder from the beautiful, ceramic container Hope had gifted Remus when he first moved into the flat the summer after their seventh year, and he finds James waiting for him on the other side, and he’s never taken in just how exhausted and terrified and sad his brother is looking these days.
“Wotcher, Pads.” James says, sipping on his tea with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and nothing is alright, nothing will probably ever be alright again.
“Hiya, Prongsie,” Sirius says, hearing just how threadbare his voice sounds in the quiet of the Potter cottage.
“So just a morning call? Or would you like me to fetch Haz for you?”
Sirius swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to speak. “James I love you more than life, love Lily and the sprog just as much— But—“ he chokes up right then before ramming forwards. “I can’t— I can’t be the—“
“I know,” James interrupts, a thin, forgiving smile on his face. “Pete’ll have to do, but I’d still rather it you.”
“I’m so sorry James.”
“Me too.”
.-
~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist
#WOLFSTAR#REMUS LUPIN#SIRIUS BLACK#SIRIUSXREMUS#REMUSXSIRIUS#WOLFSTAR FLUFF#MARAUDERS#HARRY POTTER SERIES#THE HARRY POTTER SERIES#SPILT INK#DELETE LATER#TBH#LOL
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may you write about lan xichen losing reader in the nightless city battle since they were at wei wuxian’s side and all the mourning after since they were exes? (they broke up when the reader chose to stay on wuxian’s side since they were childhood best friends)
i’m sorry if this is too specific and it’s a 100% ok if you don’t want to write it I just had this idea weeks ago and can’t stop thinking about it but I can’t write for shit akdkrkdkd thank you so much!!!
hi anon~!
it is never a bother for me to write, so don’t worry! i’m always excited to see ideas and requests, so please continue sending them in
⊂( ・ ̫・)⊃
recently, i had written another request with a similar premise here; perhaps following the same sequence, i’ll try elaborating more and bridging your ideas?
let me know what you think ( •́ .̫ •̀ )
here’s to your request~
｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆
the incense is the same as it has always been
which is why Lan Xichen doesn’t understand why the scent of it burns his eyes,
makes the tears that he thought he had finished, drip and drip down his face
the only other sound in the silent room is the rustling of the sheets, as Lan Wangji tends to Wei Wuxian’s sleeping bedside
Lan Xichen blinks,
the world doesn’t feel real
“Brother,” Lan Wangji’s voice is small, somber
Lan Xichen barely acknowledges the warm cup of tea held out to him,
doesn’t think he deserves to drink
doesn’t know how to find the appetite
or do anything other then sit and feel
Lan Xichen tries to pinpoint the similarity of his grievances as a child, when his mother had died
he had been sad, yes, had felt the same kind of numbness when he was told of her passing
but he had not felt so empty as he did now
the breath he takes in feels heavy in his lungs
perhaps it was because you had left so suddenly from his life, the flinging of your own body off the cliffside
but... that couldn’t be it; his mother’s death was as much as a surprise to him as yours
or perhaps, because you were dead now, he could not do anything to bring you back...
Lan Xichen takes a deep breath, staring off at the distance hills that he could catch from the open window
Lan Xichen had always known the truth of death well, had known of its finality since his first encounter
perhaps, or rather, Lan Xichen realizes that he is mourning so heavily, grieving so deeply, because your death had been a choice
you had died for something
and there was nothing he could have done to stop you
Lan Wangji turns away from his brother’s blank face when he hears a small noise from the other bedside,
though Lan Xichen is too lost in his mind to notice his brother’s hesitance to turn away
Lan Xichen does not have to look at his younger brother to know the face of relief that he is making to the person awaking from a deep slumber
there is a pause as the silence of the room is accompanied by a third deep breath
the words spill out of his mouth
“y/n did not deserve to die,” Lan Xichen says quietly,
his first words since his arrival are heavy in the silence of the Hanshi
Lan Wangji looks up at him, taking his eyes from his own lover
the three of them, here, were injured in their own ways
and Lan Xichen knows, that Wei Wuxian would easily feel as much pain over your death as he was
after all, you were his only family left, his sister, his comrade on this road of demonic cultivation
but it should not have led to your death, Lan Xichen hears himself thinking, the bitter taste of sorrow like a rock in his chest
Lan Xichen doesn’t look over to the bed
even when he hears the swish of the blankets
he doesn’t need to stare at Wei Wuxian to hear how hard his body had slumped onto the bed frame, his shakey teary breath at his first conscious moment
“y/n did not deserve to die,” Lan Xichen repeats, like a mantra
when he looks over at his brother, he is unfamiliar with the fire that bore into his own
she did not deserve to die for him,
the two brothers understand in their own silent ways
a glance at Wei Wuxian shows him downcast, tears streaming down his face as the reality of the loss sets in
you were dead, because of him
“it is not your fault,” Lan Wangji speaks up, as hushed as it was supposed to sound,
was it mine, then? Lan Xichen questions himself, as his younger brother shields his crying lover’s face away from Lan Xichen’s fierce desolation
perhaps if he had never left you that day at the Burial Mounds
or had just done more
Lan Xichen thinks of all the possibilities, wonders and dreams of all that would have led to anything other than your end
because...
after all
where would he be without you?
“i will go to seclusion...” Lan Xichen says, his voice steady despite the thundering of his heart and shallowness of each breath he took
and as you closed your eyes from the world
he would close his to reality
#mdzs headcanons#mdzs writing request#mdzs writing requests#mdzs fandom#mdzs scenario request#mdzs imagine request#mdzs reaction request#mdzs lan xichen x reader#mdzs lan xichen#mdzs x reader#mdzs self insert#mdzs angst#mdzs character headcanons#mdzs manhua#mdzs lan#mdzs lan wangji#mdzs lan zhan#mdzs wei wuxian#mdzs wei ying#mdzs writing#mdzs asks#mdzs writing requests open#mdzs ask me to write#mdzs imagine requeset#tangledwriting
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I'm kinda unsure about this but if this blog actually accepts character × character, can you do Silver and Jade (love their ethereal beauty combined!) with ficlet + the word Willow? albeit in greater heights it is considered a tree of life, growth, and nourishment, I feel like somehow there's a hidden sentiment, reminiscent, and slight mournfulness behind it......try listening Colours of the Winds as you read this 人(*´ω｀*). kindly ignore this ask if it violated the rules/simply isn't coherent enough—thank you in advance and have a great day, Mx Typist ( ◜‿◝ )♡
I will not lie, anon. Your ask did pique my curiosity! I hope that you enjoy this piece as much as I did creating it.
CW for slight OOC, mentions of blood, light angst with a happy ending, lots of memory jumps.
Word count: 3967
The Possibilities are Endless
Hidden from the view lies a blossoming tree unforeseen by many but open to those willing to look, a haven for those looking for peace in times of turmoil, a place to rest. Life was an everyday struggle for survival; so different from the world above water. Jade wondered if he truly found a place of peace or a place of regrets.
Had he understood the curse of the black thorns earlier, perhaps the willow tree would not have been an early grave for one he had come to cherish.
A glass coffin, the raining petals of willow blossoms, and the careful steps of a traveler and a noble approached the boy cursed with eternal rest; the black thorns that adorn his skin like ink. It was haunting, soul crushingly beautiful. Jade’s heart beats slowly and heavy, the eyes hidden behind tinted glasses could not remain open for long; he opened his mouth to speak, urging the pressuring silence to break between them.
“Those black thorns were what remained of a curse that ravished the land in the past, is that true my Lord?” The wandering traveler asked the nobleman much shorter than he, with eyes that bore playfulness but held memories that stretched longer than one would think. Lilia Vanrouge knew the power of those thorns, what was to come once the thorns chose its sacrifice, he knew what was to be done, what will be fulfilled by the law of its magic…And it hurt.
It hurt to see the very boy he took in and care for sleep for the rest of his days, what life lay ahead of him slowed to a halt. “An unlucky soul is chosen to hold all of the resentment and anger of its caster. It doesn’t matter who it is, no matter status or age…It will choose and it will hold onto its sacrifice until their dying breathe.”
The nobleman’s hands touched the glass coffin, his sigh shaking and legs losing ability to hold himself up; Lilia pressed his forehead to the coffin, his eyes closed and aura heavy. Jade could sense a love so genuine, a love only a father could give in mourning to a son whose life was cut short.
“My boy,” wept the nobleman. “My poor boy, why did the thorns choose you?”
Jade took a step back, allowing family to grieve in private. “I’ll give you time to be alone, my Lord.”
A sniffle and a sob, Lilia turned to him “Thank you for being his last memory. You have my eternal gratitude.” The tall man is silent, his robes denoting his origins and chain holding his glasses danced with the wind as the petals of willow rained down before them.
Hair white like spider’s silk, eyes lavender as the blossoms that bloomed on the willow tree and a demeanor that outranked any nobleman Jade has met; the man before him was like a painting splashed with water, eyelids delicate and almost reaching its end to the bottom “Apologies for startling you, I do not mean any harm.” He says, hiding his weapon as a sign of benevolence. “I would just like to rest upon this tree just like you.”
Jade was a wandering traveler, his home hidden beneath the waves and salt; the young nobleman, a boy around his age held his sword by his side and garments dirtied with earth and dust. It seemed both of them were worse for wear.
“Please, do not let that stop you.”
The two strangers sat by the trunk, the sound of silence heavy and comforting. Jade’s eyes adjusted to the low light behind glasses designed to protect the eyes of one who lived within the trenches of the deep. “Your clothes, you’re from the sea. What is it like there?”
“Wet, for one.” Jade replies dryly.
The sword wielding boy’s laugh was like tickle in his ears, his smile kind yet tight. “Well, that’s quite obvious.” Jade hands come up to catch a lingering petal in his hand, fingers thin in holding it delicately. “It’s very blue and sound is often muffled as compared to the ones on land. Color is…somewhat brighter here than how it is back home.”
“So everything is dark where you’re from.” He said, closing his eyes to rest his weary body. “Pitch black.”
Jade opened his eyes, everything eye-catching and bright and loud came to him all in one moment. The voices of the market of child and adult alike. One selling potions and one selling metal, a trail of silk passes his fingers and the smell of dye reaches his nose. Business was thriving.
“This way.” Said his guide. His robes similar to the ones Jade wore, its material floating as they walked through the narrowing pathway and into the darkness both of them lived for most of their lives. “To think the gem trade had reached a remote place like this.” He said, removing his glasses when his eyesight adjusted to a place he was used to.
“It’s a hard route to follow, especially with the curse over this area. Those black thorns shouldn’t be messed with.”
“…I know.” Was all Jade could reply.
To his left, a sharp right and down the long path towards a red door. Jade and his guide stop before it as it opened to them without a hitch. “How many bags were you able to find?” He asked, stepping in to find gems of every color flowing out from the bag and thieves tied by rope enchanted with markings of strength “Nine of them. All in pristine condition.”
“Good. We got here on time.” His attention moved to the other people in the room, his footsteps clicking against polished flooring and hand delicate yet strong in grabbing one by the hair, the squeal from pain brought a sense of enjoyment out of Jade. There were moments he allowed his rather violent tendencies to let loose. He wonders how his companion by the willow tree would react had he seen this side of him.
“Tell me everything you know.” One eye, a bright yellow, shines against the low light. Jade looked like a beast ready to prowl on his weakened victim, a smile of teeth razor sharp and ready. “And this will hurt less than it should.”
He wondered if he would continue to wait for him there knowing what he was set out to land to fulfill.
“Jade, I didn’t think I would see you here again.”
It had been a long time since they had dropped the formalities and a long time since they had exchanged names. Silver was a boy taken in by a noble of the land, a former general respected by those around him Jade had met him a few times during his searches for the lost pearls and he knew he was not a man to be messed with despite his small size.
“The willow tree has become a favorite spot of mine since our meeting, Silver.”
He sits next to him “I’m glad.” Reaching for the skies to stretch his back with a huff. “The willow blossoms are about to bloom.” He said, hand reaching up to catch a falling blossom that was picked out by the wind. “You have flowers in the sea as well, right?”
“Yes, though they’re more fleshy than soft. They’re more vibrant near the surface.”
Another blossom flutters in the breeze, the petals landing on his hands. “Forgive me for forgetting but, why did you come to the surface? While I do see some traders from the sea, I do not think that’s your main objective here.”
The petal was soft in his hands, almost like waxed silk. He trusted Silver as the days passed yet for him to reveal something so personal…Was it right to? “That is true, I’m not here to sell.”
“I’m willing to listen.”
As steadfast as a knight with a kindness of a friend, Silver closed the distance between them and now sat shoulder to shoulder. Jade’s hands hesitate for a brief moment, the two of them had spent enough time to be this close yet not enough to know each other on such a deep level…Was it worth the risk to reveal his plans?
Reaching into his robes, he pulls out a bundled cloth and with gentle pulls unraveled to show a shining pearl. Silver’s eyes widened in their beauty, its luster reflected against his gentle lavender eyes.
“I am looking for a treasure that was stolen from my home.”
Bloodied hands hold the pearls gently; the smuggling thieves put up more of a fight that Jade originally thought but that didn’t matter to him, his objective was more important. The bags were collected and carried by more people of his cloth, their robes moving like the waves of the sea and shells clicking and tinkering as they shuffled about.
“We have counted three thousand.” Said his guide who handed his a damp cloth to clean his hands. Jade takes it with a murmur of thanks and cleans himself of his doing. “This is quite the bounty, good on you for finding this.” Discarding the reddened cloth, he adjusted his clothing and proceeded to walk out the door. “You won’t be staying?” The guide questions, taking the cloth from the ground.
“I have other places to be. Enjoy the amenities without me.” And into the colorful crowd he went, glasses don and chain going with his flow. Jade walked the lane of gleeful and bright colors yet only pitch black stained him mind.
Time passes quickly, it was a lesson many must learn and live with; Sebek was the youngest in the family, which one didn’t matter to him. “Silver, I’m here.”
The curse of the black thorns was an age old tale, a wicked magician who had never experience love in her lifetime cursed the land of her birth with thorns that bore her hate, burning down what was once home to feel the warmth that could not reach her. Long after her death, the thorns remained and would pull anyone who was deemed worthy of hate. To show the world her anger ran deep.
If the thorns chose a sacrifice then the land will remain peaceful for a time, at least, until the sacrifice’s body’s sleeps the last traces of their life away. Only then will the thorns look for another soul to crush, a soul to hold its hate, its sorrow.
Silver was Sebek’s companion all his life. All the memories he had contained a sliver of the boy whose hair shined like his namesake in the sun. In a short time, he had become stronger than him; in a short time, he had grown taller than him and in that short time, he was too late to do anything for him.
The willow’s blossoms coat the floor in violet and the flowers he brought along stood up against it. “It has been a while but Master Lilia told me he visited you every chance he got.” His hand touched the glass coffin where his fallen fellow laid, the ink-like blackness of the thorns mar and pull at his skin brought his mind to turmoil.
He thought of something to say, something to confess, anything to try to get a reaction from the sleeping man but to no avail. He sighed a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his body bent and forehead touching the glass. “I’m sorry Silver, please forgive me.” His fists clench against the crystalline structure, lips pursed and tight. “Please wake up, I’m sorry.”
All before this, all before Sebek forced himself to grow, he was childish. He didn’t know whether it was because of his sheltered upbringing prior or it was because of his own selfishness growing up. Each day, he wanted to be the one on top, to be the one who shines the brightest even if it meant having to put others in his shadow.
He wanted to beat Silver in everything he was good at, to have only praise reach his ears…He was so enveloped in wanting shine, in wanting to be the best that…
“I’m sorry.”
He had neglected to see the full picture before him. And it was only then that he realized all his life, all his effort was focused on mistakes that piled onto him the moment the thorns preyed and chose Silver as its sacrifice.
He knew that the thorns favor no one yet, he could not find in himself to break the thought that all this was his punishment. The world’s way of bringing him suffering for his transgressions. He didn’t only lose a friend that day, he lost someone he loved.
In such a short time, he was too blinded by the light ahead of him that he forgot to check those next to him, for a hand to hold him throughout the journey. A warm hand touched his shoulder, the familiar tinted glasses and shining chain gave all suspecting names away.
A bouquet of flowers were placed near the foot of the glass coffin. “Forgive me for disturbing you, I did not want to startle you with my presence.” There was a small laugh, something that startled Jade in return “I would be surprised regardless”. A clean cloth was pulled from his coat, wiping the area clean. Ever since the curse took Silver, Sebek handled the upkeep of his resting place.
“I’m the only one who can walk the distance freely unlike Master Lilia and Malleus who have duties to attend to.” Said the green haired boy, his eyes shined differently and lips tight as if almost bursting to tears. “Let me be the one to take care of it.”
“I didn’t think I’d cross paths with you again. You’re all over the place.”
“Yes, that’s just the hardships of travelling.”
Sniffling, Sebek gets up to his feet and rubs his nose. “Come, let’s talk while we head back.” The hesitant brought another small laugh, one that Jade becomes equally startled with. This man, Sebek, he was so different now.
“You’ve grown.”
Stunned silence, not one movement from the two. Sebek’s eyes go to the ground, shoulders sagging. “Have I?” a crease on his cheek and the shake of his head. “Let’s get back to the manor. I fear that a spout of rain may come soon.”
“How are you enjoying the party?”
Silver was dressed in a suit of black and adorned with shimmers of emerald, his getup accented by the dust of green glitter on his eye lids. He was beautiful, very much so. “It’s quite lively.” Jade’s glasses never came off but his eyes that glowed in the night were more obvious with his all black attire that Lilia let him borrow.
As small as Sebek was, his build was just right for him…Despite his annoyance. He never really understood him.
He leans against the railing of the balcony, the creasing sure to make a certain green haired fellow angry later into the night. “It’s warm, I’m not very good with warm environments.”
“I don’t blame you. Plus all that talk about gem trade, I’m sure you don’t like that either.”
The two of them bump shoulders, chuckling amongst each other. “You know me too much, it’s scary.”
The forest was quiet, only the sound of night crawlers remain. Silver took in the crisp evening air and letting it flutter against hair that had been brushed to smoothness like silk. “How many more do you need to finish?”
“Ten thousand. I’ve gathered two thousand at the moment.”
In his hand was the polished pearl he had shown his earlier and though it was one of the pearls dear to him, he did not hesitate in letting Silver hold it in his hand. He had long earned his trust and honesty with him, it was no risk for him to lend an ear for his troubles.
“I heard along the vine that a shipment will arrive by the river tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll find a good amount there.”
Silver raised up the pearl, overlapping the moon with it. “It’s beautiful.” Their eyes share a knowing look, a smile and a smirk. Silver leaned against him with another chuckle. “Is there anything else you wanted to say?”
Jade turns to him just as a hand comes to remove his glasses.
“You’re beautiful.”
The hiss of rain denied any silence to pass, the smell of tea and hot chocolate filled the small lodging where Lilia and Malleus stayed. “I apologize for the short notice.” Said the wandering traveler yet the noble hosts paid no mind. “Short or not, you are a guest as well as our friend.”
Malleus smiles into his cup. “Besides, times like these are special. Free time is a rarity nowadays.” Sebek set a warming blanket on Lilia’s shoulders, the older one giving him a smile of thanks. “Were you able to collect the pearls?”
“I am short of a hundred, Sir Malleus.”
Malleus Draconia, the head of the family, was a well-to-do and greatly respected man. His presence alone was enough to grant the room peace and his voice grant command. Like Silver, Jade had long lost his suspicion of him long ago. He could confide in him and the man will be honest, albeit sugarcoat his words to lessen the blow.
Malleus was powerful as he was kind, something he once thought only existed in books read to him as a child.
“Do you have any leads as to where they might be?”
The smoking trail of tea stayed by his nose, the smell of pressed lives melting the stress in his bones away. “No, sadly.”
“Good.” With a wave of his hand, Sebek walked carefully with a silver tray and a bowl. “Then that means the information handed to us was correct.”
Pearls of every color, every size and luster were set onto the low table with some bouncing onto the tray. Jade’s eyes were wide behind his glasses, looking to the three different faces before him. “But how did you—? When—?”
His surprised expression brought a laugh, one heartwarming and teasing. It was not all the time they got to see Jade so frazzled and not the sharp but distant travelling business man he made himself out to be. “All in good condition.”
His eyes shuddered and heart raced. His search was almost done yet Silver was still cursed, the thorns never releasing its hold on him. What should he do? What can he do??
“Thank you, so much. I’m grateful, from the bottom of my heart.” He said, head hunched and breathing deep. “I just…I wish I could pay you back.” Lilia huffed a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “Come now, how much you mean to us isn’t dependent on that.”
Jade never knew what it felt like to be so weak, to be bare to those around him. Even if this act of kindness would further bring his journey to its satisfied end, it did not mean it would grant him the happy ending he preferred. Silver is still asleep.
Malleus’ hand touched his shoulder, his tall figure looming over him. “It is alright for you to accept the love others are willing to give, Jade. Silver wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”
With his journey coming to an end, his purpose now fulfilled it was now time for him to head for home but not without saying goodbye. The group had agreed to accompany him one last time to Silver’s resting place, the very tree they first met in. As the four of them walked, the memories begin coming back to him with each step they took.
Jade and Silver were being chased, the thieves coming at them in droves bigger than they had anticipated. The two of them jumped and ran through the place they memorized like the back of their hands. “This way.” Said the training swordsman, his hand clutched tight against the bag of pearl they had snatched.
Over the branches and through the trees, the threats of the thieves that tracked their move waned and quieted until only labored breath remained.
“We’re here.”
The place looked exactly as he left it, the bouquet of wilting flowers and the pungent smell of dying willow blossoms; Silver laid in a state of eternal rest, his robes a pristine white against the thorns that wrapped around his skin.
They thought they were safe, they thought it was over. Jade remembered hugging him out of joy, an actioned welcomed by one in return. So close to the goal, little by little it was complete.
Jade walked up to it, palm flat on the glass and pushing it open despite Sebek’s worry and Lilia’s motions of peace.
It happened so quickly as if the ground beneath them shook, the previous sacrifice had expired and the thorns were active once again. It wrapped around Jade, pulling him in. A single pearl flew, a single glint of hope taken right before his very eyes.
Silver had pushed him out of harm’s way, the thorns coming to him instead.
He leaned over the sleeping boy, noses almost touching. His face did not move, not an inch.
“Go.” Was the last thing he said before the curse took hold of him and the last thing he saw was him smiling.
“I’ll see you again soon.” Whispered Jade, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I love you.”
When there was no response, Jade sighed and nodded his head to the three. “Take care of yourself out there.” Said Lilia who patted his shoulder on the way out. Sebek was quick to take the glass opening in his hands and pull.
Hair white like spider’s silk fluttered in the air, eyes lavender as the blossoms that bloomed on the willow tree met sunlight for what seemed like a decade and birds sang their songs in welcome as the thorns receded to dust.
The smell of salt and brush of the sea, Jade embraced the familiar environment entirely. The boat was ready and so was he brethren, with a nod of his head all of them set off for home without so much a look behind them.
“—ade! Jade!!”
The wind whistled into his ears, his eyes wide against tinted glasses at the sight of three figures running a glimmer of white in tow. Sebek held someone on his back, his loud voice yelling for him to come back…Come back…
“Come back!”
Hair white like spider’s silk fluttered in the air, eyes lavender as the blossoms that bloomed on the willow tree met sunlight for what seemed like a decade panted in his white clothing, eyes desperate in wanting to move. To scream just as the others do but his body is weak, brittle.
Though his voice was soft, it was enough for Jade to move and jump out of the ship to the horror of his shipmates. From the depths, his form came in the form of an eel that quickly swam to the docks in neck breaking speeds. Silver’s body was shaking, Jade’s heavy and wet.
The embrace was just as warm as he remembered, Silver’s embrace the same tightness as it was before. He buried his face into the eel’s neck, body shaking as he whispered whatever he could say. For the first time in a long while, the two saw eye to eye.
“You’re beautiful.” Silver said with a smile upon seeing Jade’s mismatched eyes of green and bright yellow. “I love you…”
The two shared an embrace, their love like a fire that burned like a warming fire. A pearl is gripped in Silver’s palm, the search was over and the spell was broken. Jade pressed a kiss to his forehead. An ending well earned.
#works from the typewriter#twisted wonderland#jade leech#twst silver#jade x silver#jade leech x silver#character pair#jade ficlets#silver ficlets
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Sometimes, Love Means Leaving - Klaus Hargreeves
Anonymous said: Hello.... may I please request a Klaus Hargreeves x Reader? Your writing is beautiful and I cant stop reading your Klaus posts! I was thinking maybe the reader and klaus have been together for a long time and when she passes away in an accident klaus stays clean enough to conjure her to try to keep her around and be able to physically touch her again? (like he did with ben) i hope this makes sense.... thank you :)
fabimgc said: Hii, could you do a one shot Klaus x reader, where the reader has powers but died in a mission saving Klaus and Klaus is trying to see her but cant? Like Angst with a fluff ending if you can thankss❤️
AN: this story takes place BEFORE Season One of The Umbrella Academy. I hope you like this!
He felt awful; worse than the day you left. Worse because, when Klaus closed his eyes, he could see your face. You were so close to him, painfully so, and yet he couldn’t quite reach you. The aching in his stomach pulled him back to reality every time.
“C’mon, Klaus, there are better ways to do this.”
“Shh, jus’ shhh,” Klaus whimpered, opening his eyes just enough to glance at the phantom visage of his brother. In his mostly-sober state, Ben appeared more in focus. Light and shadow seemed to meld around him in a way that was more natural. For a moment, Klaus thought his long dead brother was really, truly, there.
“You should have stayed in re-”
“O-oh shit! Peanut gallery,” Klaus groaned, “you need to shhh!” Weak and stumbling, Klaus moved to stand. He pressed his shoulder to the wall, the plaster cooling his searing, sweaty skin. The sharp contrast was shocking to him at first but when he rested his throbbing temple against the wall, he sighed in relief. “Oh, yes. That’s better.”
Klaus let his eyes close to savor the feeling. In the dark behind his eyelids, he was weightless. Then he heard it again. Only sirens at first, high-pitched and ringing in his ears. His heart began to pound as he was thrust back into the memory. Seconds pass and the sirens turned to faint beeping, then a dull, enduring tone. Finally, mournful tune. Violins, piano, he couldn’t tell. Klaus only knew the melody from your funeral.
With a gasp, Klaus opened his eyes and crumpled to the floor of the hotel room he had rented for the evening. The carpet was rough against his skin but he could have cared less. Klaus was too busy trying to calm his breathing, still his heaving chest.
“Klaus,” Ben whispered, kneeling down beside his brother. For a moment, he thought Ben was going to reach out and stroke his hair. It something you used to do when Klaus, in an attempt to avoid the ghosts, went too far on a bender. But, Ben seemed to back down, sit back on his knees and watch him with worry in his eyes. His pity stung.
“Please go,” Klaus wheezed, letting his eyes close.
“I’m only here to-”
“Ben. Go.” Klaus opened his eyes again, “you’re not who I want here.”
Hurt washed over Ben’s face but he stood up nonetheless. “I know you’re grieving, that you’re in pain, but that doesn’t mean you get to be a dick to the people who care about you.”
Before Klaus could snap a witty comeback or apologize, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say really, Ben was gone. Klaus was alone again, in pain again, and he could feel familiar tears well up in his eyes. All he wanted was you but you were gone and he was, seemingly, still too high to conjure you presence. His head ached with longing and withdrawal.
Frantic for comfort, Klaus thought of you and the last time he tried to get sober. It had all been in an attempt to get you to stop worrying about him. You had come home to Klaus passed out, slouched over the toilet bowl, barely moving. It had scared you so much. Klaus didn’t want to scare you so he tried to get clean.
It was a long stretch of days. Nights were spent in bed or sprawled out on the bathroom floor with blankets strew around your bodies. You would stroke his hair, read to him, in the hopes of luring him to sleep. Klaus could still feel your fingers working the knots in his curls; every some often your fingertips would brush along his hairline.
In the mornings, you would make breakfast together. Klaus would insist on everything greasy and too-sweet pastries from the local bakery. Most times, you would compromise with eggs or toast or fruits. On the mornings after a good night, when Klaus felt most sober and you were happy, you would walk, hand-in-hand and make a day of going to the cafe. Those day-long dates felt so distant now, so muddled by drugs and the passage of time.
“Y/N….” Even your name, falling from his lips, felt different. He screwed his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. “I miss you. Please...”
Silence greeted his plea. Deafening, heartbreaking silence, and then...
“Miss me? I’m always here.”
Klaus’ eyes flew open at the sound of your voice. There you were, crouching down at his side, eyes meeting his the moment they opened. You smiled and Klaus scrambled to sit up. He let out an almost crazed laugh. He had finally done it.
“Y/N,” Klaus reached out, but stopped himself. He didn’t want his hands to go through you like they did with Ben. It would be another reminder that you weren’t truly here. “I-I…”
“You did it,” you gleamed, “you got sober.”
“Y-yeah,” Klaus was grinning now, “I did. It only took like four ye-”
“Hey, no. Be kind to yourself, this is a process. Especially when you’re doing it by yourself like you had, have been.” Klaus could see the warning in your eyes before you continued to speak. He raised his hands and shook his head.
“I don’t want to waste time with a lecture. I know I need help but right now I,” he met your eyes, “I just want to be with you.”
“Klaus,” your voice was low and your hand shifted to rest on the floor between the two of you. So close yet still so terribly far away. “If you die, we won’t get more time like this.”
He fell quiet at that. You were right, he knew that much, and it made his chest ache. After your death, all Klaus wanted was to see you again. He hadn’t thought about anything else, save for what he would say to you if he ever got sober enough to conjure.
“I love you, Y/N.” He met your gaze and felt his heart lurch in his chest. There, he saw the soft smile he had missed spread along your perfect lips, lips he craved to kiss but couldn’t.
“I love you too, Klaus. That’s why you need to take care of yourself. I want to keep loving you, even if I’m not really here.” You leaned closer to him, “you still have to live your life.”
“I can conjure you now, whenever, like Ben and I-Ben. Did you hear what I…”
“I did,” you admit. “You know he was just trying to help.” Klaus nodded and let his eyes fall to the floor where your hand was still. Small but there, flecks of blood stood out against your skin as evidence of your accident. He swallowed hard before looking back up at you.
“You’re not staying are you? Not like him?” You curled your lips together and shook your head. Klaus nodded again, bitterly this time, and let his tears fall freely.
“I can’t,” you whispered, “not if you’re going to move on. You deserve to move on, Klaus, to live. I can’t, not really, not anymore.”
“But you love me,” Klaus whimpered. There was no use in hiding his tears anymore.
“I do,” you replied, “so much, Klaus, and this hurts me. I don’t want to see you like this.”
“When you love someone you stay with them. Why aren’t you staying?” Klaus was desperate, his hands moved up to his hair where his fingers pulled on the dark strands.
“I already left this...plane,” you gesture to the room around you both, “but I never left you, Klaus. Not for a second.” You scoot along the carpet before you’re sitting before him. You’re so tantalizing close that Klaus swore he could feel your body heat for a second, smell your shampoo. Though that could not be true. “I’ve always been, and always will be, right here.”
Suddenly, Klaus feels a warmth spread through his chest. When he looked down, he finds your hand there, right above his heart. Your fingertips glow in a way he had never seen a ghost’s fingers glow before. At first, it scares him.
Then your free head reaches up, strokes his hair and brushes along his scalp. A calm, a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time washed over him.
It was the peace Klaus felt walking with you to the bakery down the street from where you lived in the city. The same one he felt listening to you talk about your family, about school, about work; he felt it in your voice. Peace came with kissing you, holding you after he was released from the hospital after that first close call. How happy he had been to hold you again.
How happy he was to be holding you again, now. Klaus lunged towards you, wiry arms wrapping over your shoulders and pulling you close. The embrace was tight and Klaus felt everything he had been holding in go; like how he would have to let you go.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Klaus,” you said, clutching the back of his shirt. Suddenly, your fingers slipped through the material and you began to pull away. The light in your hands was beginning to fade and, as you sat back, Klaus watched, terrified.
“I love you, please don’t…”
“I love you too, Klaus. You were my unfinished business,” you leaned towards him as the light worked its way through your form. “I’ll always be here.”
With one final movement, you pressed your lips to Klaus’ and he felt his whole body go numb. He felt as if he were floating, made of the same light that was whisking you away to the next plane. Klaus knew, in those precious seconds before he opened his eyes again, that he would see you once more. He would, but not yet.
When Klaus opened his eyes, you were gone. Last, fluttering speck of light had taken your place. Stinging tears flowed from his eyes but his shoulders didn’t feel as heavy. Withdrawals had run the course or perhaps the disappearance of his full-body ache was your doing. He would never know for certain.
Slightly breathless, Klaus pressed his back against the wall. His head fell back and, with a dull thud, it hit the wall as well. His skin, his lips seemed to tingle from your ghostly touch. It was the first time that had happened before. Perhaps dear-old-dad had been right: there was more to his powers than he realized. But, in that moment, Klaus was too overwhelmed to think any further on the subject.
“You alright?” Klaus looked up and locked eyes with his brother. Ben, all dressed in black, looked down at him worried.
“I’m sorry, Ben,” Klaus murmured. Ben nodded and walked over. His slid down the wall to sit next to his sweat-drenched, chest heaving brother.
“I’m sorry too.”
Klaus smiled then and, for the first time in a while, he felt like happiness was possible. His chest swelled at the feeling and, for a split second, Klaus swore he could feel your hand run through his hand one last time.
#klaus hargreeves#klaus hargreeves x reader#klaus hargreeves x you#klaus hargreeves imagine#klaus hargreeves imagines#klaus hargreeves fanfic#klaus hargreeves fanfiction#klaus imagine#klaus imagines#klaus fanfiction#tua#tua imagine#tua imagines#tua fanfic#tua fanfiction#ben hargreeves#the umbrella academy#the umbrella academy imagine#the umbrella academy fanfiction#the umbrella academy imagines#umbrella academy#umbrella academy fanfiction#umbrella academy imagines
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Daminette December Day 5
@daminette-december2019-2020
I can’t believe I’m doing this oms, Sweaters didn’t exist okay? I had no choice!! lmaooo no regrets tho, I’m loving where this fic is going.
Anyway thank you for everyone who left such lovely comments on the previous chapter I literally almost cried thank you!!
Princes and Pedestals
Chapter 5 – Sweater
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“Oh I can’t wait to show you the stables, we each have our own horse. I named mine Lavender, since my favorite color is purple. Cass's is named Rose, Dick's is Robin, Damian’s is Ace, Tim named his Cloud and Jason...,” Stephanie stopped walking and released Marinette’s hand, turning around, she sighed, “Well, you should know, Jason was ten when he got his and the horse had been sick and well... it resulted in him naming the poor animal Sweater. He refuses to change it,”
Marinette laughed at Stephanie’s clear annoyance with this fact. She’d come to her room this morning and simply insisted that she show her the stables before negotiations regarding their alliance took place. Marinette had agreed, she was coming to quite like this girl and her energetic nature.
Stephanie kept walking, this time at a slower pace, she lead Marinette out of the castle and greeted the gardeners. The servants they passed greeted her back and smiled widely, everyone was clearly fond of her. Marinette couldn’t blame them, Stephanie’s energy was contagious.
“You’ll probably get your own one-,” she started, before interrupting herself, eyes widening, she laughed nervously, “I mean if you stay long enough you’ll practically be family so I wouldn’t be surprised, if you got one, that is,”
Marinette thought her behavior was strange but she’d found that questioning Stephanie’s actions only led to more questions.
“Hey Steph, wait up!” someone yelled. Marinette turned towards the voice, seeing Prince Richard approaching them. He was the only brother at the summer castle she hadn’t informally met yet.
When he caught up to them, he nodded his head to her, “Your Majesty,”
She returned the gesture, smiling, “Your Highness, feel free to call me Marinette,”
She saw approval flicker across his eyes, he smiled back, “As long as you agree to call me Dick. Where are you two ladies going this fine morning?”
Stephanie rolled her eyes at him and started walking again, “Calm down, worry wart, I’m just taking her to the stables. Wanna join us?”
“I’d love to,” Dick replied, walking along with her and Stephanie. He looked towards Marinette, “She tell you about their names yet?”
She nodded slowly, “Yeah, she did. Do you mind me asking why you named yours Robin?”
“Robin was my mother’s nickname,” he said, a sad smile on his face, he shrugged, “I guess when I first got here I just wanted something to remind me of her, naming my horse after her... it helped ease my grief,”
Marinette felt as though a knife was being twisted in her heart, the black dress she wore suddenly heavier than usual. It was then that she realized that she only had two days left before her mourning period was officially over. Two days before a year was over since it had happened.
She realized they were both looking at her, she needed to respond. She looked up and smiled at him, nodding, “I can understand that,”
Stephanie touched her shoulder and looked her in the eye, “I-,”
Marinette gave her a meaningful look and shook her head. Stephanie searched her gaze for a few seconds before she nodded solemnly and opened the door they’d stopped in front of. She walked through and started pointing out which horse was which.
The atmosphere was heavier than it had been, but as they progressed it seemed to lift. Marinette zoned them out slightly, making all the right faces and noises. She wouldn’t be surprised if they knew she was faking it, given their demonstrated ability to read people, but she couldn’t bring herself to care in the moment.
She thought back. There really only was two days left. A year ago today they’d been laughing, playing card games and pretending that everything was alright. They'd known the end was near and wanted the last few days of his life to be happy.
Outside his room the atmosphere had been sad, Rose was crying while Juleka softly scratched her back. Nino had been torn apart, clutching on to Alya's hand for dear life, the red head trying to console him. And Marinette... Marinette had held herself together. She held all of them together.
And when he finally faded, she’d made herself go numb, but people looked at her like she was seconds away from falling apart anyway. And maybe she was.
She hadn’t been able to take it, though. She’d disappeared for a week under the guise of going on a mission. She went to their base near the north western shore and there she cried more than she thought anyone should be able to. Chloe and Luka had kept everyone away at her request and she’d screamed and mourned and grieved. But after that week she didn’t shed a single tear again.
She returned and refused to speak about what she’d done during her week or where she’d gone. She’d comforted everyone else and after a few days they stopped asking questions. She’d organized his funeral and worn her black dresses.
And she’d been wearing them ever since, they were the only outward sign that anything was possibly wrong.
She never spoke of it. But she only had two days left. Tomorrow a year ago he died. And she had no idea how she was going to make it out alive.
After half an hour in the stables listening to Stephanie and Dick's stories they made their way inside and had breakfast before she met up with Master Fu to finalize their thoughts and preparations for the negotiations of the alliance.
She sat next to him on one of the many benches in the castle hall. After a few seconds, she broke the silence, “He’s my match,”
Master Fu nodded slowly, “I sensed it too, you have the ring then?”
She nodded and removed said object from one of the many pockets in her gown. She curled her fist tightly around it.
“I assume you wish to offer him the position?” he said, still only staring straight ahead.
“Yes,” she replied, her heart heavy, responsibility weighing her down.
“I trust you, Guardian,” he said, pausing, he looked at her, “I am proud of who you’ve become Marinette,”
The words meant more to her than she wanted them to, she didn’t want to care what he thought. It was because of him that the ring had been given to the wrong person in the first place. He hadn’t even told them when he’d realized and it lead to the boy she’d loved’s death.
They reviewed the terms of the alliance and headed over to the room where negotiations would take place.
When she entered everyone inside stood, proper greetings were exchanged and everyone sat. The king and all the children she’d met were sitting on one side of the table, she and Master Fu sat down on the other side.
The atmosphere was different here. Stephanie smiled at her but it didn’t really reach her eyes. They had something on the line, Marinette was itching to know what.
Had she been wrong in thinking they didn’t need this alliance as much as she and her court did?
They discussed the terms and though a few compromises were made, it all went over rather smoothly. She and King Bruce did most of the talking while the others rarely spoke.
“Right, now that we have most of the details sorted out, we have a proposal for the type of alliance we wish to establish,” King Bruce said, she noticed all the siblings tense, Damian's destruction and chaos spiked. That was strange, did they know something of this proposal?
“Yes?” she replied warily, all eyes were on her, but she kept her gaze locked on the King.
“I propose we strengthen this alliance with a marriage, between you and my son,” he said simply.
The room held its breath. She saw Fu move, about to reply but she held her hand up to stop him. She was intrigued by his offer, and if could easily work out in her favor if she played her cards right.
She held the King’s gaze, she had a feeling she already knew the answer but she asked anyway, “Which one?”
“Damian, my youngest,” he replied immediately. She’d been right, this would make her life much easier. It also showed her that, for some reason, they needed this alliance too.
She looked at where the siblings were sitting, they were all staring at her, clearly trying to gouge her reaction. But she kept her face perfectly blank.
Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze. The green eyes flung her back in time and for a second she felt the façade slip.
Live for both of us, m’lady. The words rung through her ears. The words had been haunting her for almost a year. One of the last things he had said to her, a different kind of desperation in his eyes, he wanted her to move on, to be happy, to live.
She quickly snapped back to reality and put back her mask, but they’d seen it, the dent in her armor. Their reactions were varying levels of confusion, curiosity and understanding.
She turned to the King, “I have one condition,”
The entire room tensed again, even Fu didn’t know what she was going to say, but she didn’t let it stop her.
“Which would be?” he replied, he was intrigued, but wary of what she’d said. That was good, she had his attention. She just needed to phrase her words right, she needed to give Damian a choice in this too, somehow.
“Anyone I marry needs to be able to rule alongside me. In order to do that, he needs to wield a miraculous, but it can’t be just any miraculous. He needs to be able to accept the responsibility of wielding the Black Cat miraculous,” she put it down on the table and their eyes jumped back and forth between her and the ring.
She turned to Damian and fisted her dress in her hand when his eyes met hers, she needed to explain further, she needed to speak, she could freak out later, “I’ll give you a day to consider my condition, in that time I’ll entrust you with the miraculous, you can get to know Plagg, the miraculous’s kwami,” he nodded. She stood and pushed the ring forward so that he could take it.
“Does this mean you accept?” Dick asked, eyes now fully focused on her, the tension still there.
“If Damian accepts my condition, then yes, I accept,” she said simply, hoping that would ease his worry.
It didn’t. He stayed tense, his siblings all in similar conditions as the silence stretched after his words. Marinette looked over them, what could be worrying them so much?
“Um... Marinette, I – we,” Stephanie said hesitantly, gesturing to her and her siblings, “We were wondering if you'd be able to stay in Gotham instead of him moving to – well we know you lead the whole Order and everything but we don’t want to lose him, you know. And I know it’s a lot to ask but...,” she looked at Marinette, and she could see her desperation. So that’s what it was. They didn’t want to loose Damian.
She considered her options. She liked these people, and it wasn’t like she ruled a country, she wasn’t tied down to one place. It wasn’t like them and Gotham where they had to stay in the country.
All she’d have to do is move home base to Gotham and have her court travel and live here, she wanted to be near them. She also wanted to find a place as close to the Castle as possible, but it wouldn’t be hard considering Damian would be her husband.
She pushed the association she’d once had with the word away.
Maybe it would do them all good to move on. To make new memories in a new place. It would certainly do her good not to be somewhere she had made memories with him.
She turned her focus to the siblings. She was pretty sure Cassandra was holding Damian’s arm under the table, Damian was toying with the ring, but his face was resigned. Jason was staring at her as though through willpower alone he could convince her to let Damian stay with them. Dick and Stephanie both looked hopeful and desperate. The King had a blank look on his face but she had no doubt that he, too, was on the edge of his seat.
She met Stephanie’s gaze and gave her a soft smile, “Sure,”
“Sure? What do you mean? Like sure he can – you two- you'll both stay with us like at home?” Jason said, already standing, hands on the table. The others stared at her in varying degrees of surprise and shock. Cass was smiling at her.
She nodded, “I just need to move my Court's home base to Gotham. If he accepts the ring and its responsibilities, I’d be willing to have them move here too,”
Steph stood and ran around the table, grabbing her in a tight hug, “ Thank you,” she said softly.
Marinette felt her heart warm at how much they cared. Damian was staring at her in shock, his mouth slightly hanging open. Dick had a huge smile and Bruce was looking apologetic for Stephanie’s actions.
Marinette looked at this family of people, who she doubted would be related in most situations, and how well they fit.
She watched as Jason squeezed Damian’s shoulder and Dick hugged him from behind. Cass ran a hand softly through his hair and said something to him that made him smile.
She felt her heart long for that kind of familiarity.
Stephanie pulled back from the hug but held on to her arm. The blonde smiled at her fondly, and Marinette suddenly had a feeling that maybe, it was only a matter of time before she’d have it.
Taglist:
@animegirlweeb @loysydark @toodaloo-kangaroo @forgottenfriends @wolf-for-life @heyitsbugette
#maribat#me @ me: u can't just turn the prompt into a name each time u don't know what to do#me back @ me *nods head forward and sunglasses fall down* *takes sip from some starbucks drink* : bitch watch me#daminette#damian x marinette#damian wayne#marinette dupain cheng#batfam#medieval au#utp writes#stephanie brown#aka my favourite if u hadn't noticed yet#Cassandra Cain#Dick Grayson#Jason Todd#Jason is a good brother ok? so I'm writing him as a good big bro#and I'm not gonna stop#adrien is dead and will stay dead sorry#this all has a happy ending tho I promise even when I put in so much angst#arranged marriage#black cat damian#this is legit so much fun to write duuuude#thanks for reading babes
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WIP: Sing Me To Sleep
Word Count: 2,485 (of 15000+ so far)
Tags: Destiel, Fix-It Fic, Grief and Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Canon-Typical Alcoholism, Ignores S15E20 Carry On, more to be added when I post the full piece
Notes: a little addition to celebrate hitting 15k words. Read the begining here. Once it's done, I'll post the whole fic here and on my AO3
As soon as they got back to the Bunker, Dean started making a home for Miracle. He gathered some spare blankets before having an epiphany: she could just sleep with him. She would love the bed, and he would love having her there with him.
It was just his luck the Men of Letters, stuffy old guys that they’d been, had some food dishes perfect for Miracle. He had seen them months ago when he had been looking for an artifact and left them in storage without another thought. He headed over to get them now only to freeze in front of the doorway.
The door to Room 7B was heavy and even standing in front of it took a toll. Mouth dry, Dean managed to put his hand on the knob but couldn’t find it in himself to open the door. He knew what waited on the other side for him, and he didn’t want to see it. The empty space, the sheer nothingness—not even goo or a coat this time—was too much.
He could get the dishes later. Better yet, he could buy new ones. Miracle would love that, wouldn’t she? She deserved nice new dishes to eat from. And while he was out, he could get her food and toys as well.
Dean went back to his room to start making space for Miracle’s things only to see himself in his mirror and freeze. There was a handprint on his shoulder, marked in blood. Slowly, Dean slotted his hand over the mark, aligning the fingers with his own.
Cas.
Dean turned away and bit his lip, hard. Tasting blood, he took his utility jacket off and folded it neatly before putting it in a drawer out of sight. He was too sober for this.
He wandered out into the library, looking for Miracle and pointedly ignoring everything else when he stopped. SW. DW. MW. His family, immortalized in the wood of the table. His fingers traced his mother’s initials absently in thought. Family didn’t end in blood, and the Bunker had been a home to far more than just the Winchesters. They deserved to have their legacy remembered, too.
Dean pulled out his pocketknife, the same one Castiel had used, back in the dungeon. Slowly, carefully, he dug it into the wood and painstakingly added two names: Jack and Castiel. They always should have been there. They should have known that they belonged. It was Dean’s fault for not including them enough, not helping them to feel seen. Maybe if he had, they wouldn’t have left. With a heavy heart, Dean remembered standing in this same library, shouting that Jack wasn’t family. He remembered nearly killing him and blaming him for things beyond his control. Just as bad was the memory of Castiel at this same table, sitting and eating a burrito and being content, happy even, just before Dean had kicked him out. That wasn’t even the worst, was it? No, he had done so much worse to Castiel, even just in the library.
What about beating him to a bloody pulp and leaving him broken on the floor? Mark or no Mark, he had done that. Even if it had taken him everything not to give in to the Mark and kill him. The Collette to his Cain, only asking him to stop. What about only a few months ago?
Something went wrong. You know this. Something always goes wrong.
Yeah, why does that something always seem to be you?
Dean felt sick just thinking about it. He could vividly remember the hurt on Cas’ face and the shock that Dean had said that. It was one of his biggest fears, being a useless screw-up, only around until he was no longer useful. Dean had known that and still said it. What kind of a person did that make him? And more than that, what did that make Cas’ true happiness? How do you love someone like that, someone irredeemable? It couldn’t be love.
Castiel was wrong. He hadn’t done everything out of love. If he had, he never would have pushed Cas away.
To distract himself, Dean tore his eyes from the newly added names and caught himself thinking about adding more. Who else was family, who else had they neglected to include?
Sam came out from the hallway looking ready to have a heart to heart and Dean couldn’t take it.
“You want a beer?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean stood. “I’m gonna grab a beer.” Then he headed towards the kitchen.
“It's pretty quiet,” Sam said once Dean returned, taking the offered beer. Dean hummed in agreement.
There was a silence, so heavy that Dean almost didn’t break it. In a rough voice, he managed to say, “To everyone that we lost along the way.” He clinked his beer against Sam’s and took a swig, ending it abruptly. He needed something stronger. Vodka, maybe, or bourbon, though he wasn’t sure if they had either of those in the Bunker anymore. He had already gone through a fair amount after Cas was taken, and then even more when it was the whole world. Still, maybe he had missed a bottle somewhere. He was about to stand to search when Sam started to speak.
“You know…with Chuck not writing our story anymore, we get to write our own.” His voice lilted upwards, optimistic in a way that Dean hadn’t heard in months. “You know, just you and me going wherever the story takes us…. Just us.”
“Finally free,” Dean summed up. He thought about the last few months, his own obsession with freedom. Sam’s statement was right—it was just them. They hadn’t reached out to anyone else yet, too overwhelmed with the implications of Chuck being defeated. That didn’t change the fact that Castiel wasn’t there to share it with them. Or Jack for that matter. He had been shoehorned into the position of God, had never gotten to be a kid. Dean’s heart ached in sympathy. If anything, Jack was more trapped than ever.
Sam and Dean had gotten their freedom, but at one hell of a cost. Still, Sam looked so hopeful…. Dean could be content, or at least pretend to be, for Sam’s sake.
He clapped his little brother on the shoulder, forced a smile, and they went for a drive.
For a little while, he dared to hope that by flooring it on the open road, with music blasting from the radio, Dean might be able to escape his grief. They could go anywhere, do anything. He and Sam had earned the right to a fresh start after at least three apocalypses, but Dean didn’t know if that was what he wanted. How could he start over if his best friend was dead and their kid was gone? He might still have Sam, but what about the rest of his family? Didn’t they all deserve the chance to begin again?
There was no destination to their journey and even Dean didn’t know where they were going. All he knew was that they were going away. To distract himself from the road, he paid more attention to the music, only to balk at it. Running on Empty. He couldn’t help grimacing at that last word and turned the music off rather than changing the station.
Sam, for his part, was watching Dean, taking in and gauging his reaction. Well, what was the damn point of the drive if neither of them was enjoying it?
When they got back, Sam seemed just as disturbed as Dean felt. The world had fundamentally changed, and it was like it hadn’t. The world went on, every moment passed as though there wasn’t a throbbing ache in Dean’s chest. They had lost their son and best friend. They were alone all over again, just like those first few lonely years when they had been looking for John.
Dean hated it.
The Winchesters settled in their respective spaces—Dean in the kitchen and Sam in the library. The stash of alcohol in the kitchen was gone. Had he really drunk it all already? Dean sighed and took a beer from the fridge instead while he made dinner. He managed to find some solace in it, as he always did. It was nice to cook and bake, to wear a silly apron and ask people to “try this!” After years of living on the road and killing monsters, Dean was able to flip the script. He was able to use his hands, hands that had become accustomed to being covered in blood and gore and dirt, to do good in another way. He didn’t need to be violent anymore; he could care for his family, or what was left of it.
Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love.
Dean swallowed thickly as emotion rose within him, but managed to keep pushing it down, holding it back. He would deal with it later, once he was alone in his room and sure that Sam wouldn’t walk in. He finished cooking up the burgers and took a few steps over to where he had already laid out the plates and hamburger buns.
Four plates waited to be filled. Only Sam and Dean remained.
“Going out!” he shouted over his shoulder a few heartbeats later, running up the stairway and out the door before Sam could stop him.
He didn’t make it to the liquor store. His eyes were burning and his vision swimming only minutes after he left, and rapidly he found himself pulling off onto the side of the road. Everything was too much.
Castiel was gone. He was dead, after nearly a dozen years of it not sticking. Dean had thought that maybe grieving would get easier. After all, he had lost everyone: his mother, his father, his brother, Bobby, every friend they had ever had, and so many more. It hurt like hell, every single time, but eventually he could cope. He had lost Castiel before, five deaths and countless almosts before this one. Why did it hurt worse? Every single time, losing Castiel left him emptier and emptier.
Cas was… Cas was his best friend. A pillar in his life. Someone who he could count on. Someone who should have outlived him. But he was more than that, wasn’t he? Dean hadn’t gotten the chance to reply, had hardly gotten to process before Castiel was gone. Cas loved him, and Dean hadn’t—
Dean neither knew nor cared how long he sat there. His grief only grew deeper with each minute, especially with the sheer despair of realizing that Castiel’s true happiness was what had killed him. His happiness was coming out, speaking his truth, and now he was dead. Dean ran out of tears, but ugly, breathless sobs still racked his body when he found it in himself to pull back onto the road.
The sales clerk in the liquor store gave him a look as he checked out. Dean didn’t know if it was for the volume he was buying or how fucked he undoubtedly looked. Didn’t care, either. He held off for the drive back and started drinking in the garage. Then the library. When Sam found him on his way to his room, Dean was solidly drunk and sobbing again, too far gone to care about appearances anymore. He just wanted the pain of it all to be gone.
He fought to keep the bottle of bourbon but Sam managed to take it, along with the rest. Without something in his hands, they were restless. Dean ran them over his face and through his hair before they ended up clutching at Sam’s shirt as the weight of his grief pulled him down.
“They’re… they’re jus'… gone,” he mumbled into Sam’s shoulder. “Jack… ‘nd C— Cas…”
He felt his brother’s arms close tighter around him and somehow felt worse, like he didn’t deserve it.
“I…I k-killed ‘im, Sam. He tol’… me he l-loved me, ‘nd then he was…”
Sam helped him to his room and stayed with him until he fell asleep, listening and shushing him in equal regard. With his eyes bleary and full of unshed tears, Dean thought the silhouette of Sam in the extra chair looked almost like Castiel, and he took comfort in that for a few minutes.
When Dean woke up, his heart was racing and the distorted nightmare of black goo was rapidly fading. He turned to the empty chair in his room and then to the door before seeing Miracle. She had situated herself in between his legs and was whining loudly. If he had been a little less hungover, he probably would have found it terrifying, given the number of nightmares he’d had featuring whines and growls. The sound grated against his ears but she seemed to perk up seeing him awake. Decidedly less nightmare-ish. He carefully extracted himself from his bed and ran the cold tap water over his hands and wrists, letting it ground him before washing the sweat from his face and popping a pain-reliever. He looked rough, with bags under bloodshot eyes and stubble across his jaw and cheeks. He probably smelled as well, wearing yesterday’s clothes soiled by booze and sweat. It didn’t matter much; Dean had no intention of going anywhere and lacked the energy to get cleaned up.
Miracle whined loudly again and Dean allowed himself to get back into bed to lay with her until she was a little happier. He absentmindedly scratched Miracle’s head while waiting for the throbbing ache in his head and chest to dissipate. He settled for one of the two and, after a few hours, made his way out of his room.
Sam was on the phone in the library, but upon seeing his brother put an end to his conversation. Dean didn’t know what he expected: to be chastised, perhaps, or to be forced through a heart-to-heart. Worse, to have Sam look at him with pity without saying a damn thing. Instead, his brother wrapped him in a brief hug.
“How are you holding up?”
“’M fine.”
“Dean…”
“’M fine, Sam.” Dean kept his tone stiff as he pulled out a seat, unwilling to become the sobbing mess again in front of his brother. Maybe Sam understood that, as he changed the subject after a beat.
“Hey, I talked to Jody. She and the girls are okay, and she says Donna is, too.”
“That’s awesome,” Dean said, nodding.
“Yeah. She wanted to know if we wanted to catch dinner next week sometime.”
Dean froze for a second before shaking his head adamantly. “Maybe some other time.”
“What? Why?”
“Claire. Sam, I would have to tell her that Cas….”
Sam’s face filled with understanding and his own grief. “I’ll tell her we can’t make it.”
///
AN: I swear this is gonna end happily.
Tagging some people who might be interested in the update: (ask to be added or removed!)
@becky-srs @bizzlepotter @bonkybornes @casgirl @chaoticbisexualdean @evermorecastiel @ineffable-impala @lassoted @poohkeepsee @professorerudite @theangelwiththewormstache @thiscastielhasflown
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In The Midst of Tribulations
Snapetober 2020: Day 8, 9, 10 (Secret Injury, Grief, “You’re Bleeding”
Being headmaster is such a lonely job and grieving hurts so much when you’re not allowed to do it. Implied/Referenced Self-Harm.
He doesn’t feel much of anything today.
He’s standing in his quarters, the door locked and warded thrice. There’s a man standing in front of him and his pallid face is staring back. This man is wearing black robes that reach the floor; dull gold thread runs along the hem and down the front of his outer robe, embroidering protective runes into the expensive fabric. He likes them and he wants to tell this man.
He can’t.
His words feel caught in his throat and he finds he cannot speak. He stares down at his feet and sees the same trail of runes stitched onto his own robes. He blinks and looks up again.
The man is still staring.
He lifts up his robes, just enough to reveal the hem of black trousers he cannot part with. The Dark Lord despises muggle clothing, so he chooses to wear robes long enough to cover his secret. He wonders what will happen if the Dark Lord finds out. He wonders if he even cares.
He likes trousers.
They make him feel safe, secure in his existence. He likes the way they make him feel protected, covered, and hidden away from anyone he doesn’t wish to see him. His coat makes him feel the same. He doesn’t wish for anyone to see him.
He can’t allow anyone to see him.
He drapes a summer cloak over his shoulders and pins it in place. He could go without, but he needs the weight of it around him, needs something to ground himself with. He casts a silencing charm on his robes and shoes and then a disillusionment spell on himself.
The man standing in front of him does the same.
He blinks again and stares at the frame that wrapped around the dressing mirror. He wonders how long it had been there. He thinks of the other man, of his reflection, and wonders if there’s a universe where he exists without the deep lines of exhaustion carved into his face. If there’s a version of him that doesn’t look so hollow.
He ventures out of his chambers and walks the corridors, silent and invisible. He feels like a ghost, has felt like one since he stood in the Astronomy Tower and cast that spell days ago. He’s desperate to be seen. He can’t be seen.
The castle feels heavy and there is a sorrow that seeps into the very walls, as if the old stone were mourning just as deeply as everyone else. The lights seem dimmer and there is a haze that has settled over everything.
He wonders if it’s real.
Outside, the light is blinding and it feels wrong for the sky to be so blue. There isn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining. It feels wrong. Doesn’t the world know there is nothing worthwhile left to soak up the warmth of the sun’s rays? Doesn’t the world understand evil will always prevail? Doesn’t the world care at all?
The haze is still there.
He allows his legs to carry him. He blinks and finds himself standing near the Black Lake. There is a white marble tomb where there used to be none, with a smattering of golden chairs before it. Most of the chairs are empty now. He sees Minerva speaking with some delegates from the Ministry, can hear more than see Hagrid’s crumpled form sobbing. He spies Pomona and Flitwick and Horace huddled near a tree, the glint of silver flask being passed between the three of them. Harry Potter is sitting alone, near the shore of the Black Lake and he’s staring emptily into space.
He blinks and now he’s standing next to the boy. He doesn’t dare breathe, only watches him for a few moments. He wonders how keeping him in the dark, when he looks so shattered, will bring forth the defeat of the Dark Lord. He’s wearing the same face as the man in the mirror, but Potter has friends, has family, and Severus hopes that will be enough.
He wonders how he himself will complete his end of the task.
He blinks again and now he’s standing in front of the marble tomb. He puts his hands against the cold stone and stands there, until his hands and feet feel as numb as the rest of him. The blue sky has finally understood the nature of the day and has become dark. Stars twinkle and he thinks of sparkling eyes behind half moon spectacles.
His arm burns.
–
He doesn’t feel much of anything, anymore.
He walks the corridors in stony silence, enters the Great Hall, and takes his place at the center of the head table. It still feels wrong, just as wrong as it had felt a week ago, as he lowers himself into the golden chair; wrong to sit in his place, wrong to face the fearful faces of the students, wrong to address them as Headmaster of this school.
So he doesn’t.
He only taps his wand against his plate and watches solemnly as the five tables begin to fill with silver platters of food. The hum of conversation is soft, but a small part of him is relieved they even talk at all.
That feeling is short-lived.
The Carrows are sitting to his right, whispering between themselves as they discuss the plans for the night’s detentions. He can trust them with his Slytherins, as much as his heart protests against the very thought. He cannot allow himself to doubt that, cannot allow himself to chip away at his defenses. He is the only one who stands between them all and the Dark Lord and he cannot do that if he is breaking down.
So he feels nothing as he reminds himself that despite his protectiveness over his snakes, they can handle themselves. They’re smart, they know not to push. He reminds himself the Carrows would do little to harm them and then thinks about how to keep the other houses safe.
He hears mention of Hannah Abbott’s name. She’s a quiet girl, a Hufflepuff who would always forget to bring a hair tie with her during potions. Her notes were full of little drawings of plants in the margins. She liked to draw pretty borders on the labels of her phials. She had been pulled out of school last year, when news of her mother’s death broke.
Corban Yaxley had been responsible for that.
“Throw Abbott into the Forbidden Forest,” he interrupts with a bored voice. He doesn’t turn to look at them.
Amycus sits up with a start. “Oh, I didn’t even consider the forest.” he muses excitedly. “Might as well send the lot of them. There’s six, might be fun to see if any survive the night.”
“One can only hope they don’t.” Severus shrugs and directs his wand to pour a glass of wine. He doesn’t drink out of it, only studies the ruby plum of the Malbec as it swirls around the glass. He can feel Minerva glaring daggers at him from his left.
He ignores her, and the space she has chosen to put between them with an empty chair feels bigger now.
He glances further down the table and makes the briefest of eye contact with the groundskeeper. Hagrid is staring back at him, his brows furrowed in anger and his mouth set with determination. Clearly, he had been listening. Good.
He returns his attention to the wine. None of the other staff members are speaking; to him, to each other, at all. He doesn’t mind the silence. Sure, a distant part of him hates it, hates how everything has become so convoluted and messy and broken, but he can handle the silence. He can handle their anger too.
He blinks and dinner is over.
He stands up and looks over the students once more. “Curfew begins in twenty minutes.” he announces, his voice carrying in the echoes of the suddenly silent room. “Do not miss it.” He walks away, shoulders tense.
There is a weight perched on top of him and it is only growing heavier. He enters the circular room of the headmaster’s office, his office now, and looks around. Suddenly, he feels very off-center. Everything is the same here.
Yet, everything is so different.
He takes a deep breath and refuses, absolutely refuses to look at the portrait. He can feel eyes staring at him and it makes his skin crawl. He sits down at the desk, deliberately keeps his back to the portrait, and stares at his hands. They’re trembling.
He forces them to still and strengthens the walls of Occlumency he keeps ever present in his mind. It is an exhausting feat, to constantly be on guard, to constantly hold up a mental block against his emotions, his thoughts, his conscience - but really, the exhaustion is a gift in of itself; a blessing to always be far too tired to dream.
He blinks and now there is knocking at the door.
He finally risks a glance behind him and is relieved to see Albus Dumbledore has made his leave. He casts a glamour over the ornate frame, turns the empty space into a painting of the stars, and then allows the door to open.
Alecto enters the room, tells him the students are gathering around Dumbledore’s tomb. He nods and follows behind her, and the corridors and castle walls seem to blur, seem to melt into grey matter. There is a roaring sound in his ears.
The sky is painted in a brilliant orange, with streaks of purple and pink as the sun begins to set. Once again, it feels wrong. The sky is too bright, too colorful a canvas to be set behind the white marble of Albus’ final resting spot. Or perhaps it’s just right.
There is a group of students huddled together and watching their approach with apprehensive eyes. Minerva McGonagall stands in front of them and stares defiantly. There are flowers decorating the tomb. He wonders what the reason may be; today isn’t anything important.
He realizes then he doesn’t quite know what day it is.
He also realizes he doesn’t care.
He stares at the flowers and feels a spark of anger. Has he not already done enough to prove himself loyal to the Dark Lord? Has he not done enough to paint himself as the villain in this story? Must he keep digging this - for lack of better word - grave, in the eyes of someone he once considered his friend.
“I see your new job has given you the luxury of affording new clothes.” Minerva speaks up first, eyeing his robes up and down. They’re the same ones he had worn to the funeral months ago that no one knew he had attended.
Severus remains silent.
“No longer willing to dirty yourself with anything as demeaning as muggle clothing?” she presses on, her voice harsh with implications. “A proper wizard now.”
He thinks of the trousers hidden underneath and says nothing, merely raises an apathetic eyebrow. He pulls out his wand and twirls it absentmindedly, staring at the flowers. He refuses to look at Minerva’s face.
“You wouldn’t dare.” she whispers.
He waves his wand and casts a silent spell, watching alongside everyone else as tendrils of fire snake their way towards the tomb and incinerate every last petal. When nothing but ash remains, he contemplates a cleaning spell, but decides that could translate to taking care of the marble, so he lets it remain. Someone else will take care of it.
It isn’t his place anyway.
He holds onto his wand and wonders how to address the crowd. He wishes he knew why they were gathered here, what day it could be and decides it ultimately doesn’t matter when Minerva pulls out her own wand.
“How dare you!” she yells and he feels the sudden slashing of pain on his arm. A modified cutting hex, no doubt, and a silent one at that. He’s mildly impressed, if not mostly annoyed at the rip on the sleeve of his robe. It’s warded to protect him against curses, but Minerva already knew that, could tell from the second she studied the runes embroidered on the fabric. He wonders what harmless spell she just altered to circumvent the warding.
Neither Alecto nor the students have noticed, so he keeps silent. His robes are black after all, and are hiding any blood he feels seeping into the fabric. Minerva only stares at him, waiting. He finally faces her and the roaring in his ears gets louder.
He doesn’t think it’s possible to hate anyone more than she does him.
He tries to speak, but his voice sounds light-years away. It doesn’t sound like him and he doesn’t quite know what he’s just said. All he knows is the contempt, the betrayal, the utter hatred that burns in Minerva’s eyes.
He turns to leave.
“After everything he ever did for you!” Minerva cries out and Severus suddenly feels as if he’s been dunked underwater. “This is how you choose to repay him! He saw you as a son, you know. He gave you a place in the world where you had none and instead you turned around and became the monster he tried to save you from. He should have just let you burn.”
His face remains blank as he asks, “Are you done?” and then he makes his leave. He blinks and he’s back in the headmaster’s office. The door is already warded, but he casts two more. The rushing in his ears is louder than ever.
He feels his arm burn and for a second he fears he is being summoned, until he realizes it isn’t the Mark that’s burning. He removes his outer robe, thinking about how he’ll need to owl it to Lucius to have it mended; he doesn’t know enough about runes to fix it himself without mucking up the warding. He pulls up the sleeves of his inner robe and stares dully at the expanse of skin. One arm is tainted with the deep red of the skull and snake, the other with a four inch-long laceration; both are littered with tiny scars and burns from years of potion-making.
He can feel his defenses crumbling.
He has to get a grip, has to force that numbness to return and stay, He isn’t allowed to feel pain over this, isn’t allowed to break down. His chest aches, his throat, Merlin his throat feels like something sharp is raking its way down and ravaging him from the inside out. He grips the edge of the desk, tries to take in a deep breath, and instead lets out a ragged sob. He blinks and now there are scratches on his arms, thin and long and criss-crossing over his skin. Some are bleeding, droplets of crimson escaping from the tears he made on his skin and intermingling with what still dripped from the hex Minerva sent his way.
He takes another deep breath and tries to steady himself. He stares at the marks on his skin and scowls at the mess he was making.
“Severus, my boy.” the portrait dares to speak up and he freezes.
Merlin, his chest hurts.
“What do you want.” he scowls, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“You’re bleeding.” Albus states simply, staring down at his arms with a forlorn expression. “That one there isn’t self-inflicted.”
“No.” Severus answers, and his voice is hollow.
The pain he had been so desperate to hold off is escaping him in waves now. He can not breathe through it any longer, can not force it behind a wall of Occlumency. He can not bear the look on Minerva’s face, can not bear the self-hatred he can feel pooling inside of him as he thinks of the flowers he had burned, can not bear the weight of what is expected of him.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It must be done.”
He only wishes it didn’t have to be done alone.
He killed Albus Dumbledore, that much he can accept. Perhaps he can even convince himself that it was done out of mercy. He had spared an innocent child and helped a suffering old man rest. But Merlin, it fucking hurt to be the one to do it, to be the villain, to lose not only his mentor, but also Minerva, to have to do this all alone.
He has no one left.
No one but a sentient portrait that serves as a forceful reminder of how wrong everything has gone in the last few months. He feels as if a small part of him died that night, and now that little piece was slowly killing the rest of him too.
He casts a silencing charm on the door.
–
He feels too much today.
He walks the corridors in stony silence, enters the Great Hall, and takes his place at the center of the head table. Bandages soaked in Essence of Dittany are wrapped around his arms, the sleeves of his robes pulled down to his knuckles.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and stares at the ripples the pitch black brew makes in his trembling hands. He considers adding milk, but when he takes a sip, he tastes nothing, so he figures it isn’t worth the effort.
There is an empty chair between him and Minerva again; once again the gap feels miles wide. He chances a glance in her direction and is met with cold eyes and a chilling blankness. She is looking through him, has no anger left to spare for him. He’s lost her.
His chest threatens to ache and he feels himself unraveling, but he swallows it down with another sip of coffee. No one is allowed to know how much it all hurts, so he keeps his own face stoic and stares ahead. He thinks about how the portrait of Phineas Black came back with an update on Potter’s plans this morning; he has work to do soon. His throat hurts with the effort of keeping it together and he fears this will be the end of things. He’s lost too much to ruin everything over simple emotions. He focuses on Occluding and lets himself become empty. He blinks and breakfast is over, the Great Hall emptying as students leave for class.
The other staff members get up as well and walk away. No one looks in his direction, no one speaks a word. The dirty dishes start to disappear as the house elves summon them back to the kitchens.
There is a buzzing in his ears again.
————-
a/n: flower destruction scene was inspired by a throwaway line in full stop by acedie on ao3
please, please let me know how this was! im so hesitant about posting this one.
#snapetober 2020#snapedom#pro snape#severus snape#minerva mcgonagall#deathly hallows#hurt no comfort#oops
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I mean in Leonardo's route he mentions Comte used to be a smoker! AND, it's heavily implied Comte used to be a wild child so!
Comte spoilers below, please don’t open if you’d prefer to wait to find out! I know I’m 100% feral for Comte but I don’t want to diminish anyone else’s experience~
Yes, there are indications that he once engaged in smoking, and was implied to be even worse than Leonardo (a chainsmoker of epic proportions, so to speak). As for whether or not Comte was a wild child, I have no way to confirm that with the current information that Cybird has provided, but there are heavy allusions to him going off the rails (at least for a vampire of noble blood). There are several mentions–if I recall correctly he states it himself–that he’s been running from his legacy for a very long time, and only recently settled down and took up the full weight of his aristocratic title. Unfortunately we don’t know much more than that. But I wouldn’t be surprised, he wandered quite a bit around Europe before turning the men of the mansion. In the few glimpses into his backstory we receive there is also plenty of fuel for a so-called teenage or adolescent vampire rebellious phase. Both he and Leonardo have a profound compassion for other people/creatures, and vehemently reject the social hierarchy/power dynamics that other purebloods seem to want to enforce.
Among the few scenes I have seen that can testify to his more wild behavior is an event that is likely headed to the english app very soon. There was a story event that featured the suitors–as a pair–enjoying a drink and often reminiscing about the past. Comte and Leonardo are seated at a bar, and they’re drinking their own weight in alcohol and bewildering nearby patrons. Leonardo asks if Comte remembers when it was that they became good friends, and Comte is all “I have no idea what you’re talking abt MORE BOURBON.” Spoilers: he likely knows, or at least has an inkling, and doesn’t want to remember his own punk ass going feral. Anywho, Leonardo goes into it anyway, and describes a situation in which he and Comte attended some kind of social event. Upon exiting the venue, they see/hear a young woman being assaulted in an alley by several men. Now, Leonardo is already cracking his knuckles, excited to unleash a can of whoop ass–but Comte actually beats him to it. He goes stone cold and starts knocking out the people hurting her, asking them how they like being on the receiving end of violence. He then gingerly lifts the young lady and asks Leonardo to get the carriage, since it’s raining out and he would hate for her to catch a cold. This is the moment in which Leonardo learns that–for all of Comte’s adherence to his noble title’s customs–all of that ceases to matter when somebody is in need of his help. And that’s why they became friends; because all of Comte’s money, all of his prestige and social recognition doesn’t mean shit to him. He would give it up in seconds if it meant doing the right thing. His principles and his convictions outweigh any of his perceived materiality, no matter how he conducts himself or seems to others.
One of the greater issues Comte seems to struggle with–and could very possibly have been the reason he distanced himself from his own family–is the way that vampires drop humans like flies. Even if they aren’t engaging in a predatory relationship, in some ways humans are deemed expendable regardless. He had the privilege of being born into a family that treats human beings with respect and perhaps even affection, but every single one of his teachers, caretakers, and the servants in the house he grew up with were fired long before he became an adult. But he was just old enough to understand why they left, and it crushed him. Getting too close was deemed dangerous, for both parties; it would hurt the purebloods more to leave somebody they were attached too, and the humans in their employ would grow suspicious/fearful, perhaps even violent, if they noticed that they didn’t age. But like Leonardo, Comte loves the company of all kinds of people, and to be forced to cut ties for the sake of his own emotional and physical health was shattering for him (death is impossible as far as we know, but that doesn’t make vampires impervious to pain).
I think he spent a very long time rejecting that mindset, until he started to live life on his own and saw how difficult it was. To love people fully, and watch their lives end what felt like hours later. Over and over and over again. Four hundred years is a long time to love and lose people, and while it can be easy to believe that all grieving really requires is letting go, such a thing is much easier said than done. Leonardo wrestles with it just as much as Comte does; the only reason Comte fairs a little better is because he exercises considerable restraint. He’s been burned before, and he’s edging the flames more carefully now. Even so, we see several moments in which this self-control collapses; he will never stand in the way of MC’s happiness with someone else–but the attraction is always simmering beneath the surface, never fully realized. Literally the entire crux of his own route is that he’s trying, trying desperately not to just move where is heart is taking him, but failing anyway because MC has the courage to meet him halfway–wants to meet him halfway, despite their differences.
One of the hardest things Comte is probably forced to contend with is that, no matter how vehemently he feels that his family was wrong, life proves that in some regards they were right. It is extremely difficult to engage in the kind of life they live without a modicum of self-restraint, or at the very some kind of healthy grieving process. Eternity isn’t going to wait for them to feel better, life isn’t going to stop taking the people they love just because they were born under different circumstances, or are another species altogether. Life doesn’t have any mercy, in that regard, and so they must be merciful and understanding with themselves. In the course of his lifetime he’s forgotten how to be gentle with himself, and he’s forgotten how to look forward to each day to come. For better or worse, his answer to the pain of forever was to shut himself down as swiftly and powerfully as he could to stop the growing whirpool of poorly resolved grief, or perhaps better described as melancholia. He was able to survive the first downspiral, but that doesn’t mean he’s confident he’ll survive another. And survival doesn’t necessarily entail living well, it means doing what you must to forge on–no matter how much it hurts.
(I will say that I can clarify what I mean by the specific term melancholia, because I don’t mean it in the colloquial sense. But I’ll give the disclaimer here for the sake of sparing everyone a technical argument they might not care about lol keep reading after the dashes for the conclusion)
—
Essentially, Freud contends that people process grief in two distinct ways, as I will loosely summarize. Mourning is the reaction to some kind of loss (whether a person, a concept, an opportunity, etc.) that inspires a short-term level of discomfort and unhappiness. Most people heal on their own over time, and it’s something that most people have experienced before. Melancholia, on the other hand, is more or less mourning that has never ended. It is described as a prolonged state of dejection in which all the color in life has dissolved and left, in which one’s self-regard often diminishes (not usually a side effect of mourning, but specific to melancholia) and they lose their will to go on slowly but surely.
In Comte’s route he literally says that MC eases the void in his heart, makes him look forward to every single day; that “his time” starts moving again. That the reason he reciprocated her feelings at all instead of stifling them was because he just fell into the comfort and joy of her presence, couldn’t help himself in wanting to see and talk to her. He describes her love as an irresistible “magic,” something with the capacity to transfigure the fragments of his experience into a de facto life.
Sound familiar?
—
And that’s the whole point, that’s what we as the player are here to do. We’re supposed to help him find the magic in the little things again, hope for better again. Make it so that when he does open his heart and lets himself feel freely again, anguish isn’t the only thing that finds him. We’re supposed to help him stop living in the hellscape of anxiety that he’s been forcing into silence, a depression so wide and deep it’s a wonder he never went mad.
So uh, this kind of became ridiculously meta, but that’s why I love Comte? And that’s as much as I know about him, as of now. Hoping for more details in the jpn app in the future! I know I got a little sidetracked, do forgive me–I get really in it when I discuss Comte LOL
#ikevamp#ikemen vampire#ikevamp spoilers#ikevamp comte#ikevamp saint germain#ikevamp meta#not incorrect quotes#rambles#good lord idk what is with me this week i cant use two brain cells without showing up with a thesis#if any of yall find the energy to read through this bless#i promise i will be back with those heady memes soon#quarantine deadass be like: room for self-improvement??? fuck no we obsess over 2d men instead#anyhoot that's my five cents on that topic and what i've learned from the rt#comte propaganda#i literally cannot breathe without thinking about my love for him#well-played monsieur
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I- omg.... what if after the events of part 5, Mista and Giorno learns Narancia had an older sister??? And Mista goes to inform her only to like completely just fall in love w her and their relationship goes from one of comfort to one of love I just absbshssh I please uwu if you’re not busy (so kinda like angst to fluff??)
You goddit boss! Thanks for requesting! I also hit 100 followers! Thanks ya’ll! Anywho, I tried hard on this one since I’m not great at angst, hope I did it justice!
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Orange Skies - Mista
“Mista, come here.” Giorno said, it was a demand, but it sounded softer, as if he was breaking bad news, it got Mista’s attention undoubtedly, the gunslinger moving from his position from the door frame to walk towards the blonde, he noticed Giorno’s eyes were glued to the piece of paper in his hand.
“You need somethin’?” Mista’s voice was gruff, he had been sat in comfortable silence with Giorno for the while, he cleared his throat before Giorno wordlessly handed him the file in hand, he saw your picture, he was about to ask why before he spotted a familiar name under your familial relations.
Oh. Mista let out a soft noise, the memory of Narancia’s passing running through his mind once more. He threw the file back down on the mahogany wood table, looking at Giorno expectantly.
“I need someone to tell her of Narancia’s..passing.” Giorno himself was welling up with emotion, he may not have known Narancia as long as Mista but the past still hit him where it hurts.
“If it’s too much I can ask someone else-” Giorno was cut off when Mista shook his head, his lips pursed tightly together before he breathed out a heavy sigh, Giorno didn’t fail to notice the shakiness of it.
“I’ll..I’ll do it. She’d probably feel better if it was someone he knew.” Mista spoke quietly, his eyes cast downwards, Giorno nodded, stepping backwards to let the other man past, before sitting down in his chair and placing his head in his hands, allowing himself to grieve properly for the first time in months, his quiet sobs barely audible as the orange sunset beamed through the opened balcony door.
~
He was scared. He had faced dangers and the threat of death on a daily basis and this is what scared him.
Mista stared at your door, pondering if he should knock or not, you had to know, so he sucked up his fear and rapped his knuckles against your door, he heard you shuffle around before you opened the door with a bright smile, it temporarily stunned him, you were..well, beautiful. He hated that he had to tell you.
You had paint or something smeared on your cheek, your hair was somewhat tussled but tidy altogether, you had bright eyes and a gorgeous smile, he was strangely enamoured with you, but shook it off, opening his mouth to speak before you cut him off.
“Hey dude! Wanna come in? Excuse the mess, I was trying to practice painting, my friends said it was a good hobby.” You rambled, and Mista stepped into your home, it wasn’t huge but it definitely had a homey feel to it. Mista only started to feel incredibly guilty.
“Erm, you should sit down, please.” You cocked an eyebrow out of curiosity but sat down across from him, you had a gut feeling that he had bad news.
“Regarding your brother, Narancia..” Mista started, stopping when your face dropped, you quickly paled, internally begging that he wasn’t going to say what you thought he was.
“He died a hero.”
Mista struggled to hold his own tears back when you let out a soft noise of despair, crystal clear tears trickling down your cheeks as you buried your face in your hands, Mista felt compelled to comfort you, he moved to rub circles into your back, letting you confide in him as you mourned the loss of your brother.
When it was time for Mista to leave, he made it clear that if you ever needed to confide in him, he would be there for you, he understood how hard it was.
~
You’d seen a lot more of Mista recently, if you didn’t call in a while he would check up on you, it had become routine, your relationship had become more flexible over the weeks too, bit by bit your relationship was growing and Mista was helping you mourn over your brother, you’d never get over him, but he did help you ease the pain.
Sometimes Mista would talk about the adventures he and Narancia had together, along with the dangers they faced, it was a bittersweet moment for the both of you, but it felt better when in each others presences.
You’d met Giorno only once when he paid his respects. He always seemed to linger when you meet with Mista, giving a watery smile before he left.
So when you laid your head on Mista’s shoulder while sat on the shoreline, the skies orange glow casted onto your bodies and causing Giorno to only see your silhouettes, you turned, giving Giorno a smile instead. You knew he knew.
You also knew that Narancia knew, the orange glow of the sunset putting you at ease. Your baby brother was okay. You could feel it.
You let only one more tear fall before you intertwined your fingers with Mista’s.
#jojo's bizarre adventure#writing#fanfic#fanfiction#fluff#jojo fanfic#jojo no kimy? na b?ken#angst#jojo angst#jojo fluff#mista x reader#jojo mista#guido mista#jojo part 5#vento aureo
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and this faith is gettin' heavy (but you know it carries me) redux
This is literally and unironically the SECOND TIME i have added another thousand words to this fic but now it is finally done. Behold, over 10k words of food as metaphor for love/angst-with-a-happy-ending! In which Teomitl goes missing on a foreign battlefield, and Acatl mourns...but events in his dreams suggest Teomitl maybe isn’t gone for good.
Also on AO3
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Acatl grimaced as he stepped from the coolness of his home into the day’s bright, punishing sunlight. Today was the day the army was due to return from their campaign in Mixtec lands, and so he was forced to don his skull mask and owl-trimmed cloak on a day that was far too hot for it. Not for the first time, he was thankful that priests of Lord Death weren’t required to paint their faces and bodies for special occasions; the thought of anything else touching his skin made him shudder.
He’d barely made it out of his courtyard when Acamapichtli strode up to him, face grave underneath his blue and black paint. “Ah, Acatl. I’m glad I could catch you.”
“Come to tell me that the army is at our gates again?” They would never be friends, he and Acamapichtli, but they had achieved something like a truce in the year since the plague. Still, Acatl couldn’t help but be on his guard. There was something...off about the expression on the other man’s face, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He’d borne the same look when delivering the news of a death to a grieving family. Ah. A loss, then.
He’d expected Acamapichtli to spread his hands, a wordless statement of there having been nothing he could have done. He didn’t expect him to take a deep breath and slide his sightless eyes away. “I have. The runners all say it is a great victory; Tizoc-tzin has brought back several hundred prisoners.”
It should have pleased him. Instead, a cold chill slid down his spine. “What are you not telling me? I’ve no time for games.”
Acamapichtli let out a long sigh. “There were losses. A flood swept across the plain, carrying away several of our best warriors. Among them...the Master of the House of Darts. They looked—I’m assured that they looked!—but his body was not found.”
No. No. No. A yawning chasm cracked open beneath his ribs. He knew he was still breathing, but he couldn’t feel the air in his lungs. Even as he wanted, desperately, to grab Acamapichtli by the shoulders and shake him, to scream at him for being a liar, he knew the man was telling the truth. That his face and mannerisms, the careful movements of a man who knew he brought horrible news, showed his words to be honest. That Teomitl—who had left four months before with a kiss for Mihmatini and an affectionate clasp for Acatl’s arm—would not return.
It took real effort to focus on Acamapichtli’s next words. The man’s eyes were full of a horrible sympathy, and he wanted to scream. “I thought you should know in advance. Before—before they arrived.”
“Thank you,” he forced out through numb lips.
Acamapichtli turned away. “...I’m sorry, Acatl.”
After a long, long moment, he made himself start walking again. There was the rest of the army to greet, after all. Even if Teomitl wouldn’t be among them.
Even if he’d never return from war again.
Greeting the army was a ceremony, one he usually took some joy in—it had meant that Teomitl would be home, would be safe, and his sister would be happy. Now it passed in a blue, and he registered absolutely none of it. Someone must have already given the news to Mihmatini when he arrived; she was an utterly silent presence at his side, face pale and lips thin. She wouldn’t cry in public, but he saw the way her eyes glimmered when she blinked. He couldn’t bring himself to so much as lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. If he touched her, if he felt the fabric of her cloak beneath his hand, that meant it was real.
It couldn’t be real. Jade Skirt was Teomitl’s patron goddess, She wouldn’t let him simply drown. But there was an empty space to Tizoc’s left where Teomitl should have been, and no sign of his white-and-red regalia. Acatl’s eyes burned as he blinked away the sun.
Tizoc was still speaking, but Acatl heard none of his words. It was all too still, too quiet; everything was muffled, as though he was hearing it through water. If there was justice, came the first spinning thought, every wall would be crumbling. No...if there was justice, Teomitl would be...
He drew in a long breath, feeling chilled to the bone even as he sweated under his cloak. Now that his mind had chosen to rouse itself, its eye was relentless. He barely saw the plaza around him, packed with proud warriors and colorful nobles; it was too easy to imagine a far-flung province to the south, a jungle thick with trees and blood. A river bursting its banks, carrying Teomitl straight into his enemies’ arms. They would capture him, of course; he was a valiant fighter and he’d taken very well to the magic of living blood, but even he couldn’t hold off an army alone.
And once they had him, they would sacrifice him.
Somewhere behind the army, Acatl knew, were lines of captured warriors whose hearts would be removed to feed the Sun, whose bodies would be flung down the Temple steps to feed the beasts in the House of Animals, whose heads would hang on the skull-rack. It was necessary, and their deaths would serve a greater purpose. He’d seen it thousands of times. There was no use mourning them. It was simply the way nearly all captured warriors went.
It was what Teomitl would want. An honorable death on the sacrifice stone. It was better to die than to be a slave all your life. But at least he would have a life—all unbidden, the alternative rose clear in Acatl’s mind. Teomitl, face whitened with chalk. Teomitl, laying down on the stone. Teomitl, teeth clenched, meeting his death with open eyes. Teomitl’s blood on the priests’ hands.
Nausea rose hot and bitter in his throat, and he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. In for a count of three, out for a count of five. Repeat. It didn’t hurt to breathe, but he felt as if it should. He felt as if everything should hurt. He felt a sudden, vicious urge to draw thorns through his earlobes until the pain erased all thoughts, but he made his hands still. If he started, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop.
Still, it seemed to take an eternity for the speeches and the dances to be over and done with. By the time they finished, he was light-headed with the strain of remaining upright, and Mihmatini had slipped a hand into his elbow. Even that single point of contact burned through his veins. They still hadn’t spoken. He wondered if she, too, couldn’t quite find her own voice under the screaming chasm of grief.
And then, after all that, when all he yearned for was to go home and lay down until the world felt right again—maybe until the Sixth Sun rose, that would probably be enough time—there was a banquet, and he was forced to attend.
Of course there’s a banquet, he thought dully. This is a victory, after all. Tizoc had wasted no time in promoting a new Master of the House of Darts to replace his fallen brother, with many empty platitudes about how Teomitl would surely be missed and how he’d not want them to linger in their grief, but to move on and keep earning glory for the Mexica. Moctezuma, his replacement, was seventeen and haughty; where Teomitl’s arrogance had begun to settle into firm, well-considered authority and the flames of his impatience had burnt down to embers, Moctezuma’s gaze swept the room and visibly dismissed everyone in it as not worth his concern. It reminded Acatl horribly of Quenami.
Mihmatini sat on the same mat she always did, but now there was a space beside her like a missing tooth. She still wore her hair in the twisted horn-braids of married women, and against all rules of mourning she had painted her face with the blue of the Duality. Underneath it, her face was set in an emotionless mask. She did not eat.
Neither did Acatl. He wasn’t sure he could stomach food. So instead his gaze flickered around the room, unable to settle, and he gradually realized that he and Mihmatini weren’t alone in the crowd. The assembled lords and warriors should have been celebrating, but there was a subdued air that hung over every stilted laugh and negligent bite of fine food. Neighbors avoided each other’s eyes; Neutemoc, sitting with his fellow Jaguar Warriors, was staring at his empty plate as though it held the secrets of the heavens. He looked well, until Acatl saw the expression on his face. It was a mirror of his own.
At least his fellow High Priests didn’t try to engage him in conversation, for which he was grateful. Acamapichtli kept glancing at him almost warily, but he hadn’t voiced any more empty platitudes—and when Quenami had opened his mouth to say something, he’d taken the unprecedented step of leaning around Acatl and glaring him into silence.
If they’d been friends, Acatl would have been touched; as it was, it made a burning ember of rage lodge itself in his throat. Don’t you pity me. Don’t you dare pity me. He ground his teeth until his jaw hurt, clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms, and didn’t speak. If he spoke, he would scream.
Even the plates in front of him weren’t enough of a distraction. Roasted meats glistened in their vibrant red or green or orange sauces. Each breath brought the deliciously warm fragrance of chilies and pumpkin seeds and vanilla to his nose. The fish and lake shrimp, grilled in their own juices and arrayed on beds of corn husks, would at any other time have tempted him to take a bite. Soups and stews were carried from table to table by serving women in gleaming white cotton; he breathed in as one woman passed and nearly choked on the rich peppery scent. He didn’t need to look to know it was his usual favorite, chunks of firm white fish and bitter greens in what was sure to be a fiery broth. Teomitl had always teased him for that, saying it was a miracle he could even taste the greens with so much chili in the way.
Don’t look. Don’t think about it. The ember in his throat was slowly scorching a path through his gut. He couldn’t eat. Didn’t even try.
There were more courses, obviously. More fish, more vegetables, more haunches of venison or rabbits bathed in spicy-sweet sauce. More doves and quail, and even a spoonbill put back in its own pink feathers for a centerpiece. When the final course was triumphantly set in front of him—wedges and cubes of fruit, with a little cup of spiced honey—he was nearly sick over the sweet crimson pitaya split open on his plate. It had been Teomitl’s favorite.
Somehow, he held it together until after the dessert had been cleared away. He rose jerkily to his feet, legs trembling, and fixed his mind firmly on getting home in one piece. No one hailed him on his way out of the room, and for a hopeful moment he thought he was safe.
Quenami’s voice stopped him in the next hallway. “Ah, Acatl. A lovely banquet, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t turn around. “Mn.” Go away.
Quenami didn’t. In fact he took a step closer, as though they were friends, as though he’d never tried to have Acatl killed. His voice was like a mosquito in his ear. “You must not be feeling well; you hardly touched your food. Some might see that as an insult. I’m sure Tizoc-tzin would.”
“Mm.”
“Or is it worry over Teomitl that’s affecting you? You shouldn’t fret so, Acatl. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not dead after all; there are plenty of cenotes in the southlands, and a determined man could easily hide out there for the rest of his life. He probably just took the coward’s way out, sick of his responsibilities—“
He whirled around, sucking in a breath that scorched his lungs. It was the last thing he felt before he let Mictlan’s chill spill through his veins and overflow. His suddenly-numb skin loosened on his neck; his fingers burned with the cold that came only from the underworld. He knew that his skin was black glass, his muscles smoke, his bones moonlight on ice, his eyes burning voids. All around him was the howling lament of the dead, the stench of decay and the dry, acrid scent of dust and dry bones. When he spoke, his voice echoed like a bell rung in a tomb.
“Silence.”
You do not call him a coward. You do not even speak his name. I could have your tongue for that. He stepped forward, gaze locked with Quenami’s. It would be easy, too. He could do it without even blinking—could take his tongue for slander, his eyes for that sneering gaze, could reach inside his skin and debone him like a turkey—all it would take would be a single wrong word—
Quenami recoiled, jaw going slack in terror. Silently—blessedly, mercifully, infuriatingly silently—he turned on his heel and left.
Acatl took one breath, two, and let the magic drain out of his shaking limbs. He hadn’t meant to do that. It should probably have sickened him that he’d nearly misused Lord Death’s power like that, especially on a man who ought to have been his superior and ally, but instead all he felt was a vicious sort of stymied rage—a jaguar missing a leap and coming up with nothing but air between his claws. He wanted to scream. He wanted blood under his nails, the shifting crack of breaking bones under his knuckles. He wanted to hurt something.
He made it to the next courtyard, blessedly empty of party guests, and collapsed on the nearest bench like a dead man. His stomach ached. I could have killed him. Gods, I wanted to kill him. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in my life. All because...all because he said his name...
“...Acatl?”
Mihmatini’s voice, admirably controlled. He made himself lift his head and answer. “In here.”
She padded into the courtyard and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, skirt swishing around her feet as she walked. Gold ornaments had been sewn into its hem, and he wondered if they’d been gifts from Teomitl. “I saw Quenami running like all the beasts of the underworld were on his tail. What did you do?”
Nothing. But that would have been a lie, and he refused to do that to his own flesh and blood. “...He said…” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “He said that Teomitl might have deserted. He dared to say that—” The idea choked him, and he couldn’t finish the words. That Teomitl was a coward. That he would run from his responsibilities, from his destiny, at the first opportunity…
She tensed immediately, eyes going cold in a way that suggested Quenami had better be a very fast runner indeed. “He would never. You know that.”
Air seemed to be coming a bit easier now. “I do. But…”
Of course, she pounced on his hesitation. “But?”
I want him so badly to not be dead. “Nothing.”
Mihmatini was silent for a while, wringing her hands together. Finally, she spoke. “He would never have deserted. But...Acatl…”
“What?”
“I don’t know if he’s dead.” She set a hand on her chest. “The magic that connects us—I can still feel it in here. It’s faint, really faint, but it’s there. He might…” She took a breath, and tears welled up in her eyes. “He might still be alive.”
Alive. The word was a conch shell in his head, sounding to wake the dawn. For an instant, he let himself imagine it. Teomitl alive, maybe in hiding, maybe trying to find his way home to them.
Maybe held captive by the Mixteca, until such time as they can tear out his heart. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the sound of his own breathing. It didn’t help. He hated how pathetic his own voice sounded as he asked, “You think so?”
“It’s—” She scrubbed ineffectually at her eyes with the back of a hand. “It’s possible. Isn’t it?”
“...I suppose.” He took a breath. “I think it’s time for me to get some sleep. I’ll...see you tomorrow.”
He knew he wouldn’t sleep—knew, in fact, that he’d be lucky if he even managed to close his eyes—but he needed to get home. He refused to disgrace himself by weeping in public.
&
The first dream came a week later.
He’d managed to avoid them until then; he’d thrown himself headlong into his work, not stopping until he was so tired that his “sleep” was really more like “passing out.” But it seemed his body could adapt to the conditions he subjected it to much easier than he’d thought, because he woke with tears on his face and the scraps of a nightmare scattering in the dawn light. There had been blood and screaming and a ravaged and horrible face staring into his that somehow he’d known. He did his best to put it from his mind, and for a day he thought he’d succeeded. He shed blood for the gods, stood vigil for the dead, tallied up the ledgers for the living. Remembered, occasionally, to put food into his mouth, but he couldn’t have said what he was eating. Collapsed onto his mat and prayed that he wouldn’t have a dream like that again.
It wasn’t like that. It was worse.
He was walking through a jungle made of shadows, trees shedding gray dust from their leaves as he passed under them. There was no birdsong, no rippling of distant waters or crunching of underbrush, and he knew deep in his soul that nothing was alive here anymore. Not even himself. Though his legs ached and his lungs burned, it was pain that felt like it was happening to someone else. His gut held, not the stretched desiccation of Mictlan, but a nasty twisting feeling of wrongness; part of him wanted to be sick, but he couldn’t stop. Ahead of him, someone was making their way through the undergrowth, and it was a stride he’d know anywhere.
Teomitl. He thought he called out to him, but no sound escaped his mouth even though his throat hurt as though he’d been screaming. He tried again. Teomitl! This time, he managed a tiny squeak, something even an owl wouldn’t have heard.
Teomitl didn’t slow down, but somehow the distance between them shortened. Now Acatl could make out the tattered remains of his feather suit, singed and bloodstained until it was more red than white, and the way his bare feet had been cut to ribbons. He still wasn’t looking behind him. It was like Acatl wasn’t there at all. Ahead of them, the trees were thinning out.
And then they were on a flat plain strewn with corpses, bright crimson blood the only color Acatl could see. Teomitl was standing still in front of him as water slowly seeped out of the ground, covering his feet and lapping gently at his ankles. There were thin threads of red in it.
“Teomitl,” he said, and this time his voice obeyed him.
Teomitl turned to him, smiling as though he’d just noticed he was there. His chest was a red ruin, the bones of his ribcage snapped wide open to pull out his beating heart. A tiny ahuizotl curled in the space where it had been.
He took one step back. Another.
Teomitl’s smile grew sad, and he reached for him with a bloody hand. “Acatl, I’m sorry.”
He awoke suddenly and all at once, curling in on himself with a ragged sob. It was still dark out; the sun hadn’t made its appearance yet. There was no one to see when he shook himself to pieces around the space in his heart. It was a dream, he told himself sternly. Just a dream. My soul is only wandering through my own grief. It doesn’t mean anything.
But then it returned the next night, and the next. While the details differed—sometimes Teomitl was swimming a river that suddenly turned to blood and dissolved his flesh, sometimes one of his own ahuizotls turned into a jaguar and sprang for his face—the end was always the same. Teomitl dead and still walking, reaching for him with an apology on his lips. Sometimes it even lingered after he woke. Once he jolted awake utterly convinced that he wasn’t alone—that Teomitl was in the room, a sad smile on his lips and an outstretched hand hovering in the air. Only when he looked around, searching for that other presence, did reality reassert itself and he remembered with gutwrenching pain that it had only been a nightmare. That Teomitl was dead somewhere on a Mixtec altar, his heart an offering to the Sun.
He started timing his treks across the Sacred Precinct to avoid the Great Temple’s sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli. Sleep grew more and more difficult to achieve, and even when he caught a few hours’ rest it never seemed to help. He even thought, fleetingly, of asking the priests of Patecatl if anything they had would be useful, only to dismiss it the next day. He would survive this. It wasn’t worth baring his soul to anyone else’s prying eyes or clumsy but well-meaning words. He would work and pray, and that would keep him occupied. There was a haunting case that needed his attention; while he was tracking down the cause he had an excuse not to focus on anything else. He forgot to eat, no matter how much Ichtaca scolded him. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth, anyway.
Still, when one of Neutemoc’s slaves came to his door asking whether he would come to dinner at his house that night, he didn’t waste time in accepting. Dinner with Neutemoc’s family had become...normal. He needed normal, even if it still felt like walking on broken glass.
Up until the first course was served, he even thought he’d get it. Neutemoc had been nearly silent when he’d arrived, but he’d unbent enough to start a conversation about his daughters’ studies. Necalli and Mazatl were more subdued than they normally were, but they’d heard what happened to their newest uncle-by-marriage and were no doubt mourning in their own ways. Mihmatini’s face was as pale and set as white jade, but as the conversation wore on he thought he saw her smile.
He didn’t much feel like smiling himself. The smells of the meal were turning his stomach. It was simple enough fare—fish with peppers, lightly boiled vegetables in a salty, spicy sauce, plenty of soft flatbread to mop it up—but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The last time he’d eaten a meal like this had been with Teomitl at his side, hugging Mazatl and fondly ruffling up Necalli’s hair and barely paying any attention to his own plate until Mazatl had swiped something off it and he’d tickled her as revenge, the both of them laughing. Acatl would never forget the look on his face the first time she’d called him uncle.
He was vaguely aware Neutemoc was frowning at him. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
He put some fish onto his plate. He ate it. He couldn’t say what it tasted like. Peppers, mostly. It sat in his stomach like a lead weight, and he swallowed so roughly that for a moment he was afraid he’d choke. I can’t do this. But they would notice if he didn’t eat, and then they’d worry about him. He forced himself to take a few more bites, filling the yawning void within.
A second course arrived eventually. Roasted agave worms and greens, which he usually liked. He took a small portion, nibbled on it, and set his plate down.
“More greens?”
Neutemoc’s voice was too careful for his liking, but he nodded. Another portion of greens was duly set onto his plate, and he ate without really tasting it. He only managed a few bites before he had to give up, his gorge rising.
Mihmatini picked at her own dish, and Neutemoc frowned at her. “You’re not hungry?”
She shook her head.
Silence descended again, but It didn’t reign for long before Neutemoc said, “Acatl. Any interesting cases lately?” With a quick glance at his children, he added, “That we can talk about in front of the kids?”
“Aww, Dad...”
Neutemoc gave his eldest the same look his father had once given him. “When you go off to war, Necalli, I will let you listen to all the awful details.”
It wasn’t enough to make Acatl smile, but nevertheless the tension in his throat eased. “Well,” he began, “we’ve been trying to figure out what’s been strangling merchants in the featherworkers’ district…”
Laying out the facts of a suspicious death or two was always calming. He could forget the ache in his heart, even if only briefly. But even when he was done and had just started to relax, Neutemoc was still talking to him as though he expected to see his younger brother shatter any minute. The slaves, too, were unusually solicitous of him—rushing to fill up his cup, to heap delicacies on his plate. At any other time he might have suspected the whole thing to be a bribe or an awkward apology for some unremembered slight; now, he just felt uneasy.
When the meal was done, he declined Neutemoc’s offer of a pipe and got to his feet. “I think I’ll get some air.”
The courtyard outside was empty. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, charting the path of the four hundred stars above. Ceyaxochitl’s death hadn’t hit him anywhere near as hard as this, but gods, he thought he could recover in time if only the people around him stopped coddling him. Everywhere he went there were sympathetic glances and soft words, and even the priests of his own temple were stepping gingerly around him. As though he needed to be treated like...like...
Like a new widow. Like Mihmatini. He sat down hard, feeling like his legs had been cut out from under him. Air seemed to be in short supply, and the gulf in his chest yawned wide.
But I’m not. I care for Teomitl, of course, but it’s not like that. It’s not—
He thought about Teomitl sacrificed as a war captive or drowned in a river far from home, and nearly choked at the fist of grief that tightened around his heart. No. He shook his head as though that would clear it. He wouldn’t want me to grieve over him. He wouldn’t want me to think of him dead, drowned, sacrificed—he’d want me to remember him happy. I can do that much for him, at least.
He could. It was easy. He closed his eyes and remembered.
Remembered the smile that lit up rooms and outshone the Sun, the one that could pull an answering burst of happiness out of the depths of his soul. Remembered the way Teomitl had laughed and rolled around the floor with Mazatl, the way he’d helped Ollin to walk holding onto his hands, the way he sparred with Necalli and asked about Ohtli’s lessons in the calmecac, and how all of those moment strung together like pearls on a string into something that made Acatl’s heart warm as well. Remembered impatient haggling in the marketplace, haphazard rowing on the lake, strong arms flexing such that he couldn’t look away, the touch of a warm hand lingering even after Teomitl had withdrawn—
He remembered how it had felt, in that space between dreams and waking, where he’d thought Teomitl was by his side even in Mictlan. Where, for the span of a heartbeat, he’d been happy.
There was a sound—a soft, miserable whine. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat, that he’d drawn his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. That he was shaking again, and had been for some time. As nausea oozed up in his throat, he regretted having eaten.
It was like that, after all.
And he’d realized too late. Even if he’d ever been able to do anything about it—which he never would anyway, the man was married to his sister—there was no chance of it now, because Teomitl was gone.
He forced his burning eyes to stay open. If he blinked, if he let his eyes close even for an instant, the tears would fall.
Approaching footsteps made him raise his head. Mihmatini was walking quietly and carefully towards him, as though she didn’t want to disturb him. As though I’m fragile. You too, Mihmatini?
“Ah. There you are.” Even her voice was soft.
He uncurled himself and arranged his limbs into a more dignified position, keeping his fists clenched to stop his hands from trembling. At least when he finally blinked, his eyes were dry. “Hm.”
She sat next to him, not touching. There was something calming about her company, but gods, he prayed she couldn’t see the thoughts written on his face. She stretched out a hand and he thought she’d lay it soothingly on his shoulder, but instead she traced a meaningless pattern in the dirt. “...It’s hard, isn’t it?”
His dry throat made a clicking noise when he swallowed. “It is.”
“At least we’re both in the same boat,” she murmured.
The words refused to make sense in his head at first—but then they did, and he reared back and stared at her. No. I’ve only just realized it myself, she can’t have...she can’t be thinking that I—! “I beg your pardon?”
Her voice lowered even further, so that he had to strain to hear her. There was a faint, sad smile on her face. “You love him just the same as I do, don’t you?”
He drew a long breath. He knew what he should say, what the right and proper words would be. No, like a son. Or like my brother. But he couldn’t lie to her, not even to spare what was left of her broken heart, and so what came out instead was, “Yes. Gods, yes.” Hate me for it. Tell me I have no right to love him, that you’re the one who has his heart. Tell me I’m a fool.
She lifted her head, and her faint smile grew to something bright and brittle. “Good.”
Good?! He blinked uselessly at her, gaping like a fish before he could find his voice again. “You—you approve?”
“You’re my favorite brother,” she said simply. “And...well.”
She fell silent, her smile fading until it vanished entirely. He waited. Finally, in a much softer voice, she continued, “If you love him, there’s no harm in telling you what he swore me to secrecy over.”
Dread gripped him. Of course Teomitl was entitled to his secrets, but he couldn’t imagine what would be so horrible that Mihmatini wouldn’t tell him. At least, not while he lived. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “...What?”
She blinked rapidly, fingers going still. She’d traced something that looked, from a certain angle, like a flower glyph. “...He...he loved you, too.”
No.
But Mihmatini was still talking. “He didn’t want me to tell you; he was sure you’d scorn him. But he loved you the same way he loved me...gods, probably more than he loved me.”
It was the last straw. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and he barely recognized his own voice as rage filled it. “Why are you telling me this?!”
Mihmatini took a shuddering breath; he realized she was fighting tears, and had been since she’d spilled Teomitl’s heart to the night air. “In case he comes back. If he does...no, when he does...you should tell him how you feel.”
He rose on shaking legs. “I think I need to be alone.”
Without really seeing his surroundings, he walked until he came to the canal outside the house. The family’s boats were tied up outside, bobbing gently on the water. When he sat down, the stone under him was cold; the water he dipped his fingers in was colder still. Neither revived him. Neither was as cold as the pit cracking open in his gut. Mictlan was worse, true, but all the inexorable pains of Mictlan were dull aches compared to this.
In case he comes back. In case he comes back. I love him—I am in love, that’s what this pain is—and I will never see him again in this world. Mihmatini says he loves me too, and it doesn’t matter, because his bones lie somewhere in the jungle and his flesh feeds the crows and I will never get to tell him.
Between one breath and another, the tears came. They spilled hot and salty down his face; he let them, shoulders shaking, because he no longer had the strength to stop them. And nobody would come to offer unwanted sympathy, anyway. Mihmatini had her own grief, and the hurrying footsteps he’d grown so used to hearing would never run after him again.
Eventually, when he was spent, he wiped his face and left. It was time to go home.
&
The rest of the month ground on slowly, and his dreams began to change.
At first they were minor changes—the blood was less vibrant, the forests and plains brighter. Teomitl bled less. Acatl woke without feeling as though the inside of his chest had been hollowed out and replaced with ash. His appetite started to return; he still never felt properly hungry, and his meals didn’t exactly fill him with joy, but he could eat without feeling sick. The bones in his wrists were not quite so prominent as they’d been. And if that was all, he might have simply thought he was beginning to deal with his sorrow. Such things happened, after all. Eventually the knives scraping away at his chest would lose their edges, and he would face a life without Teomitl’s sunny smile.
But there was more than just a lessening of pain. He dreamed of a sunsoaked forest in the south, and woke feeling like a lizard basking on a rock, warm in a way he couldn’t blame on the heat of the rainy season. He dreamed that Teomitl was fording a fast-flowing river—one that did not turn to blood this time—and when dawn broke his legs were soaked up to the shins. That got him to visit a healing priest; he knew when he was out of his depth, and if his soul was wandering too far in his nightmares then he wanted to be sure it would come back to him by dawn. But the priest was as befuddled as he was, and only told him to call again if he woke in pain or with unexplained wounds.
Unexplained wounds? he thought bitterly. You mean, like the one where half my heart’s been torn from my chest? But he knew better than to say that out loud; his feelings for Teomitl were none of this man’s business. So he thanked him and left, paying a fistful of cacao beans for the consultation, and tried not to think about it until the next time he slept and the dreams returned.
And they were dreams now, and not nightmares. While he slept his soul seemed content to follow Teomitl’s solitary travels through the very outskirts of the Empire, and he no longer had to see him torn apart by monsters or smiling ruinously with bloody teeth. Teomitl barely bled at all now, and his wounds were only the normal ones a man might get from traversing hostile terrain alone—a scraped knee here, a bound-up cut there. He sang to himself as he walked, though the words slipped through Acatl’s mind like water. Once Acatl stood just over his shoulder at a smoky campfire while he roasted fish in the ashes, and his heart ached as he watched him cry.
“Acatl-tzin,” he whispered into his folded knees. “Acatl, I should have told you.”
“Should have told me what?” he tried to ask, but before he could form the words he woke up. There were tears in his own eyes.
It’s only because I miss him, he told himself. This is grief, that’s all. But there was the smell of smoke and the sweet fresh scent of cooked fish clinging to his skin, and a single damp leaf was stuck to the bottom of his bare foot. It hadn’t rained in Tenochtitlan last night. He stared at it for a long time.
Each night went on in the same vein. He would clean his teeth, lay down on his mat, and drift off to sleep—and in his dreams, there would be Teomitl, hale and whole and walking onwards. Despite himself, Acatl started to wake with a faint stirring of hope. Maybe Teomitl really had only been separated from the army. Maybe he truly was on his way home. And maybe I’m delusional, came the inevitable bitter thought when he’d finished his morning rituals. It had become much harder to listen to.
It was almost a surprise when he dreamed about a city he knew. It was a small but bustling place about half a day’s walk from Tenochtitlan, and as he walked through the streets he realized that the torches had been lit for a funeral. He could hear the chants ahead of him. There was a darker shape in the shadows which spilled down the dusty road, and he knew the man’s stride like he knew his own.
“Teomitl!” He hadn’t been mute in his dreams for a while now.
Teomitl didn’t turn. He never turned. But he stopped, and by the way his head tilted Acatl just knew he was smiling. Wordlessly, he pointed at the courtyard ahead.
A funeral pyre had been lit, and it was so like the rituals he presided over that he felt a distinct sense of deja vu. There was the priest singing a hymn to Lord Death; there were the weeping family members of the deceased. There were the marigolds and the other offerings, brilliant in the gloom.
“That could have been me,” Teomitl said, and Acatl heard his voice as though he was standing next to him in the waking world instead of only in a dream. “But it’s not yet, and it won’t be for a good long while. So you don’t need to fear for me. I keep my promises.”
They’d never touched before. But this time Teomitl turned to face him, and the hand he held out was free of blood entirely. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, Teomitl pressed his palm to his. Their fingers laced together, warm and strong and almost real.
“Teomitl,” he said helplessly.
“Acatl.” Teomitl’s smile was like the sun. “I’m sorry I made you worry, but I’ll be home soon.”
And then he woke up, the dream shredded apart by the blasts of the conch-shell horns that heralded the dawn. For a long moment, he stared blankly up at the ceiling. He could still feel Teomitl’s hand in his; each little scar and callus felt etched on his skin. He lives. The slow certainty of it welled up in him like blood. He lives, and he is coming back.
He rose and made his devotions before dressing, but now his hands shook with something that was no longer grief. As soon as he left for his temple, he could feel the change In the air. Scraps of excited conversation whirled past him, but he couldn’t focus long enough to pick any out. He concentrated on breathing steadily and walking with the dignity befitting a High Priest. He would not sprint for the temple, would not grab the nearest housewife or warrior or priest and demand answers. They would come soon enough.
They came in the form of Ezamahual, rushing out of the temple complex to meet him. “Acatl-tzin! Acatl-tzin, there is wonderful news!”
Briefly, he thought he should have worn the hated regalia. “What news?”
Ezamahual’s words tumbled out in a headlong rush, almost too fast to follow. “The Master of the House of Darts—Teomitl-tzin—he’s returned! Our warriors met him at the city gates!”
Even though he’d half expected it—even though the recurring dreams, his soul journeying through the night at Teomitl’s side, had kept alive the flickering flame of hope that now burned within him—he still briefly felt like fainting. He clenched his fists, the pain of his nails in his palms keeping him upright. “You’re sure?”
Ezamahual nodded enthusiastically. “The Revered Speaker has reinstated him to his old position, and there’s talk of a banquet at the palace to celebrate his safe return. I think he’s at the Duality House now, though—they’re like an anthill over there.”
Right. He exhaled slowly, forcing down joy and disappointment alike. Of course Teomitl would want to see his wife first above all, to reassure her that he was well, and of course he had no right to intrude. Nor would he even if he did—Mihmatini deserved her husband back in her life, deserved all the joy she would wring from it. The things she’d told him didn’t—couldn’t—matter in the face of their union. “I see. I suppose we’ll learn more later. Come—tell me if there’s been any new developments in those strangling cases.”
Ezamahual looked briefly baffled, but then he nodded. “Of course, Acatl-tzin. It’s like this…”
The latest crop of mysterious deaths turned out to be quite straightforward in the end, once they tracked down their newest lead and had him sing like a bird. He nodded at the appropriate times, sent out a double team of priests after the perpetrators, and had it very nearly wrapped up by lunch—a meal that, for once, he was almost looking forward to. He was settling down with the account ledgers to mark payment of two gold-filled quills to the priests of Mixcoatl for their aid when he heard footsteps outside.
Familiar footsteps.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tightness in his chest eased. But he didn’t have a chance to revel in it, because he knew the voice calling his name.
“Acatl? Acatl!”
He dropped the ledgers and his pen, getting ink all over his fingers. As the entrance curtain was flung aside in a cacophony of copper bells, he scrambled to his feet. Had he been tired and listless before? That must have been a thousand years ago. He thought he might weep for the sheer relief of hearing that beloved voice again. “Gods—Teomitl—”
He had a confused impression of gold jewelry and feather ornaments, but then Teomitl was flinging himself into his arms and the only thing that sunk into his mind was warmth. There were strong arms wrapped around him and a head pressed against his temple, and Teomitl’s voice shook as he breathed, “Duality, I missed you so much.”
Slowly, he raised his shaking hands and set them at Teomitl’s shoulderblades. He could feel his racing heart, feel the way he sucked in each breath as though trying not to sob. It was overwhelming; his eyes burned as he fought to blink back his own tears. He couldn’t speak. If he opened his mouth, he knew he’d lose the battle—and there were no words for this, anyway.
Teomitl abruptly released him, turning his face away. His voice was a soft, ragged thing, and his expression was a careful blank. “Forgive me. I was...Mihmatini said you’d be glad to see me. I wanted to look less like I’d been dragged over the mountains backwards, first.”
He swallowed several times until he thought he could risk a response, even as his eyes drank in the sight of Teomitl in front of him. He looks the same, he thought. His skin had been further darkened by the sun, there were new scars looping across his arms and legs, and someone had talked him into a fortune in gold and jade with quetzal feathers tied into his hair, but he had the same face and body and sweet, sweet voice. “It’s—there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad you’ve returned.”
“They told me everyone thought I was dead.” Teomitl bit his lip. “Except for Mihmatini. And you.”
He steered his mind firmly away from the shoals of crushing grief that still lurked under the joy of seeing Teomitl before him. He is here, and hale, and whole, just as I dreamed. I have nothing to weep over. “I knew you weren’t. You wouldn’t let something like a flood stop you.”
There was the first glimmer of a smile tugging at Teomitl’s lips. “You have such faith in me, Acatl.”
“You’re well deserving of it,” he replied. And I love you, and even in dreams I could not think of any other path than your survival. That, he refused to say.
Especially because Teomitl still wasn’t looking at him.
They stood in agonizing silence, and he couldn’t bring himself to break it. Teomitl was so close, still within arms’ range; if he was brave enough, he could reach out and pull him back into his arms. Could bury his face in his hair and crush the fabric of his cloak in his hands and tell him...what? It didn’t matter what Mihmatini had said to him. There was simply no space for him in the life Teomitl deserved, nothing beyond that Acatl already occupied. He wouldn’t burden him with useless feelings.
But then Teomitl shook himself like an ahuitzotl and turned back to him, holding his gaze. “Do you want to know what got me home, Acatl? What sustained me?”
Mutely, he nodded. He still didn’t trust his voice.
“You.”
He felt like he’d been gutted. “I...Teomitl…”
Whatever Teomitl saw in his face made his eyes soften. He took a step forward, hands coming up to rest like butterfly wings on Acatl’s waist, and Acatl let him. “I thought about you. I...Southern Hummingbird blind me, I dreamed about you. Every night! I made myself a promise while I was out there, in the event I ever saw you again. Scorn me for it all you’d like, but I’m going to keep it now.”
Oh, Teomitl. I could never scorn you. They were very, very close now, and Teomitl’s gaze had fallen to his parted lips. His mouth went dry.
And then Teomitl kissed him.
It started out soft and gentle, lips barely tracing Acatl’s own. Asking permission, he thought with an absurd spike of giddiness—and so, leaning in a little shyly, he gave it.
Teomitl wasted no time. The kiss grew harder, fingers digging into Acatl’s skin as he hauled their bodies together. They were pressed together from chest to hip but it still wasn’t enough, they weren’t close enough; blood roaring in his ears, he wrapped his arms around Teomitl’s back and clung tightly. His mouth opened with a breathy little whine stolen immediately by Teomitl’s invading tongue, and when he dared to do the same, Teomitl made a noise like a jaguar and let go of his waist in favor of clawing at the back of his cloak, grabbing fistfuls of fabric along with strands of his hair. It pulled too hard, but he didn’t care. The pain meant it was real, that this was really happening. That for once it wasn’t a dream.
Teomitl only drew away to breathe, “Gods—I love you—” before claiming his mouth again, as though he couldn’t bear to be apart.
Acatl twisted in his arms, knowing he was making a probably incoherent and definitely embarrassing noise, but shame wasn’t an emotion he was capable of at the moment. He loves me. By the Duality, he loves me. “I didn’t think—Mihmatini told me, but I didn’t think...”
Teomitl jerked back, brow furrowed. “Wait. Mihmatini told you?!”
His grip on the back of Teomitl’s cloak tightened at the memory. “She was trying to reassure me, I think. I’d just told her...well.” He couldn’t say it, even with Teomitl in his arms, and settled for uncurling one fist and running his hand up the back of Teomitl’s neck in lieu of words.
He was rewarded with a shiver, and the near-panic in Teomitl’s eyes ebbed into something soft. “What did you tell her, Acatl?”
He’d asked. He’d asked, and Acatl had always been honest with him. He’d be honest now, even if it made his heart race and his hands tremble. “That I love you.”
Teomitl made a desperate noise and kissed him again. There was no gentleness now; he kissed like a man possessed, hungry as a jaguar, and Acatl buried a hand in his hair to make sure he didn’t stop. Teeth caught at his lower lip, and he moaned out loud. This seemed to spur Teomitl on, because his mouth left Acatl’s to nip at his throat instead; the first sting of teeth sent a wave of arousal through him so strong it nearly swamped him. “Ah—!”
Teomitl soothed the skin with a delicate kiss that didn’t help at all, and then he returned his focus to Acath’s mouth. This time he was gentle, a careful little caress that gave Acatl just enough brainpower back to realize that he’d probably been a bit loud. Which is Teomitl’s fault, anyway, so he can’t complain. “Mmm...”
Even when they eventually pulled apart, they clung to each other for a long while. Acatl stroked up and down Teomitl’s spine, tracing each bump of vertebrae and the trembling muscles of his back. Teomitl dropped his head onto Acatl’s shoulder, breathing slow and deep. He’d twined locks of long hair through his fingers, gently running his fingers through the strands. Acatl had to close his eyes, overwhelmed. The stone beneath my feet is real. Teomitl’s skin under my hands is real. This—this is real. He is in my arms, and he loves me.
“I don’t want to let you go,” Teomitl whispered. “I never want to let you out of my sight again.”
Neither do I. He tilted his head, nosing at Teomitl’s hair. Gods, even cut to a proper length again it was so adorably fluffy. He sighed into it. “You’ll have to eventually.” Even though he hated the thought, he couldn’t help but smile. “You’re the Master of the House of Darts, aren’t you? You have an army to help lead. Wars to wage. Glory to bring to the Empire.”
“Hrmph.” The arms around him tightened in wordless refusal.
Joy bubbled up within him, and he chuckled quietly. Still such a stubborn young man. But now he was Acatl’s young man, and there was something wonderful about that. He felt loose as unspun cotton, ready to sink into the floor with the release of all the tension he’d been carrying, but it had left a void behind. A void that rumbled—loudly—to be filled. His face burned with embarrassment at the noise. “...Ah. Why don’t we see about lunch?”
Teomitl snorted. “I have been gone a long time. You’re remembering to eat for once.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had an appetite for food, but he decided not to mention that. Teomitl would worry too much. But eating lunch meant that they had to be seen in public, which meant they both had to actually let go of each other. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and lowered his arms, finding himself stymied halfway through by Teomitl’s serpentlike hold on his ribs. “Teomitl.”
At least now he wasn’t the only one blushing. “Right. You’re right. We should eat.” Teomitl stepped back, clearing his throat, but the look in his eyes was more awestruck than awkward. He was staring at Acatl as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight.
And since Acatl found himself doing the same thing, he couldn’t blame him. Had his eyes always been that dark? Was that scar slicing a pale line across his skin new, or had he just never noticed it before? I might have gone my whole life without this. What an idiot I was.
It took longer than Acatl liked for he and Teomitl to be properly alone again, this time with a plate of food between them. Lunch was simple fare: a plate of grilled newts and amaranth dough with a vibrant red sauce so spicy it made his nose prickle. The serving priests had taken one look at Teomitl and thoughtfully put it on the side instead of directly on their meal, which he’d had to thank them for. As he sat down, inhaling the scent, he felt as though his body was waking up after a long slumber. It filled his lungs and swirled through his veins, and his mouth watered.
He dug in greedily. Gods, it had been so long since he’d properly tasted the food he put into his mouth. The juicy grilled meat was the most savory thing he’d had in ages, and he couldn’t blame his suddenly blurry vision on the sauce he dunked his next bite in. It was perfect. He had one of the amaranth dough sticks to smother the burn, finding it crunchy and slightly sweet with its dusting of seeds on top. “Mmm.”
A hand landed on his thigh. “Enjoying yourself?”
He lifted his head, face hot. “I was hungrier than I thought.”
“That’s good. You need to eat more, anyway.” Teomitl smiled, and he couldn’t help smiling in return. “Pass me some sauce?”
He passed the sauce. Teomitl tore at his own grilled newt with more manners but just as much enthusiasm. The long trek through the wilderness must have hardened him, because he didn’t wince at the heat of the accompanying sauce. Then again, he also didn’t use quite so much. “Mm. This is good.”
There was a fleck of bright red chili paste by the corner of Teomitl’s mouth. He wanted to kiss it away. A heartbeat later, he realized that he could. They were alone. Nothing was stopping him now.
So he did, and Teomitl went crimson. “Acatl!” he yelped delightedly, grinning even as he turned his head and kissed him back.
Chaste as it was, it lingered long enough that Acatl was flushed when he pulled away. His pulse thrummed under his skin; he felt like he’d drunk a cup of pulque, dizzy at his own daring as it sunk in. They were alone. Good food was in his belly for once, giving him the energy he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. They could do a lot more than kiss, if they wanted.
Teomitl’s grin turned teasing. “I missed doing that.”
“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” he muttered. “You’re insatiable.” But there was no heat to it, and he found his hand resting at Teomitl’s waist. The skin under his palm was just so warm. He’d felt cold bones and grave dust for too long.
An eyebrow went up in stunning imitation of Mihmatini. “And I’ve waited years for even one kiss, Acatl. There’s a backlog to get through, you know.”
The blush had just started to fade, but now it returned with a vengeance. “Years?”
“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to make up for lost time, if you wouldn’t mind.”
He swallowed hard. Now that he could think again he wanted to know how Teomitl had survived, how he’d managed to make it all the way back home—the unreal fragments he’d witnessed each night had not been informative—but his questions suddenly didn’t seem that important anymore. Not when there were other, more immediate desires to be sated. “...I would not.”
And so their mouths met. Teomitl’s idea of making up for lost time was long and hungry and tingled with the spice of their meal; Acatl’s lips parted for his tongue almost before he knew what he was doing, and that was still a little strange but far from unwelcome. Especially when Teomitl drew back, mouth wet and red, to catch his lower lip between his teeth in another one of those stinging little nips that made his blood sing. A breathy noise escaped him, but this time Teomitl didn’t soothe it.
No, this time he lowered his mouth to Acatl’s neck and did it again. It was light and delicate, unlikely to leave marks, but Teomitl’s teeth were sharp enough that he felt each one in a burst of light behind his closed eyelids. He had to bury one hand in Teomitl’s hair and wrap the other around his waist just to keep himself upright; he couldn’t entirely muffle his own gasps. “Ahh...gods...”
Teomitl hummed, low and wordless, and slid a hand down his stomach. Acatl’s fevered blood roared in his ears, and all of a sudden it was almost too much. “Teomitl.”
Teomitl lifted his head, eyes bright. “Mm?”
“You.” He sucked in a breath, willing his heartrate to slow down. There had to be some limits. Too much had already happened much too quickly. “You can’t keep doing that here.”
“You don’t like it?” Teomitl grinned at him. “Or do you like it too much, Acatl?”
If by some miracle all the rest of it hadn’t already made him blush, hearing Teomitl purr his name like that would definitely have done the trick. He had to turn his face away. “You know damned well it’s the latter. We both have our duties; we can’t very well take the rest of the day off to…” Flustered, he gestured between them.
“Hrmph,” Teomitl said, and kissed him again. This time it was slow and sweet and came with warm arms sliding around him, and he lingered in it for long, long minutes.
By the time they finally remembered the rest of their food, it was stone cold. They ate anyway; cold food was still good, especially with the chili sauce. Acatl was privately of the opinion that it even made the sauce taste better, but he’d learned that people tended to look at him strangely when he voiced it. Besides, Teomitl was leaning against him with one arm slung loosely around his waist, a reassuring weight against his side anchoring him to the earth. There wasn’t a need for speech in moments like this.
Not to mention that, strangely enough, he was still hungry. The joy he’d first felt at knowing Teomitl was safe and alive had opened the floodgates, but it felt as though his body was determined to make up for lost sustenance. Even after their plates were both thoroughly clean, he was still rather looking forward to dinner.
The afternoon light was turning the air gold when Teomitl reluctantly got to his feet. Acatl followed; they stood without touching for a moment that was just long enough to be awkward, and then Teomitl pulled him into a fierce hug. Acatl knew it was coming this time; he marveled at how they just seemed to fit together, with one hand buried in Teomitl’s hair and the other pressed flat between his shoulderblades to feel the steady beat of his heart.
Teomitl took a long, slow breath. “Lunch wasn’t long enough.”
“It wasn’t,” he agreed softly. “But there will be others. Many others.” With Teomitl by his side, he didn’t think he’d ever skip a meal again.
Despite the hint of dismissal—yes, he loved the man with all his heart, but they did both have other things to do—Teomitl made no move to let go of him. In fact, he squeezed a little tighter, turning to bury his face in Acatl’s hair. “Mrghh...”
He had to bite the inside of his cheek to quell the urge to laugh. As fond as he was, he knew it probably wouldn’t go over well. He made do with stroking Teomitl’s hair—gods, it was so soft—and taking a deliberate step back so that Teomitl had to release him or be pulled off-balance. Now Teomitl was glaring at him, but nothing would stop the slow upwell of joy in his veins. “Go on. I’ll see you at the banquet tonight.” He knew he’d enjoy this one.
Teomitl’s eyes were fierce as an eagle’s. “And afterwards? Will I see you afterwards, Acatl?”
He had a pretty good feeling he knew what Teomitl had in mind for a private celebration. Nerves twisted his gut, but only for a moment. He’d come this far, hadn’t he? “Yes,” he said simply.
The way Teomitl’s lips parted in wonder let him know he’d made the right choice. For the rest of my life. Whenever you want, for the rest of my life, I’ll be there.
Teomitl didn’t reach for him—he seemed to be deliberately holding himself still, tension ringing through his body like a drawn bowstring—but he looked like he wanted to. He looked like he wanted to yank Acatl back into his arms and finish what they’d started earlier, and the thought was exhilarating. “My chambers in the palace? They’re closest.”
Acatl flushed, shaking his head. That was a risk he refused to take. The palace had too many people, too many ears and eyes. Far too many chances to be interrupted. If he was going to do this, it would be somewhere safe. “My house. I’ll...I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” There was a wild, radiant smile.
He smiled back. Though he’d miss Teomitl while he worked—Duality, they’d been apart for so long—it would be fine. He was already looking forward to the banquet and what would come after, when nothing would part them again save the dawn.
Teomitl had promised, after all.
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