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touchmycoat · 3 years

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Pan Guan, Ch. 51 excerpts

During that time, Wen Shi was actually quite clingy.

Only he would never say it, nor would he pester Chen Budao with his requests. He didn’t need to be hugged and he didn’t need to be held; the way he clung was simply following Chen Budao everywhere.

As if only being where Chen Budao was could give him peace of mind.

Though Chen Budao had been the one to give him the name Wen Shi, Chen Budao would never properly call him that. He was always coming up with nicknames for Wen Shi.

If Wen Shi was sullen and unhappy and silent, Chen Budao called him “Mute Kiddo.” If Wen Shi followed only half a step behind him from place to place like a snowy little bundle of sticky rice, Chen Budao called him his “Little Tail.”

(**T/N: translation missing a cute little pun here. “Mute kiddo” is 小啞巴 xiao ya ba and “Little Tail” is 小尾巴 xiao wei ba; there’s both structural similarity and rhyme.)

Children forgot easily. Unhappy things, as long as they went unmentioned, were quickly tossed to the back of the head. Early on, Wen Shi was also like this—

Chen Budao gave him medicine to soak in for a few days, and the black mist around his hands went away, so he could sleep peacefully until morning again. Because of this, he thought that it wasn’t such a big deal anymore.

Truthfully, that was because the chill he’d gotten had gotten better, and his spirit had steadied. But he didn’t know this—he thought that his physicality had changed, and the things hidden in his body had lessened in quantity.

That year probably saw Wen Shi with the least burdens. He even brought his Golden Dapeng down the mountain the play.

Though he was quite restrained in his play as well. And quiet.

People off the mountain still called him a demon. Young ones either threw rocks at him from afar or turned tail and ran, as if, were they to stay for just a little longer, he’d start peeling their skin and eating their flesh.

That was why Wen Shi never headed for crowded places, picking specifically empty areas to hole up. Mountain cols, forests, mountain streams. This would later become his natural instinct.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t very animated himself, but he liked those lively and active things, and the peak of Songyun Mountain was too cold for living things to survive for long. At the base of the mountain, he could find a warren of rabbits, a few turtles, even just two fish, and he could watch them for a very long time.

[…]

Wen Shi fought those things in his dreams for a very long time.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found that he was no longer on his bed, but rather standing in front of Chen Budao’s bedroom door. Torrents of black mist covered his hands like knives, and he was just about to worm inside the room.

He stood there frozen in panic for a long while before flinching, turning, and running away. He didn’t dare close his eyes after that.

The Golden Dapeng was not scared of the black mist, this Wen Shi knew. He didn’t return to his room, instead sat with his legs folded on the stone cliff where they trained. He scritched at the Golden Dapeng’s fuzzy head and saw that even wrapped in the black mist the bird was still full of life. Only then did he feel a little bit better.

He didn’t know how long he sat there for before he heard rustling behind him. It was the sound of robes brushing gently over powdery white snow.

He knew that Chen Budao had come. But he kept himself closed off and didn’t turn around.

Because the moment he thought of how he’d stood in front of Chen Budao’s door like some kind of ghoul last night, he felt indescribably bad. Back then, he couldn’t understand why he felt bad. It was only a long time later that he figured out it was a type of fear.

Fear that one day, he would lose control of himself and hurt the person he least wanted to hurt. Even though he knew that with the tiniest bit of precaution, Chen Budao could make himself impossible for Wen Shi to injure.

“How come my tail’s fallen here?” Chen Budao bent over behind him and, with a palm under his chin, lifted his head.

Maybe it was because his eyes were too red, but Chen Budao startled before wiping away the tears hanging at his chin and turning him around.

Wen Shi held out a single hand and said, “those things came out again.”

Chen Budao nodded. “I see them.”

Wen Shi thought he would ask “what happened.” Instead, he heard him say, “does it hurt?”

Actually, it hurt. It really, really hurt. It was the type of hurt that bore into the head, the heart, the body, that stuck to the soul and couldn’t be shaken.

But perhaps he’d been awake for a while. At Chen Budao’s question, Wen Shi felt that it was alright. So he shook his head and mumbled, “no.”

Chen Budao bent at the waist, staring at the top of Wen Shi’s head. After a moment, he said, “you’re still so young, and you’ve already learned to lie.”

Wen Shi wrinkled his brow and looked up, asking, “how do you know I’m lying?”

Chen Budao, “because I’m your teacher.”

He sat down on the stone steps. Wen Shi took a look at the black mist all over his own body and quietly scooted himself a little bit away. He thought that he was careful and wouldn’t be noticed, but most likely, Chen Budao saw everything.

The other was silent for a while, before saying, “I’m going to show you something.”

Wen Shi kept his distance but stared at him in wide-eyed curiosity.

Chen Budao held a palm out at him. The hand was clean, and it was warm. It was better looking than any hand Wen Shi had ever seen. He stared at it for a while, and couldn’t help but put his own black hands behind his back.

But the moment they were hidden, he saw that dustless, unsullied hand of Chen Budao’s begin to emanate the same black mist as his did, ceaseless and in waves…

Wen Shi was so shocked he forgot to talk.

Chen Budao explained that that year, war and famine had been endless. He’d walked many places, and nearly all of them were cages made of countless people all gathered together.

All that resentment was almost impossible to dissolve away. It could only be repressed and treated slowly.

Chen Budao closed his fingers and that black mist obediently disappeared, with no sign of rearing up by tooth and nail. He said, “so you see, I’m the same as you.”

Only on that day did Wen Shi find out that he wasn’t the only person like this in the entire world. There was also Chen Budao.

What was first malignant in the heart had suddenly become a secret connection. Besides the two of them, nobody else knew.

“Then how come yours doesn’t run wild?” Wen Shi asked.

“Because I’m calm,” Chen Budao said.

[…]

That was the first time Wen Shi had been brought inside a cage—the herb-picking grandmother’s.

At the time he’d only learned the basics; he didn’t know how to use puppets, or talismans, or arrays. There wasn’t anything he could do inside the cage besides follow Chen Budao.

But a regular person’s unfinished business wasn’t bound to be anything earth-shattering. That cage was really small, and was no trouble to undo. Chen Budao only brought him along to see that grandmother one more time.

The Wen Shi back then thought that it seemed like Chen Budao could see through all of his thoughts. He didn’t even say anything, but Chen Budao knew everything anyways.

After they came out of the cage, Chen Budao led him back to the mountaintop and guided a wisp of worldly ties out by his fingers. He said, “that grandmother left you a little something. What would you like, a rabbit? A fish? A bird?”

Wen Shi asked him, “what can live forever?”

Chen Budao said, “every living thing has an end.”

Wen Shi held out the bird in his arms. “But you said the Golden Dapeng can.”

Chen Budao, lifting a brow, “you’re pretty smart.”

Of course he didn’t make what an old woman left behind into a puppet to be controlled. Nor did he point to the Golden Dapeng and say, like before, that the birdie was back from the dead.

After all, the little disciple was a bit bigger now, and was harder to lie to.

He guided the herb-picking grandmother’s leftover sentiments into the mountaintop spring. There it became a golden red koi fish.

That was the first time Wen Shi truly understood the purpose of the panguan’s existence—to send away those who had to leave, and then leave something for them on this red-dusted earth.

Wen Shi crouched by the spring and asked, “how long do fish live?”

Chen Budao said, “depends on how you take care of it. If you take good care, this fish can live for seventy, eighty years—enough for a regular person’s life time. If you don’t take good care it can also be belly-up tomorrow, so you best be careful.”

Wen Shi glared at him, not understanding why he had to make things so dangerous.

Next to the spring was a white plum tree. The flowers were in bloom, and the entire tree was white as snow. Wen Shi pointed at the tree and asked, “how old is that?”

Chen Budao gave it some thought and said, “about the same as me? Pretty old.”

To Wen Shi back then, Chen Budao was an immortal who neither grew old nor died. So as he crouched by the spring and watched the fish, he mumbled quietly that after he could solve cages too, he would turn all those worldly ties into trees.

Chen Budao teased him, “all those trees, where are you going to plant them? And trees can’t open their mouths and talk to you.”

Wen Shi, “can a fish?”

Leaning against a tree and watching him, Chen Budao laughed lowly and said, “don’t be tricked by all the silence, he’s really something when he’s mean.”

Wen Shi kept his head down and ignored Chen Budao, stacking mountain pebbles in the spring. After stacking for a while he felt that this spring was much too empty, and the one little fish was too lonely.

“You don’t say a single word for most of the day but now you’re scared the fish will die from having no one to talk to?” Chen Budao lifted a brow; this felt a bit novel. Moments later he nodded, straightened, and left.

Not long after he returned with something in hand. He bent over and placed it into the spring, saying, “found something to keep it company in your place.”

Wen Shi looked, and saw a little turtle.

He looked up and kept Chen Budao’s gaze for a long while before he too turned and left. A bit later, he brought back another turtle and tossed it into the spring.

Chen Budao’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s this taking the place of?”

Wen Shi didn’t even look up. “You.”

Chen Budao laughed once, and scolded, “insubordinate.”

Thinking back now, Wen Shi discovered that though he talked his fair share as a kid, he still left Bu Ning and them with an impression of aloofness. That might be because everything he had to say, he said to Chen Budao.

(god i love this novel so much)

#panguan #mu su li #do you know how much i fucking love this ship #my heart aches for them #meanie dad and grouchy dad #they're so fucking sweet on each other #yes it's a shifu/disciple relationship slkjdfnlskdj but they spend centuries apart as adults before getting together #and it's never inappropriate when wen shi's just a kiddo #this shit's TENDER

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pigeontheoneandonly · 4 years

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Lemongrass

So this was nominally supposed to be about a cooking lesson (loosely prompted by a post from @dr-ladybird), but it came out much more bittersweet and melancholy.

Thanks to @pushingsian for the beta!

NB: In my version of Mass Effect, Nathaly Shepard is vegetarian, and Kaidan Alenko's mother is Thai.

Lemongrass

The haunting quiet of a Canadian night along the Sunshine Coast still kept Shepard awake, even after two months. She missed the endless creaking of the ship, the muffled voices coming through the hatches and decks, the hum of the drive core lulling her to sleep. Everyone thought space was silent. She snorted and wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered on the porch, drawing a blanket close like a shawl. This was silence, this… lonely wilderness.

Footsteps fell soft on the cabin’s wooden floor. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Kaidan padding barefoot to the door, still rubbing his eyes. Her face broke into a smile despite herself, quiet, tired. “Hey.”

“It’s cold out here tonight.” He rubbed his arms. “Can’t sleep again?”

“You don’t need to get up,” she replied, sidestepping the question.

He glanced out over the property, towards the coastline a half-acre away. “It wasn’t this quiet when I bought it.”

This was where he’d sunk his L2 reparations, into this piece of earth, though the house came after the war. His neighbors weren’t ever sitting in his lap, exactly, but a fair number either hadn’t survived or hadn’t returned. But the lack of people wasn’t the problem. “It’s a planet. It’s never going to be—”

Shepard stopped herself just in time. But her startled guilty glance, at the near slip, said it all anyway. His shoulders sank. “Come inside.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He put his arm around her and gave her a tug. “Come inside.”

The door swung shut. The main room was cozy in a hand-made sort of way. Kaidan’s mother had sent a seemingly endless stream of crocheted blankets, which now hung off every chair back and piled across the couch. Shepard made the metal-framed furniture herself in their own backyard. Kaidan spent his free hours scouring local extranet ads for books, and a coffee maker, lamps, cushions, anything anyone was selling or trading in the mostly cashless post-war economy. Earth could barely manufacture essentials, much less everyday comforts.

Now he walked over to the small corner defining their kitchen and lit the stove. She hiked one of those blankets higher on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll sleep better with something warm in you.”

She joined him, putting her hand on his hip, leaning towards his ear. “I can think of something warm you could put in me.”

That got her a quick snort of a laugh, as she hoped. “That just wakes you up more.”

But his brown eyes sparkled in the dim light of the slumbering house.

She heaved a sigh, but pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear, and switched gears. “Need a hand?”

Flirtatious interest turned to surprise. “You want to help me cook.”

“Come on. I haven’t boiled a pot dry in weeks.” A touch defensive, but hell, she had been trying. It wasn’t her fault she never had reason or opportunity to learn to cook. At this point, her molecular composition verged on 100% military-issue freeze pack meals and MREs.

“That’s true.” He jerked his head at the cabinet. “Find me the coconut milk, and the stock.”

Kaidan’s kitchen staples came as something of a surprise. Beer and bacon she expected. His mother’s influence, not so much. Not that she knew a whole lot about Thai food to start with. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“My mom is friendly with every southeast Asian family in Vancouver.”

“Sure. But… citrus?”

“You’d be surprised how many people keep a tree in their condo. I’m negotiating for one, but nobody wants to give it up.”

“It’s just as well.” She pulled out a box. “I’ve killed every houseplant I’ve ever had.”

“You’re doing all right with the herb garden.” Kaidan said it with a straight face, despite them both knowing he did most of the work, especially after he caught her burying leftovers in the dirt to fertilize it. Gently, he explained about compost, but it still seemed like a load of middle-man work to her. He also explained about raccoons, which she had to admit had the weight of evidence behind it, in the holes and broken plants they left behind. But Shepard had learned to water and prune, even fuss over the plants, here and there. They seemed to enjoy the attention.

What was the other thing? Stock. Right. She opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic jug, the remains of a giant batch Kaidan made last week from all their vegetable scraps. It had been an experiment, but somehow, all of Kaidan’s kitchen experiments seemed to work out.

“Put that in the pot,” he said, pointing.

She complied, with one raised eyebrow. “Don’t you think this burner is up a little high?”

“It needs to reduce.” He gave the pot an expert swirl and set it back down. “We still have mushrooms?”

“I think so.” They’d stored up too much in the lower drawer. She sorted through the items. “What’re we making?”

“Soup.” He declined to elaborate, and began to slice the mushrooms. “We’ll also need lemongrass, cilantro, and some of those tiny peppers from outside.”

“You’ll send me out in this cold?” she griped, but she was already reaching for the scissors.

He put down the knife. “It’s summer, Nathaly. It’s almost ten degrees outside. And the garden’s right beside the back door.”

“Anything south of twenty is fucking frigid.” Pulling the blanket tighter, she headed out.

The moonlight gilded the leaves in silver as Shepard sorted through the huddled plants, trying not to drop the blanket. Cilantro reminded her of home, the first home she ever had. Her grandmother grew bales of it in window boxes. Bending to cut some, she might have been six again, and smiled to herself in spite of the cold. Or maybe because of it— the Arizona desert took on its own chill at night.

Lemongrass was more foreign. Its pungency stabbed through the air as she cut it near the dirt, gathering several stalks. A side of Kaidan she hadn’t known, like the cooking, until recently. Sure he fixed a few meals in the apartment, back when the apartment was habitable. Seeing him now, it was clear he’d grown up watching his mother, and absorbed everything she had to teach. That added new depth to her understanding of the damage BAaT did to his family. It was easy to sense, lurking there even today, in every interaction between mother and son, but harder to interpret.

When she was done, she returned to the kitchen, and found he’d added tofu, galangal (not ginger, she reminded herself, firmly), the aforementioned limes plus some kaffir lime leaves he’d obtained god-knew-how, and fish sauce to the waiting ingredients. He smiled as he heard the door shut.

“Here you are.” She dumped her handful of fresh produce beside his pile.

“These look great. Take this.” He handed her the spoon.

Shepard held it like a dead mouse. “Wait a minute—”

He took the lemongrass to the sink. “Nope. This time, you cook, and I help. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

Everything about this read imminent disaster. Kaidan noticed her frown, and pushed her arm towards the pot. “Add the coconut milk.”

It trickled in, aided by her tentative stirring. She put the spoon down. “Kaidan, look, cooking… My biggest accomplishment is getting a microwave burrito thawed the whole way through without drying it out. I know you want to do this whole domestic thing—”

He picked it up and put it back in her hand. “I have never known you to admit defeat on anything. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

She stared into the pot, expressionless face flickering in the burner’s flame.

Kaidan tried another tact. “You’re not sleeping. You barely eat.”

“I…” She let the spoon go, and slumped over the stove, tiredly. “I didn’t expect winning to feel like this.”

His face softened. “That’s because we didn’t win. We just beat the reapers.”

She brushed some of the hair out of her eyes. He rubbed her shoulders, left a kiss on her neck. “Let’s just make soup, ok? Lemongrass is next. Smash it first.”

The damp stalks left small puddles on the board as she ran the knife through them, and then upended it and brought the butt of the handle down on each piece, thump thump. Then the same to the peppers. The motion was almost comforting; Kaidan made this soup a lot.

Kaidan slid sliced galangal into the pot. “Your turn.”

Picking up the lemongrass with the blade, Shepard watched it disappear into the white broth, only to bob back up again, filmed with coconut milk. Already leeching all its intensity and leaving the herb softer, milder, spent; having sprouted and fought through the dirt to the sun, grown tall and proud, only to give up all it made to this. Because she declared that this was its purpose and its end.

A fistful of bright leaves fluttered down over the lemongrass pieces. Shepard started. Kaidan’s brow furrowed, and he touched her arm. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah,” she said, distantly. “I’m just tired.”

He watched her a few moments too long for comfort. “Even the squirrels know that.”

It caught her off guard and she laughed, as he clearly hoped she would. Just one chuckle. But it helped.

“Tofu and mushrooms next,” he prompted. Shepard gathered them up and dumped them in.

She just about remembered to stir it every so often as they juiced limes and chopped cilantro. To her endless gratitude, Kaidan took it back to finish it when it came off the burner; she never could get the amount of fish sauce just right. Somehow, he’d gotten the rice cooker going while she messed with the soup, too. She liked dumping it all into her bowl with the soup, a practice that never failed to earn her a look of mock-disappointment that was half the reason she kept doing it.

They settled on the couch. For a few minutes, they ate in the quiet dark of the cabin, lined in moonlight, wrapped in blankets. Shepard had spent all her life in motion. Now she was trying to learn how to live with stillness.

The soup-soaked rice felt good in her mouth, something she could bite down on. Something solid and warm in her stomach. She hadn’t realized exactly how cold she’d gotten, or how hungry; each spoonful brought a little more color into the room.

Kaidan sipped at his own bowl, smaller than hers, with a slight smile. “Feel better?”

She looked down into her nearly-empty bowl, and back up at him. “How did you know?”

“You skipped dinner. And lunch.” His tone just a little too light. “This isn’t easy for me either, but regularly crashing your blood sugar isn’t helping.”

There was nothing to say to that. “I don’t know what to do with myself up here.”

“Yeah.” He set his food aside and inched closer to her, settling his arm around her waist. “You’ve got a stack of requests piling up.”

“Busy work,” she scoffed.

“There’s never going to be another reaper war, and that’s a good thing.” He gave her a squeeze. “You’ll just have to subsist without the adrenaline and cortisol, high blood pressure, constant small injuries, and all those other things.”

“Tomorrow.” It was too complicated to unpack right now. She set the empty bowl aside.

“Tomorrow,” Kaidan agreed, and pulled her to her feet. “Now, let’s sleep.”

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #nathaly shepard #shenko #fshenko #post-war #fanfiction #pigeon writes

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coinofstone · 4 years

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3x12 The Coming of Arthur pt 1

The title is such low hanging fruit I feel bad cracking a joke about it.

It's a quest episode! I love a quest episode. Srsly feel free to send me any and all Merthur quest fics. I can't get enough 😂

This is the episode responsible for the lovely Leon fanon headcanon that he's immortal. Always handy in an Arthur Returns fic.

Uther: you must go on this mission alone

Arthur: *brings Merlin*

I do love Merlin being being a smart alec and nagging Arthur while packing. Excellent banter.

Arthur said

Arthur threatening a young boy like this is such an ugly and uncharacteristic action it makes me angry.

Merlin tending to Arthur while he's sick and injured 🥺

Also I'm sorry but Merlin shows fuckin Gilli his magic but he's hiding it from fuckin Gwaine while Arthur is suffering? Silly.

Cenred's massive army makes me wonder if it's a result of his tolerance of magic or lower standards than the knights of Camelot, or some combination of both.

Poor Leon, though. He's just got back from near death in that forest and Uther sends him right fuckin back in 😂

Looks like they snuck in to Camelot via the dragon's cave. I doubt that was the intention but I still approve 😂

Knowing he's on a suicide mission, Arthur gives Merlin an out, knowing he'll never take it, knowing he doesn't even want him to: he still presents him with the choice.

How come literally everyone else gets a crown that fits them but Arthur walks around looking like he's wearing hand-me-downs?

Morgana might be evil but she looks damn good on a throne.

3x13 The Coming of Arthur pt 2

There's a post going around Twitter about ppl who nitpick at TV shows... this comment falls into exactly that category 100% but I'm sorry, I cannot just ignore the fact that Morgana's got these massive banners and an entire army's worth of uniforms, I mean look:

Every guard with the sigil on his uniform and half a dozen banners in the council chambers alone. That's to say nothing of the ones outside. I mean look at the sheer fuckin size of these things:

Look how tiny the ppl are next to em! They've gotta be at least 15 feet long, at least. Where did they come from? Were they all magicked into existence? Who designed that sigil? What does it represent? Is it Gorlois' banner? I HAVE QUESTIONS.

Leon isn't someone I've ever been particularly attracted to, personally, but his defiant shout of "Long Live the King" in the face of Morgana's threats, is sexy as hell.

Depressed Arthur is such a mood.

So. Gwen. Originally in 3x12 when Morgana essentially invited Gwen into the fold (insofar as a Queen's servant can be), it seems to be a set up, because Morgana has been treating Gwen like shit for ages, why would she suddenly want her friend back? Especially since Morgana knows something is going on between Gwen and Arthur - there's no way she believes that they were actually under the spell of some random sorcerer, that just doesn't make any sense. So you kind of assume - or at least I did - that Morgana is keeping Gwen close knowing that she'll be useful as bait or a hostage, just essentially as a person of value to Arthur. She's known Gwen for too long to actually believe she'd cross Arthur, there's just no way someone as machiavellian as Morgana doesn't see Gwen's 'loyalty' as a simple survival tactic. All of this is to say, when Morgana and Morgause eavesdrop on Gwen's conversation with Sir Leon, Morgana is just like, 'welp, she's betrayed me. Guess I'll kill her in the morning.' as though she was actually expecting Gwen to do anything else?!?! Like, why? It would've made so much more sense to just cut that line entirely and go straight to something like

Morgana: it's as we suspected, she's betrayed me

Morgause: yes, now she can lead us straight to Arthur

And it would've made so much more sense than the weird sort of purgatory they've implied where Morgana changed her mind about Gwen very suddenly the night before she took the throne. It's not a super important detail in the overarching story but it's another example of how carelessly their story has been handled.

Me rn:

I do love that they made Freya the Lady of the Lake, and that she kept her promise by telling Merlin how to defeat the army of the dead.

How Merlin really sees Kilgharrah:

Gwen really is the smartest of all of them.

I do love that Merlin's first undead kill with excalibur is entirely an accident lol

The subtext between Morgana and Morgause is really gross. I haven't said anything before because I generally don't approve of ship shaming but the not so subtle subtext gives me the heebies.

This is such a great shot

Everything about it, his woman at his left and his man at his right, his romantic rival opposite him on his wife's side, as directly opposite her as possible at a round table with an uneven number of placements. It's a really beautiful shot, fitting for an equally beautiful scene. It's a very moving scene, the music really adds the exact emotion you'd expect for this moment we all recognize... and I feel like the knights' oaths are very well matched. The snarky part of me wanted to make a 'call me maybe' joke about Percival, but he's so sincere I just can't do it. The moment of levity added by Merlin's banter with Arthur is really, really well paced. Honestly I think it's probably the next perfect, iconic scene since Gwen and Arthur's first kiss. Hats off to this crew.

(Don't worry dear reader, I'm sure I'll get back to complaining shortly)

Santiago is so dreamy. I'd share his bedroll any day.

I like that despite all the talk of equality and doing the thing Uther wouldn't approve of, Gwen still worries about the company seeing her and Arthur kiss. Like, he's planning an insurrection with a bunch of commoners and two dudes who've been officially banished from Camelot, but she's internalized the classism and the rules of royalty so deeply that even amongst friends she instinctively keeps their relationship hidden. I'm not sure how intentional that was but it's brilliant.

The fight big fight scene with Merlin just barely missing the cup while the knights are cornered, and Gaius showing up like the brilliant deus ex machina that he is, honestly makes the previous budget-slashed episodes more bearable. Because this really is great, even knowing it's great at the expense of those others.

Morgana's screeching is eerily similar to Aithusa's.

I wonder if they knew they were getting renewed for a fourth season when they wrote this. Because you know, it really could've worked as a series finale as well. An open-ended series finale, but a series finale all the same.

As a Queens kid, I cannot explain to you the joy it gives me to watch Arthur and Merlin just chillin on the steps to the castle as tho it were a stoop, which I suppose, in a sense... it kind of is. Ahhh youthful days.

Commentary is Jeremy Webb and Julian Murphy.

And this kids, is why we're watching with commentary! They've just explained that Morgana's sigil is supposed to symbolize the Rowan tree that's supposed to be at the heart of the Isle of the Blessed. That suggests she designed it herself, so there's at least one of my earlier questions answered.

They talk a lot about how Emila Fox was very pregnant when they were filming her in this season, and they shot entirely around it - and I can't help but feel anger toward Joss Whedon and his 'handling' of Charisma Carpenter's pregnancy during S4 of Angel.

One of them called the round table scene 'curiously moving' and I think that is really fitting. They'd had this in mind for about two years, which is probably why it's so extraordinary. That's a great gestation period for a scene as iconic as this.

One final tidbit: the sword in the stone was filmed in France, and made it back to Wales intact. I guess nobody wanted to take it out. That's kind of an interesting thought, like a little set superstition or something. It's kind of cute.

The DVD extras/special features will get a separate post if I feel I have comments worth sharing.

#bbc merlin #bbc merlin spoilers #merlin #merlin spoilers #merthur #3x12 #bbc merlin 3x12 #merlin 3x12 #3x13 #bbc merlin 3x13 #merlin 3x13 #the coming of Arthur #the coming of Arthur part one #the coming of Arthur part two #the coming of Arthur pt 1 #the coming of Arthur pt 2 #i cannot believe that's the actual title of this episode #onceandfuturerewatch

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greekgeek21 · 3 years

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Percy Jackson & The Avengers: Convergence - team-up time!!

Ok, so I'm a little off schedule, but who cares? Honestly, I've been getting a lot of good reviews/comments and I'm so grateful!!

My amazing beta reader, nightskywithrainbows, is so patient and I would not be able to do this without you. So, give them some love!

Anyway, I hope you like this! Stay safe and happy reading!

- your author

Ω ♆ Ω

"Wise Girl? Are you here?" Percy asked as he walked into his cabin.

He had just gotten back, and the first thing he did was ask where Annabeth was. Apparently, she had got into the Poseidon Cabin after their IM and hadn't come out since. It was sweet, really, but if she ever caught him saying that, he would be beheaded in an instant, so he kept it to himself.

He was not expecting what he saw when he walked into his home-away-from-home. Annabeth was asleep on top of his covers, a book laying beside her. The lights were still on, too. It looked like she had tried to stay awake for him, but it was reasonable for her to fall asleep. He HAD gotten back at 2 AM.

To anyone else, she would have looked peaceful, but he knew his girlfriend, and he saw that she was having a nightmare. Unlike him, who thrashed around and screamed, Annabeth was dead silent during her dreams. It had scared him more times than one. The only indication was her frown, the slight sheen of sweat, and the rare barely-there whimper.

He raced to her side, lying down next to her and pulling her into his side, "Shhh...you're okay. We're okay. We got out. We're safe now."

The Tartarus nightmares had gotten better, but they still had them every so often. They had learned to deal with them properly in a way that worked. They had even tried therapy once, but that was a disaster waiting to happen anyways. Annabeth and him don't talk about their feelings very well. Still, it was worrying to watch your loved ones suffer with nothing to offer for comfort other than your support.

Percy continued to whisper sweet nothings and reassurances in Annabeth's ear before her breathing eventually evened out and she slowly started to blink her eyes open. She seemed confused about his appearance for a second before she realized that he had come in while she was sleeping.

"Seaweed Brain? When did you get here?" She tried to sit up, but Percy held her tight, so she relaxed into him.

"Not long ago. But don't avoid the question. You know we need to talk about it. What happened this time?" he asked.

Annabeth sighed and answered, "It was the same one. You were controlling the poison 'down there' and I saw your eyes. They were a sickly green, Percy. Not anything like your usual sea green. They were almost grey, and they were glowing. I was terrified. This time, I couldn't stop you. I had to watch as y-you killed her."

By then, tears had started to escape her tight control over them. If it were anyone else, Annabeth would never have let them hear her sound so weak, let alone see her crying. She was the strong leader of Camp Half-blood, and that came with the responsibility to keep a confident front.

However, every leader needs time to release the stress. Her alone time with Percy was that time. He had been through almost everything with her, and she trusted him to the end of the universe. HE was HER rock just as much as SHE was HIS.

"I would never do that. You have to know that. It wasn't real. We're home, and we're together. We made it, Wise Girl," Percy reassured, kissing her on the head.

"Yeah, I know. They just get so real sometimes," Annabeth curled into his side.

"I know. It's late, though. Do you want to stay up talking or do you want to try to sleep again?" he asked, tucking them under the sheets.

Annabeth closed her eyes, wrapping Percy's arm around her tighter as she said, "Let's go to bed. I'm sure I'll be fine now that you're here."

Percy smiled his goofy smile, "Okay, Wise Girl. I love you."

"I love you, too, dork."

He chuckled, and Annabeth fell asleep in contentment to the sound of his heart beating. As long as that was happening, she would be fine.

Ω ♆ Ω

The next few weeks went by as smoothly as a demigod's life could. Percy never received any communication attempts from SHIELD, so he let himself fall back into his schedule. Him and Annabeth went to stay with Sally while also staying at camp on and off. There were no major problems for him to deal with, and he was soaking up every bit of it.

Of course, he should have never said anything. That was an invitation to the Fates.

He was driving with Annabeth when he learned about it. A news broadcaster came over the radio and was retelling an active event happening in Los Angeles.

"There has been another suicide bombing in downtown LA. There appears to be GREEN FIRE coming from the explosion. Officials are attempting to get the flames under control, but their tactics seem to be failing thus far. This is another in a string of connected bombings around the US. So far, there are no suspects, but we are told there has been progress made in the investigation. What is the purpose of these attacks and who..."

Annabeth turned the volume down. She turned to Percy with a grave expression. Green fire could only mean one thing: the divine were involved. The mortals had somehow gotten into contact with Greek fire, and they were using it for terrible acts of violence. And of course nobody could put the fire out, it was impossible unless dealt with by someone who knew what they were dealing with. Like Leo, for example.

"Percy, at the Brooklyn Bridge, was the fire green?" Annabeth asked cautiously, already dreading the answer.

"I can't remember. I was too focused on making sure the bridge didn't collapse that I didn't bother to check what the explosion looked like. Oh gods, what if I could've done something if I had seen it earlier? What if I could have stopped this bombing in LA? This is all my fault!" he exclaimed.

Annabeth laced her fingers with his, "Perce, you did more than anyone could've asked. You saved so many people that day. This is not your fault, okay?"

He still looked disbelieving, but he reluctantly nodded. He didn't have time to debate his guilt with Annabeth, he had somewhere to be. Percy wasn't exactly sure where that location was, but he was needed somewhere, and so was Annabeth.

"SHIELD's on this case already. I need to get in contact with them, and then we need to meet with them. I'm not letting anyone else get hurt," he told Annabeth, driving towards Camp Half-Blood.

The gears were turning in Annabeth;s head, and he knew the exact moment she figured out what his plan was. Surprisingly, she didn't argue. She just nodded and grabbed her phone from her backpack, flipping it open and turning it on. She only used it in emergencies, and this felt like an emergency.

She called one of the few numbers she had on there: Camp Half-blood's. Camp had only one phone in the Big House, and it was scarcely used. It was an old landline, too, in hopes that it attracted less monsters. Nowadays, it was impossible to not attract them, with technology all around them.

It rang for a long time, almost to the point that she was just going to give up, but right as she was going to press the 'end call' button, Jason's voice came over the phone, "Hello? Who is this?"

Annabeth let out a sigh of relief, "It's Annabeth. I'm with Percy. We need you to gather the Seven quickly. We'll be there soon."

"What? Annabeth, what's going on? Why do you sound so worried?" Jason asked.

Annabeth's patience was waning, "Jason! This is important! Secret of the gods important! Prepare for a fight and wait for us to get to camp. We'll explain there."

Jason sighed, clearly wanting more information than that, "Alright. See you soon."

"Bye," Annabeth hung up the phone as soon as possible.

They had probably already been on for too long, but it was worth a shot. And besides, none of the monsters would dare come near them once they realized who was on the call. That's what she was counting on, anyway.

She looked up at Percy and instantly noticed the tension all throughout his body. He still believed it was his fault, obviously. There wasn't much she could do about that. It was his fatal flaw!

"We're going to figure this out," she consoled.

"Yeah," Percy whispered as he pulled over at the bottom of the hill leading up to Camp.

They were both out of the car and running already, so it didn't take them long to reach Peleus and Thalia's tree. He didn't even pay them a thought as they ran through the border and towards the Big House, where they could see a group of armored demigods congregated on the porch.

As they ran closer, they saw it was the Seven on the porch, talking with Chiron. They were all in their basic armor: a chestplate, greaves, vambraces, and helmets resting under their arms. Piper had her dagger hanging on a belt, Jason had his gladius, Frank had his bow and arrows slung over back, and Hazel was carrying her imperial gold spatha. Leo was, of course, wearing his toolbelt. They all were in various states of confusion and agitation from being left in the dark about whatever they were dealing with, and they all seemed relieved when Annabeth and Percy came running up.

Before either of them could get a word out, Piper spoke, "Let me guess: this has something to do with Percy and the bombings, and now we need to go clean up his mess."

"Words hurt, Pipes," Percy sarcastically held a hand over his heart.

She rolled her eyes, "You'll survive."

Annabeth smiled in the direction of her friend. She had really started to become comfortable as a demigod in the past year. Plus, she had picked up on some of Annabeth's habits. Like picking on Percy, for example.

"What's this about Annabeth?" Jason asked, stopping the playful mood in its tracks.

Annabeth exchanged a look with her boyfriend before responding, "Piper was right. This is about the bombings. They're using Greek fire. But it's still mortals doing it. That means somebody from out world is supplying the mortals with our weapons, and that is a recipe for disaster. We need to stop it before it gets too out of hand."

"Why us, though?" Hazel asked.

"We're the Heroes of Olympus, and we're the best to represent our kind in the fight. Plus, I trust you guys the most. In case it is a mole in the camps, we need to keep this between us," Annabeth answered.

The mood got even more serious at the realization of where her thoughts were headed. Somebody still inside the camp could be taking the fire to the mortals, and they didn't know who it was yet.

But then Piper noticed something in Annabeth's wording, "What do you mean 'represent our kind?' Who are we meeting?"

Percy answered her this time, "SHIELD. They're already working on this, and I have a deal with their director to help with stuff from our world. We only need to figure out how to contact them."

"I've got that covered!" Annabeth interrupted, "I have a plan."

"Of course you do," Jason said, "What is it?"

"We're going to Stark Towers, and we're going to meet with Tony Stark. He's Iron Man, and he no doubt works with SHIELD, so we'll use him to get to them. It's not my best plan, but it's the best we got," she answered.

"It's better than what I was going to do," Percy remarked.

Annabeth didn't even want to ask what his plan was going to be. That was a road she did not want to go down.

"When do you leave?" Chiron asked, finally speaking for the first time.

"Percy and I will get ready and then we'll head out right after. We need to get a handle on this ASAP," Annabeth answered, already heading towards the armor shed.

Percy ran down to meet her there, and they got dressed in the same gear as the others before heading towards their separate cabins. As a precaution, all campers had been required to make an emergency quest backpack in case they had to leave quickly. They had the demigod essentials like toothbrushes and paste, deodorant, a couple spare changes of clothes, nectar and ambrosia, and a prism with some drachmas for IMing.

Percy and Annabeth both grabbed their kits, along with a few other personal items that they suspected would be needed for this specific quest, if you could even call it that. They still had to meet with Rachel, but she was staying with her dad in New York. That would have to wait for later.

They were geared-up and ready in less than twenty minutes, and then they were standing on the edge of Half-blood hill with the others, saying goodbye to Chiron.

"Be careful. I have a feeling the path you are about to take will lead you through hard times," Chiron warned.

"We'll be fine, Chiron. It's nothing we can't handle," Annabeth assured.

He gave a tight smile in return. His reaction to their quest was disconcerting, but the demigods didn't have time to ponder on it. They had to get to Stark Towers as soon as possible.

So, they gave one last wave and started towards the Delphi Strawberries van Argus had pulled up. He would be driving them to the tower, but they would be on their own from there. There wasn't any reason to be worried, though. They had traveled across the world on a floating boat; this would be a piece of cake.

The drive there was tense and silence-filled. Or it was until Leo ruined it.

"So I get to meet Tony Stark?" he asked, an excited grin forming on his face.

Piper groaned, realizing what was bound to happen. She had met Mr. Stark at a gala her father had dragged her to before. He was a self-centered jerk who had too much money to know what to do with it. Plus, his ego was the size of a planet. Leo and Tony Stark together in one room was going to be crazy.

"Don't do anything nuts, Leo. We need him to trust us, and it's hard enough doing that without telling him what we are," Percy said.

Leo gasped, "I am hurt that you would ever think I would do such a thing! Uncle Leo just wanted to chat about some design flaws in his suit! And maybe some possible ideas that all that money could help put into action..."

Annabeth gave him her death glare, and he sank away, "You are forbidden from speaking until I say so."

He hurriedly nodded his head. She was scary!

Percy smirked at his girlfriend, knowing that she was fully aware of the effect she had on the poor demigod. Of course, Percy was whipped, too, but it was still amusing to see Annabeth go all 'powerful daughter of Athena' on people that weren't him.

"We're almost there, guys," Piper said, pointing up ahead, where they could see the tall outline of Stark Towers.

Annabeth had to admit, the architecture was impressive, even if she would've gone less futuristic. But the sustainable energy system was remarkable.

She snapped herself out of her daze. She was not there to admire the architecture, she was there to do her job: saving the mortals. And with the amount of stupid stuff they did, they would never get a vacation.

"So what's so important about this Stark guy?" Hazel asked, finally giving in to her curiosity.

"Oh! I always forget you aren't all caught up on modern pop culture," Piper exclaimed, "Tony Stark is a rich, playboy, engineer who doubles as an Avenger. The Avengers saved the world from aliens when we were saving it from itself. He's Iron Man, which is basically just a suit he invented."

"Sounds like someone Leo would like," Hazel remarked.

Percy laughed as Argus pulled over, "Exactly."

The demigods all climbed out, standing in a line before the entrance. It seemed they were all waiting for one of them to make the first move, but nobody wanted to be that person. Of course, Annabeth wasn't one to back down from anything, so she stepped forward and pushed the glass doors open, striding through with confidence only a daughter of Athena could command.

The rest of the group trailed behind, tensed for anything. They were literally surrounded on all sides by technology, and it was unnerving for them all. Well, for almost all of them. Leo was practically vibrating with energy and excitement. He was about to meet his idol AND get the chance to explore all of the toys there.

"Remember: professional," Annabeth warned one last time before turning to address the front desk lady.

"Yes, mom," Piper whispered to Leo, who muffled a snicker in response.

Percy just prayed that this all went well. He wanted this whole ordeal to be over quickly. He didn't want to be brought into another situation where he had to use his powers. They were still too unreliable, even after a year. The bridge incident was hopefully a one-time thing.

"Hello. We're here to meet Tony Stark," Annabeth said.

They knew the Mist was covering their weapons and armor, especially with Hazel there. People wanted to see some regular teenagers, so that's what they were seeing. Not seven, well-trained demigods in full armor, prepared for battle.

The receptionist looked her up and down, "Do you have an appointment?"

Annabeth tried for a smile, but it turned into more of a grimace, "No, but it's important. I'm sure Mr. Stark would understand once we talk to him."

Sometimes being young can come in handy, but a lot of the time, it sucks.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Stark only accepts scheduled meetings. If you want to make one of those, you can contact his secretary. But for now, I would ask that you please leave," the woman responded.

Annabeth glared, and was about to start yelling, but Percy stepped up and placed a calming hand on her shoulder before he spoke, "Actually, this is urgent. And I'm sure that if you called Mr. Stark, he would send us up, considering that we're friends from work, and I'm not talking about his day job."

He said everything so calmly, that you would have thought he was having a civil conversation if not for his icy words.

"Fine," the woman ripped the phone up and dialled a number, "Yes, there are seven teenagers here to see Mr. Stark. They say it's urgent. And that it's about his OTHER work."

She nodded a few times before hanging up, "Mr. Stark will see you now."

Ω ♆ Ω

45 minutes earlier...

Fury was not having a good day. First, an idiot dressed-up as a spider ruins his morning, and then another bombing happens in LA, and finally, he has to deal with the Avengers now. He had been hoping to deal with this case without them, but he was pushed into the decision when he got a message from the terrorists responsible for the bombs. They threatened to bomb things much more important than the Brooklyn Bridge, and that they had the means to do worse.

None of his regular agents could figure it out, so he had to bring in the big guns. Besides, the heroes had had much too long of a break already.

That's how he found himself in another blacked-out SUV, on his way to Stark Towers after calling a meeting of the Avengers there. He had no way of contacting Thor, so it was just Stark, Rogers, Widow, Banner, and Barton. He had another person in mind, but Fury didn't want to call him in just yet. It was still a new alliance after all.

When he got there, he went straight up the elevator to the penthouse. From there, he went to the meeting room and found everyone but Stark already there, which was no surprise. Without a word, he strode up to the head of the table and slipped the flash drive into the slot, automatically turning on the holo-projector in the center of the table. The flash drive had all of the details of the case, along with whatever notes his agents had made.

He opened up the photo gallery, flicking to each bombing site, "The Brooklyn Bridge, Portland, LA, Long Island, San Francisco. What do all of these have in common?"

Just as Steve was about to answer, Tony burst in the door, taking a seat without an apology, as per usual.

Steve cleared his throat before continuing, "They all had a bombing happen recently."

"That's right. And it's gotten out of hand. Your job is to stop them," Fury cut right to the point, "Everything you'll need is in this folder. I want this done discreetly. That means no flashy spectacles, Stark."

Tony mock-gasped, "I would never!"

Banner shifted nervously, "Will the 'other guy' be needed for this?"

"Possibly, but as a last resort. You'll be needed for tracking more than anything," Fury answered.

Bruce nodded his head, seemingly finding comfort in that.

One look at Clint and Natasha, and you could see that they had gone into SHIELD agent mode. They were both studying the file information with rapt attention. They, at least, Fury could count on.

"This needs to be done as quickly as possible, got it?" he ordered.

"Yes, sir!" Tony sarcastically saluted.

Fury held back a growl. If anyone could make him lose his composure, it would be Tony Stark.

"I expect results the next time I see you," he said, turning to walk out of the room, but he was interrupted by J.A.R.V.I.S.

"Sir, there is a group of teenagers asking to see you. They say it is urgent," the AI said.

Tony sighed, "J.A.R.V.I.S., I thought I programmed you better than this. I don't want to see them."

"But sir, I am told it has something to do with your Avengers work. They are very adamant," J.A.R.V.I.S. pressed.

"Pull up the camera feeds," Tony ordered.

For some reason, Fury felt compelled to see who had wanted to see Stark, and he understood why as soon as he saw the footage. There, with six other teens, was Percy Jackson.

Before Tony could turn them down again, Fury said, "Let them up. Now."

"Right away, Director," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, listening to his SHIELD reprogramming.

Tony threw his hands up in defeat and grumbled "Whatever. It's not like I own the building."

"Direct them here, J.A.R.V.I.S.," Fury ordered, going back to his previous position at the head of the table.

Steve sat up in confusion, "What are you doing, Fury?"

The man in question ignored him.

Before any more objections could be made, the Seven were standing before the Avengers, everyone confused.

Percy was the one who broke the silence, "Well, this makes our job a whole lot easier."

Ω ♆ Ω

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theusurpersdog · 5 years

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So Game of Thrones ended on Sunday, and for now it’s going down as potentially the worst ending of any TV show ever. Some of the backlash has come from the more nonsensical elements, such as Bronn being on the Small Council, anyone in Westeros defending Daenerys (the show literally framed her like Hitler, come the fuck on), Tyrion deciding who was King while in shackles, etc. But the truth is, none of that would’ve mattered if the emotions rang true. And that’s been a problem since the show started; go all the way back to Winter is Coming and you’ll see that the Starks have always been sidelined - both as individuals and as a family - in favor of the Lannisters. George Martin is writing a character piece about the Starks and how they survive, and the show was never going to stick the landing when they fundamentally didn’t understand that.

I’m not the first to point this out, but man did it really bother me this episode. D&D really could’ve phoned in 95% of this story and just shown up to love the Starks and everyone would’ve been at least satisfied, and they just couldn’t do it. So many years of bad writing and idiot plots and plain stupidity hasn’t lost Game of Thrones hardly any fans, because the ones they had were deeply invested in the characters GRRM had created and were willing to overlook just about everything to see those characters have some sort of conclusion. That’s why their entire audience has turned against them now - they didn’t care about the Starks for 8 seasons, and GRRM’s ending required the audience and the writers care deeply for Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran.

For all of GRRM’s talk about wanting to break his reader’s hearts, and D&D’s version of his story as this GrimDark nightmare, GRRM’s story has a real, emotional heart to it. People debate whether it was a fantasy story with the false premise of a political period piece, or a political story with a touch of fantasy intrigue - but the truth is, this story is and always has been a character piece centered around the Starks and how they survive and rebuild after family tragedy. In number of povs and chapters, they literally overwhelm the series. Jon, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Catelyn all are in the top povs as well as Ned, who is still competitive despite being in exactly 1 book of the series. Having the Starks as the center of the story, the point in which almost all the action revolves, is what grounds all of Martin’s series even as his povs reach 30+. Martin was being very serious when he said Arya, Sansa, and Bran were the heart of his series. You need them because they make it worth it.

So let’s break down how D&D ripped the heart out of asoiaf’s chest. The biggest problem the show had was something book readers have known for a long time, but didn’t fully realize until Sunday night: The Bran Problem. GRRM has stated multiple times that Bran is his hero, yet the show has never had any interest in his story. They made an entirely random decision not to include flashbacks or dream sequences, which immediately cuts out about half of Bran’s content. But not only did they take away his magical importance, they also stole his political importance. Bran was Robb Stark’s heir, Lord of Winterfell and first in line to be the King in the North. Yet they took Bran’s story away from him and gave the focus to Theon Greyjoy, a character more appealing to the tastes of David Benioff and Dan Weiss. So we never got to see the King of the Six (should be eight but whatever I’m just dying inside) Kingdoms acting in any leadership capacity. And, last but certainly not least, D&D took all emotion from Bran. And no, I don’t mean when he came back from beyond the wall a husk of a person. That was awful, but the damage was done seasons before. If you’ve read the books, you’ll know and love Bran Stark because this is who he is:

He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them

Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him

The roots of the trees grow deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I'm not dead either

Old stories are like old friends, she used to say. You have to visit them from time to time

He is a sweet boy, quick to laugh, easy to love

Bran has always represented happiness and people coming together in GRRM’s story. Ned wants to bring him to King’s Landing because he’s universally loved and will ease the conflict between Joffrey and Robb, and just the thought of him being alive makes Jon bury his ego and reach out to his Night’s Watch Brothers. He is Meera’s little Prince, someone that Howland Reed’s children are willing to go beyond the wall and die for. He accepts food on the road beyond the Wall, and promises he’ll repay his debt many times over. He’s the boy who looks back into the past and just wants to see his dad again; who reaches out to save Theon, even when Theon took everything from him. He is Eddard Stark’s son, soft and kind and loving, brave when he is afraid, loyal and honorable, and he is a good person. He’s young, but he is fit to be a King one day.

But no, D&D didn’t stop at Bran. Let’s talk about Arya Stark, and the little girl who never was. Was there ever a character more suited to D&D’s tastes than a little murder girl hellbent on revenging her family’s killers? But was there ever a character further from Arya Stark? She is nine years old when Ser Ilyn takes her father’s head, of course she is brash and reckless and childish, wanting to avenge him. But she is all of those things because she is still a kid. Below the surface, she is very scared and very hurt. Unlike the show’s version of Arya, who is upset Joffrey died because she couldn’t do it herself, the Arya of the books has a realization that Joffrey dying means nothing because she’ll never get Robb back. Arya isn’t turning into an assassin because it would be cool, she’s running away as far as she can.

You can watch the season finale of Game of Thrones s4, and be right in concluding that Arya Stark leaves The Hound for dead in a ruthless move of brutality as she goes to pursue her dreams of being an assassin. Now read the end of A Storm of Swords, and you’ll find an Arya who refuses to let Sandor take a piece of her no matter how he abuses her, and goes to Braavos because she is so afraid that no one could love her anymore - and most of all she leaves because with Winterfell sacked and held by the Boltons, she genuinely thinks she has lost her home. Arya doesn’t make a well-adjusted decision to leave Westeros, she’s trying to keep her head above water before she drowns in grief. Disassociating from her pack is the only way she can cope with the unbearable amount of loss she has suffered, especially at such a young age. But GRRM’s version of Arya is fierce, brave, loyal, loving, and above all she loves her family.

Then there is Sansa, the most empathetic character in GRRM’s whole world. The unfailing hope and kindness in which she views the world are her defining character traits; she echoes GRRM’s own worldview, one where you can see the good and the bad in everyone, and choose to forgive - and if not that, still refuse to be cruel in kind. Sansa is the only one who looks at Sandor Clegane, looks at the ruin fire made of his face, and see that his eyes are why he’s so ugly - and then reach out to show him mercy. The girl who was beaten everyday of her time in King’s Landing, and still mourned Joffrey because he was a person and he died and she understood that it was still awful. She wishes knights who literally beat her bloody would fall off their horse, then feels bad and ashamed when they do. Sansa Stark is kind above all.

And the show took this character and made her cold. They tried to make her Littlefinger. Surprise! Nobody cares about the emotional well being and happiness of Petyr Baelish for a reason. Thankfully Bryan Cogman was there to run interference between Sansa and D&D, so she wasn’t fully the Ice Queen D&D wanted her to be, but goddamn how do you take Sansa “if I am ever Queen, I’ll make them love me” Stark and make her cold?!

The biggest problem with stripping the Stark kids individually of their emotions, is that they can no longer exist as the family GRRM created them to be. Without Arya, Bran, and Sansa’s emotional arcs, everything becomes meaningless. Who cares that Ramsay Bolton is the one to rebuild Winterfell in the show? Certainly not an audience that hasn’t been told to care.

You’ll notice a trend in the type of chapters that D&D decided not to adapt into Game of Thrones; think of all the chapters that are the emotional heart of GRRM’s story. Not the shocking character deaths, or dragons, or plot twists. The moments of intimacy between GRRM, his character, and you as the reader. The moments so small yet so impactful, the lines you remember not because they pushed the plot forward but because they honestly moved you in a way that you felt hope, longing, love? Those chapters are almost always either from Bran, Sansa, or Arya; and are always about their connection to their family. D&D adapted none of them. Here’s three great examples:

Done with Wooden Teeth

When Arya is a serving girl at Harrenhal during A Clash of Kings, it really sucks. Unlike the show, she is not cup bearer to Tywin Lannister; she is just like everyone else: abused, mistreated, underfed, miserable, and uncared for. She’s already at a pretty low moment in life, then the news breaks that Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy and Winterfell has been sacked. And Arya doesn’t even have someone to grieve with; the one person she tries to tell, Elmar Frey, tells her nobody cares about a serving girl’s brothers when he’s just lost his Princess (the irony...).

The news that her family is dead almost breaks her:

As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it’s from Robb, come to say it wasn’t true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I’d just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan’s stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn’t ever fly back

This is Arya giving up. Everything she’s done in this book so far has been to get back to Winterfell, or to Jon at the Wall. Her making the decision to fly away (which she’ll follow through on in A Storm of Swords) is a defeat, the acceptance that she’ll never get her family back.

If the chapter had ended here (it doesn’t), D&D still would’ve gutted it, because no Stark gets to react to Bran and Rickon’s death in the show. Not even a minute of screentime given to the Heir to the North and his brother dying; not a moment where their family can grieve the tremendous loss.

But Arya is a Stark, so before she gives up on her identity, she visits the Godswood:

“Tell me what to do, you gods,” she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf

The Godswood is very important to the Starks for a couple different reasons. First, only the men of the North worship the Old Gods, and the trees is the connection they have to them. The Old Gods were who Ned went to for guidance, and every single Stark has huge moments of understanding in front of a Godswood (none of which made it into the show...). But, more specific to the Starks as a family, Bran speaks to his family through them and guides them toward home. So even though they don’t understand that Bran is calling to them, the Starks are drawn to the trees for help.

And the trees always answer them. The Starks get a real, physical response when they ask the Godswood for help:

Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father’s voice. “When the snows fall and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.

“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m Nan.”

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you.”

“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “I’ll be as strong as Robb. I said I would.” She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

In her lowest moment, Arya re-finds her strength by remembering she is a Stark, a direwolf who belongs to a pack. The Godswood gives her Ned as comfort, as a reminder of who she is and what she should do. There is an incredible emphasis on family here. It would be impossible to adapt this chapter unless the writers and audience fully understood just how committed to each other the Starks are - which is why they didn’t adapt it.

I’m Not Dead Either

When Bran finally leaves the crypts at the end of A Clash of Kings, he’s close to giving up on himself entirely. He spent three days inside Summer, and returning to the body he views as broken (”Bran the Broken” is something he calls himself when he feels upset, not the monikor he’d give himself as King) is really hard for him. And when he finally leaves the crypts, he comes out to a Winterfell that has been destroyed; Ramsay has set the place ablaze and killed everyone. Bran knows Ser Rodrik is dead and Maester Luwin is soon to be as well. He looks around him and sees all this destruction, all he smells is fire or blood. But one thing in Winterfell stands unharmed; Summer takes off running for the Godswood:

The air was sweeter under the trees. A few pines along the edge of the wood had been scorched, but deeper in the damp soil and green wood had defeated the flames. “There is a power in living wood,” said Jojen Reed, almost as if he knew what Bran was thinking, “a power strong as fire.”

After Bran says goodbye to Maester Luwin, and him and Rickon part ways with no idea where either is heading, Bran has one last moment to look on Winterfell and find hope:

Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought, I’m not dead either.

Bran looks back at Winterfell, and because he’s able to see the unharmed Godswood and the Kings of Winter still seated on their thrones, he can understand it’s not dead, just like him. Again, a Stark is drawing strength from their connection to each other, and through a Godswood.

I Am Stronger Within the Walls of Winterfell

This next one, you’re probably thinking “but the show did adapt Sansa’s snow castle chapter”, and I’m here to tell you they didn’t. I could write an entire book on how that scene is the perfect example of how adaptations fail; they *technically* adapted it, with pretty much the same events, but it was completely stripped of its emotional impact and narrative importance. It is the perfect microcosm of why Game of Thrones was a bad adaptation of A Song of Ice and Fire, as well as how D&D consistently missed the emotional beats the Starks were supposed to have.

The show’s version of this chapter somehow centers it around Littlefinger, while simultaneously underselling the fact that Lysa killed Jon Arryn (they sandwiched this episode and scene between Tyrion’s trial and Oberyn’s death, when this chapter ends A Storm of Swords. All of the climaxes in that book, and GRRM saved this one for last). The end product is a rather forgettable scene that most people overlook.

In the book, this chapter is everything. It is the best chapter in asoiaf, and the best writing of anything ever. Period. And it’s a chapter centered around Sansa’s relationship to her home, to Winterfell. Unlike the very small castle of the show, Sansa spends hours building a castle big enough that she can step inside and continue building details. The fact that she can stay outside for hours, while several onlookers get too cold and go back inside, is a reminder that she is a Stark.

And this chapter is centered around a Godswood. The tree never took root, because the Eyrie is too high for weirwoods, but the courtyard Sansa’s in was meant to be a Godswood. And since she doesn’t have a real one, Sansa builds her own inside her snowy Winterfell.

Being up in the mountains is also the first time Sansa’s seen true snow since she said goodbye to Robb in Winterfell, and just the thought of it makes her dream of home and of memories with Bran and Arya. She wakes up having dreamed of home, and thinks she’s sleeping next to her sister until she wakes up enough to realize she’s not in Winterfell.

When Sansa’s alone with no real connection to home, she finds the closest thing to Winterfell (the failed Godswood) and builds her own. She literally gains strength from it:

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Her home and her family give her strength to stand up to her abuser, just as Arya was able to escape the abuse of Harrenhal and Bran escaped the Boltons.

There is way more than these three instances, but these are the best examples of D&D failing to adapt the Starks as a pack, or as individuals with feelings. Of course the ending didn’t feel right emotionally, because we had no explanation for what emotions led our Starks to their destinies.

I’ll probably make a post specifically about this in a couple days or weeks, but I can see GRRM’s ending stuck within D&D’s sloppy rush to the end:

The first time Arya leaves Westeros, she leaves because she thinks all her family is dead or taken, and that Winterfell is gone forever. At the end, she’ll leave because she is sure her family loves her, and that she has a room in Winterfell whenever she wants to visit Good Queen Sansa. Arya is also fast to make friends of all different people, and would start her own pack of rogues as she travels the world.

Sansa won’t be alone because she, like Arya, is good at finding her own pack. (And GRRM has built his world out so extensively, it’s honestly a joke to think we could be in a crowded room and recognize no one). Sansa’s friends are her people. She throws feasts constantly, and like Ned, always has a seat at the High Table for the small folk. She has many ladies in waiting, true friends of hers that help her write songs and stories, and sew dresses. She is a good and kind Queen, and visits the Wall constantly as she helps the Lord Commander resettle the Gift.

King Bran the Wise (or ya know, just not broken) rules from his Weirwood Throne on the Isle of Faces, at the heart of his kingdom. After Daenerys burns King’s Landing, he moves the capital since The Red Keep was a monument to Aegon’s Conquest - a symbol of tyranny King Bran is trying to move forward from. He fills his council with highborn and lowborn alike. He constantly talks to his siblings; Sansa waits for him at the Godswood, and Arya and Jon see him through Ghost and Nymeria.

Just because they’re far in distance, doesn’t mean they aren’t a pack. They all know the others are safe, and that they’ll see see each other soon. GRRM will invest the right amount of time explaining the emotional beats of this ending to make it feel right. He cares so much about the Starks. He wrote them a whole epic fantasy because he saw Bran finding pups in the snow. He loves them more than we do, guys.

The Starks are the Giants!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#game of thrones #Sansa Stark #Arya Stark #bran stark #asoiaf meta #if you're wondering why Jon wasn't included #it's because that boy was a whole mess #needs his own post to explain the unique injustice that was done to him

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yanara126-writing · 4 years

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Godlike

Sesshomaru thinks about his past, his motivations and his future.

A discription of his relationships with his family mostly. There's no real story, just him moping on a cliff basically.

Read here or on Ao3 (~3k)

The song segments come from a song called The Godlike Song from Alexx Calise.

Comments always welcome! Enjoy! :)

The wind blew quietly through the trees as he stood on a cliff, looking off into the distance. He had left Rin and Jaken somewhere in the forest to have some time alone and think. Normally, he enjoyed Rin’s happy babbling and would simply blend out Jaken’s voice, if he got too annoying, but today he needed the silence.

They had passed through a human village a few hours ago, to get Rin a new Kimono. That in itself was nothing unusual, but this time something had been different…

Rin ran happily around, admiring the beautiful Kimonos that were shown at the market, while Sesshomaru stood to the side, watching her and enduring the stares the humans gave him. Since he knew said stares were not hateful, he ignored them.

He had been careful to choose a village that tolerated demons at least to a minimum. Certainly not for his sake, but for Rin’s. He did not want her to be judged because she travelled with a youkai. Besides, why put up with the annoyance of a hostile village if he could easily avoid it?

With the stares usually came whispers too and he wasn’t disappointed this time either. It was ridiculous how bad the human hearing had to be if they seriously thought he could not hear them.

„Do you know who that is? “

„Those clothes look really expensive; do you think he could be some sort of royal? “

„Look at those features, almost godlike! “

Godlike… A word he had always associated with his father. Yes, that was what his father had been for him as a child, a god. Never would he have thought of himself in that way.

His father… The truth was, he had admired his father, and still did. He had almost worshiped him as a child. Until his father had chosen a human mate. At first, he hadn’t minded too much, had dismissed it as temporary phase. But then his father had left him alone for always longer times until he had spent more time with her than with his son.

He had tried to get his father’s attention back by trying to be the perfect heir his mother had always told him he had to be. He had trained and had become even better than his tutors. He had surpassed everyone’s expectations and had been sure that the next time his father came home he would have to notice.

But when his father had finally arrived, all he would talk about was that the human had gotten pregnant. He hadn’t even noticed his progress. He would never admit it, but that reaction had hurt, and badly. In that moment, he had decided, that if he wanted to be perfect for his father he would need to never let something like that get to him ever again. And he had been successful, nobody had ever noticed anything.

No, that wasn’t true, his father had obviously noticed something, not the reason for the slight change, but at least the change itself.

That last conversation, it had hurt even more than the one before. The disappointment in his father’s voice, a disappointment he hadn’t understood the reason of. Had he not become everything his father had wanted him to be? He was strong and completely in control, yet he would always try to be better and stronger, to one day be worthy to lead his father’s kingdom. And what should “someone to protect” mean? It would only be a weakness to have to protect someone, wouldn’t it?

And why had his father obviously preferred the Hanyou over him? The child hadn’t even been born yet, so why would he fly to what would certainly be his death, just for it?

He hadn’t tried to stop his father, for he had been sure, that he would reconsider before it was too late. He had never thought that his father would go that far, that his father would actually… leave him alone. He had obviously been wrong. A feeling he had gotten to know very well in the years following his father’s death.

One love quashed another

If there ever was a battle

Only to discover that my heart became a matter

He was strong, had already been back then. More than anyone would have expected a child to be. Still, he hadn’t been even remotely close to being able to handle the chaos that had erupted after his father had died. He had only been a child and had already inherited an enormous empire. Naturally, many demons had tried to kill him and claim the territory as their own. They had come after him immediately after word had spread that the great lord of the western lands was dead. The only choice he had had to survive was to run. The memory made him want to shake with anger, but he suppressed it, just like he always had. Yes, he had run. That was a fact he couldn’t change anymore.

There was a slight twitch around his eyes, a movement so subtle only Rin could have been able to even notice, much less correctly interpret it. She was surprisingly observant for a child her age.

Of course he had been too, he had needed to be to survive, when he had been only a little older than her. Those first few years after his father’s death… He might have called them painful, had he actually ever talked about them. His mother had pretty much ignored his situation. Not that he had expected much, but he had thought she would at least let him remain in her approximate surroundings. Instead she had moved to her own family’s castle and told him to fend for himself.

A cloud drifted slowly over sky and covered the moon.

Another misjudgement on his part. The next had been, that he had expected, well not expected really, but at least hoped in some way to find some respite with his father’s human. It had taken him a few weeks to get out of the immediate danger zone and get rid of the demons that had noticed him flee the massacre in front of what had once been his home. When he had managed to either lose them somewhere or kill them, he had gone to the only place he had been able think of that could at least have been a place to rest, even if it would never have been truly safe. As soon as the woman had seen him, she had gasped fearfully, backed up against wall and turned around, so he couldn’t get to the bundle in her arms.

Now, years later, and as kind of parent of his own, he could understand her reaction. He had been covered in blood, some of it his own, some of it not. He must have been really a sight to behold, it was only natural that her first reaction had been to defend her child. But at that time, when he had been barely a teenager and completely exhausted and in pain, both physically and mentally, it had been just another betrayal.

After that he had not tried to get help again. He had just run, fought and tried to stay alive. Slowly the attacks became fewer until they had mostly stopped, and he had finally been able to breathe again.

And being the best, it always gets the best of me

One moment you’re on top and then the next you’re on your knees

He had thought that would be the end of it. The power vacuum had been filled, mostly with petty warlords, that had somehow managed to get control over a few villages. A part of the kingdom still belonged to his mother, not because she actively ruled, but she was the most powerful youkai in the area and the others simply tried to avoid her. A few tribes that had been loyal to his father by choice had transferred their loyalty to him, which had given him a sort of safe haven and the hope that he could retake his father’s lands.

What he had not counted on, was that with the immediate threat to his life gone, he had finally had the time to process all the things that had happened. His father’s sacrifice, his mother’s abandonment, his almost step mother’s denial and the fact that he had almost died multiple times. It had taken another two weeks, but eventually he had broken down in some forest and had sobbed through the night.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear a wolf’s howl. It was far enough away to not bother him yet, but he would have to return to the others soon, Rin would be scared.

After his little episode, he hadn’t been able to stay in the village anymore and had started his journey to get back his father’s lands. Before that he had planned to find Tetsusaiga, while he had grown considerably stronger over the course of his bloody adventure, it would have been an immense help.

Nothing feels right

On the inside

I could heal my wounds if I was godlike

Well, if he was honest with himself, that plan had already been useless when he had lost his arm, all the other times he had tried to get it were simply out of spite. That and pride, he simply hadn’t been able to accept that his father had made the sword unusable for him. Really, he still couldn’t, but there were only so many times someone could get their ass handed to them and still come back for more.

His left hand… Sometimes he was very thankful for his long sleeves, this way no one could see when his stump twitched, because he tried to use a limb that was no longer there. It was pathetic, and he knew it. He deserved it though, for letting the half breed get the better of him.

A lesser man might have scoffed or scowled at the thought or at the very least smiled bitterly, not so Sesshomaru. Nothing about his face or body posture suggested how much it still hurt him. The godlike comment became more and more ridiculous each second.

Though he was very much aware of his own limits now and could without a doubt say he was not at the level of a god, at least not yet, he also started to doubt the pedestal he had put his father on, was truly deserved. But in the end, it didn’t matter anyway. He would never get the chance to see him again and possibly revaluate his opinion. Maybe it was better that way. He had a goal to reach, he would surpass his father and become the strongest Daiyoukai the world had ever seen. Everything else came second.

That was how it was supposed to be. He had no need for petty emotions like hurt, doubt or, gods forbid, sympathy. The only emotion that could prove useful was anger. That system had worked fairly well for most of the time. He had been able to establish quite the reputation for himself as the cold-hearted killer he needed to be to prove himself worthy of being called his father’s son.

He ignored the twinge in his heart when he thought about how even his father’s old friends whom he had grown up with, now feared him.

Patience is no virtue ever worth time waiting for

For every moment spent you always close another door

Not only had they readily given up on him, they had not even found it worth it to tell Inuyasha anything else than the fact that he was dangerous. Not that he had wanted them to or had done anything to change that, but still… somehow, he had expected more.

A redundant thought, one could not expect those fools to see beyond their own fear anymore than he could be expected to suddenly start meowing.

Another howl sounded over the tree tops, this time a lot closer.

He should really get going.

He turned around and slowly walked away from the cliff into the forest, still deeply in thought.

Inuyasha… the source of a lot of his confusion. He had first met his half brother when he had only been a little boy. For some reason he had felt compelled to see the little brat his father had given his life for. They had seen each other and watched, the smaller one of them with a ball in his hands and eyes wide with awe, the older one completely composed. After that he had returned again and again without ever knowing why.

Then the boys mother had died and for some reason the whelp had thought himself entitled to something from him. How ridiculous. He had had his problems to solve even without a weak half-blood constantly running behind him. And even if he had had the time and resources, why should he take care of the little pest that had ruined his life? Just because he had been curious to see his father’s biggest mistake and had found himself unable to ignore it didn’t mean he held any affection for it, right? Of course, what a silly thought. He would have to get better control over himself again.

The next time he had seen the boy had been when he had come for Tetsusaiga.

He walked the way back. He was in no hurry. The wolves would probably not even come close to their encampment, so he was really only needed to provide Rin some comfort should she need it, Jaken would be able to handle some low life Youkai or animal. Even if some kind of threat to his pack suddenly appeared, he could be there in seconds if necessary. He could already hear Jaken screaming at Rin again, something about not eating mushrooms. He would have to make sure to hit him with a stone again when he was back.

Ah yes, his throwing skills. Another memory gone bitter with time. Throwing and kicking stones with precision had been the first thing his father had ever taught him. At his own demand, after all, he hadn’t wanted to only fetch when they were playing. Of course, that skill had become useless now. He was unlikely to be able to kill any of his opponents with stones and Rin did not exactly fall into the category of children who would enjoy playing fetch. Well, it wasn’t completely useless. Actually it was very useful for shutting Jaken up.

And being the best, it always gets the best of me

One moment you’re on top and then the next you’re on your knees

As annoying as the toad demon was, it was also refreshing to have someone around who spoke his mind and still knew how to take a hint and shut up. Even if he needed to be given the hint with a certain amount of force behind it. He had enough discipline to follow orders and not seriously question them, which was a respectable trait. Discipline had played an exceptionally important part of his own childhood. Even before his own resolution of self betterment, he had been raised to be a warrior, calculating and disciplined, and to never act rashly or impulsively.

Unlike the Hanyou whelp, who seemed to be completely incapable of ever using his brain. Really, had his mother even tried to raise him properly? He would never understand what his father had seen in the mortal. He had only really seen her once, the night of his escape. That night he hadn’t really thought about her and her behaviour, he had just been angry and hurt.

With age understanding had come and a question had wormed its way into his mind. Had the woman even known about his existence? From the way his father had talked about her, he wouldn’t have thought her to be likely to turn away a child, much less the child of her lover, no matter how horrific their attire. She hadn’t even looked twice at him, had just assumed his hostile intentions. That only allowed two possible conclusions, assuming he was correct in his deduction about her character. Either his father had told her about him as an automatic threat to her life, or he hadn’t told her about him at all. He wasn’t sure which option hurt more.

Nothing feels right

Everything’s so strange

Something’s gotta change

“Lord Sesshomaru, you’re back!” He stopped walking when he felt something enthusiastically clutch his right leg.

“I was worried, because you looked so sad when you left!”

“Rin! How dare you imply something like that! You should really show our Lord some respect! You clearly don’t understand…!”

“Jaken?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, my Lord…” The imp almost seemed to shrink under his stare. It was always entertaining to see that.

“Lord Sesshomaru, you’re not sad anymore, are you?” She actually looked concerned and he had no idea how to answer her question. He wasn’t sad per se, but he was… unbalanced. Well, he did not need to explain himself and there was no point in upsetting her further with trying.

“No, Rin”

“Good!” She had such a sweet and innocent smile. Sometimes he wondered how he himself would have looked with such a smile. Though he most certainly wouldn’t have run around picking flowers and making flower crowns as his ward liked to do. But enough useless contemplation, he had a job to do.

“We will continue.”

“Yes, Lord Sesshomaru!” How odd, she was still smiling, even while getting Ah-Un and starting another journey she did not know the end of. And there would be an end, even if she still wanted to follow him after he beat Naraku. At some point she would want to settle down and have a family with someone. He already knew he would make sure she wouldn’t need miss anything and of course he would be very careful whom he would allow to court her. She would probably have children at some point, maybe even grandchildren, and sometime later she would die. What a strange feeling to know that. Would he take care of her children even after her death? Binding himself to a human family like that seemed like a bad idea, but for some reason he couldn’t imagine not doing it.

But why did he even care? Why did he feel the need to contemplate these things? Just because of the uneducated comment of a human? How low must he have sunken for something like that to unsettle him so much.

No matter, what had already happened was unchangeable and the future would become clear in due time. Until then he would focus on what he knew he needed to do and not waste valuable time on the past or possible.

And if he took care to spend a little more time with Rin from then on, was a little less angry at Inuyasha when they met and lost a little bit of awe for his father, then there was no one who would ever dare to point it out.

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writeyourownlifestory · 4 years

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Sucker Punched

Chapters: 1/9 Fandom: IT Rating: M Warnings: Mention of past child // psychological abuse, Fight Club!au Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh/Ben Hanscom Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, learning to love yourself

By the time Eddie was 13, he was allergic to peanuts, tree nuts, and several cooking oils. By 15, he had never swum in gym class and never went to a friend’s birthday party or had one of his own. By 16, Eddie knew that he liked looking at boys rather than looking at girls, though that didn’t seem to matter at the time. By 18, he had graduated high school and that was the end of his social life. And by 21, Eddie’s life had been torn to pieces.

He was a victim of Munchausen syndrome by proxy and now left without a mother, without a home, and without a clue. On top of being told he should go to group therapy, his caseworker had also suggested doing something to blow off some steam. Join a book club or go to the gym. Or maybe join a need-to-know based fight club. Either or.

Tag list: @richietoaster, @beproudtozier, @that-weird-girls-blog, @s-onora

Dee Dee Blanchard was dead. She had been stabbed repeatedly by her daughter's boyfriend while she slept in her bed. Her daughter, Gypsy Rose, who was wheelchair-bound with many ailments, was believed to have been kidnapped by the killer. Later, it was found out that not only Gypse Rose been the mastermind in her mother's murder, but wasn’t sick after all.

She was a victim of Munchausen syndrome by proxy. In layman’s terms, it means the person taking care of you pretends that you’re sick to continue taking care of you. For some, like Gypsy Rose, it’s being told that you suffer from leukemia and other forms of the body affecting illnesses.

For Eddie, it was being told that the world wanted him dead.

For as long as he could remember he had been sick. His earliest memories had been visiting the hospital where his father would eventually die from lung cancer, only to wind up there himself with a case of acute bronchitis. He survived it, thanks to the help of modern medicine.

That was the last time Eddie remembered being sick.

The issue was, that wasn’t the last time he had been told he was sick. From the moment he came back from the hospital, everything just seemed to get worse. His allergies had picked up, and it seemed like almost every other weekend he was feeling off.

His mother had tried her best to help him. They made weekly trips to the doctors and had become regulars with the pharmacy. Eddie didn’t go out much, because the pollen in the air made him have a horrible reaction and on the rare chance he did go out and he scraped his knee or elbow, the bleeding never seemed to stop.

Soon enough, he just stopped going out altogether. He went to school and back, though that rarely lasted as he was homesick half the time. He would have tutors come to the house to keep his grades up, but he missed being around the other kids, missed having someone other than his mom to talk to.

Sonia had suggested homeschooling, but the doctor refused. Even with his sickness, he needed to be around other children, other people. His mother agreed, but only if he followed her rules. He couldn’t join any clubs or sports, because if something had happened if he had gotten sick or worse, they wouldn’t know what to do.

He carried his inhaler and assortment of pills around in a fanny pack because it was easier than shoving them into his backpack. He needed them on hand 24/7 after all.

By the time Eddie was 13, he was allergic to peanuts, tree nuts, and several cooking oils. He couldn’t eat any blue dyes or anything with artificial sugars. He was on a gluten-free diet and used only antibacterial soaps and lotions. Perfumes gave him rashes and direct sunlight had an almost narcoleptic effect on him. He had asthma and panic attacks.

By the age of 15, he had never eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He had never swum in gym class and never went to a friend’s birthday party or had one of his own. He never had any friends to call his own. The closest thing he had to one had been Greta Keene, as her father owned the pharmacy that he and his mother frequented.

Over time, Eddie realized that Greta was nothing but a heartless bitch who picked on others because she couldn’t deal with the fact that her father was a perv who checked out her friends when he thought she wasn’t looking. But during childhood, they had sat together as they waited for the prescriptions to be filled. Sometimes she would be looking through a magazine and she’d be nice enough to let Eddie look through it with her.

He couldn’t touch it thanks to the ever-so-worrisome possibility of a paper cut, but he would look over her shoulder and gaze at the pictures of the different celebrities and whatever products the magazine was trying to sell.

By the age of 16, Eddie knew that he liked looking at boys rather than looking at girls, though that didn’t seem to matter at the time. For a very long time, he thought he didn’t like either. He would watch people kiss on the television during a movie with his mom and he’d get uncomfortable with the idea of having someone touch him so closely and swapping spit so carelessly.

It wasn’t long before his teenage mind began to drift off. The screen time he was given was very limited, but he found his mother was something of a thick sleeper and using incognito mode was a good combination for being able to see the world for what it was outside of the bubble his mother had made for him.

He didn’t have any social media accounts, but he was able to see everybody else’s. People from school, random strangers who had interesting lives. He scrolled and scrolled, trying his best to imagine what it would be like to be an everyday kid out in the world.

Would he have been good at skateboarding? Would he have been a gamer? Would he have been invited to sweet-16’s and would he have eventually fallen in love with a girl from school? Would he have gotten excited by making out with her after the school dance? Would he have held her hand in the hallway as they walked to class?

Eddie didn’t think the girl part would ever come about, though he did find it rather fascinating how beautiful some boys would be. He never thought of himself much. He knew, in retrospect, he had nice cheekbones and a fit frame. He had boyish looks that remained graceful even as he went through puberty. His mother kept his hair at a nice length and he styled it well enough.

His clothing was something to be desired. Shorts that remained rough his tights and polo shirts with the collar always pressed. He wasn’t a boy scout, but he had the look of one. He tried not to think about wanting to change it up. Wearing clothing that clung to him or styling his hair differently.

He would see some boys online that just looked completely in their element and he would find himself angry that he couldn’t do the same and had very little chance to do anything about it. He would see boys kissing other boys and think about how his mother had brought home a pamphlet from the church about how same-sex relationships and ‘equality’ were wrong for the world. He didn’t understand why.

Kissing was meant to bring joy to people. Love was meant to bring happiness. How could any of that be so wrong? Sometimes he would want to argue with her, but he never allowed himself to do such a thing, not after his mother had put so much time and effort into taking care of him.

He swallowed that anger down, letting it a bubble and fester inside of him as he carried out his day to day life.

By the age of 18, he had graduated high school and that was the end of his social life. He would go out to the doctor or pharmacy, but that was that. No going out to get take out or to see a movie. His bedroom had become his sanctuary. His home had become his prison.

By the age of 21, Eddie’s life had been torn to pieces.

Good old Dr. Keene had finally snapped after years of pent up frustration. Nobody knew what caused it. Perhaps it was from the endless repetition of filling the same prescriptions for the same people every single day. Or maybe it was the guilt of being attracted to young girls that pushed him over the edge.

One second he was working on a puzzle, trying to collect all the edges and then in the next, he was watching his mother be escorted in a police car.

It seemed that Keene finally had enough with Mrs. Kapsbrak’s bullshit and let the authorities know that she and her doctor had been lying about Eddie’s illnesses.

He wasn’t allergic to any nuts, or dyes, or perfumes. His inhaler was filled with water and the pills were just placebos.

They had lied about everything.

Sonia tried to defend her actions, saying that Eddie was, in fact, sick and she just took extra precautions to keep him alive. The doctor, on the other hand, admitted that he was dirt and had been accepting payment for assigning Sonia in her beliefs. He wrote up the scripts for the sugar pills, writing off blase excuses for why Eddie felt the way he did.

The doctor was arrested for malpractice and Sonia had been taken into custody for abuse and after a bit of time, they found her guilty of being a proxy to Munchausen syndrome. She was sent to jail for ten years with the possibility of release in three years given good behavior. A restraining order had been placed to keep her away from her son. And Eddie was forced to leave the only home he had ever known and been placed into the foster system.

Though he was over the legal age and classified as an adult, the lawyer the state had given him fought that, due to his mother’s influence, he shouldn’t have been thrown out onto the street. They wanted to fight that he wasn’t fully developed, at least not mentally, and needed proper assistance.

It seemed like almost overnight Eddie’s life had changed. He packed up the few belongings that he wanted to bring with him and went off to a few towns over to where his new home waited.

It was there that he had learned about what Gypse Rose and her boyfriend had done. And that bubbling pit of anger inside him began to simmer as he thought of whether or not he would have done the same.

When he found out the truth, he didn’t know what to feel. He threw up a couple of times and begged the police to give him his medication. When they refused, sending in a doctor to explain the situation, he began to go through withdrawals.

It took a good few days for Eddie to finally begin to feel normal. For the headaches to go away. For the aches in his chest to finally settle down.

His new home was decent enough. It was a decent-sized house, filled with just a woman and her son. They hadn’t been strangers, at least not completely. It seemed Mr. Hanscom was his father’s cousin and had been best friends with him all those years ago. He also turned out to be Eddie’s Godfather and legal guardian if anything were to happen to either of his parents. After his father passed away and he had gotten sick, Sonia refused to let anybody see Eddie and all contact with the family was cut off.

Mrs. Hanscom and her son Ben had been very open to why they decided to take him in. Mr. Hanscom cared deeply for his cousin and was heartbroken when he passed. They had tried to fight Sonia on letting them see Eddie, but Mr. Hanscom died before they could take it to court. Mrs. Hanscom had always attempted to make contact and repeatedly sent birthday cards and letters to him, but they were always sent back.

After he had died, Mrs. Hanscom went through some tough times and had to move in with her sister. It wasn’t ideal, especially for Ben who had been dealing with a few issues of his own like bullying, but they worked hard so they could afford a place of their own.

First was an apartment just big enough for themselves and eventually, a home that could have an extra person. At first, Mrs. Hanscom had suggested they would bring in someone who could pay rent, but they later decided to welcome in someone who needed a place to go just as they had years prior.

And then the news broke out about what Sonia had been doing to him and they jumped at the chance to help him. They didn’t want Eddie to look at it as a handout or a fostering situation. He was free to stay for as long as he liked, glad to have a little piece of his father back in their lives.

Eddie did everything he could to be anything but a challenge for them. The situation was strange on all of them and the last thing Eddie wanted was to be a bother. He tried to work around his allergies, only to be reminded that they didn’t exist.

He could eat gluten. He could have peanuts. He could eat things cooked in certain oil and have those sugary cereals.

Not that the Hanscom house was filled with any of that stuff. Ben had admitted to him that he spent a lot of his time eating his feelings when he was a kid, earning him some interesting nicknames along the way due to constantly being bullied for his weight.

He slimmed down in high school, having joined the track team in hopes of gaining some popularity and shaking off the weight. It worked and he was now out of school, feeling healthy and looking good.

He was attending the University of Maine for architecture, deciding to stay home with his mom since the school was less than twenty minutes from their town.

Eddie, upon finishing high school, decided not to go to college.

Well, his mother had chosen that. Now she was gone and he didn’t have any money to go and his grades weren’t good enough to warrant a scholarship. So he was forced to carry on like the rest of the losers in his school and remain in Maine forever.

Ben had been nice and got him a job at the grocery store in town with him. He had never gotten a job before and he was hesitant at first. He didn’t want to be a disappointment, but Mrs. Hanscom insisted that there was no way Eddie could be a failure at stocking shelves and bagging eggs for little old ladies.

Another thing they had done for him was to help set up a support group. The caseworker had it very clear that Eddie would have some mental issues after what he had gone through. They suggested having him go to a therapist, but Ben thought it would be more helpful for him to be around other people dealing with similar situations.

It just so happened that Ben had a friend who went to a group and they were able to squeeze him into it.

That’s how he met Beverly Marsh.

She was a friendly girl who had been through hell and back and welcomed Eddie in with open arms. He hadn’t been too keen on going, simply because he didn’t want to bother anybody with his problems.

It was just as they played it out on TV. They all sat around in a circle, introducing themselves to him and talking about their issues. The man running it offered one-on-one care if needed, though Eddie promised he would try out the sitting circle before branching out for personal help.

“It’s okay to be shy,” Beverly had mentioned as they walked out of the meeting. Eddie hadn’t spoken much, only when someone asked him a question, but even then he didn’t give more than a few answers. “Nobody likes to brag about the shit they’ve been through and if they do, then they’re worse off than the rest of us.”

“I just don’t think it’s worth anybody's time.” Eddie had mentioned, shoving his hands into his pockets as they walked down the street. “My mom was crazy. I don’t know what else to say about it.”

It was clear she had her issues to deal with. Eddie didn’t want to ask her why she did what she did because he already knew. She loved him and wanted to protect him, even if it meant doing unspeakable things.

Eddie knew people had it worse off. People like Bill, who dealt with a stutter because his mom knocked him down the stairs and had become neglectful since his little brother’s death, something that Bill himself still blamed himself for. Or Henry Bowers, who suffered mental abuse from the hands of his policeman father had turned himself into an abuser himself before finally being forced to seek help.

Or Beverly, who had been open to Eddie about why she was at the place, to begin with. During their first meeting, she said she had been abused by her father but didn’t go into detail. It wasn’t until they were alone when she confided in Eddie just how it had been.

The way he would treat her and touch her. The shit Keene used to do, leering at girls and making sly comments, couldn’t hold a candle to the horrific things Beverly had gone through at the hands of her father.

It was shit like that that made Eddie feel like he didn’t belong in the group, to begin with. All those people needed help because of the bad shit they had gone through. Eddie’s mother loved him, enough to want to protect him from the world. How could he complain about that? How could he compare himself to the likes of Beverly and Bowers?

Eddie felt more like a burden than he had before, but he swallowed down that pain and focused on the only thing he could control his job.

Mrs. Hanscom had been right when she said he wouldn’t fail. He succeeded in filling the shelves and bagging those eggs for the little old ladies.

He did that for two weeks, going to work and coming home to help with dinner, doing the dishes and washing his clothes and keeping his room spotless. A new routine for the same old guy.

Eventually, Mrs. Hanscom began to see how this was creating a rut for Eddie and thought it would be best if he joined Ben at the local gym. Eddie couldn’t think of a worse place to be, filled with sweaty men all grunting as they worked on their bodies, none of which bothered to wipe down the equipment when they were finished with it. Eddie stood off to the side for most of it, just following Ben around like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

“You know you can work out, right?” Ben asked a few minutes of Eddie just idling there. “You’re my day guest. Why don’t you grab a few weights and give it a go?”

“I’ll pass. Knowing my luck, I’ll wind up dropping it and breaking my foot.”

Ben snickered, sitting up from the lying position he had been working in. Eddie was sure it had a name, but he wasn’t aware of it. He didn’t know any workout slang or equipment names. Ben stood then, gesturing to the machine. “Lay down.”

“What?”

“Lay down. You’re gonna work those arms.”

Eddie shook his head, but Ben ignored his protest and requested to clean the seat down before forcing him to lay back. “Alright. This is a barbell bench press. We’ll start slow, okay?”

“Ben, we don’t have to do this,” Eddie swore, hugging when the other male pressed the metal beam against his chest.

“It’s twenty pounds, Eddie. You can do twenty pounds, right?” Ben asked, going to stand by Eddie’s head and spot him. He kept his hands hovering under the beam, letting him ready to catch it in case Eddie couldn’t do it.

But he did. He lifted it carefully, not with much effort. Eddie wasn’t weak, not physically at least. He should have been based on the way he had been living and the food he had been fed, but he found that some of the things his mom had been pumping into him, aside from sugar pills, had been vitamin supplements. All the vegetables that his mother had fed him were filled with enough protein to keep him moving, to keep up his strength.

So yeah, he could lift the twenty pounds. And then the thirty that Ben added. They went to forty and it got to be a bit harder, but he could still handle it. It was only when they got to the fifty pounds did he start to shake a bit, start to worry and doubt himself.

“Hey hey Haystack!” A voice shouted from across the room. Eddie lifted his head to see who was speaking but was quickly pushed back into his place by Ben as the man approached. “You throwing down tonight?”

“Nah, not tonight Rich,” Ben replied. Seeing as he answered the stranger, Eddie guessed that Haystack must have been a nickname of sorts. He didn’t get it, figuring it was some sort of inside joke.

“Awe, come on. Big Bill is gonna be dropping by and you know you can’t resist stepping in with him.”

“I have a handful of shifts this weekend. I can’t risk pulling something or messing up my hand.”

“Bah! Like you’ve ever lost.”

“I’ll stop by though. Cheer you on from the sidelines.”

“Now that’s what I call friendship Vol 12!” The stranger tapped Eddie’s knee then, prompting his attention. He craned his head up so he could gaze at him, finding a lanky man with wild hair and glasses standing at the end of the bench.

He had on gym shorts, much like everybody else and a white tank top, which was covered with an obnoxiously colored button-down shirt that was opened in the front. He had a headband around his forehead and thick glasses which made his eyes seem just a tad larger than normal.

“Aye, keep it up, small fry. You got this!” He cheered on before walking off.

Eddie faltered for a moment, letting his head fall back and then lifting it again to make his statement. “I’m not fucking small!” He shouted, causing Ben to chuckle from above.

“Ignore him. He’s not worth your effort, trust me. Had enough or do you want me to up it?”

“I think I’ve had my fill of bodybuilding for the day.”

Ben laughed and pulled the beam off him like it was nothing, carefully placing it down in the corner.

They left the gym and returned home. Eddie helped Mrs. Hanscom make dinner and set the table and then once they finished eating he helped clean up. They sat together on the couch, watching some movie on the tv. It reminded him too much of how he and his mother would spend time together.

They wouldn’t go to the park or out for walks. They stayed inside and did puzzles and watched tv. She would put on the news and show all the horrifying things going on in the world and comment on how lucky Eddie was that he could stay inside. They would watch old cartoons that were perfectly fine for a little kid well up until she was taken awake.

Mrs. Hanscom gave Eddie the choice of what to watch though he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know the television shows that were popular at this time nor did he care for anything. It was just white noise for him. He would stare blankly not even bothering to soak in what was being played out for him.

They settled on some reality show that was trashy and boring. Mrs. Hanscom would comment here and there about how ridiculous it was and how utterly staged it had to be.

After a while, Ben got up from the couch and went to change his clothes. He told his mom he was going out and kissed her cheek before walking out the door.

Eddie sat alone with Mrs. Hanscom, watching the trash television of overly wealthy people and the petty problems they lived with every day. Eventually, she turned in, wishing him a good night as she went off to her room.

She didn’t tell him to turn the tv off or to make sure he was in bed by a certain time. He was given choices for the first time in, well ever. Eddie did make his home to bed, ready to start the day all over again.

To work, then home, to make dinner and do laundry. He had a routine, just like he had before everything went to shit.

He liked it, to an extent. Liked knowing what to expect and having a routine allowed him to mostly stay sane in all of this. If he knew what tomorrow brought, then he would have something to focus on and wouldn’t get lost in the in-between.

He didn’t question where Ben had gone that night or where he had gone a few nights later. Ben had his own life and didn’t have to invite Eddie everywhere he went. He brought him to the gym for a second time, pushing him once again onto a machine so he could work on his upper arm strength.

Nobody paid much attention to him there, all speaking to Ben and offering him polite glances and nods. This time he was on something called a ‘hammer strength machine’ pumping his arms in and out. Ben once again spotted him, making sure he didn’t push it or hurt himself.

Eddie would have wondered why Ben didn’t go to school to be a personal trainer if he hadn’t seen some of his sketches and models. The guy was born to create buildings. He just happened to also have a knack for bodybuilding as well.

It wasn’t until Beverly had come around to pick Ben up to go out did she see that he was being left behind. She was pissed, more so than Eddie had been about the whole thing and threw a bit of a fit over it.

“You can’t just leave him behind, Ben!” She argued.

Eddie was just sitting on his bed, reading one of the books that Ben had lent him. He didn’t even realize that Ben was going out on this particular night until the redhead rushed into the room and told him to get dressed.

“I wasn’t leaving him behind on purpose,” Ben swore gently. “It just didn’t seem like his type of thing.”

“You said the same thing about me.”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” Eddie injected, trying to piece together what exactly was going on.

“We’re going out. Put your clothes on.” Beverly said.

There was something about the way Beverly presented herself that proved to Eddie she wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. He pulled his clothes back on and got into Ben’s car where he drove them out and away from the suburbs and into the grasslands. He didn’t get a chance to ask why they were out in the middle of nowhere when they were suddenly pulling up behind an old farmhouse.

Everything seemed so sketchy and murder and when he found there were more people there than expected, Eddie didn’t know what to think. They passed all the sheep and chickens surrounded by a pen, going further down until they came upon an area that was completely lit up by torches.

“What are we doing here?” He asked Beverly, following her off to the side.

In the middle of the crowd, there was a boxing ring. It was mostly makeshift, with the ropes around it looking tethered and overused. He wondered what a thing like this was doing randomly out in the middle of nowhere.

“Tonight, just watching,” Beverly answered to him.

“Watching what?”

“All right, all right! Everybody settle down!” A voice shouted out. A man appeared in the room then, followed by a second man. The first was dark-skinned and he recalled seeing around town before. His family’s farm supplied the meat for the grocery store. His name was Mike.

The other man was a stranger to him. Tall and thin, with short, neatly styled hair. Neither men looked like they were dressed to be inside the gym, with Mike wearing a plain tee shirt and jeans and the other wearing a button-up and khakis.

“Welcome everyone. We’re gonna have some good fights tonight.” Mike said, greeting the crowd once they relaxed a bit. “So far we have six signed up, which means three tights. Stan and I have put together who goes again who, so if you’re fighting or betting, listen up.”

The second man, Stan, held up a chalkboard for the crowd to see. “We have Denbrough vs Bowers. Cross vs Huggins. And Tozier vs Hotchsetter. Now, you all know the rules, so we’re gonna make this quick. No shirt, no shoes. No weapons of any kind.”

“The only weapon allowed in the ring is your body,” Stan mentioned, smirking down at the crowd.

“If you bleed, then you bleed. If you think something is broken, then you’re out. If someone says stop and if you do not stop, then that calls for what?”

“Total elimination,” Stan answered.

“If you wanna play dirty, you gotta pay the price. Now that we’ve reminded you how it goes: let’s begin, shall we? Anybody willing to take bets, speak with Stanley. Bowers! Denbrough! You have two minutes.”

“What is this?” Eddie asked, shifting aside as people moved through the crowd to get to Stan and make their bets.

“Have you ever seen the movie Fight Club?” She asked. “It’s sort of like that.”

“Bev, the only movies I was allowed to watch were G-rated films screened by my mother. Nothing with the word ‘fight’ would have passed her.”

“They’re gonna beat the shit out of one another.” Beverly simplified.

Before he could ask another question, both Henry Bowers and Bill Denbrough, two people that Eddie knew from the group meeting, slipped into the ring. Both were shirtless. Both were shoeless. Henry had his hair pulled back with a headband and Bill had some medical wrap wrapped around his knuckles.

Eddie moved closer, peering over someone’s shoulder to get a better look. Mike stood in the middle, reminding them both to be fair and to put on a good show before tapping them in. Bill and Henry circled one another before Bowers made the first strike. Bill blocked it easily, catching Bower’s off guard a half step later. It seemed like a simple boxing match except without the protective gear.

Eddie thought back to when he was eleven and had been flipping through the channels. He stumbled upon some MMA fight that was being televised. He was able to watch it for a good forty seconds before his mom flipped out and changed the channel. She rambled on about how dangerous fighting was and how sensitive Eddie’s skin was so if he were to ever be in a fight, he would be torn to pieces.

Eddie thought about what the differences would be, between MMA and boxing and whatever this thing happening here was.

In the tiny ring, they went at it, punching, and kicking, and biting, bruising skin and spitting out blood, they fought until finally, Mike seemed Denbrough the winner. The crowd cheered around them and despite having blood on his face, Bill still offered Bowers a hand to lift him. He guested it was out of good sportsmanship or something.

They left the ring, letting a few people slip inside to clean it up before the next two came up to fight.

Eddie recognized one of them as the fella from the gym the first time he went. He had his shaggy hair pulled back out of the way of his face and his glasses had been removed for obvious reasons. He was jumping up and down, practically bouncing with excitement as he stretched on the sidelines of the ring.

When Mike called his name, he hopped inside, pacing in place and punching the air theatrically.

Beverly stood beside him then, touching his shoulder to get his attention. “Hey, you okay?”

“How long do we have to stay here?” He asked curiously.

He guessed she took that as Eddie wanted to leave at that moment because in a flash they gathered up Ben making their way out of the crowd. The last thing Eddie heard was the animalistic shouts from one of the fighters in the ring before they were back in the car.

#Reddie #Reddie fanfic #Richie Tozier #Eddie Kaspbrak #Fight Club AU #Beneverly #Benverly #Stanley Uris

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wordsablaze · 4 years

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The Witchfinder’s Legacy

Things often come back to haunt Merlin but people with a vendetta make it all the more painful and Arthur struggles to step in before Merlin's suffered... from my whumptober adventures, enjoy!

A/N: Several chapters of my whumptober fic were linked and people suggested posting them as their own fic so here we are ^.^

Merlin was usually careful enough.

He knew he wasn't the most subtle with his magic - especially since Gaius never stopped lecturing him about it - but he rarely ever exposed it. Which meant that, for the most part, nobody would think to call him, the clumsy but joyful and loyal manservant, a sorcerer.

For the most part.

Every so often, someone would accuse Merlin of practising magic and there’d be a risk of jeopardising his destiny.

This time, however, it was a little more serious.

This time, it was a witchfinder.

And a fraud of a witchfinder at that.

Merlin catches Gaius’ eye as the witchfinder drags him into an audience with the King. The physician is doing a terrible job of hiding his concern, in Merlin’s opinion.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demands, raising an angry eyebrow at the witchfinder.

“The boy cast a spell on my horses!” The witchfinder declares, shoving Merlin forward.

Barely catching himself, Merlin shakes his head at the King. “I wasn’t, I swear-”

“All due respect, My Lord,” the witchfinder interrupts, “but surely you wouldn’t trust the word of a mere serving boy over mine.”

Uther frowns, clearly torn between what he wants to believe and wanting to save his reputation. If it comes down to his reputation, Merlin knows he’s doomed.

“Do you have any proof of this accusation?” Uther asks.

“You can’t have missed that my horses rampaged through the city as if possessed!” The witchfinder has the audacity to look offended, as if he hadn’t been the one to cause them to do so.

Gaius steps forward before Merlin can try to argue again. “Sire, I think we should remember what happened with Aredian before you pass any judgement.”

The witchfinder stiffens at the name and Merlin groans to himself because, if the two witchfinders are somehow related, there’s no way he’s going to let this go before Merlin is dead, or worse.

“Aredian, My Lord?” the witchfinder asks, his voice the epitome of innocence.

Uther’s silence acts as a cue for the witchfinder to grab Merlin again. “If there are, as you say, multiple who have accused the boy, perhaps there is good reason for it?” he suggests, tightening his grip on Merlin as if daring him to argue.

There’s a silence in which Merlin mouths an apology to Gaius.

Then Uther nods solemnly. “Very well. You may question the boy for three nights. If he then confesses to me, I will let you do as you wish.”

Merlin’s eyes widen but Gaius and Gwen - who seems to have appeared from nowhere - look more hopeful than before. Apparently they haven’t heard of how witchfinders force confessions from people and expect Merlin to easily survive his interrogations.

Once Uther's word is finalised, the first thing the witchfinder does is drag Merlin along and throw him into the small cage that lives on his cart, securing heavy metal shackles around his wrists.

He thinks he’s gotten lucky but no, as soon as the metal clamps around his wrists, something breaks inside of him, smothering him from the inside. Just his luck to be accused by a witchfinder that knows what kind of shackles can suppress magic.

Despite the pain, Merlin glares at him once he’s done. “I know you’re framing me.”

The witchfinder laughs as he spurs his new horses on and they start moving. “Just as you framed my father.”

A small gasp escapes Merlin. “You’re Aredian’s son?”

“Aren’t you a smart one?”

He doesn’t have a chance to answer because Aredian’s vengeful son turns a corner and he’s painfully thrown against the side of the cage. He ends up focusing on trying not to cry out every time Aredian’s son makes the journey more difficult for him, which is almost continuously.

It doesn’t help that it feels like someone is slicing into his soul with every passing minute, the shackles effectively dampening his strength entirely. By the time they stop, Merlin is sure he’s gained a dozen bruises, if not more.

He exhales softly as he hears Aredian’s son climb down and walk round to him. “I take it you won’t be ready to confess yet?” he asks languidly, clearly happy with this situation.

“I can’t confess to a crime you committed,” Merlin replies, not even trying to hide the venom in his voice.

“Oh, but you will…” Aredian’s son laughs. “But since we have three nights and I rarely require more than one, how about you enjoy a quiet night under the stars for today?”

“What?” Merlin finds himself asking before he can stop himself. It’s only then that he takes a moment to look past the pain and at his surroundings, seeing nothing but trees.

Aredian's son unlocks the cage and unhooks the chain from the side of the cart, yanking Merlin out of the cage and forcing him to tumble onto the ground. With a groan, Merlin pulls himself to his feet and stumbles after the witchfinder, who doesn’t even look back as he pulls on the chain that links Merlin’s shackles together.

They don’t stop walking until they reach a quiet, secluded clearing, where Aredian's son unlinks one of the shackles long enough for him to push Merlin in front of a tree and wrap the chain around the trunk so Merlin ends up effectively tied to it.

He’s too tired by the suppression of his magic to even fight back and the witchfinder takes this as a sign of him being in control of this situation.

“They’re going to discover you’re a fraud, you know,” Merlin warns, testing how far he can go and realising he literally cannot step away from the tree without uncomfortably pulling his arms backwards.

“No, they’re going to discover you’re a sorcerer,” Aredian’s son replies, harshly kicking Merlin’s knee so his legs buckle and he ends up on the floor yet again, groaning softly.

“Now, I’d avoid sleeping if I were you… what with all the snakes and that.”

He has the nerve to wink as he walks off, dropping petals behind him that Merlin can tell will attract the snakes that may have otherwise left him alone. Sometimes, it’s truly a curse to be Gaius’ ward and know so much about which plants attract which species.

Merlin stretches his legs out and winces as his knee starts throbbing but he can’t do anything about it, especially since he can’t use magic.

“This cannot be happening,” he mumbles to himself as he tries and fails to get comfortable, the tree digging into his back and the shackles feeling as though they’re digging into his bones.

Attempts to slide his wrists out of them only result in him breaking the skin there, leaving it more painful than before. Sighing, Merlin gives in and simply closes his eyes, preferring to be asleep than awake and in pain.

It doesn’t last long.

He wakes to a burning sensation.

He’s not sure what’s causing it at first but it’s not hard to figure out the source when his arms feel like they’re on fire, his wrists feel like they’re about to fall off, and the shackles feel as heavy as the burdens of his destiny as Emrys.

Biting his lip to stop himself from crying out and giving his magic away, Merlin curls into himself and struggles with the shackles, the dull clinks of the metal barely registering to his ears as he finds it harder and harder to breathe.

“Stupid Uther…” Merlin mutters through gritted teeth, somehow finding himself wishing that Arthur had been there to negotiate on his behalf.

With half a sob, Merlin gives up on the shackles, his wrists stinging from the myriad of cuts caused by the uneven metal and his head pounding as his magic screams at him from where it's being cruelly forced down.

It’s a small mercy that no snakes attempt to approach him despite a few having appeared, lured in by the scent of the petals. He's content to have survived what the witchfinder had attempted to throw at him, just like he'll have to survive anything else thrown his way.

By the time Aredian’s son returns, Merlin is exhausted.

“Well, well, well. It looks like someone foolishly did themselves a fair amount of damage overnight,” Aredian’s son drawls, laughing at the state of Merlin’s wrists.

Merlin just glares at him, too tired to argue or defend himself.

“If this is what happens before I even touch you, I can’t wait to actually get started…”

Something inside Merlin, something that feels a lot like hope, dies at the very thought.

But he’s too busy trying not to cry to care.

He has to get through his. To prove Aredian and his twisted son wrong. To prove to Gaius and Gwen and anyone else that believes in him that he won’t let them down. To make sure he’s there to protect and serve Arthur.

So when Aredian’s son unwraps the chain from the tree and roughly pulls Merlin back towards the cage on his cart, Merlin stays silent and focuses on breathing, on hiding the agony burning inside him, on staying alive for destiny's sake.

Out of everything, witchfinder shackles will not get the better of him.

He can’t let that happen.

Arthur's worrying is of no help.

Unfortunately.

He'd argued with his father until he’d been sent to his room, he’d paced the polish right off his floor, and he’d thrown enough objects around for his room to look like it'd been attacked by a beast of some sort.

But none of it had helped to get Merlin back.

None of it could undo his sentence with the witchfinder.

The sentence that, while Arthur was busy worrying, Merlin was suffering through.

“No,” Merlin repeats, his voice barely some sort of hushed whisper.

He’d tried not to talk at first and, in a way, he’d succeeded.

He hadn’t confessed, but he’d whimpered.

He’d whimpered and moaned and eventually cried out when the superficial pain on his skin had started to match the oppressive pain in his very bones.

Aredian’s son was fond of blades.

“Confess!” the witchfinder snarls again, cruelly dragging the small dagger down Merlin’s arm yet again.

“Not until you do,” Merlin bites back, but his defiance is weakened by the whimper that escapes him next.

He’s not sure he can handle any more slicing into his skin, he’s not even sure he should be awake with the amount of blood that seems to be spilling out of him. The constant agony of the shackles suppressing his magic doesn’t help either.

Aredian’s son groans, throwing the dagger to the corner of the room that Merlin had been brought to earlier that morning. Apparently, surviving the night outside was a double-edged success and had only lead to more severe interrogation ‘techniques’.

Merlin winces as the metal clangs against the stone walls, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans against the cold wall. At least it provides some relief from the way his magic is literally burning to be set free inside him.

He hasn’t moved away from the wall since he’d been roughly thrown there and the chain connecting his shackles had been fixed into a bolt on the wall. There’d been no reason to aggravate Aredian’s son; his only goal is to survive, to get back to Gaius, and to carry out his duty of protecting Arthur.

He can vividly feel all of the cuts littering his unfortunate skin, all the blood that falls over his fingers and slides down his torso. It hurts in a way that he can’t describe.

“I am not without mercy,” the witchfinder declares unexpectedly.

A broken laugh escapes Merlin as he shakes his head in disbelief, not bothering to open his tired eyes. He can’t see any mercy in such a cruel kind of torture.

“I will give you one more chance to confess,” he continues, his footsteps getting louder until he stops and crouches in front of Merlin, uncomfortably close, “before I take this to the next level.”

Something infinitely sharper than any of the blades that had been used on him throughout the day touches the back of Merlin’s hand and his eyes shoot open reflexively.

No.

He must have said that out loud because the witchfinder laughs. “I can’t have you bleeding out, now, can I?”

“No, please…” Merlin mumbles, finding a little strength in the newfound fear that shoots through him and shuffling away, as far away as possible. Not far enough.

“Is that a confession?”

No.

It’s a needle.

Merlin shakes his head weakly, biting his lip as Aredian’s son scowls darkly before sighing and arranging himself better, pulling Merlin’s arm towards himself in a firm grip.

“Well, then, I’ll have to make sure you don’t die so I can continue.”

Merlin whimpers softly and squeezes his eyes shut as the needle is pressed to his arm, into his arm, into the skin right at the edge of a cut, and then pushed, pushed, painfully pushed deeper until the thread is pulled through.

He cries out immediately, trying to get his hand free, but there’s no use, the witchfinder is stronger. He makes a mockery of stitching the wound back together, unfathomable jolts of pain sparking along Merlin’s arm as he bites his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

By the time the wound is stitched back together, the witchfinder is grinning and Merlin is close to crying.

He yanks his arm back as soon as it's released and whimpers, knowing the wound could have done with a simple bandage instead. It’s almost alarming how neat the unnecessary stitches are, almost a parody of when Gaius has done the same for him in the past.

“There, see, that wasn’t so bad…” Aredian’s son drawls, close to sounding like he actually cares about keeping Merlin alive.

A small part of his brain is telling him that this is all for show, that it’s all being done so the King can’t complain and accuse the witchfinder of anything, but he’s blinded by the throbbing in his new stitches.

“You seem relieved…”

Merlin looks up sharply, cradling his arm.

Aredian’s son smirks at him. “Come on now, don’t give me that look. We’ve only just started, after all.”

“No, no, no,” Merlin breathes, shaking his head, trying to move away, failing to move away because of the shackles, his eyes widening at the implication.

Before he can make sense of anything, Aredian’s son has pushed him to the floor and is hovering above him, pressing down on his chest and brushing the needle against the gash in his side.

That one does need stitches, Merlin can admit. But he wants Gaius to do it, he doesn’t want this, he can’t handle this, please-

The needle pushes in.

Merlin screams.

His thrashing is weak because his soul feels drained but he’s aware of himself crying as the witchfinder just laughs above him, using the thread to pull his skin back together as if this is all a game, as if Merlin’s pain is nothing more than background music.

He feels himself starting to lose consciousness halfway through but he doesn’t get the mercy of staying unconscious, his magic forcing him to stay awake, to stay alert.

So he just screams, his hands curling into his fists and his teeth starting to ache from being clenched together too hard. He can’t move, he’s pinned down by the weight of the witchfinder, but his free leg kicks at the witchfinder desperately, uselessly.

It hurts.

Merlin can feel his resolve crumbling; this is something new, something no spell or book could have prepared him for. This is pure evil and he can’t do anything, he can’t find a way to stop it, he can’t figure out how to handle it.

“Please!” he finds himself whimpering, wishing it would stop.

It doesn’t.

Not until the knot is tied and the gash has been closed in the most awful way possible.

Only then does he breathe, every breath tugging slightly on the stitches but letting him exhale his pain away. Or rather, imagine that he’s exhaling some of his pain away.

“One more, I think…” Aredian’s son muses, glancing over Merlin.

He shakes his head again, silently pleading for him to stop.

Aredian’s son clicks his tongue as his eye catches the wound on Merlin’s shoulder; Merlin watches as the idea forms in his mind but he’s too exhausted to even try and defend himself this time.

He’s rolled over so that the cold floor is pressed to his face and he can see nothing but stone and blood, the shackles digging into his wrists painfully and Aredian’s son settling into place above him, pinning him down again even though he wouldn’t have the strength to move anyway.

Merlin screams again as he starts stitching.

This one hurts the most.

He can’t stop the tears escaping from his eyes as the needle is pulled through his skin, weaving away the wound but leaving behind unmeasurable agony in its wake.

He slumps into the stone below him, letting his tears fall as soft sobs leave his tired, bleeding lips. If he didn’t have magic, he’d have been mercifully unaware by now, but it’s just his luck to be plagued by the reminder of his destiny, his responsibility, his duty to fulfil the expectations looming above him.

“Puh- Please…” Merlin manages to plead as the witchfinder harshly yanks the thread at one point and sends a whole new wave of pain down his spine.

“I don’t know what you’re made of that’s keeping you awake,” Aredian’s son mutters, something like concern flashing in his voice for half a second. It disappears as soon as he adds, “But you could just take this chance to confess.”

Despite everything, Merlin shakes his head, letting his eyes close once more.

He’s so tired that he wouldn’t even have the energy to form a confession if he’d have wanted to. Not that he does. He never will. Not even if it kills him.

And as the third gash is finally stitched up and Aredian kicks him back into the corner, agony from all three wounds flaring up enough to entice yet another broken sob from his lips, Merlin thinks it just might.

Merlin rarely screams.

He’s so used to being quiet and hiding his pain to maintain his reputation as a bubbly manservant who always smiles at everything and cracks endless jokes. Even in front of Gaius.

The last couple of days have made up for all of that.

He easily loses count of how many times he’s screamed in pain during his sentence with the witchfinder, both due to internal agony related to the magic-suppressing shackles and the inflicted external wounds.

And the third day’s morning sees him screaming yet again, albeit weakly this time, as freezing water is unkindly poured over him; it’s a shock and a half.

“I thought you might be dehydrated,” the witchfinder explains, even though it’s more of a taunt.

Merlin just glares up at him, not even bothering to try and straighten his posture from where he’s awkwardly slumped against the wall because his limbs feel like the mud he usually has to clean off the horses after it’s been raining.

“What? No thanks?” Aredian’s son crouches down and lifts Merlin’s chin with his hand, smirking. “Do you need more incentive to show your gratitude?”

Naturally, Merlin doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy trying to figure out if he’s now freezing because of the unwanted shower or if the burning in every atom of his magical being is just so intense that it only feels as though his soul has frozen over and is now shattering into tiny fragments, fragments that are slowly piercing his organs.

Within seconds, the witchfinder’s other hand presses down onto the stitched wound on his arm, eliciting a sharp, broken whimper from Merlin, who can’t help but also flinch away from the pain.

“Much better!” Aredian’s son beams brightly, as if he were a child getting his way.

A lack of sleep means Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to mentally form a comeback to that, never mind actually say one out loud. He just waits until Aredian’s son is satisfied and lets go of him again so he can exhale softly, pulling his arm closer to his chest protectively.

“I had so many fun things planned for today but I might have to change them if you’re so unwilling to talk,” Aredian’s son announces.

Merlin just waits, blinking water out of his eyes.

“I think we’ll go for a ride,” he announces eventually, making Merlin groan.

He knows what’s coming but it still hurts - it hurts so, so much - when Aredian’s son unfastens the chain and yanks him to his unsteady feet, not bothering to let him steady himself before starting to march towards the door.

Merlin almost falls over in his haste to stumble after Aredian’s son, his numb feet just about managing not to let him fall until they arrive back at the cart. Only then does he stumble and end up on the ground, groaning softly as the witchfinder grins down at him.

“Pathetic,” he comments gleefully.

Merlin flinches from the word, using his less injured arm - that is, the one without the stitches - to push himself upright as he bites down on his lip to stop himself crying out.

Aredian’s son just grabs his ruined t-shirt and hauls him up, practically tossing him back into the cage before securing the chains to the cart once more. He’d lost his jacket and necktie at some point, probably when all those blades had gotten involved, so he can’t stop himself from shivering when his skin touches the cold metal of the cage.

“Comfortable?”

Merlin lets his eyes shut and refuses to acknowledge the question, but regrets that when Aredian’s son bangs on the cage, the reverberation echoing through his bones and drawing out yet another whimper.

He feels himself slide down until he’s not touching the bars anymore, curling into himself to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.

Aredian’s son just angrily grumbles something about a confession and, soon enough, the cart starts moving. Hitting as many rocks and bumps in the road as possible, it seems.

When they stop, Merlin doesn’t notice.

What he does notice, however, is the chains rattling and the shackles rubbing against his bruised wrists, where the skin is raw from when he’d found the energy to struggle.

He hisses softly, his eyes blearily blinking themselves open.

“Merlin?”

Arthur.

Merlin gasps, pulling himself upright with newfound strength, carelessly lifting a hand to rub his eyes, ignoring the pain that shoots down his arm.

“I can’t- Merlin, stop moving!”

Definitely Arthur.

But Merlin obeys anyway, his gaze finally focusing on a familiar face as Arthur draws out his sword. Despite the familiar face, however, Merlin flinches as light glints of the sword, pulling himself into the opposite corner.

“No, Merlin, I wasn’t-” Arthur cuts himself off, sighing sadly, and swallows before sheathing his sword almost guiltily and turning to the menacing chains once more.

Merlin lets his eyes fall shut again regardless of how much he wants to see Arthur, how much he wants to see if Arthur will stay.

He’s missed Arthur.

There’s about a minute’s silence before an almighty, metallic noise rings out and Merlin abruptly feels alive.

He gasps, ducking his head to hide his eyes as they widen because he can feel, actually feel the powerful golden glow that radiates from them. He covers his head with his arms as his heart blooms again, as his soul finally starts to thaw and comfort him again, as his magic roams free under his skin again.

He breathes.

Inhales.

Exhales.

Simply breathing.

He’d forgotten how liberating it feels to be able to breathe normally.

He waits until he feels his magic settle, nestle inside him where it can’t be found, before looking up.

Arthur’s tears greet him.

He frowns but no, he’s not hallucinating, Arthur Pendragon is in front of him, is crying in front of him.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathes, a small smile blooming on his face.

Arthur looks conflicted but he beams as Merlin smiles, letting them share their relief for a moment before clambering onto the cart and unfastening the bolt on the cage, practically throwing the door open.

“Come on, Merlin, I have to get you out of here,” he says quickly, hushed.

Merlin nods, pushing himself towards Arthur and letting himself be swiftly but kindly guided off the cart.

Instantly, there are arms around him.

Merlin’s smile only lasts a second before Arthur’s hand brushes the stitched wound on his shoulder and he cries out, wincing enough for Arthur to pull back in concern. “Merlin?”

“S- sorry,” he manages, unable to stop smiling despite the pain.

“Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry,” Arthur tells him sincerely.

Someone starts yelling somewhere behind them - apparently, Aredian’s son hadn’t missed the commotion - and Arthur’s eyes widen, glancing around frantically before settling back on Merlin. “I’m sorry if this hurts,” he whispers.

Then Merlin’s feet are leaving the ground and his head is suddenly on Arthur’s shoulder.

He whimpers but clings to Arthur as he bites down on his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet, focusing on his magic, trying to see how much of it he can use to help them escape, to help prevent Arthur having to face the witchfinder too.

Not much, apparently.

But just enough.

With the help of Arthur’s strength and a sprinkling of Merlin’s magic, they manage to make it far away enough that they can’t even hear whoever it was chasing them anymore. Only then does Arthur stop and let Merlin down, making sure there’s a tree behind him that he can lean on.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Arthur smiles.

When he doesn’t continue with how he’d be losing someone to use as target practice or something of the like, Merlin lets himself smile properly for the first time in days.

“Why… I mean, how did you…?” Merlin stops suddenly, unsure of what exactly he should be asking.

Arthur understands anyway.

He shrugs. “I persuaded my father that three nights was far too long to result in a genuine confession and then I simply followed the tracks to find you.”

“You followed the tracks?” Merlin echoes, unsure where his energy is coming from but unable to resist an opportunity to tease Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat pointedly. “I may have, uhm, asked… everyone… if they’d seen a witchfinder.”

Something soft, something like happiness, spreads through Merlin as he imagines Arthur questioning so many people just to look for him. It means more to him than he can care to admit and it makes his suffering at the hands of the witchfinder just a little more tolerable.

“Arthur, we can’t stay here,” Merlin finds himself saying, despite his heart wanting to do just that.

Arthur nods solemnly. “I know, we have to get you back home- Uh, that is, to Gaius. So he can heal you. Because you don’t look good at all.”

Merlin has questions but he makes a note of and saves them for another time.

When Arthur moves to pick him up again, Merlin holds up a hand and steps back just enough to prove a point. He ignores the way Arthur looks horrified at the bruising on his wrist and swallows. “I can walk.”

“Merlin…”

“We’ll be faster this way,” Merlin argues.

Arthur takes a moment but nods once more, pausing briefly before grabbing Merlin’s hand and starting to run.

“I only said I could walk, Arthur!” Merlin yells as they start moving.

“You also said you wanted to go faster!” Arthur yells back, his voice laced with equal amounts of amusement and concern.

Merlin had anticipated himself falling but he does nothing of the sort, a strange sort of strength pushing him forward, allowing him to keep up with Arthur as they sprint their way towards Camelot.

They don’t speak but they don’t need to.

If Arthur’s hand wasn’t firmly gripping Merlin’s as they ran, Merlin would have thought he was imagining this as some kind of fever dream. It just seems unreal that Arthur would search so desperately for him but he’s not complaining; if this is the reward for maintaining his end of destiny’s bargain, he’ll gladly accept it.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks breathlessly at one point, glancing sideways.

Merlin nods, not even lying when he manages to reply, “Never been better!”

They carry on, through the forests and over the mostly deserted roads, stopping for nothing and no-one as they move, their fingers firmly intertwined as if their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the castle comes into view and the two of them share a slightly exhausted but still exhilarated grin as they somewhat carelessly navigate their way through the streets until they burst into the courtyard.

Coming to a stop, Arthur looks over to Merlin, pure relief in his expression.

Merlin sends him a lopsided grin in return.

But then the blistering pain of the last few days catches up to him and he whimpers again, his hand falling from Arthur’s as he doubles over, his body aching all over.

Agony burns and dances across his skin, creating nonsensical patterns between his wounds and connecting the dots of all his bruises. It hurts and although it's slightly better than before because his magic is trying its best to help dull his pain, it still hurts a little too much for him to bear.

“Merlin!”

He can hear Arthur’s concern but it seems that his adrenaline could only last so long.

Satisfied that he’s back in Camelot, back where he’s safe, back home, Merlin offers Arthur a soft smile before letting the soothing comfort of darkness take over, take away his pain.

He just about registers himself collapsing before he sinks into unconsciousness.

At least Arthur's there to catch him this time.

Arthur was no stranger to scars.

A knight’s duty is to battle and continue to battle even when injured.

Naturally, not every battle can be won and often, Knights would return home with more injuries than victories, injuries that slowly but surely healed into scars of memory and experience.

Having scars should have been a trait reserved solely for Knights.

Merin shouldn’t have scars.

A strange kind of fury blossoms in Arthur’s heart every time he’s reminded that his manservant and his - dare he say it - his friend had been injured, tortured, and left with scars.

He knew Merlin would scar as soon as he’d seen him, there’d been far too much blood smudged on his bruised skin and soaked into his rags of clothes for anything otherwise. And then they’d started moving and Merlin had winced and flinched but pushed through and his hand had smeared blood into Arthur’s skin while their fingers had been intertwined.

Merlin had been his responsibility and he’d failed him and that blood can never truly be washed off his hands.

Just like the witchfinder’s cruelty will never truly leave Merlin.

Arthur doesn’t even get to see Merlin for what feels like an eternity after they return to Camelot because Gaius forbids it and not even Arthur would dare to interfere with a court physician’s love for his son.

But not seeing Merlin doesn’t mean he’s not constantly reminded of him.

It seems that everything he does is somehow connected to Merlin so even waking up in the morning without their usual exchange of meaningless teasing feels strange, disjointed. If people didn’t respect his position as Crown Prince or First Knight, he’s certain they would have pointed out his general lack of enthusiasm, lack of spirit, lack of life.

And they’d be right; he misses Merlin.

He misses him more than he can explain. More than he can express. More than he can handle.

So he waits.

He waits and waits and pretends that he’s not suffering with his guilt and his concern and what seems to be his affection for Merlin.

It feels like years later when Gaius finally summons him.

Arthur’s never run so fast.

He thunders through the castle corridors until he reaches the physician’s study, composing himself enough to knock once, twice, thrice.

“Come in,” Gaius calls from inside.

Taking a breath, Arthur pushes the door open.

Only to be hit with something.

“Ow!” he exclaims, rubbing his head and glaring at the lowly twig that had bounced off him.

“What took you so long, clotpole?” Merlin teases.

Oh, how he's missed that voice.

Arthur feels himself laugh before he looks up, catching Merlin’s eye immediately, his feet pushing him forwards before he can think about it but his brain quickly catching up and making him freeze just before he gets round to embracing his manservant.

“Can I…?”

Merlin grins and pushes himself off the bench, wrapping his arms around Arthur.

It’s just about the happiest Arthur has felt in his life.

“Merlin…” he breathes, taking care not to press too hard as he wraps his own arms around Merlin, a relieved smile taking over his face.

They stay wrapped within the moment and each other, neither of them wanting to ruin their reunion in any way, anything they’d previously planned to say forgotten in favour of savouring one another’s presence.

“At least sit down, will you?” Gaius scolds, but not unkindly.

Sighing, Arthur pulls back so they can both take a seat on the bench, refusing to take his eyes off Merlin, noticing the way he holds himself tighter, as if afraid of falling apart.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” Arthur begins, only to be cut off as Merlin lifts a hand.

“I know, Arthur. It’s okay… You came for me, didn’t you?” The soft smile on Merlin’s face is so pure, it makes Arthur want to scream.

He doesn’t, of course.

He just takes Merlin’s hand, frowning at the small, almost invisible marks on his skin that he knows he should have prevented.

Merlin clears his throat after the silence stretches between them. “My face is up here, you know?” he jokes.

Arthur looks up slowly, unable to stop his gaze wandering over the rest of Merlin, the bandages peeking out from under his shirt, the few bruises that have failed to fade even after so long, and the way he seems to be smaller, more vulnerable, more fragile.

He knows Merlin is far from fragile, he knows that.

But he can’t help himself.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin says quietly.

Guilt flashes through Arthur again as he finally meets Merlin’s eyes and notices the almost-healed cut on his jaw and the healed but not entirely invisible scar on his forehead.

But he smiles nonetheless. “It’s good to have you back, Merlin,” he admits.

“It’s good to be back,” Merlin replies as he stretches a little, “but I’ve been in this room for so long, I’ve just about forgotten what wildflowers are like.”

It takes Arthur a second to register what Merlin’s said but then he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Surely you’d see the herbs and such that Gaius uses in his potions?”

Merlin makes an incredulous face. “Do you really think crushed remedy ingredients are anything alike?”

“I don’t know Merlin, I don’t often spend my time admiring flowers like a girl.” Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Ah but you do sometimes?” Merlin raises an eyebrow and Arthur scoffs, gently shoving his arm.

Wrong arm.

A stifled gasp escapes Merlin as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He reopens them almost instantly but it’s too late to pretend that nothing had happened, that he's alright.

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur blurts, awkwardly jerking back and pushing himself off the bench to stand upright, not even trusting himself not to hurt Merlin anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin murmurs in response, sighing.

But it is.

It’s Arthur’s job to protect Merlin and here he is further aggravating his wounds. Maybe Gaius was right to keep them apart, at least until Merlin was stronger, better, back to his old self.

But he can’t ever truly be back to his old self because he’ll have to carry the scars of his time with the witchfinder on his skin for the rest of his life.

“Please- Arthur, don’t… leave.”

Merlin’s voice breaks through his guilt-fueled doubts.

He doesn’t even have to think about it before sitting back down, shuffling as close to Merlin as he physically can, offering him a reassuring but apologetic smile.

“I won’t,” he promises.

It’s an easy promise to make.

Merlin’s loyalty is unbelievable, unrepayable, and if he’s willing to let Arthur stay near him- if he’s asking for Arthur to stay with him even after such an ordeal, Arthur will gladly honour that promise with his life.

He knows it won’t be too difficult for Merlin’s endlessly, hopelessly kind heart to forgive him but until he feels as though he’s kept this promise for as long as he’s able to, he’ll never quite forgive himself for letting Merlin have to bear the burden of his scars.

Merlin wakes up crying.

He’s not sure why at first but flashes of blades and chains and indifferent smirks are enough to let him guess that, apparently, he’s not recovering as well as he’d thought.

And if that wasn’t enough, he could easily have guessed because lately, it was common for him to lose out on sleep and end up experiencing his past pains all over again. It seems that, unfortunately, he’ll never quite get used to it.

Angrily, he wipes the tears from his eyes and pulls himself out of bed because the sun seems to be peaking through his window anyway so there’d be no point in getting back to sleep.

He’s still a little disorientated by the time Gaius wakes up and serves them breakfast so he says nothing, keeping his troubles to himself, not wanting to worry the man he considers to be his father.

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin?” Gaius frowns at him once they’re both finished and Merlin’s halfway out of the door.

He briefly considers replying truthfully.

“Of course, Gaius!” he smiles widely before closing the door behind him and making his way to Arthur’s chambers.

Arthur’s still fast asleep, no surprise there.

Rather than immediately waking him, though, Merlin sets up the armour for later, tidies away what he can, and sets the table for breakfast before attempting to rouse him.

“Arthur, come on, you’re going to be late!” Merlin all but yells at said prince, yanking the covers off him and chuckling when Arthur grumbles in response.

“So rude,” Arthur comments as Merlin kindly manhandles him upright.

For a second, he sounds just like Aredian’s son, right before a dagger had been plunged into his skin because he’d refused to make a sound. For a second, he’s back in a hollow, stone room with no escape and no refuge from the cruelty of someone out for revenge. For a second, he forgets where he is.

“Merlin, you do have to move,” Arthur says impatiently, breaking the spell.

“Right.” Merlin clears his throat, pushing away his memories and focusing on getting Arthur into a more respectable outfit for his meeting.

They’re both quiet until Arthur sits down to eat, at which point the silence seems to be suffocating Merlin and he finally speaks up: “I need to, uh, feed the horses. Unless there’s anything else?”

Arthur frowns before shaking his head. “No, that’ll be all. But make sure you’re back here after lunch to get me ready for training.”

“Of course,” Merlin promises before sprinting from the room, his feet taking him towards the stables even though it’s not actually his turn to feed the horses and he’d just used the first excuse he could think of.

When he gets to the stables, he turns and takes the path that leads into the woods, walking until he knows he hasn’t been followed before sinking down into the leaves under a particularly tall tree and sighing sadly.

He lets his head fall onto his knees once he’s pulled them up to his chest, keeping his eyes open so that he doesn’t fall asleep but letting himself slump back against the tree trunk, too tired to hold himself upright.

And he cries.

He doesn’t mean to but he can’t get the scent of metal and blood and badly hidden hatred out of his mind and it’s driving him crazy.

Silent sobs ripple through his frame as he tries to breathe, tries not to fall into unpleasant flashbacks, tries and fails to stay composed.

Only when he knows he can’t stay any longer without risking being late and letting Arthur down does he push himself to his feet, wiping the tear-tracks off his face and breaking into a soft run.

“You’re late, as usual,” Arthur scolds as he bursts through the door.

“You’re ungrateful, as usual,” Merlin retorts, scoffing.

He swiftly goes over to the armour and starts getting Arthur ready, letting himself stay focused on securing the clasps rather than securing his emotions.

“You smell bizarre, Merlin. What were you feeding those horses?”

Merlin blinks in confusion before pausing. “Um… I wasn’t… Someone else already had so I went to collect herbs for Gaius instead.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgement, the two of them lapsing into a hushed quiet once more before making their way to the field so Arthur can embarrass the new recruits with his ego.

He must be having a bad day because Merlin doesn’t even know what happens between handing Arthur his sword and the end of the training session. He’s dimly aware that he’d been gathering weapons and assisting the Knights but he can’t focus on any of it.

“Merlin, get your head out of the clouds,” Arthur yells at him eventually.

It’s only then that he realises the sky has gone dark.

“Wh- what?” Merlin asks, blinking as Arthur walks over to him.

“Did you get hit in the head?”

Merlin nods without thinking, then frowns. “Wait, no. I don’t know.”

After a beat, a matching frown appears on Arthur’s face. It disappears before Merlin can comment on it and then Arthur is pulling him back to his chambers, his grip on Merlin’s arm soft and gentle but firm enough to hold.

“Help me with my armour,” Arthur orders him once they’re both back inside.

Merlin does so, without question.

He steps back once all the armour has been taken off, picking up the gauntlet and readying himself for having to clean it all before the next dawn.

But Arthur just shakes his head. “No, Merlin, they don’t need cleaning yet.”

“Then what do you need?” Merlin asks, dumping everything in the chest near the door so he remembers to clean it another time.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again, then repeats the process.

Merlin would laugh if he weren’t so curious. “Arthur?”

“Stay with me?”

It takes Merlin a second to process the request because Arthur had blurted it out as if it were trying to run away from him.

“What?” is all he can reply.

Arthur walks over to him and smiles knowingly, something he doesn’t do very often. “I know that something’s troubling you, Merlin. Perhaps if you stay with me tonight, I can help.”

Oh.

Merlin’s heart grins as he understands why Arthur had been acting so nervous: he was just worried. But it’s not like Arthur can fight Merlin’s own mind for him, especially when he has no idea what goes on in there.

“Arthur, I appreciate it, but-”

“I know,” Arthur interrupts, “that I don’t understand entirely. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Even if he’d have wanted to, Merlin couldn’t argue with that.

“If you wish,” he mumbles.

Arthur’s explicit concern is almost surreal but Merlin lets himself have it, lets himself fall asleep in the presence of another despite the risk of his nightmares being a nuisance, lets himself be the subject of someone else’s help for once.

He sleeps soundly.

In case anyone's interested and hasn’t seen my whumptober fic, the prompts for each segment were 'shackled', 'stitches', 'adrenaline', 'scars', and 'stay with me' :)

like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist

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anghraine · 4 years

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pro patria, chapters 1-7

I don’t actually expect people to read this, but I want it over here for completeness’s sake, so—the Guild Wars 2 fic!

This one is ... different, apart from being for a canon that I think maybe three of my friends are interested in, because instead of writing a one-shot in my format of seven sections of seven sentences each, I've written an entire 70k+ fic that way. Each chapter is precisely 49 sentences long, which makes for a lot of very short chapters, so I'm bunching them up into groups of (of course!) seven.

It’s business as usual, however, in having copious footnotes (these ones assume everyone’s unfamiliar with the canon story).

title: pro patria (1-7/?) stuff that happens: a young Ascalonian woman grows from a sheltered aristocrat, to a hero rushing into danger to help a nearby village, to the investigator of a series of mysterious abductions and thefts tied to the Ministry itself. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: PC (mesmer / human / noble origin / missing sister [Ascalonian]), Lord Faren, Minister Ailoda, Deborah, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; PC & Ailoda, PC & Deborah, PC & Anise, PC & Faren

ONE 1 I always thought of myself as Ascalonian first, and Krytan second. Both of my parents were Ascalonian—my mother came from a family of Rurikton refugees fallen on good times, my father from Ebonhawke, and I was born there, myself. Mother had resigned from the Ministry over some quarrel with Minister Caudecus, and hammered in her protest by uprooting the entire family for an extended holiday with my aunt Elwin in Ebonhawke. This was long before the Rurikton gate got fixed on Ebonhawke, so in the off phases, people generally took “going to visit family in Ebonhawke” as a euphemism for something. But Mother being Mother, she headed through Lion’s Arch to the Black Citadel of all places, carved her way through only the gods knew what to the gates of Ebonhawke, turned herself over to the Vanguard, and waited for Aunt Elwin to show up and get them released. She was seven months pregnant with me by the time she arrived, Father and five-year-old Deborah in tow. And two months later, she delivered me there, Father and Aunt Elwin at her side, and Charr siege engines in her ears. 2 Father always wanted to go back to Kryta, for Deborah’s sake and mine. And during the times that the Rurikton gate got switched to Ebonhawke, when our kin in Divinity’s Reach rushed supplies through, requests for Mother’s return to the Ministry came with them. She only said, “We need soldiers, not supplies—yes, I know centaurs are attacking them, but —” “We need to go home,” said Father. A Charr attack shook her resolve more than he did: one that briefly broke through the walls while Deborah was out walking with Aunt Elwin. But it was Aunt Elwin who convinced Mother that she could do more to help our people in the Ministry than as one more staff against the Charr legions. She accepted the latest offer from the Ministry, this time to serve as representative of the Salma District itself, and we headed—home, to a place I’d never seen. 3 My father was a Fairchild, a descendant—if collateral—of Duke Barradin himself, while my mother was only a Langmar, and a Langmar of mixed heritage, no less. But Langmar meant nearly as much as Fairchild in Rurikton, where the family had owned a mansion for generations. When we first arrived, I’d never seen anything like it, for Aunt Elwin’s house in struggling Ebonhawke couldn’t begin to compare to the splendid gardens and shining marble of a mansion in Divinity’s Reach. Even Deborah, her eleven-year-old dignity often stronger than any other feeling, couldn’t help staring around with wide eyes. Mother, meanwhile, gained a still greater mansion in the Salma District upon receiving her appointment as representative, but she wanted us safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry. Deborah and I grew up quietly in Langmar Manor, educated with other Ascalonian nobles by Ascalonian tutors, familiar with every corner of Rurikton and very little beyond it. Deborah chafed at the confinement, but I was a little girl, content enough to spend my days playing and studying with Yolanda, Corone, and Faren, new and lifelong friends. 4 Deborah joined the Seraph the day she turned twenty. “I don’t understand,” I said blankly. “We call ourselves Ascalonians,” she told me, “and that means more than tracing our family trees. You don’t remember Ebonhawke, but those are real Ascalonians, fighting for what they love—like our ancestors fought for what they loved—but we’re happy to boast of their names without doing anything. Captain Thackeray could just sit back and enjoy everything he gets for being Gwen Thackeray’s heir, but he isn’t, and I won’t either. Ascalon is lost, even if Rurikton and the Settlement and Ebonhawke will never admit it, but as long as Kryta stands, we have something to fight for.” Deborah as a Seraph, solving crimes, keeping order, and skirmishing with the occasional bandit raid, wasn’t half so chilling a prospect as Deborah fighting legions of Charr, so I didn’t say what I thought—as long as Ebonhawke stands, we have Ascalon to fight for. 5 Deborah’s departure left the whole family scattered: my mother in Salma, my father dead, my aunt and cousins in Ebonhawke, my sister stationed all the way down in Claypool, and some remote relations and me in Rurikton. Mother, still grieving Father and anxious over Debs, decided that at fifteen, I was old enough to come live with her in her Ministry mansion. I’d felt lonely and restless in Langmar Manor, but I still received the news with very little short of horror. “You’re going the next district over, not across the world,” said Yolanda. “I’ll take a house in Manor Hill too,” Faren said recklessly, “and we’ll have amazing parties.” Faren being Faren, he actually did, aided by his father’s relief at him showing interest in something beyond Rurikton high society—even if that thing was only Salma high society. My mother kissed me when we arrived, and with a smile, told Faren, “It’s a pleasure to know you’ll be keeping my girl company, and of course, just to see you—you’re looking so well!” He preened. 6 We spent those early weeks exploring Salma, curious and cheerful despite ourselves, suppressing giggles as we followed a dour guide about the district. “Orr was destroyed,” the guide was saying, “Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire; only Kryta is left, and that by a narrow margin.” “Ascalon was ravaged by the Searing,” I said sharply, all laughter gone. Nobody would call Faren a great wit, but when it came to conversation and society, his instincts were impeccable. “You must have gotten the order confused, good sir—the Searing came first, the Foefire when everything was already wrecked—but a simple mistake, I’m sure—you were saying something about Kryta?” Biting back the first words that came to my lips, I forced myself to smile and say, “Sorry, we’re Ascalonian.” “I guessed,” said the guide. 7 I suppose I was a callow, coddled creature in those days, spoiled if not malicious—and though three years of even more luxury in Salma didn’t change that, a single letter did. To Minister Ailoda Langmar, I regret to inform you of the loss of Falcon Company in a centaur raid. Your daughter, Sergeant Deborah Fairchild, died honourably in battle. With my deepest condolences to you and your family, Captain J. Tervelan of the Seraph (Queensdale) As Mother staggered backwards, I caught her, and somehow afterwards, that was always the clearest memory: her weight in my arms, the letter falling out of her hand, fluttering downwards until it reached the floor, nothing visible but the seal of the Seraph. Until then, I’d been little more than an irritable butterfly, but with Mother shattered, I found myself willingly shouldering the work of mourning: the formal letters and heartbroken notes, the refusal of Deborah’s pension, the visits from friends and allies and enemies—I was warm and grateful to the Mashewes and Baroness Jasmina; coldly civil to that ass Zamon, whose commiseration fell little short of gloating; brave and dignified to Corone and his friend Edmonds; grieved but composed with Faren and Yolanda. Like a creature of a thousand faces, I sometimes thought in exhausted moments: not at all a proper Ascalonian hero, more Anise than Deborah—but it was the only way I knew to be strong.

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1) Ascalonian first: the PC from the first game was a resident of the human kingdom of Ascalon when the Charr, a species of giant cat people who lived in Ascalon a thousand years earlier, orchestrated a massive magical attack that killed thousands of Ascalonian civilians and devastated the landscape. Surviving Ascalonians were afterwards mostly killed or enslaved, except a few groups that escaped. The king then went mad and turned himself and the last survivors into vengeful ghosts.

2) and Krytan second: in GW1, the PC helps Prince Rurik of Ascalon lead a group of Ascalonian refugees into the neighbouring kingdom of Kryta. Some Ascalonians establish a settlement there while others live in the cities; generations later, this has resulted in a minority population of Krytan Ascalonians within broader Krytan culture, which the GW2 PC can belong to (though it has no impact on gameplay, which is what inspired the fic). In-game, Ascalonians are fiercely proud of their heritage.

3) Rurikton refugees: Rurikton, named after the Rurik in #2 (who was killed in the journey to Kryta), is the Ascalonian district of the Krytan capital, Divinity’s Reach.

4) Ebonhawke: a stronghold in the furthest reaches Ascalon built by elite Ascalonian soldiers and the civilians they fought to protect. It fell just outside of the king’s curse and has managed to survive the onslaughts of the Charr for 250 years.

5) I was born there [Ebonhawke]: there is no evidence for the PC being born outside Divinity's Reach, so this is probably one of the creakiest elements as far as canon goes. DR is canonically the PC’s home, and they strongly suggest they’ve never seen anything else. I made her very young when she arrived to finagle it, but it’s mostly there because I’m interested in the dynamic between Ebonhawke Ascalonians and Kryta Ascalonians, so I wanted to give her a foot in both worlds.

6) Minister Caudecus: a deeply corrupt Krytan minister who shows up in various storylines.

7) my aunt Elwin: Elwin Fairchild is a noblewoman of Ebonhawke in the game, a proud Ascalonian ambivalent over Krytan involvement in Ebonhawke’s affairs.

8) Rurikton gate: Asura gates are magic/technological portals created by a species of small, floppy-eared, ethically questionable scientists and researchers. They have a gate in Rurikton that will instantly transport you to the one in Ebonhawke, but it seems that it’s only recently been permanently fixed on Ebonhawke.

9) Lion’s Arch: the former capital of Kryta; after a cataclysm caused by giant eldritch dragons, the original Lion’s Arch was sunk and the city rebuilt into an independent city-state, while Divinity’s Reach became the new capital.

10) The Black Citadel: the capital of Charr-controlled Ascalon, built on top of the former human capital (and human remains, according to one Charr).

11) turned herself over to the Vanguard: the Ebon Vanguard defends and seems to largely control Ebonhawke.

12) five-year-old Deborah: we don’t know the exact age gap between Deborah and the PC, but Deborah seems to be older.

13) the Salma District: the PC will always live in Salma, regardless of origin, even though the city has sharp class and ethnic divisions and you can belong to one of the minority populations.

14) Duke Barradin himself: Duke Barradin was the heir to the previous royal family in GW1, but loyal to the elected king, Adelbern. His daughter was engaged to Adelbern’s son Rurik, but both were killed, so he has no direct descendants. However, the PC’s friend Faren is explicitly descended from royalty, the noble PC is implied to be so, and the Duke of Ebonhawke is descended from Ascalonian kings in particular, so it seems likely that their progenitor was some relation of Barradin’s.

15) only a Langmar: Captain Langmar led the elite Ascalonian soldiers that ultimately founded Ebonhawke, though she died in the process. There’s no sign that she had anything like an aristocratic background, but we’re told that class hierarchy in Rurikton is rooted in descent from Searing-era heroes, as Langmar was.

16) mixed heritage: GW2 Ascalonians, especially in Kryta, are a lot less homogeneous than in GW1. We see NPCs of all sorts of RL ethnicities identifying as Ascalonian or strongly implied to be Ascalonian. OTOH, Ebonhawke Ascalonians are implied to regard Krytan Ascalonians as "less" Ascalonian than they are, and there's a remark about Logan Thackeray’s beige heartthrob status being partly because he’s pure Ascalonian. The NPC I appropriated as their mother is a minister with default Krytan design, but who is talking with a Krytan who tells her to get over the Searing.

17) safe from the politicking and corruption of the Ministry: per #13, Salma is canonically the PC’s home and I’m stretching canon. The game is pretty emphatic that Ascalonians live in Rurikton or the Ascalon Settlement, and since there are nobles and mansions in Rurikton, it can’t even be a matter of “but the noble ones are up on Manor Hill.” The real explanation is that the choice of ethnicity is purely cosmetic and not considered any further, but that’s boring, and we’re never told that the PC has always lived in Salma.

18) Yolanda, Corone, and Faren: Faren is a shallow flibbertigibbet, but he seems to genuinely care for the PC; Yolanda and Corone are two of the friendliest guests at the party he throws for you.

19) the Seraph: the Seraph are a cross between soldiers and police in Kryta, principally involved in fighting off centaur and bandit attacks.

20) Captain Thackeray: Logan Thackeray, the Seraph commander of Divinity’s Reach and ultimate mentor/friend to the PC. He’s the descendant of Gwen Thackeray from GW1/GW: Eye of the North, who was the BEST CHARACTER IN GUILD WARS enslaved by the Charr as a child, but escaped to fight them for the rest of her life between succeeding Captain Langmar, finding love, and establishing Ebonhawke. She’s an iconic hero to Ascalonians.

21) Ascalon was ravaged by the Foefire: you don’t get a chance to correct the Salma Guide, but otherwise these are his exact words. The Foefire was the mad king Adelbern’s final curse that turned him and the last survivors into ghosts; the game tends to emphasize this rather than the Searing + brutal invasion that led to it. (It’s particularly glaring in this case, as you personally see Ascalon ravaged by the Searing in GW1 and spend a good deal of time fighting there, years before the Foefire.)

22) Minister Ailoda Langmar: the Krytan-Ascalonian minister I mentioned above is simply "Minister Ailoda," with no other name given. There's no sign of any connection to the PC, but eh, game mechanics.

23) the Mashewes...Jasmina...that ass Zamon...Corone and his friend Edmonds: Lady Mashewe is a pleasant acquaintance who says her mother prayed for the PC; Jasmina's a noblewoman avoiding Faren; Zamon and the PC insult each other; Edmonds talks to the PC with Corone.

24) Anise: Anise is the charming, enigmatic, and powerful mesmer leader of the queen’s personal guard, the Shining Blade.

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TWO

1 My sister’s gravestone read: Deborah Fairchild Daughter of Kryta and Ascalon Died serving her country with honour, faith, and courage. No body rested beneath the stone; neither the Seraph nor Mother’s Ministry guards ever managed to recover the missing corpses. I never saw a ghost, never heard the merest whisper of her spirit. The grave was the nearest approximation we had, but I often felt drawn to it, dry-eyed and somber. A day rarely passed when I spoke her name, and a day rarely passed when I did not think of her, memories jumbled up with horror at what that missing body must mean. When Debs joined the Seraph, she spoke of Logan Thackeray, of Ebonhawke, of the ancestral heroes whose names brought us respect and luxury—not of Mother, Aunt Elwin, certainly not me. Yet I could not help feeling that somehow, had I done something different, been someone different, she would never have left us. 2 For a year, I played my part in what increasingly seemed a theatre of grief: three months’ withdrawal into mourning, gradual emergence into a solemn, reserved public life over the next six months, and another quarter-year to return to my old habits of gaiety and grudges—yet little altered for me, at court or during my weekly vigils at the grave. Not, at least, until one of the latter was interrupted by a familiar voice, saying: “Indulgence doesn’t suit you, darling.” “Anise?” I exclaimed, too surprised for offence; Countess Anise was a longtime friend of our family—only the Six knew how long—but I rarely saw her away from court, much less in the guarded seclusion of the Langmar cemetery. “All those faces of yours,” said Anise, her drawl indistinguishable from every other time I’d heard her, “and you’re squandering them on self-pity and an empty coffin.” “She wanted to be a real Ascalonian,” I blurted out—I, who hadn’t confided in my mother or my aunt or my friends, and somehow I couldn’t help but babble on, “a hero fighting for her home and her cause, and now—now she’s just like them, a martyr and a defiled corpse somewhere—” “You’re getting hysterical,” Anise said, not unkindly, and added, “Is martyrdom what it means to be Ascalonian, now?” I’d always liked Anise, a clever lady mesmer like my namesake, but alive and undefeated; I respected her uncharted skills and enjoyed her inscrutable charm, but until that moment, I never realized: she was Ascalonian, too. 3 Teach me, I found myself begging Anise, though I myself didn’t quite know what I meant—maneuvering in the court, or chaos magic, or defending another person, or outwitting potential threats, or generating clones, or simply surviving in prosperity—perhaps I did not mean anything in particular. I couldn’t be Deborah, and in my heart I didn’t want to be Deborah, a soldier locked into hierarchies and orders and thrown into small doomed skirmishes. In any case, I hadn’t Deborah’s resilience, or Captain Thackeray’s unwavering loyalty, or his foremother Gwen’s relentless courage—but if I did not envision myself as equal to Anise, hers were footsteps I could see myself following, regardless of the particulars. Even as I pleaded with her, I expected little from a woman at once detached and preoccupied—and thought little of what had driven her to intercede in the first place. But Anise, taking the request on its face, smiled. “Chaos for a devotee of Kormir? Delightful—I’ll expect you at moonrise.” 4 My life reformed itself over that next year. Mother, relieved to see me interested in something of substance, readily relinquished me to Anise’s patronage; Anise herself proved an exacting but gracious mentor, dispensing advice, demands, criticism, and praise in equal measure; and my friends found me more and more myself. Small concerns crept back into my mind: the superiority of silk over velvet, Barradin wine over Eldvin ale, Gwen Thackeray over Queen Salma. Greater ones, of course, drew my attention as well: the downfall of the Meades, one of the oldest Ascalonian houses in Kryta, and consequent disappearance of our childhood friend Kasmeer Meade; the desperation of the war in my birthplace and heightened Krytan aid; the murder of an Ascalonian minister. I miss Debs every day, I wrote to my aunt, but I know I have to make something of my own life, in my own way. I’ve been thinking of returning to Ebonhawke to help, since Anise says I am ‘highly proficient’ as an aetherist. I haven’t left Divinity’s Reach in years, though, so before I try myself against the Charr, I’m planning on making my way around Queensdale—at least Shaemoor. 5 To the world, my story began the day I stepped through Dwayna’s Gate into Shaemoor. The world is wrong, of course; my life didn’t begin with centaurs clubbing a frightened man the instant that I set foot in Shaemoor, with stalls and cottages roaring into flame, with a boy as blond as Debs huddled in a corner, with the blood and brains and screams of that day. It didn’t begin with the barely-heard orders from Corporal Beirne—with the indistinct impulse that had me running forward rather than back, urging strangers towards the inn, catching the boy up in my arms, consoling a woman over the slaughter of her dog as I dragged her with my free hand—with the furious spells tumbling from my mouth, focused through the weak wooden sceptre in my hand. I was someone before I became the hero of Shaemoor. I was myself, with my own history, my own concerns, my own people … the man, that man slaughtered before my eyes, was Ascalonian, and the boy too. If they had not been, perhaps the instinct of the moment would not have flung me into the horror as if I’d been tempered by the Searing, instead of sheltered in Divinity’s Reach. Or perhaps it ran deeper than that, and I would have turned onto that path had the man been Zamon, or an Asura, or even a Charr—but still, it was the turn, not the beginning. 6 Something did begin at Shaemoor, however: my association with Logan Thackeray. I’d met him before, socially, but only just—and in perfect honesty, knew him more as the butt of Anise’s wit than anything else. But I respected him from what I’d heard of his service to Divinity’s Reach, and for his determination to follow his ancestress’s footsteps and not just her name. In the midst of all that panic and death, it seemed only natural to rush to his aid when I heard that he was being overwhelmed. I had no sword, like Logan, or Deborah; I struck from among magical decoys, twisting chaos about our enemies from each direction—but it was something, and an hour from leaving the city for the first time, I was at Logan’s side, blasting aether at a massive earth elemental and the many smaller ones. He didn’t know me from Kormir, or at least from Kasmeer, but I knew we were a Langmar and a Thackeray again, thrown into another desperate fight, and there were worse ways to die. But we didn’t die; we lived and we triumphed, and by the time that I awoke in the care of a priestess of Dwayna, every Seraph from Logan on down knew who I was. 7 All my life, I had been Minister Ailoda’s other girl or the lady Elwin’s niece or Sergeant Fairchild’s sister or a Langmar, you know, on the mother’s side—or, now and then, merely my lady. I rarely heard my own name outside my little circle of Ascalonian nobles. I also rarely heard it in the immediate wake of Shaemoor. But now I wasn’t a satellite about greater relations, extensions of my mother or aunt or sister or heroic ancestors. I was the hero, myself, even as I wandered about Shaemoor in a daze. I didn’t do much: fought off little wyrms and harpies, found missing herds, gathered apples. Yet there was no my lady there, much less So-and-so’s relation: only the hero of Shaemoor.

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1) clever lady mesmer like my namesake: the PC's name isn't explicitly stated in this section, but those familiar with the original Guild Wars: Prophecies can probably figure it out from this reference.

2) Chaos for a devotee of Kormir?: all human characters choose a patron god/goddess, and the choice of god and the choice of profession are completely independent. But Kormir, goddess of order and truth, is a rather odd choice for a chaos magic-using mesmer.

3) the murder of an Ascalonian minister: Minister Brios, the representative for the Ascalonian Settlement, is poisoned in Divinity's Reach before a meeting with Anise. There are very few Ascalonian ministers, so the murder of one of them seems likely to be particularly troubling to Ascalonians.

4) before I try myself against the Charr: you can get to Ebonhawke straight from the starting zone of Divinity’s Reach, but Ebonhawke is in a level 30+ zone.

5) a boy as blond as Debs: Deborah will be blonde if you choose to be Ascalonian.

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THREE 1 These days, I knew better than to let myself get consumed by grief. Still, as I flung spells at spiders, giant worms, bandits, centaurs, anything, I couldn’t help but wish that Deborah could see me now. At the garrison, I snatched up a rusty sword and poured magic through it with every swing at a centaur; what would she think? Me, fighting with a sword? Maybe not the way she or the other Seraph did, but still! She wouldn’t believe it. She’d be proud, I thought—wouldn’t she? 2 I’d barely passed beyond Shaemoor when I heard from Faren: positively hasty, for him. His pet raven delivered a gushing note that, in the space of a few sentences, managed to tease me about my injuries, urge me to talk him up to my healer, and summon me to a party—at my own house. I could only laugh; ridiculous as he often was, I loved him dearly, and always had. Even as children, we’d been friends and companions, but after Kasmeer vanished and Deborah died, we found ourselves inseparable. We were among the last of that quiet, secure little Ascalonian world in which we’d grown up at Rurikton—certainly the closest. Deborah’s death had changed me, driven me beyond the walls of Rurikton and Manor Hill, beyond letters and parties and court gossip. But I remained Faren’s friend, as I would always be. 3 Many people, I think, assumed Faren and I were lovers; in fact, to our own bemusement, nothing could be further from the truth. When we were seventeen, he said, “I don’t understand it. You’re pretty—I’m gorgeous—but I really think I’d throw up.” I might have been offended had I not felt exactly the same. “Inbreeding, I expect,” I told him. Faren brightened. “Grandmama was a Fairchild.” 4 Faren waited ahead of the party—a sacrifice, in the world of Faren—to greet me with his most grandiose bow. “The hero of Shaemoor returns!” I shook my head, but I grinned despite myself. It turned out that my servants had gleefully conspired with him, and when I entered the courtyard, I found it full of strangers and friends alike, along with food, gossip, and a wizard. I’d enjoyed exploring Queensdale, pushing myself to further and further limits; it was good to know that I could enjoy simpler pleasures, too, although it didn’t extend to the dog fights and bear baiting that a cousin of Faren’s called for. “Not in my home,” I snapped, “and if you want to stay, don’t mention that again.” When I heard someone say my name, I seized the chance to turn away—only to find myself facing my mother’s most hated rival. 5 “Minister Zamon.” “You’ve done well for yourself,” Zamon said acidly. “All it takes for a noble to be a hero is a bit of swordplay, a few bottles of cheap brandy, and an inflated sense of self-importance.” He had said much the same of Deborah’s swift rise among the Seraph; she’d never responded, holding herself above partisan squabbles. “Then you’re almost a hero already, my lord,” I replied, smiling. “All you lack is the brandy and swordplay.” I was not Deborah. 6 Even my old friends seemed to see the hero of Shaemoor more than anything else. Corone, brought up with Faren and Kasmeer and me, and now a respected warrior, regarded me as if he’d never seen me before, and said he’d be honoured to fight beside me. Yolanda hailed me as a heroine—before chiding me for associating so much with Faren, “that rascal!” In his imagination, maybe. Fending off her interrogation about Logan Thackeray, I’d never been happier to see Faren bounce towards me. And the moment that I muttered something about being tired, he assured me that he was done with the party as well, and headed off to make our excuses to the servants. I was ignoring Yolanda’s meaningful stare when I heard him scream. 7 Corone got his wish sooner than either of us could have imagined. We easily trounced the bandits who swept into the party, but it didn’t matter: Faren was already gone. With Corone and Edmonds protecting the guests, I ran out of Manor Hill and into the district plaza, desperately trying to catch any sign of Faren, or even the bandits; they’d have to have some way to recognize each other, wouldn’t they? But there was nothing, just ordinary people carrying on with ordinary business, merchants calling out sales, the old tour guide talking to a woman with a red handkerchief about her neck … with that over her mouth, she’d look just like the bandits who had abducted Faren— “Madam?” said someone near us, and then “ma'am!” as I blasted the bandit with a bolt of aether. I fought at least half a dozen across the district, tracking them one by one to a house at the opposite end of Salma. At the sight of me, bandits poured out of the house, but I didn’t care: they’d learn what it meant to cross a daughter of Ascalon.

FOUR

1 After Shaemoor, the bandits were nothing. They kept jumping out of their safehouse one by one—idiocy—and flailed at my clones, even their supposed leader. “Soon, you’ll beg me for death!” he shouted. I laughed, and blew up the clones. He went down like a basket of eggs. But I never laughed for long. I’d yet to see Faren, and images of bandits beating him, tormenting him, cutting his throat, flickered before me, each as vivid as every spell I cast. 2 Inside the bandits’ safehouse, I raced upstairs, barely wasting attention on the few guards left inside. Fear and victory kept my blood rushing fast: I didn’t even think about Anise’s lessons, but my feet landed exactly as she’d taught me, my body slipped away from each attack, and every spell hit its mark. Beyond them, I could just see Faren. He seemed alive, thank the gods, but stretched out in magical chains that turned my anger and fear to raw fury. I fought through a haze of rage, but one that illuminated rather than blinded—everything seemed crisp and bright and clear, more than ever before. When the last of them collapsed, I scrambled the rest of the way up the stairs, and tried to clear my head. “Um,” said Faren, “a little help here?” 3 When I broke the chains, relief flooding through me, he gave a hoarse laugh. “Am I pleased to see you!” he exclaimed, then grinned and added, “though if you wanted me to leave the party, a simple ‘Begone, freeloader!’ would have sufficed.” Captivity or no, Faren clearly remained Faren. “I’ll make a note of that,” I said dryly, and asked after any information he might have picked up on what the devil was going on. But he knew only that they operated out of a house in Shaemoor, where they’d meant to lock him up, and that in recent months, they’d turned more brazen, bloodthirsty, and focused on rebellion against the crown. “I can't save you and leave the others to rot,” I decided, and managed to smile at him. “Bad form, you know.” 4 Faren, looking determined (for him), said, “Count me in—I may not be a centaur-killing berserker like you, but I can take care of myself.” I’d believe that when I saw it. On the way to the bandits' den, I said, “Glad to have you with me, but do me a favour? Stay close”—I poked him with my sceptre—“and that way, we can protect each other.” Faren shrugged that off, which didn’t comfort me, but he actually managed himself well enough; he didn’t even get blood on his clothes as we fought our way into the concealed and guarded caves, nor when we rescued all the prisoners caged inside, so it counted as a success as far as he was concerned. “If you know any fair maidens, be sure to tell them who rescued you,” he said, and added with a grin, “the dashing Lord Faren … and his friend!” 5 The mission did count as a success for me, too; one of the captives had filched papers about a plot in Divinity’s Reach. We escorted him and the others out, taking down the remaining bandits with impatience (me) and glee (Faren). “We showed them what Ascalonians are made of!” he said triumphantly, and I straightened right up. “That’s right.” When Logan Thackeray arrived to help, Faren swaggered up and said, “My friend and I defeated these delinquents with panache and aplomb; you're just in time to celebrate our victory.” “I’m … amazed,” said Captain Thackeray. I knew the feeling. 6 “Then again,” he said, favouring me with a respectful nod, “I should have known that the hero of Shaemoor wouldn’t let your kidnapping go unanswered.” I remembered Shaemoor, fighting alongside Captain Thackeray with my stick of a sceptre just like Gwen and Langmar once had, all those years ago, and tried not to think too much of it; we’d barely met, outside of a few social occasions he clearly didn’t remember. But I also thought of Faren struggling in his chains, and danger spreading to the home that was supposed to keep us safe, and that we were all Ascalonians together. “No one hurts my friends without answering to me,” I said firmly. I handed over the papers we’d acquired, but to my surprise, it was Faren(!) who proved most useful; he noticed the quality of the paper, and even knew of the papermaker I could track down to identify it. I promised, “I'll get the information you need, without anyone realizing the Seraph are aware of the traitor in the city.” “Be careful,” said Captain Thackeray. 7 Although he warned me, I didn’t realize so many skale existed in the world as I wiped out on that trip—luckily, I found a new sceptre on the way, so I managed to keep them at a distance, and my clothes remained as pristine as Faren’s. When I arrived, I found the paper maker he’d mentioned; Fursarai was a small, prissy man, an impression not helped by his quite beautiful waistcoat, but it didn’t stop him from shouting at a departing Norn about getting his supplies back to the city. “You there—you look like you can handle yourself in a fight!” he announced, gaze fixed on something in my direction; I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the Seraph seemed to be behind me, nor anyone else. He gabbled something about the garrison and cowardly guards at the empty air—unless—unless "you there" was supposed to mean me? What a boor: but unfortunately, a boor who could direct me to Faren’s attackers. Friendship had its sacrifices. I looked at my silk sleeves, and sighed. FIVE 1 “What do you cost?” Cin Fursarai demanded, and now I preferred to believe he wanted a replacement for that Norn. It was flattering, I suppose, that he looked at me—a young noblewoman in silk, wool, and fine leather, carrying only a sceptre and a small sword—and thought I looked like someone who could fight. “I’m not a mercenary,” I said, and added: “I'm here to ask for help identifying the craftsmanship of a piece of handmade paper.” Fursarai sniffed. “If you found quality paper in Divinity’s Reach, I can assure you, I made it.” By sheer force of will, I didn’t roll my eyes—I had a conspiracy to unearth, never mind how irritating this little prig was—and instead requested his help, only for him to sniff again and go on about how he had no loyalty to the crown, because he happened to live in Lion’s Arch. He had red hair and dressed in high Rurikton fashion; he had to be Ascalonian, descendant of refugees saved by Kryta’s rulers, yet—yet— 2 It didn’t matter. It didn’t, not right now—and anyway, our fashions had spread far and wide, Lion’s Arch had long ago drowned its history, and true Ascalonian identity meant more than ancestry, whatever they might say in Rurikton. Deborah had taught me that much; if he didn’t care about it, then I wouldn’t, either. Easier said than done, though. “I need this information as soon as possible,” I told him. “But why should I trust you?” he retorted. “Who are you, anyway?” 3 I lifted my chin, and for all I might tell myself, I felt as if the pride of generations clustered about me, even with my foremothers’ spirits hopefully at peace in the Hall of Echoes. I had not forgotten what I came from. All those Langmars, the children and children’s children of Gwen Thackeray’s great captain. The Krytans they’d married now and then, abandoning an easy heritage to transplant themselves into Rurikton, absorbed into Ascalonian life and identity. The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of the last kings, of the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter. They’d fought a long defeat, on and on, yet managed to keep a last corner of human Ascalon alive; my aunt still worked to keep Ebonhawke standing while this man sneered over paper. “I am Lady Althea Fairchild of Divinity’s Reach and Ebonhawke,” I said. 4 Fursarai eyed me suspiciously. “Well, which one?” Despite myself, my defiance flickered. I would always be Ascalonian above all else, yet I would always serve the queen, too, and set myself against the enemies of Kryta. I belonged to Ebonhawke, my father’s land, my birthplace and my pride; I belonged to Divinity’s Reach, the only home I knew, where my mother’s people had lived and fought for generations. Anise always called me a creature of two faces, and I supposed I was. “I don’t know,” I admitted. 5 He grunted. “Explains why you don’t stink like the rest, anyway.” “Thank you,” I replied dryly. After a minute of meditation (not helped by Fursarai’s string of complaints), we headed out. I was just about ready to kill him myself by the time we got to the Shaemoor garrison; he’d have easily died without me fighting skale and centaurs and one exceptionally large spider by sceptre and sword, but he made not the slightest attempt to defend himself, just cowering against his bull and yelping the entire way there. That was before I had to take down three centaur catapults and Lyssa knew how many centaurs, with maybe two Seraph backing me up. Naturally, his gratitude upon entering the garrison amounted to checking his supplies three times, turning to me, and pronouncing: “I feel like I was run over by a herd of marauding dolyaks!” 6 Irritation aside, he did supply the information I needed, admitting that he sold his paper to Minister Zamon. Zamon, the man who’d all but gloated at my mother when Deborah died, purely—I thought then—because of malice at the suffering of a rival. And then, not long ago: the man who’d sneered at my defense of Shaemoor. “He has excellent taste,” Fursarai said, his glance clearly implying that I didn’t. As if he’d know. I silently decided that I’d never buy anything from him, even if I had to go to Lion’s Arch myself to find another papermaker. I smiled and said, “Don’t leave Divinity’s Reach.” 7 I found Captain Thackeray in the Seraph Headquarters, deep in a discussion with Anise, of all people, but his head snapped up when he caught sight of me. “Do you have any news?” “Fursarai admitted he made the paper for Minister Zamon,” I said, suppressing any signs of satisfaction. Well, mostly; Anise cast an amused look in my direction. “Setting up citizens to be robbed and brutalized?” exclaimed Captain Thackeray. “That's out-and-out treason.” Why, so it was.

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1) The Fairchilds in Ebonhawke, kin of ... the duke who still haunted Ascalon and his martyred daughter: i.e., Duke Barradin, while his daughter, Lady Althea—this Althea’s namesake—was burned alive by the Charr.

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SIX 1 “But where are my manners?” said Captain Thackeray, whom I’d never seen with so much as a wrinkle in his surcoat or a hair out of place. “Allow me to introduce you to Countess Anise, Master Exemplar of the Shining Blade.” Bemused, I nodded at my mentor of years, while Anise bowed with a faint, ironic smile. Disregarding the matter of manners, she said smoothly, “Minister Wi’s hosting a party tonight; it’ll be a good opportunity to eavesdrop on ministers, their allies, and enemies.” Captain Thackeray couldn’t quite bring himself to disagree, but clearly wanted to; he proposed a (perfectly legal) raid on Zamon’s house instead, and worse still, left the choice to me, insisting that he couldn’t give me orders—even though he clearly had no idea who I was. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d realized I had a name. 2 Naturally, I consulted with Anise—Thackeray or no Thackeray, she was my guide and teacher. “Personally,” she said in her light voice, “I prefer convivial, face-to-face situations. Then again, cloak-and-dagger skulduggery is always fun.” I laughed. “The way you describe it, it all sounds so charming; I’ll have to think it over.” I didn’t, actually. Minister Wi lived in Rurikton, and Faren was my best friend; if I knew anything, it was Rurikton parties. 3 “Minister Wi’s party,” I announced. “I’ll see what I can learn.” “Are you sure?” said Captain Thackeray, though with a distinct note of resignation. “You can’t break into Zamon’s place if you attend Minister Wi’s party.” “I’m sure,” I told him. “Minister Wi’s party it is.” He sighed. 4 “Your fellow nobles seem to have a knack for making my life interesting,” Captain Thackeray told me, clearly putting the best face on it. “Let’s see if we can’t return the favour.” “We nobles, Captain Thackeray?” I said, amused; everyone knew about his relationship to Gwen—and his relationship to Queen Jennah, too. “A step down from royalty making your life interesting, I’m sure.” To my surprise, he flinched. Some lover’s spat, perhaps; I decided it was none of my business, and turned to Anise, who promised to meet me at the party—because it wouldn’t do to make us share the spotlight during our entrance. Of course. 5 I listened to a few complaints and registered some unsolved crimes after Anise left, then headed out. At least, I meant to, but on my way to the door out of Seraph Headquarters, I caught sight of an open book—a register. “That lists the names of all Seraph soldiers for the last two decades,” an officer told me proudly. I glanced over my shoulder, undoubtedly looking as suspect as a priest of Grenth on Wintersday, but nobody seemed to be paying attention; the officer had drifted over to settle a dispute over a farm, Captain Thackeray was talking to a lieutenant, and everybody else looked up to their ears in work. I opened the book, scolding myself for being foolish, giving into a pointless sentimentality that would achieve nothing, recover no corpse for a grave—but still, I turned the pages, searching for the name I would know. I felt like a spy, flipping through pages, for all that the registry was open to the public and I had every right to look—and then, there it was, near the head of its page. Sgt Deborah Fairchild; missing in action, assumed dead. 6 “Are you looking for someone?” said Captain Thackeray. I nearly jumped straight into the air; as it was, I flinched as violently as he had. “No, sir,” I said, and realized—Debs would have said no, sir in the exact same tone, would have stood in this very room as I did now, would know it all better than I did. What would she have thought, if she’d known that one day I would be investigating crimes for the Seraph, reporting to Captain Thackeray himself? She’d never pressed me to be anything I wasn’t, never seemed to love me less for being the thoughtless, frivolous creature I was then, but I couldn’t help but imagine she’d have been proud. Imagine how this whole thing might have gone if she’d been alive—maybe we’d be investigating Zamon together, or— “Good luck, Captain Thackeray,” I said, and walked out. 7 By happy coincidence, I already had an invitation, of sorts. My mother’s said Minister Ailoda Langmar and one other. “You want to go?” said Mother, looking startled. “I would have thought you’d be busy slaying monsters or saving people or whatever else you do these days.” I frowned, unsure how to take this; it might have been pride, if not for her studiously neutral tone—did she think all this unimportant, or regrettable, or beneath us? Or was it fear, with Deborah dead on Seraph business? For a wild moment, I longed to tell her, cling to her and admit that I was frightened and angry as well as resolved, to confide in someone who would always see Althea first and the hero of Shaemoor second. “I need to keep an eye on Faren,” I said.

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1) his relationship to Queen Jennah: Jennah is the Queen of Kryta, and a beautiful young woman; it’s widely rumoured that she and Logan are having an affair. The last time royalty made his life especially interesting was when he deserted his dragon-hunting guild, Destiny's Edge, out of love for Jennah.

--------------------------------------------------------------------- SEVEN 1 I headed back to Rurikton for the party, though a good while before it was set to begin. I hadn’t been home for a while—months, though it felt like longer—and I wanted to get my bearings. I strolled past the familiar stone gryphons, a light calm settling over me. It deepened as I made my way down the streets, passing refugees and servants who gave slight bows: respectful, no more. Clusters of nobles nodded familiarly at me. I stopped by local traders, most of whom I knew by name. One bookseller had a pair of rare books on Ascalonian history, one of which I’d wanted for ages; I purchased them on the spot, and after these weeks of fighting and investigating and rescuing, it was a pleasure to let it all slide for a moment, and decide that today was already a success. 2 I personally carried my books to Langmar Manor, since I’d forgotten to bring any servants, and didn’t feel very much inclined to send for one now. Oddly enough, I had gotten used to managing on my own. The walk from the district square was a short and easy one in any case; I strolled down the streets, encountering nothing worse than a few seditious posters I tore down, and a man complaining about Captain Thackeray to an unsympathetic friend. “You know, just because your wife’s taken a shine to Logan Thackeray doesn’t make him a bad guy—he’s cursed.” At the first man’s scoff, the friend added, “Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood! It’s not his fault that every woman fawns over him.” Not every woman, I thought. 3 The people of Rurikton had always mingled at the Maiden’s Whisper as well as Rurikton at large, so I attracted no particular curiosity when I strolled into the tavern. Several other lords and ladies stood near the entrance, smiling and lifting their glasses towards me as I passed, while everyone else simply continued their own conversations—despite the Norn inexplicably towering at the side of the room. “I like that Minister Caudecus,” one girl announced. “To Queen Jennah!” someone just out of sight said, echoed by a dozen toasts to the queen, Divinity’s Reach, Captain Thackeray, and assorted ministers. Across the hall, a man bellowed drunkenly, “Show me a woman who can wrestle a bear, and I’ll show you a keeper!” “If the Charr think they can come here,” said a woman, her voice clear and pleasant, “me and my meat cleaver will tell them otherwise.” I smiled; despite everything, it really was good to be home. 4 I spent the last few hours before the party skulking around Rurikton, but found nothing beyond a particularly incompetent group of adventurers and ordinary conversation on the street. Returning to the inn, I searched for a relatively secluded place, found it in a library, and closed my eyes, peering through those of a near-invisible clone as she drifted through Minister Wi’s manor. She wasn’t caught, but turned up nothing except preparations for the party. I was sure there had to be something we’d missed, but apparently not. Well, Zamon might be acting in secrecy. Might. I resigned myself to the inevitable: I would only discover what I needed to know at the party, and I would have no preparation beyond what I already knew. 5 When I arrived at the manor in person, the place was positively oozing Ministry guards, for no particular reason. Anise slanted them a glance that betrayed nothing, then eyed my finery with nearly smug approval. “This will be delightful,” she said, apparently no more inclined than usual to bother with such minutia as greetings and farewells. “Having the hero of Shaemoor on my arm will make tongues wag.” Even though it was just Anise, I flushed. So much for separate entrances—but it was like Anise to enjoy disrupting plans, even her own. “Thank you for letting me join you this evening, Countess,” I said, because it was like me, too. 6 “Mingle,” she said. “Speak to everyone—you never know who’ll say something they regret later.” It was an encouraging thought. “Second,” said Anise, “don’t limit your conversation to nobility; servants and guards see everything.” “Understood,” I replied, adding, “I suppose it goes without saying that I should be discreet?” “You catch on fast,” she told me, and touched her finger to the end of my nose, eliciting a startled laugh. “Go and charm the masses.” 7 “You know where to find me if you need me, pet,” Anise concluded, while I still tried to wrap my mind and dignity around the fact that she’d bopped my nose. But at the moment, I found her at my side, setting my hand on her arm and marching forward in her tall boots. She actually smiled when I matched my steps to hers, even if I could hardly match the total assurance of her stride and her drawl—but she smiled more at the sudden hush that fell over the grand room when we entered. “The Countess Anise,” the servant at the door announced, and after a suitably dramatic pause, continued, “and the hero of Shaemoor!” Virtually everyone in this room had known me from childhood, but they all bowed anyway, as if my mother herself stood in my place, rather than the other way around; she’d abruptly developed a cold when she heard Zamon would be there. Zamon himself was nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

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1) Cursed with good looks and true Ascalonian blood: this (and much of the dialogue here) is part of the ambient dialogue near the inn.

#anghraine's gaming #anghraine's fic #ascalonian grudgefic #ascalonian grudgeblog #althea fairchild #ailoda langmar #countess anise #marius corone #deborah fairchild #edmund fairchild #elwin fairchild #lord faren #julius zamon #logan thackeray #captain tervelan #guild wars 2 #pro patria #footnotes ahoy!

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thatfriendlyecho · 4 years

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Sanders Sides AU: Modern Kingdom of Imagineria

Finally I make one of these! My 8 month writer’s block has finally diminished for now and I’ve decided to make an AU I’ve been working on for about a year (among other things).

This is a Modern Fantasy AU, where technology and real life bullshit exists alongside magic. As all good Sanders Sides AUs go, there will be ships. If you want a non-ship esque AU, leave now because there is a whole lotta LAMP.

Anyway, let’s get right into the character descriptions!

Roman Olivers (Dragon-Hybrid, 16)

Roman was born in Manchester, and even after moving to the modern Kingdom of Imagineria at the age of six, he still has a slight English accent.

Roman and his twin brother, Remus, were adopted after their mother was found dead curled around her children in the Endless Forest, just on the outskirts of Manchester. Their adoptive parents, a pair of now ex-dragon hunters, found the twins and took them in as their own.

They moved a few years later, after their mother’s scent vanished and they could leave without the twins remembering her anymore.

Roman’s mother was a fully-grown ruby-scaled dragon (presumably the last of her kind, according to his parents), and he has visible scales of his own on his shoulders, back of his hands, cheeks, neck and forehead.

He is not a full dragon, and he and his brother are half-human. (Or dragonborn, for all of you D&D buffs. Except that he’s mostly human in appearance)

Roman is insecure about his dragon heritage, and as such he grew a slight hatred for dragons. He has often stated that he would slay dragons that ever even set foot near his family.

He doesn’t have wings, but instead has a scaly tail that sprouts from his lower back.

He trips people sometimes, but don’t tell his mother.

All in all, he has serious body dysphoria.

He’s overly protective of his loved ones.

He’s been suspended twice, once because someone made fun of Remus right in front of him, and another time because someone was bullying Virgil.

Roman can create small flames from his mouth, though those have mostly been by accident. This usually occurs when he laughs too hard.

Roman and Virgil didn’t get along for a very, very long time. He eventually started catching feelings for him when he showed up to his front step on his birthday with a woven blanket that he still has not washed to this day.

Roman met Patton and Logan at a library, where Logan snapped at him for flirting with Patton while he was working.

He sings Disney songs on the regular as a coping mechanism.

He’s currently a sophomore in high school that works as his neighbor's babysitter.

Patton Hazir (Harpy, 16)

Patton was born in the Endless Forest, and when he left it for the first time, he appeared in Imagineria.

Patton’s name is actually completely different, but he doesn’t go by it because it’s too complicated to pronounce.

His nickname was Pat because that was the only part of his name that Logan could pronounce. The last name was a random sound he made after stubbing his toe, which kills his friends to this day.

Harpies become independent of their parents after ten years old, and as such don’t have the obligation to return home every night. Since he wanted to go to school, though most harpies don’t want a modern education, he still lives with him.

His parents are very sweet, and naturally they don’t mind.

Patton looks mostly normal, as harpies disguise themselves to present normally to the human eye. The things that seriously stand out about Patton is the fact that he has no ears, he has a few small feathers in his arms that he can’t conceal, and he has talons for feet.

When Patton is in his true form, he has eagle-like feathers sprouting from his arms in varying shades of soft blue. His waist down morphs into the bottom half of some large eagle, tail feathers and all. His torso and head remain as is.

As time progressed, harpies became more docile, and are now not such predatory monsters. They are still extremely territorial and it is unwise to cross a flock, but they are actually very friendly in comparison to a century ago.

Patton is the prime example of the kindest harpies to ever exist in the history of...ever.

He literally smiles at the sun when he wakes up what kind of-

Many people, especially those who are much older, still regard him with a watchful eye.

Patton thinks basically everything is cute. You could show him an imp and he’d pinch its cheek. (He's done this before and he regretted it immediately after)

The biggest challenge for him was Virgil, who we’ll get to in a moment.

They have some really cute moments together.

He can sing, though he’s really shy about it so it rarely ever happens.

His voice sounds enough like music that nobody complains (often).

Patton also has an insane love for sugar cookies, and whenever he’s stressed, he stress-bakes.

Since he doesn’t have a “modern home” in the forest, he usually shows up at Roman's or Virgil's house with a bunch of cookie ingredients.

He has a tendency to steal food, and can’t go into a grocery store without being closely watched.

He received a joke book from Logan on his birthday, and he regrets it. You cannot say anything without him making a pun.

He’s currently a sophomore in high school, and he assists the librarian at the Public Imaginative Library. He doesn’t get paid, and simply loves helping out. That’s how he met Logan.

Logan (Dryad, 14)

Logan was born in the Endless Forest without true parents, being as he is a tree nymph, or a dryad.

Logan was sorely misguided after he was birthed from Mother Earth, and as such he became very curious very, very quickly.

Mere minutes after being born, he wandered to a riverside and was almost killed by a hungry, stranded mermaid.

Luckily he morphed into a tree right at the bank of the river right before she could fatally injure him.

He has a bite mark on his side, which has healed into a scar from the mermaid attack.

Logan was not born naturally smart, and was in fact very naive at birth. He was curious, and never thought of the consequences of his actions until he left the forest and entered Imagineria.

When Logan left the forest, he hid in public parks, where he changed into his tree form for extended amounts of time.

Logan is a dryad, meaning that in Imagineria, if he wished to pursue an education, he could enroll for school on his own. When he learned how to read (he was 3), he became addicted to knowledge, and enrolled himself.

He skipped a grade, which is why he's so young.

The first word that he learned was "falsehood", and he found it very useful after he became friends with Patton, Roman, and Virgil. It is now his favorite word, and he gets very happy when he reads it somewhere.

The library became his home away from home, which is where he met Patton.

Logan is really book smart, NOT street/survival smart. He knows how to transform into a tree when faced with danger, but he doesn't know how to fight per sey.

Logan's appearance is humanoid in nature (no pun intended), and he has the palest skin tone of all the others. There's a slight green tone to his skin, and he sometimes grows small blue flowers that appear in his hair. He also has pointed ears and long claws that he can retract.

He can see well enough, but after meeting Patton, he grew envious of his glasses and made his own out of branches. Don't tell Patton that.

Logan gave himself his name. He doesn't have a last name because he finds it unnecessary.

Logan is a full-blown vegan, and the others need to take this into account whenever they eat together. He doesn't eat often, but he loves fruit and berries.

He's currently a junior in high school.

Virgil Anansi (Arachne, 14)

Virgil was born with the Curse of Arachne, as his family were a mischievous bunch of practicing witches and wizards. This basically means that they angered the ancient spider spirit and she cursed each generation's first born with the Curse.

Virgil was homeschooled until he was of high school age. He's extremely anti-social and insecure because of it.

Much like Roman, Virgil has body dysphoria, though not as badly due to his family.

The Anansi family is a pretty wild and close family, though they experiment with questionable black magic often. They were shunned from society after crossing Arachne.

Had it not been for his curse, Virgil would be classified as an Anansi Witch.

Virgil has three little sisters (triplets), a baby brother, two really weird fathers, a feral uncle who lives in the basement, a grandmother that drinks enough alcohol to poison a large pony, and a familiar for each of them. That makes 9 people and 9 familiars living together.

Virgil's familiar is ironically a spider, a palm-sized tarantula named Kisa.

Virgil had never felt different until he grew up and had to go to school. He was never bullied physically until he showed vulnerability in public.

Virgil's bangs only cover a little bit of his forehead, where three extra pairs of eyes are. They're a pupiless, orchid purple (as Logan dubbed them), and he can't make them vanish like his extra limbs and abdomen. He has fangs, but they're pretty small and elongate when he's hunting. On his back there is a "tattoo" of three purple diamonds.

Often times, when Virgil is being sulky, he makes spider silk blankets and scarves in his room while he listens to classical music.

Depending on what kind of music he listens to effects the sturdiness of his webs. Classical isn't his favorite genre of music, but he can't exactly listen to My Chemical Romance while trying to make an intricate design.

Virgil is an absolute sass master, and normally wins verbal arguments. (You can probably guess who he argues with the most.)

He convinced Patton to sing with him in the school talent show, and they sang Lovely Night from La La Land.

Virgil and Logan are the youngest of their friend group, though often times they feel like they're the ones reeling the oldest ones in.

Virgil's the youngest, and he's treated like the group's baby more often than not.

He and Patton were not super close at first because the harpy was afraid of spiders, and Roman hated his guts for reasons he still won't confess to. He had a hard time making friends with Logan because he was just as awkward if not worse.

He and Patton got really close after an incident caused Patton to break his arm, and Virgil nursed him back to health with potions and a whole lotta cuddling. It was cute.

Virgil met Roman first, which was the worst first impression he had ever given off. Especially since he immediately thereafter had a gay panic.

Virgil is a freshman in highschool, and eventually creates a job in which he creates spider silk blankets and sells them online.

These are the main four's character descriptions, but I can go into depth character appearances, character stories, the modern Kingdom of Imagineria, the Endless Forest, etc. I'm planning on writing the main plotline on AO3, but I haven't decided yet.

I guess I'll have to see. Mkay byee~

#sanders sides au #sanders sides #alternate universe #au #fantasy #modern fantasy au #lamp #modern kingdom of Imagineria #what even #this took so long

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smolbeandrabbles · 5 years

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Charity: Most People Are Good - Emmett Dutton x Reader (Australia)

Author’s Note: I HOPE YOU BROUGHT YOUR INSULIN!!! What have I done-!? This is ridiculous! I just really love writing him like this, he’s the perfect Mendo for it. I’m really surprised that I’ve only written him once before this! So Thank You for requesting him! Because he deserves a lot of love 💕 And the other was your idea too... sooo...

Disclaimer: Characters from Australia not mine / Requested Plot Not Mine / If you don’t have a Luke Bryan song in your playlist what kind of Mendo are you-!? AKA: Lyrics not mine

Premise: As Requested by @3134045126 😘 After the bombing everyone is leaving. A whole bunch of boys have been rescued - who's going to watch after them? Cue Reader! They make it to Adelaide; cue Reader who takes on the job of watching over the rescued boys who have no family, other than Brother Frank- Reader is sweet, and kind. Basically mothers all the boys. Giving up all her time, energy and resources to make sure the boys are well taken care of. Enter the Captain who notices her and all she's doing for the boys and decides to be as helpful as possible. Cue a gentle, sweet romance started from these two taking care of the children.

Words: 4490

Warnings: N/A... But I meant it about the insulin...

I believe kids oughta stay kids as long as they can ...Go climb a tree, get dirt on their hands I believe we gotta forgive and make amends 'Cause nobody gets a second chance to make new old friends I believe in working hard for what you've got Even if it don't add up to a hell of a lot I believe them streets of gold are worth the work But I still wanna go even if they were paved in dirt I believe that youth is spent well on the young 'Cause wisdom in your teens would be a lot less fun I believe if you just go by the nightly news Your faith in all mankind would be the first thing you lose I believe most people are good And most mama's oughta qualify for sainthood I believe you love who you love Ain't nothing you should ever be ashamed of I believe this world ain't half as bad as it looks I believe most people are good

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noun

an organization set up to provide help and raise money for those in need.

the voluntary giving of help, typically in the form of money, to those in need.

Adelaide. Dutton didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautiful in his entire life. Having said that it could have been anything. After Darwin. But, they were due to meet the main convoy here. So… Adelaide was the place he decided was the most beautiful. It's been a long hard journey. 30+ hours would be had enough if he only had his troops to think about. But Emmett Dutton now had a group of Mission Children to think of also. And any time he could he would have the convoy break to let the children be children. Even if that only lasted 10 minutes at a time. He was plenty glad for Brother Frank at all times. Because Emmett couldn’t look after all these kids alone. Much as he would like to try. It surprised him even more how much he found himself caring for these kids. He wasn’t never a kids person. He just wasn’t at all sure he was good at it. Frank was nearly 100% sure that he was. And even other members of his troop took time for the children. They didn’t have much considering all that had happened in Darwin, but… Everyone shared everything. It was on one such break that Emmett contemplated the future of the children. Usually if he wasn’t amongst the children himself he would stand watching them with a smile. There was still innocence at a time of war. Or he would just be happy… that there were good things. He had to continue to remind himself that there were still good things. However today Emmett Dutton looked worried. And Frank noticed this, wandering over; “Penny for your thoughts, Captain.” Emmett chewed his lip thoughtfully “…Brother Frank… tell me, when we get to Adelaide… what happens to the children?” Dutton already knew it was likely he would have to move his troops on. The convoy was not about to just end in Adelaide. It was likely Australia would play a bigger part in the war now. Would he have to travel to Europe to fight? To the USA? He shook that thought away as quickly as he could and turned to his companion for answers. “Well… Adelaide is a big place. It will have a Church.” “Surely the church cannot look after so many…?” It wasn’t Emmett didn’t think it possible. But the money, the people, the resource? …The fact the children were Aboriginal?... He’d seen so much injustice already done due to that. And adoption was so hard he didn’t expect anything to happen there of any consequence either. He’d explained that to Sarah many times. (And watched her fight it, though… He had to admit as much to himself). It certainly hadn’t deterred her, hopefully they would find more such people in the city… What Emmett thought they needed was another woman like her. “Well. God works in mysterious ways…” Emmett raised an eyebrow; “Indeed he may, but… Don’t these boys need a mother as well?” Frank’s face suddenly beamed; “I’m sure they will get one Captain. It’s only a shame I am not able to call ahead!” *** So now he was here in Adelaide, Emmett hoped that Brother Frank’s promise would pay off. Dutton wasn’t worried. But, now it was like these children were his. And he wanted to make sure they were well looked after and taken care of. The majority of the main army convoy was already here; but he was told that those from Darwin were allowed respite. Thank God. And rightly so after what they had been through. This gave Emmett precious time. And now he was tailing Brother Frank through the streets. “…So… Will they go here? Not the Church?” “If she can take them all. I’m sure she can! She has… the room, and the monetary resource at least.” “How do you know all this!?” “She does a great deal for the Church that is well documented. I’m sure she will be up for this too…” They continued on walking, and ended up a little way out of Adelaide… And Emmett couldn’t help but stop dead. Frank continued on; happy disposition as always, through the front gate and down the path. Emmett thought Faraway Downs was big; but it had nothing on this. In fact this was like taking Faraway Downs and planting it in the middle of a city… Maybe it was even bigger than the Administrators property in Darwin. “W-Wait… She lives here!?” “That’s right!” “Alone!?” How could one person manage an estate like this all by herself? “Yes.” Then Frank corrected himself; “Well, she probably wouldn’t by choice!!! But does, by circumstance.” They weren’t even all the way down the path before you were outside. And Emmett discovered the second most beautiful thing he had seen today. Your eyes flicked between them, amused. “You gentlemen look like you could be here for completely different reasons… And that you’ve seen better days. Should I invite you in, or are you simply too busy…?” You walked down the steps to join them on the path, addressing them correctly “Brother, Captain… How may I be of assistance?” You looked between them again. Okay, fine. He was cute by the clergyman was off limits, but the Captain... Well, someone that easy on the eye couldn’t have been single. “Actually we are…” There was a second pause, before the sentence was clarified “Here for the same reason, I mean!” “Oh!” You smiled, what could the Church and the army have in common? If the Captain was about to ask you to host troops that would make sense. But what did the Church have to do with something like that? “We have come from Darwin.” Your eyes widened, and you placed a hand over your mouth as you gasped; “Oh my goodness! I heard-! We all did! Oh-! Wow, my goodness… I’m… I’m so sorry… Are you all, okay?” “Those of us that made it… But, there were some children sent to mission island. It was hit, but, the majority survived.” Your expression instantly softened, and Emmett took instant note of this as Frank continued; “I heard you might be the person to talk to…” “You want me to foster…. Children?” You tilted your head, but you were suddenly beaming; turning back to the Captain. “But what is the Army’s stake in this?” “Personal only… Ma’m.” You smiled; “Y/N. Call me Y/N… Please.” Then you realised “OH! I didn’t ask-!” “Oh!” He held out his hand instantly, manners maketh man, Emmett!! “Dutton. Captain Emmett Dutton… And this is Brother Frank.” “Emmett…” You liked that, and showed it by saying his name with a sweet smile; you took his hand “Thank you, for your service.” ***

It surprised you that he was still around, so you certainly hadn't expected to run into him in the middle of town; "Oh! Captain Dutton! I expected you to be long gone by now..." "No no, not yet at any rate. Just waiting for the next posting... And please... Call me Emmett..." "Emmett..." you agreed, "I like that, it's a nice name..." You weren't sure if you were really complimenting him or it was just inane babble, but he seemed to turn a faint shade of pink anyway. "Thank you... But I shall not be taking the credit there..." he smiled "Can I be of any assistance...? You must have a lot to do, all things considered...?" "Oh... That’s sweet of you, thank you..." you let him walk in step with you, smile on your face "I'm just letting them settle right now. Brother Frank is a good help too... But... You have done so much for them already Captain, bringing them here... That’s very heroic..." you looked to his face for a minute; his hesitation. Probably to correct you on his name again. "Emmett! Sorry!" "That's okay... And I don't know about heroic... But they certainly needed to be far from mission island and Darwin..." "Mission Island... Oh. I see." you shook your head "They should be allowed to return home, don't you think?" "Well, maybe we can do that together..." You weren't sure if he was being truthful, but by the look in his eyes you would believe anything Emmett said, and that intensity. That belief as you had that that would be the right thing to do, took your breath away. "Y-yes... When all this is over..." Dutton nodded; “Well, hopefully that won’t be too long… I would hope humanity would have the decency to put a stop to this…” He shook his head “Maybe I shouldn’t go on believing it, but…” Emmett shrugged almost helplessly “When that’s all we have…” You smiled despite this; “You’ve not given up your faith in us all yet… Even with what you must have seen in Darwin?” “If anything it’s only made me more defiant. The world will get through this… They said the last war was ‘the war to end all wars.’ Maybe this one will actually do it.” You tipped your head “…Will we win?” “If it was all so black and white…” but he laughed “…I would think, in the end, the people who are meant to prevail will… But our most immediate problems… The things we can change…” He paused his walk, and turned to you – inspired “…Are right here!”

Emmett and you continued to wander around town together as he helped you run errands and shop for groceries. You hated to admit how much you enjoyed his company. Not because you wanted to come off standoffish, but because you knew that one day he would have to leave. And it would be soon. He wouldn't have reason to be here, in reality if they stationed him back up north... If he was so used to Darwin, he'd be so far away from you. You didn't want to start something just to see it all end. But you couldn't help falling for him. He was charming and sweet. How could you not?

"Emmett, come in for a little while, I'm sure they'd like to see you..." "well, I suppose I have time. Are you sure you don't mind?" "i just invited you didn't I...!?" you quirked your eyebrow - "Of course, also its only polite that seen as you helped me with all of this." "Oh no! That's nothing, any time..." You folded your arms with a subtle shake of your head; "That's not nothing... Anyway, please, just accept my gratitude and come inside!?" He laughed; "okay, you won't need to tell me twice..." Of course as soon as you got him through the door and the children realised, they were all over him. "Woah-! Woah-! Okay...boys!!" Emmett was laughing again, which you loved; it made you smile. So much it started to hurt to smile for much longer. "Just let me help Y/N alright then I will come and see you..." When he finally got some of the younger children to let him go, with a little encouragement from you - you both slipped into the kitchen: "I suppose you get that a lot?" he straightened out his shirt, looking curiously back into the corridor where several of them were watching you both "Less than you would think... But you? Oh, they talk about you all the time..." "Really!?" "Mmm, oh, Captain I know all your stories second hand. Granted there's some variations on what actually happened, and I certainly wouldn't pass up the opportunity to hear them first hand, But! Yes, they certainly like you a lot. And you obviously care for them deeply..." He turned back to you, and that look on your face he hoped he might be reading correctly. But also made him bashful: admiration? Why? Hadn’t he done what any decent human would do? He felt he'd done far less than you... “Oh I…” he struggled with what was best to say, so he opted for a simple “Thank you…” instead. “No… Thank you.” Emmett set about helping you put things away, but you realised pretty quickly that you had gathered a small audience, laughing with him like this. That was understandable, they were equally curious on what was making you so happy (not that you weren’t always) and Emmett himself. Eventually you pushed him gently towards the door “Go on…” “We aren’t even finished-!” You waved away his protests “Go on, they want to listen to you… I’ll come through when I’m finished…” He hesitated “Y/N… I… Are you sure?” “They want to see you! Go on, I mean, how much time may you really get with them?” “I suppose you’re right… But I…” “Emmett…” You pushed him gently again; “Please, go!” He looked like he didn’t want to leave you, so even when he walked from the room, he did it slowly – almost pleading with you to pull him back. You couldn’t help your cheeky wink; “I won’t make you wait long!” He had to laugh again; and turned back to the children once again clambering all over him to pull him through into your extensive living room. “Okay! Okay! It’s alright! I’m here…” You tidied away and then wandered through. Each and every one of them was engrossed in every single word. And you sat yourself on the arm of one of the sofas with some of the younger children to listen too. You barely heard a word that Emmett said, and he barely registered that you’d even walked in, but the way he told it… The way he wasn’t even that animated, but his passion, the way he spoke… everything had everyone in that room hanging on his every word. You weren’t surprised that when you finally had the inclination to look at the clock it was late; But you still waited until the appropriate time to interrupt his story; “OH! Boys… Dinner…” Several of them leapt up immediately to eagerly assist you. Emmett stood “I suppose I better get going…” “Nonsense, Captain… Would you please join us? It’s only fair, considering all your help in town and telling us such wonderful stories… Also, you can finish them over dinner… What do you say boys?” “Yes! Please! Please stay…!” The clamour of voices all politely asked the same thing. And Dutton wasn’t about to resist them or you; “Oh… Then, I suppose I better stay… Thank you…” You grinned; “I better ask now if you can cook!” “Oh I---” he laughed nervously “I… Suppose I can… You do tend to pick up a few things, here and there…” You nodded, that would do, all you really needed was another pair of (firm but fair) hands to help you out. “Well, Captain, I suppose it’s time for you to put those skills to the test…” “Oh. If I’d have known there was a test… I’m not sure I would have accepted the invitation!” ***

Turned out that his ‘you pick up a few things’ was neither wrong, nor exactly truthful. "Why don't you stop acting so humble?!" you giggled slightly, "At this rate its gonna turn out you cook better than me!” He laughed, but blush swept his face “No! Oh gosh! I wouldn't want to show you up..!" "Too late captain!" but you were both laughing. You had some of the boys help you with the easier things and then sent them on their way again before returning to cooking. Emmett let himself just watch you for a minute, how you made 10 things at once look easy.

He couldn't help it; "You're amazing, you know?" it was quiet, like a thought he hadn't meant to slip out and yet he wanted to You turned to him "Me!? No... I'm... Doing what anyone would do..." "No, no... This... Is amazing. Those boys deserve a mother and... For sure you are one... They couldn't have done better than this. But you must have helped so many people... Brother Frank alluded to it but... You are nothing short of incredible." "Captain, please..." you pressed your hands to your face, feeling it heat up, you'd never been very good at taking compliments. You didn't do this to be noticed after all, but so that other people could live a better life, or pick themselves up. He crossed to you for a minute "All you're doing, people should just thank you more often." "Well, they think I'm crazy for doing it..." His voice was quiet again "Well, I don't..." You looked back into his eyes, still blushing. Well I don't was possibly the most significant thing he'd yet said. And he'd said a lot that meant something to you. He still had that ever so sweet smile of admiration on his face. And he was getting to you. You were close enough to feel the heat from his body; and something within you was pining for that closeness – for his touch… or his love. But it couldn’t have been just you, you couldn’t have just been imagining that he was leaning closer to you. That made you instinctively lean into him. And this could happen, you could kiss, and it could be like some kind of fairy tale. And all this went through your head very quickly. Of course, reality had something to say about that – as the timer in the corner of the kitchen went off. SERIOUSLY!? He pulled away from you and took a polite step back as if he was forgetting himself; “Oh… I… I’m sorry…” You wanted to tell him not to apologise; you wanted to grab him and tell him to kiss me, dammit! But you couldn’t. Your face was still flushed and what you did do was say “It’s okay… don’t worry…” NO! DAMMIT! Y/N! IT’S NOT OKAY! IT COULD HAVE BEEN A PERFECT KISS!!! No time to dwell on that, with dinner ready, but both of you did. Standing looking at each other, hesitant for just a few more moments… Until one of the older boys cleared his throat; “Should I tell everyone it’s ready, Miss Y/N?” You didn’t want to tear your eyes from Emmett, but you had to; “Yes! Thank you!” *** Dinner passed quickly, but Emmett continued his anecdotes to the boys. Every so often one of them would pick up on a story thread of his and begin sharing a story of their own; and Emmett liked watching how you gave it your undivided attention. You reacted appropriately, and asked relevant questions. You made every boy around that table feel special. And when you caught Emmett’s eye and smiled like that, that number included him. He stayed long after dinner was over, and helped you both tidy away and put the boys to bed. Which he found was not an easy task. “Drink?” You couldn’t help giggle at his slightly bedraggled exhausted look as he tried to neaten his appearance; “Please… I don’t know how you do it! You’re a Saint.” “Oh-! Sometimes I don’t think they’d think so-!” You gave a wink, “Can be the total opposite if they won’t behave!” He shook his head, mocking shock; “I don’t believe a word of it!” You sat him outside and handed him a glass as a night cap. The air was still warm even though the sun had long since set, and it made for a pleasant evening. There was comfortable silence as you both admired the scene of your garden, lit every so often by the glow of fireflies, and you could think about the evening in a little detail. Eventually you broke the silence with a hesitant question; “Do you have kids?” He turned those inquisitive blue eyes back on you, “NO. No… Single…” You wondered why he’d added that statement, because that wasn’t what you had asked. Single wasn’t a qualifier for if he’d ever had kids. And unless he meant always been single which you couldn’t believe for a moment, it certainly had no relevance. “You’re good with kids…” You mused, finishing your glass and setting it down “That’s worth something?” You smiled back at him, gently “I think it is…” His next smile was significant as he fielded your compliment back; “You’re a good mother.” You opened your mouth to respond, but it was like it suddenly all hit you, and you took a noticeable deep breath out “I learned from a good mother…” “So you aren’t one?” “No… I had a lot of younger siblings who moved out… They are all around Australia and Europe now… some of them…” You looked back to the house “…I stayed to help look after my parents… and when they both passed on… I thought what better to do with their house than look after people…” “You really are a Saint.” You turned back to him; how he seemed to voice some kind of clarity that hit you again, full force. And your heart yearned for him. To have him here to tell you things you so desperately wanted to hear… “Maybe…” Your voice was quiet, and when you looked away from him again he reached for your hand; “Not a maybe… you have compassion and generosity that you can’t show gratitude for with mere words… And yet you do this all without shouting it from rooftops.” “I don’t do it to be noticed, I do it because, like you, I want to believe there can still be good in the world – even if I have to do it all by myself…” He set his glass down; and took your other hand in his; “Y/N… Believe me, you are not alone.” And in that moment, what you knew he meant was you have me. *** It was a few days later when Dutton found the time to wander back to your house to see you and the children again. You were out in the back garden when he arrived; still expertly keeping the attention of all the children. Engrossed in some story or other you were telling. Acting out scenes here and there with the help of some of the older boys. Emmett couldn't help but laugh to himself as he watched from your porch, relaxing himself by leaning against it. From here he was in the shade from the hot afternoon sunlight but it didn't seem to bother you or them in the slightest.

Eventually your eyes caught his, and you turned to the older boys to keep the game going whilst you took a breather; "Captain! You're still here!" The way you were beaming and the sunshine hit your hair and eyes and made you literally glow, was the reason that just this once he didn't bother correcting you; "You always sound so surprised!" He turned his full attention from the children to you as you joined him. "Well, I just don't want to get my hopes up that you'll stay..." Emmett tried and failed not to read too much into that, and his smile was gracious "Well... You never know, perhaps you should..." He nodded to the children in order to swiftly change the subject, "they all seem to be getting on well." "Yes, thanks to you." "Me!? You-!" "Emmett you rescued them!" "Not I... A good friend of mine... I simply delivered them into your care... You have saved these children... You have given them a far better life that they would have received on mission island I can tell you that..." You shook your head, placing your hand on his to turn him back to you; “But as I say, they always ask after you... Emmett... When you're coming around next, if you’re going to spend the day here... Every time they see you... I wish you would stay..."

He watched the way that your eyes nervously left his, how you bit your lip and stared at his chest instead. From nowhere he gained a moment of courage, and instead of the nervous laugh he felt, Emmett spoke up, this time entwining your fingers properly with his. "Is that the only reason you wish I would stay?" This time you did blush; those soft blue eyes and that sweet smile became too much and you could feel the heat from his face at your almost kiss again. “Maybe not… But it shouldn’t always be about me…” He couldn’t help his chuckle, you were probably the most charitable, unselfish person he’d ever known. How could anything you did ever always be about you? “Then tell me…” Tell me what I want to hear; that’s what he was pleading with you to say… But you weren’t hearing that, because you didn’t want to believe it could be true. “You told me I was a good mother…” He tilted his head, “I did. And meant it…” You decided there was no time to be bolder and looked back into his eyes with confidence; “Well… I figure those boys need a good father figure too…” “Heh…” he bit his lip gently, but smiled through it “That’d require me to stay.” “No… Just be there when you can be…” “Well what about you?” “What about me…?” He tried again, this time more obvious “Maybe I would hope you weren’t just saying that… for them…” “…Why are you asking me to say it?” Emmett gave a little shrug; “Because maybe if I hear you say it I will know it’s true. What you really want.” You took a breath; “I don’t know what I want…” You shook your head “I want you to stay, if you can stay… of course I do. But if you must leave, then I want you to come back… But what I know for sure, is that what I wanted the other night…” You hesitated a moment and swallowed “I just wish…” You shook your head “I should have kissed you.”

For a moment he couldn’t believe that you would be that forward, but he liked it. He loved it. “Well, I feel we should rectify that situation… If you would allow me to kiss you?” Your eyes widened slightly, you knew it! You’d known it… You should have done something then… But he was doing something now. So your smile was confident as you looked back into his eyes “You may.” He kept your hands respectfully in his, and leaned in slow and gentle, you closed your eyes. Hardly daring to believe that this was real; that it was really a dream that you were about to wake up from. But as his lips touched yours you held his hands a little tighter; and pulled him in closer. No dream would compare to this. The kiss was just as soft and sweet as he was, and you kept your eyes closed as he broke it and placed his forehead gently to yours. You realised that you didn’t need to ask him to stay, that that kiss was a promise. No matter what the future held, he would return to you.

--- 🙈 Was that too sweet?! Ah! Sorry babe! But thank you for requesting him! As ever 😘💙💜 Eeeeek! 4 Virtues Down!

#MendoTagSquad! @dennismitchell @krnncsbtch @happyskywhale

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ckret2 · 5 years

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Like Spies Passing in the Night

Fandom: Transformers IDW, post-series Characters: Prowl, the memory of Soundwave, and Soundwave's surviving minions Words: 2500 Summary: Prowl never once gave Soundwave any thought past what he had to in his capacity as strategist. Until Soundwave died. And now Prowl can't stop thinking about him—about who he was, about where they overlapped, about how they might have connected but didn't. ... And somewhere in the process he ends up adopting three spies. Notes: This is for @soundwavereporting for a prompt I received on ko-fi: "something with Soundwave and/or Prowl?" I'm sorry that Soundwave is dead.

###

Prowl hoped to never again feel the... narcotic radiation of the combined Enigma and Talisman. But while he felt it, it was the most euphoric, liberating, soothing sensation he'd ever known. It felt like the making good of a nearly-forgotten false promise the Functionists of Petrex had made to him nearly five million years ago: that everyone had a place where they fit in, a place they belonged, even Prowl; and that he was in it.

And then, just before it ended, somewhere in that mix of infinite minds, Prowl felt Soundwave break.

The plummet from the Enigma/Talisman high was like falling from orbit and burning up in the atmosphere.

###

Prowl hadn't thought Soundwave mattered to him—until he was gone, and suddenly his absence loomed larger than any other.

Even Optimus, the mech of the hour, the only hero whose name was being repeated over and over on a day full of dead heroes, was merely not here currently, merely not here and not to be here again. Like a piece had played its part and been taken off the board, a queen removed with three pawns waiting to replace it.

But Soundwave felt like losing the king. Soundwave felt like he was missing. Soundwave was an outline in the crowd, in the corner of Prowl's HUD; and every time Prowl turned, expecting the outline to be filled, it wasn't.

He thought it might have been because Soundwave died while channeling the rest of the species together. You notice when the hub of a network breaks, after all. But when he asked Pyra Magna, returned from space, what she'd felt when Soundwave died, she replied, "Did he?"

###

What did Prowl think about Soundwave?

It wasn't a question he'd had to ask before. He usually just thought about people. He didn't think about what he thought about people. There was especially little point of it with a Decepticon, who—regardless of what Prowl thought of him—was a target to be stopped. A target must be understood, analyzed, comprehended, but it didn't pay to have an opinion about a target. Opinions, whether positive or negative, were distractions.

What did he think now?

He thought Soundwave was one of the only high-ranked Decepticons who truly believed, with his entire spark, that what he was doing was good. Prowl could concede that it was admirable that Soundwave cared, unlike Megatron or Starscream or Shockwave. Megatron could argue, in rhetorically impressive ways, that he was good, but didn't really believe it anymore if indeed he ever had; whether or not he was good mattered far less to him than whether the public judged him good. And Shockwave understood that being good was less important than being right, and he thought he was right. (He wasn't. Nothing is right if it isn't ultimately, eventually, in service of good.)

Soundwave believed he was on the side of good, fought with all his spark for what he thought was good; but he was incorrect—monstrously, genocidally incorrect—and that made Soundwave... sad.

Sad, pitiable—and loathsome.

Prowl was so burnt out on loathing that the thought of adding more made him almost nauseous. Soundwave was dead. Prowl could afford to put in minimal effort for him.

Pity, then.

###

Some days later, Prowl saw Rumble, Frenzy, and Buzzsaw huddled together by the sturdiest tree in eyeshot. The twins sat in its shade and the half-twin bent one of its branches under his weight. Automatically, Prowl found himself drifting toward the trio; and stopped, far outside their circle but watching them, not sure what to do now that he was here.

It didn't take them long to notice him, and turn to glower. "Whadda you want?" demanded—Prowl honestly couldn't keep them straight—the blue one.

"I don't know," Prowl said, completely honestly.

The trio looked at each other, then glared at Prowl again. The black one snapped, "Then why don't ya go figure it out somewhere else, cop? This tree's taken."

"Hold on," Buzzsaw said. "He would've—wanted us to be nice."

The twins gave him a dirty look.

"I don't like him," Buzzsaw said defensively. Prowl wasn't offended; he'd heard the words spoken with far more venom by people he'd considered friends. "But that was his policy. We should— We could at least try it."

They all looked sullenly at Prowl again. Then the blue one shrugged and grunted. "Just this once," the black one said. "Next time, you've gotta earn it."

Prowl couldn't get more than one foot underneath the shade without encroaching on their space; but he sat anyway, and tried to figure out why he'd wanted to.

###

Here was something else Prowl thought about Soundwave:

He was the only one who had ever acknowledged how Prowl hurt.

Bumblebee and Ultra Magnus called the Constructicons—five balls and chains shackled to his arms and legs—his friends. What the Decepticons had done to him was never acknowledged, never admitted. When he was still reeling from the pain of what he'd been forced through, mentally, physically, when he was screaming at anyone who came near him from the hurt of it all, no one would talk about it. Not even the Autobots.

Soundwave alone had said that Prowl resented him for his part in Prowl's mental mutilation. He hadn't said it disparagingly. He hadn't said it like it was a problem Prowl had to get over. He hadn't said it like he thought it was foolish, over-emotional, trite. He'd simply acknowledged it. Prowl resented Soundwave because of what Soundwave had done to him.

Five years later, what Prowl needed to hear, desperately needed to hear, was I'm sorry. From someone. Anyone. I'm sorry for what we did to you. I'm sorry for not noticing what was happening. I'm sorry you went through that. Anything. Anything. Someone, anyone—just admit out loud that he'd been made to suffer and he was hurting still.

He knew he was never going to get that. He knew nobody would ever care about him enough to offer it.

But Soundwave had acknowledged that Prowl resented him for what he had done to Prowl.

That was the most Prowl would ever receive. He was going to have to hold onto that for the rest of his life.

###

When Prowl received the full list of fatalities from the Lost Light's incompetent, pathetic excuse for a captain, he had to leave the room. He didn't say a word. He simply stood, and turned, and left. Rodimus was yelling at him to wait, asking him where he was going, and his reeling mind struggled so hard to calculate a sentence that could explain that he couldn't speak without requiring him to speak that he stumbled over his own feet.

Shockwave had the good grace not to offer a comment when Prowl returned to his prison ship, collapsed to his knees, and curled into a ball.

Dominus. Skids. Getaway.

He'd lost everyone, now. Dominus, Skids, Getaway. The grief was enough to rip off the lid he'd had to hastily spot-weld over the loss of Shock and Ore, back when he'd still been buckling under the monumental task of processing his own suffering alone.

He couldn't remember how to cry properly anymore. Primus, he wished he could.

###

Days later, when he'd recovered from his grief enough that anyone who looked at him would think he'd never felt it, he remembered that Ravage had also been listed among the dead.

###

When Prowl approached Rumble, Frenzy, and Buzzsaw again, Frenzy (Prowl thought he was Frenzy) gave him an expectant look. "Well?"

He'd been told if he wanted to get near them again, he had to earn it.

He stood outside the shade of their tree and said, evenly, "I've recently learned that all my spies are dead."

They all looked away from him. After a moment, Rumble said, "Funny coincidence. Our spymaster's dead."

Prowl sat down.

###

Here was something else Prowl thought about Soundwave:

In some ways, he was almost an Autobot.

It wasn't a compliment. It wasn't a mitigating factor. Soundwave was almost an Autobot because he was motivated by the same things the average Autobot was—or by the same things the average Autobot said one ought to be motivated by. Faith. Loyalty. Friendship.

Motives don't matter, though; only actions. Soundwave was motivated like an Autobot, but those motivations fueled a Decepticon's actions: he was behind just as many massacres of prisoners, exterminations of planets, and slaughters of civilians as any other Decepticon officer. Motives mean nothing; actions mean everything.

Throughout the war, Prowl had heard plenty of Autobots muttering behind his back that he was practically a Decepticon. No other insult he'd ever received had cut him so deeply. Of course he knew why they really said it, even if they didn't: because what motivated him was reason, logic, facts and figures. They thought such motivations were unworthy of a true Autobot. They thought basing battle plans on what would win instead of what would save his friends' lives meant he didn't care.

They didn't understand that that was how he cared.

They didn't understand the difference between an officer who ruthlessly destroyed everything in his path and an officer who ruthlessly saved as many lives as he could.

Prowl hadn't learned until after the war that Decepticon High Command had never fully trusted Soundwave. Even Megatron had harbored suspicions of him throughout the war. At first the thought baffled him, when from the other side of the war it had always seemed painfully obvious that Soundwave was the most trustworthy officer that High Command had.

But now, he realized, the things that had made Soundwave seem so obviously trustworthy were also the things that made him the most Autobot. They might have been the very things the Decepticons distrusted him for. Faith. Loyalty. Friendship.

Prowl wondered if Soundwave had ever heard Decepticons muttering that he was practically an Autobot. Prowl wondered if Soundwave, too, had silently let the words lash deep in his spark, while acting like they'd never touched him.

###

Here were some more things Prowl thought about Soundwave:

He understood why Optimus had ensnared Soundwave with blackmail. Prowl didn't fault Optimus for it, as for Optimus's goals it was an absolutely strategically sound move; but he didn't agree with Optimus's goals. He was furious that the one Decepticon who'd ever turned his back on High Command for any reason other than to find a new method to stroke his own ego had been unwillingly dragged into conquering a planet by the one mech in all the universe who should have been most opposed to another conquest.

He thought that Soundwave's ridiculous little commune was the closest any Decepticon had gotten to realizing the ideals they imagined they'd been pursuing since the start of the war; but he didn't think it made up for a single one of the crimes Soundwave had committed in the war.

He didn't believe for a second that Soundwave was truly so naïve that he hadn't understood the full consequences of his actions until after the war was over. More likely, he'd probably denied the full consequences. Prowl didn't think Soundwave had the power to steel his spark to the knowledge of the things he'd done the way Prowl himself did.

He believed—for Carpessa, for Junkion, for the New Institute—that he himself was little better than Soundwave. To be sure, Soundwave beat Prowl for sheer quantity of sins, many times over; but in terms of quality, they were the same. They'd both done the worst things they could imagine in pursuit of a beautiful peace, a greater good, that would make it all worthwhile. Now Prowl had come to believe that perhaps there was a better way, that perhaps the end couldn't justify the means because only good could ultimately lead to good. Soundwave had simply come to believe the same thing a couple years sooner.

He thought that Shockwave might have been wrong when he said that he and Prowl were each other's parallels, the logical Decepticon and the logical Autobot. They were only parallel in motivation. Not in actions, and not in intentions. Perhaps, all these years—equally quiet, equally unpopular, equally shunned, equally fervent, equally committed to a true greater good, and equally mis-serving that ideal—his parallel had been Soundwave.

And he was envious that half of Soundwave's spies had outlived him.

###

"You lot?" Shockwave said, audibly disgusted, as Rumble, Frenzy, and Buzzsaw burst into the prison ship. "What are you doing here? Prowl never permits visitors—and if he did, he wouldn't permit you."

"He hired us," Rumble shot back. "Thought he wasn't doin' a good enough job gettin' on your nerves by himself."

"We're Prowl's new guards," Frenzy said. "Slash messengers, slash, uhh, errand bots... slash I dunno, assassins?"

"No assassinations," Prowl said firmly, following them onto the ship, and taking his usual seat at the controls. "Or sabotage, espionage, or petty vandalism. I'm retired. If you want to cause mayhem, it's going to be the lawful kind."

In some awe, Rumble whispered, "That's the most boring-soundin' mayhem I've ever heard of."

"We're still working out our new job duties," Buzzsaw told Shockwave, landing on the back of Prowl's chair. "It's all pretty touch and go—which I think means, if he gets touchy, we go."

Prowl snorted dismissively, but declined to comment as he powered up the ship and lifted off.

"He's the first Autobot we've willingly worked for and we're the first Decepticon underlings he's willingly taken on," Buzzsaw went on. "There's going to be an adjustment period while we're getting used to each other. If we have any big blow-out arguments, though, I promise we'll have them in here while you're trying to sleep."

"Wonderful."

"I dunno," Frenzy said. "Ain't got a social strut in his structure, somehow knows what everyone's up to but don't know a thing about how people work, thinks he can stop us from making mayhem just by askin'—he don't sound that different from what we're used to, honestly."

Prowl reminded himself, as they laughed at him, that they probably meant it as a compliment.

Probably.

###

Here was one last thing Prowl thought about Soundwave:

Ultimately, beyond all else, the both of them had been driven to protect. Hadn't they? Ultimately, the both of them had fought the war, and committed the worst evils, out of a sincere belief that they were protecting Cybertron from a far worse enemy.

Of course, concerning which side was the real threat to Cybertron, Soundwave was wrong and Prowl was right. But Soundwave had certainly believed the opposite, so it was a moot point.

If there were no threat—if there were no war—if the both of them hadn't turned themselves into monsters to fight it—Prowl thought he and Soundwave might have gotten along. He thought they would have seen each other as kindred spirits. He thought they might have liked each other, in some alternate reality where they'd never been dragged into a pointless war.

Maybe that was why his death had called to Prowl. Maybe, for just a moment, when everyone's sparks were touching, Prowl had had some subconscious glimpse of the connection they could have, should have had.

But it was too late to find out now.

###

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the-fresh-air-of-tyria · 5 years

Text

What Are You...?

I find myself alone, often. Even among the Pact and its numerous bodies of flesh, fur, muscle and foliage, those with half a mind to do so will avoid me. I could not say this upsets me; after all, with so many decades of solitude under my skin, it can be difficult to desire anything else. Perhaps they find me frightening... I certainly couldn’t blame them; they unearthed me from this place, after all. That would frighten anyone.

There are times I am approached, however. Times where a member of the Pact, be they initiate or a master of the battlefield, becomes curious of my presence here. Really, though, can anyone find fault in that? I don’t dress like these people, nor do I speak as they speak. I was found in an odd place, and now, I follow their orders. Curiosity must burn within the ranks of them, yet fear holds their tongues in as tight a grasp as their desire to approach.

However, there are times the apprehension simply cannot win. The fascination and determination undermines it. And sometimes, I get a visitor.

This young man looks much too youthful to be in a war against dragons. Small and thin, with hair wavy like seaweed, skin dark, dusted with some of the pale, salt-infused soil of Orr. His eyes hide behind glasses with rims too thick to be accidentally broken, dark like pools of oil. His armor appears to have been cobbled together with a misguided prayer, a bit of metal plating here, some chainmail under some leather there. His weapon, a longsword borrowed from the Vigil.

Here, atop the overlook of Malchor’s Leap, where the ill-fated sculptor met Grenth by his own hand, this outmatched little human approaches me. He isn’t aware I know this, at first; his approach is from behind as I peer over the edge. I hear him, however. I hear the way his feet faintly scrape their leather soles against the loose earth, marred and mixed with dead coral. The way it grinds under his weight, and his breath, exhaling in a tremulous wheeze as he approaches. When, at last, he comes to a halt at my side, I note his distance from me. Two full arm’s lengths.

For a while, I say nothing. Normally they speak first. The Asura are especially forward, even if they’re just as wary in their approach. The human, on the other hand, says nothing, and keeps glancing toward me as I stand to the left of him. I certainly thought I was an eerie one, but the incessant staring does eventually get to me.

“Can I help you?” It’s a rasp, perhaps. My voice has been ravaged entirely, from sea salt. Yet it remains strong, deep and forceful. It sends a visually impressive shudder through the young man, whose hair is like seaweed, and whose eyes are like pools of oil. He turns, however, instead of excusing himself, and finally trains his gaze upon my own.

“Where do you come from?”

That pitiful little voice. It’s small. It’s weak and gentle. It breathes out like a soft summer breeze’s sigh. Like the feather of a hummingbird slipping past one’s ear, certain that it’s been felt, yet leaving no trace. It speaks with little conviction, uncertainty and fear embedded to the roots like a poison.

However, I’m caught off guard, somewhat. The question makes me turn toward the young man, who seems to steel himself as though I intend to attack.

“Where do I... come from?” The young man nods his head, gently forcing his body to relax a bit. Still, I can see in the way his legs place themselves that he’s ready to bolt at any given moment. The question, on the other hand, still rings odd to me, as enigmatic as a sun-bleached series of puzzle pieces. “That’s a bold question for someone like you.”

“The rest just... speculate. Wild rumors keep flying about with no reason to them. I need to know. I need to know.”

“You don’t need to know. Nobody would believe such storied tales.”

“I’m sure we would. You’re not like the Sylvari. The... other Sylvari, at least. You smell like ocean water and wood rot. We found you in Arah, in a place none of us had explored yet... you were buried under rubble and didn’t know any of us. Dressed oddly.”

I can feel the pull of a smile on my lips, the most rare motion my face could make, indeed. This must have frightened the human, who looked more wary and leaned backward. “Alright. I knew someone would ask eventually. No---I do not come from these Sylvari’s tree. I come from another, deep within the jungle. I found myself wandering, exploring, a very long time ago.”

“There... is another tree?”

“Was. It died long ago. It could not survive where it was seeded, and the jungle is a ravenous beast. One only survives if they are strong... and it was not as strong as it could have been. It bore few fruit.”

“So there... there’s more of you?”

“I’m not sure. I saw one, not long after I set out. A purple one. His name escapes me.”

“Why did you leave the jungle?”

I study the young man’s gaze, now boring intensely into my own. The fear seems to have gone, replaced by a hungry fascination. He’d make a good Priory scholar, I think.

“It had nothing for me there. I disliked having to struggle daily to survive. While the jungle provides what one needs, it isn’t willing to give it freely, nor easily. And I became... lonely, I suppose. I found myself among strange beings I learned quickly to be human.”

“They didn’t find you odd?”

Another smile, and this time I feel a strange... sensation in my throat. I realize it’s a chuckle. Rough, sandy. “Quite the contrary, in fact. They... considered me a deity of their nature god. An aspect. I was given offerings often, food and clothing, small shiny trinkets. I felt that trying to explain what I truly was might... dampen their spirits.”

I turn away from the young man, who exhaled softly. “You stole from them.”

“They gave me everything I took. I did not lead them astray---they assumed, and I was grateful to accept their beliefs.”

“You---that doesn’t mean you didn’t steal from those people. They thought they were honoring Melandru, and you took those offerings!” A soft shrillness accompanied the man’s voice, and I turned my head quickly to look at him. His sudden burst of confidence quelled as swiftly as a small campfire in a torrential rain.

“I did not ask to be their aspect. I did not know their god. I still know nothing of their Melandru. The statues here to their gods are nothing to me but laughing shadows, memories that were never washed away. Their gods did not save them from the Charr, did they? Quite the contrary---they left Arah. They left their worshipers behind. Are you saying I fully contributed to that? Or was it simply the selfishness of these apparently all-kind, all-seeing deities? Does my taking small material things insult these gods so very much?”

“They didn’t leave... forever. They watch from beyond the veil. They watch us, hear our prayers and our... voices. Our requests.”

“Then request to your gods that I be further punished.”

The young man blanches, and he turns toward Malchor’s Leap. Such a befitting name for this outcropping of stone. Then he looks back at me, pushing his dark hair back, exhaling once more. “What did you do to... survive so long since then? How did you make it through the years of Orr... below the waves?”

This time, my smile becomes more of a distant, disgusted smirk. I feel my nose wrinkle with the motion, and I can smell a breath of my own stench---that of a ship’s waterlogged, rotting wood and cold seasalt. “I came to Orr. I heard that its lands were saturated with magic, with belief, with... their gods’ presence. I thought I might live well there.”

“You were wrong.” The young man is half accusatory. The rest seems... morbidly curious.

“I was, yes. They... knew I wasn’t an aspect of their Melandru. Something---someone---told them. Their god, I assume, before they departed. I was caught, as they came for me, trying to steal from a noble family. I was put on trial.”

“You were... convicted? What crimes?”

“Quite a few. Most of them I forget. But the one that bound me here, I remember very well. Passing myself off as an aspect of their deity was the worst of the offenses. Such a despicable act that they felt I would be an eternal lesson. Forbidden magic was secretly used upon me, binding my spirit to my vessel. Forcing me to live for eternity, but never free.”

The young man’s brows have furrowed. “We... found you in a collapsed building with bars rotted away. There were some bones here and there, white as paper---”

“I wasn’t alone in that prison. Other prisoners... of course they didn’t survive the sinking. But I did.”

“You...?” His mouth opens softly, a gentle gape. “You survived going down so far---?”

“I survived the sinking of Orr. The feeling that the world was being ripped from under my feet, the way the interior walls and bars... crushed like twigs and wood. The total blackness, being so far beneath the waves, trapped in a prison with so many bodies pressed against the ceiling and unable to escape.”

“But you lived...”

Unfortunately. That was a stipulation of my curse. I live through everything done to me. I lived for countless years beneath the waves, in frigid water, breathing it in and expelling it, smelling and hearing but never seeing. Feeling the viscera of rotting bodies surround me, then sweep away in the currents that reminded me that there are exits... many exits. But the stone was too heavy for me to move. The holes were too small to get even a hand out of them.”

“Was it... painful to come back up?” Awe is written upon the young man’s face. Like a child hearing his mother tell him a bedtime story. It’s almost endearing. It might have been, were the memories not clutching at my chest. Reminding me that my every breath now feels like inhaling sand and pushing it back out.

“It felt... strange. The crushing pressure was lifted so quickly that my body struggled to accept it. I felt myself reform, yet I have no idea what I might have begun to look like so far below the waves. My sight returned, but the pinpricks of sunlight felt like hammers. The water faded, and the heat of dry air seemed to ravage my skin like the heart of Mount Maelstrom itself. I can still... feel the claws of dry air rend into me. The bones within me creak like the deck of an old ship. My eyes find it difficult to adjust to the moonlight, despite its gentle touch. Tracks of memory. This entire wretched existence... because the Orrians...”

He shakes his head. I glance at him, raising a brow. “They... punished you for what they felt was the highest crime.”

“I have been punished beyond reason.” I feel my voice darken. The rasp from the saltwater worsens. “I have seen my death come and go so many times I no longer have a grasp on the count. Creatures tore at me in the depths! Yet my skin reformed with each bite until they were satisfied, and left me be. My lungs exploded in my chest, coming back together with every few breaths. My body atrophied, writhed and shrank, and when I came back up within this world, I was torn asunder, forced back. Is that a fitting punishment for one who took mortal trinkets from your supposedly benevolent deities?”

“Crimes... must be paid for, Eir---”

“I would rather you did not speak my name.” My voice is cold now. It makes the human shiver. “My crime would have been paid for in full had they taken the trinkets back. Had they forced me to work in Melandru’s temples. Had I simply been imprisoned. But they wished to torture me. Beyond any reasonable measure, they wished to know I would never know peace.”

The young man lowers his head, swallowing gently. “I... I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sure Melandru would not have wanted to see you suffer so much.”

“Had she shown mercy, rather than abandoning this world, perhaps I would agree with you.”

He nods faintly. “Ah... I’m sorry---”

“At least, now, you know where I come from.”

“I do.”

He clasps his hands, shakily pacing back toward the temple we are meant to be guarding. Silence, once more. I exhale, and I feel my lungs crack and creak as though a salt shell breaks and contracts with each motion.

Perhaps, if I were Malchor, I might jump from this ledge as well. I know true insanity, the likes of which drove him to his final descent... I just hide it well.

What a pity the swim back to shore wouldn’t be worth this deadly leap.

#Guild Wars 2 #guild wars 2 screenshot #GW2 #Scenery #GW2 fanfiction #Writing #Storytelling #guild wars 2 sylvari #guild wars 2 thief #backstory

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