#trying to write that scene was a challenge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

skyloftian-nutcase · 5 days

Text

Hemisi hugged herself worriedly as her parents approached her. Ganondorf wasn't entirely sure what was bothering his daughter - things had been tense since the attack, but he had just ensured peace by swearing fealty to Rauru. This was supposed to be a moment of reprieve, a time for his family to not worry as he prepared for the future.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Nabooru asked before he could.

"I haven't found Link," Hemisi said, her voice anxious. "I've been looking everywhere for him. The guards won't really tell me much."

Ganondorf fel this ire rise. The guards likely were trying to protect Link, but they had no right to refuse information to the princess of the Gerudo. Such a slight would not be ignored. Not to mention he too wanted to know where the boy was.

"Leave this to me," he said crisply, walking away.

It didn't take much time (or threatening glares) to get what he needed. Link, apparently, was on a place called Thunderhead Island, one of the Zonai lands in the sky.

"Thunderhead Island?" Nabooru repeated after Ganondorf reported back. "We'd need a construct to get us up there, right?"

"Yeah," Hemisi answered. "Link's told me about the islands lots of times. Not many are allowed on them - it's usually just the royal family and the Sheikah."

"They'll allow me," Ganondorf rumbled, crossing his arms. "I am a king."

"Yes, but that island is also fairly volatile," Nabooru argued. "I'm better with lightning magic. I should go."

Personally, Ganondorf was far more inclined to go retrieve the boy himself, but he didn't contest the matter. Nabooru seemed rather set on the issue, and some things weren't worth arguing with her. As much as he admired her determination, he also knew she would fight him for so long that Hemisi would probably just sneak off to do the deed herself, and neither parent wanted that. The girl's abilities with lightning were formidable, but she would likely cause trouble if she went alone.

"Very well," he conceded. "We'll be waiting down here."

Nodding, Nabooru grabbed a cloak and headed towards the nearest construct. At activated at her approach, acknowledging in a mechanically musical chime, "May I help you?"

"I need to get to Thunderhead Island," Nabooru said.

The construct's reply was quick as ever. "That place is restricted."

"I am the queen of the Gerudo," Nabooru replied. "I have special access."

The construct paused a moment, processing, before noting, "I will need authorization for you to go there."

"This is an emergency," Nabooru argued. "You can speak to King Rauru about it afterwards if you please, I don't care, but one of my family is up there and I need to find him."

Although the construct was programmed to gate keep, she also knew giving a sense of urgency or danger would override its usual algorithm. Predictably, the construct questioned, "Is someone in danger?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

The Zonai machine was silent for a moment before giving an admission. "This line of logic is acceptable. I will transport you to Thunderhead Island and report the matter to King Rauru."

"You do that," she sighed. It didn't really matter of Rauru knew. Nabooru wasn't exactly keen on causing a stir within hours of Ganondorf swearing his loyalty, especially given their history, but something Hemisi's anxiety and Link's very obvious disappearance was definitely concerning. Considering the ceremony that had just happened and the celebration that had followed, Link should have been one of the first people they saw.

The construct extended its hand in front of a stone circle, and the familiar green hue of Zonai technology activated, glowing in the circle's center. Nabooru stepped forward, letting it transport her, closing her eyes as her world shifted. The air grew much colder, even more frigid than she was expecting, and she suddenly felt a little short of breath. Goddess, she'd thought the Highlands were chilly. Why was the air so much stranger here? She was shocked into opening her eyes as her cloak was immediately bombarded by a wave of rain, thunder rumbling all around her. A circular fountain of water was in front of her, surrounded by stone architecture. She walked forward, off the platform on the ground that had received her. She needed to set to work soon, already feeling a little lightheaded.

A few steps ahead it became apparent that this island wasn't just an island, but an entire chain of them. Nabooru glanced around hesitantly, looking for some kind of Zonai device to help transport her from place to place, and found none. What was Link doing here? Where was he?

Nabooru looked between pillars, on and under benches, until she'd thoroughly searched the island she was on and the few she could see. But a flash of blonde caught her attention just as she was starting to wonder if Ganondorf had been wrong, and she squinted against the rainfall to see a teenager sitting on the ground, knees tucked into his chest, wearing the attire of the palace guards combined with a headdress and Gerudo earrings gifted to him by his betrothed.

Clamping her jaw shut against the tremors that tried to make her teeth chatter, Nabooru wrapped herself more tightly in her cloak, she found a set of stairs that at least connected to this little island, moving quickly down them. Link, for whatever reason, chose to sit outside a small building, ignoring a construct nearby that was tending to a tree. The boy was soaked to the bone, red skin paint that usually adorned his exposed arm having long been washed away from his tan complexion. His red eyes were dull, hidden under platinum blonde plaits plastered to his forehead. The sparkling splendor of the Gerudo headband and earrings was dulled considerably, and his top knot was half undone in the rain.

"Link," Nabooru called a little loudly so she could be heard. "What are you doing out here?"

Link didn't seem to react all that much, or at least it wasn't apparent in this awful weather. But she heard him mutter, "You're not supposed to be here."

"Nor should you be here," Nabooru accused mildly, walking towards him. She paused short of reaching him, seeing him clam up even more. "News of our arrival has been known for at least a week. Yet on the day that Ganondorf creates peace between the Gerudo and Hyrule, you hide from us? Hemisi's been looking for you."

"Ganondorf attacked Hyrule." Link's words were sharp, dark. He was clearly still upset about the molduga assault.

Nabooru sighed. This really wasn't the place to be having this discussion - she was freezing and dizzy, and if he got any more soaked the boy would practically be a Zora. "Yes. He did. You know him, sweetheart. He likes to test his boundaries before he concedes to them. But he's conceded."

Link tucked his chin to his chest, looking away.

"Honey, the fight is over," Nabooru pressed on, stepping closer to him. "And for the first time, the Gerudo now have an alliance with Hyrule. We're a part of it - this would mean you and Hemisi don't have to hide your relationship from the public eye anymore, that there is nothing to hide anymore. This is a joyous occasion, not a reason to be moping in the rain. Come down with me so you can be with your family, love."

She finally cleared the distance between them, crouching down and putting a hand on his shoulder. Link glared moodily at the lands below, eye lashes dripping with moisture. Quietly, almost to himself, he said, "Ganondorf never concedes."

"Well, he did," Nabooru emphasized slowly. Link had not been included in the discussion of their attack on Hyrule, had been completely blindsided as Ganondorf had suggested he and Hemisi play and explore near the mines that day so they wouldn't be involved. Nabooru knew that as a member of the Sheikah tribe he would likely take it harder than most Hyrulians, but she hadn't expected quite the grudge he seemed to be holding. "Come on, love. You're freezing."

Lightning struck a small spire at the top of the building they were sitting near, making Nabooru straighten up and prepare for another strike. Thunder clapped so loudly it made her chest vibrate. Link sighed, slowly pushing to his feet. He must have been sitting for some time, swaying a little unsteadily, and Nabooru put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him inside the structure. Constructs were indoors, stoking a fire, and she approached one. "Can you take us back to the Royal Plateau?"

The little machine beeped in the affirmative, guiding them to a hover platform that sent them back to the originating island. Nabooru's hands were on Link's shoulders the entire time, feeling them tremble under her, and she pulled him close so they could share her cloak. His skin was ice cold, making her inhale sharply a little when he brushed against her exposed arms and abdomen. A headache was brewing in her forehead, and she was certainly ready to leave this dreary place.

When the pair teleported back, Ganondorf and Hemisi were there waiting for them.

"Link!" Hemisi exclaimed, rushing forward and dragging him into a hug. "You idiot, why are you soaking wet?! Where've you been?!"

"Hon, can you spare your robe?" Nabooru asked, still holding the boy to her.

Her husband complied without question, pulling off his dark outer robe and holding it out. The parents exchanged Link, one set of arms to the other, and the boy was wrapped up and held against Ganondorf quickly. He didn't argue, he didn't protest, he didn't speak as Hemisi bombarded him with questions. The king and queen exchanged a look, and the family moved towards their provided quarters in the palace.

Eventually, Link started to speak softly to his betrothed, seeming less agitated with her, and soon the two were both cuddling under Ganondorf's large garment. Nabooru moved to fetch servants so they could get him fresh clothes and some warm food, and Hemisi moved quickly to the task as well, saying she was going to grab towels.

That left Ganondorf and Link.

"So were you up there sulking the entire time since the assault?" Ganondorf finally said, getting to the point as he knelt down to the boy's eye level.

"No." Link's reply wasn't quite snappish, but it was certainly sharp, though not nearly as sharp as his eyes. Ganondorf smiled at the fire in them, the anger and force of will that refused to bow down to anything. "Just for your arrival."

"If you thought we wouldn't find you, you clearly don't know us as well as you should," Ganondorf noted with mild humor, pulling the robe over the boy's head to dry his hair. He carefully removed the pins and tie holding the top knot, tucking them into a pouch on his belt. Link didn't protest, though his gaze did drift to the floor, softening, showing the wound he'd been bearing in his heart. Ganondorf felt... more than a little exasperated, but he'd known the boy would be upset. Still... "Hold whatever grudge you wish against me, child, but do not share your ire with Hemisi. She didn't know about the attack. I suggested you two be near the mines that day for a reason."

Link sighed heavily, closing his eyes.

"The fighting is over," Ganondorf emphasized, putting weight in his voice to end this pointless adolescent moping. Then he smiled. "And now the world can know your place in our family."

The boy glanced up, hope shimmering in crimson orbs, tempered by an intelligence he often hid behind innocence and silence. "Why did you do it?"

"Why did I attack?"

"No. Why did you give up?"

"I don't give up," Ganondorf retorted a little irritatedly, pausing his ministrations.

"I know," Link immediately acknowledge firmly. "So why? You don't acknowledge defeat."

"Oh, Link," Ganondorf hummed with gentle amusement, proud of the boy's insight. He was going to make a good prince. But it would make the next months a little difficult if the king wasn't careful. "A strong warrior refuses to give up, but a wise one knows when he is defeated. I am both. It's pointless to fight a force you cannot win against."

Link still looked skeptical, confused. Ganondorf added, "How else could we build peace for you and Hemisi?"

His words seemed to catch the boy off guard. For a moment, Ganondorf really wondered if Link didn't actually think they cared, despite having spent over a year being welcomed into the family. For a moment, the king wondered if the boy really was that dull, or somehow he and his wife hadn't done something right. And then Link bit his lip, shivering, and hugged himself, clearly trying to contain emotion and not quite succeeding.

Ganondorf sighed, letting the boy be vulnerable for a moment. He pulled him close, and Link sank into the embrace, curled in against his chest.

Link would be a good prince. Ganondorf knew this. He just needed to hone the boy a little more, reassure him and teach him, let him enjoy his time with Hemisi. A war was brewing soon. It was best to enjoy this time while he could.

#tears of the kingdom #totk #hero of shadow #ganondorf #nabooru #hemisi #writing #idk lovelies #this scene popped in my head and I couldn't get rid of it and couldn't go to bed until I'd written it so #Link knows Gan very well #he knows he doesn't just “give up” from a challenge #but he does not in the slightest fathom exactly how far Gan will go #so he just trusts his word #I always thought it was so weird that the order of Zelda's memories show a Gerudo assault first and THEN Gan's like “Let's be friends :D”#Like I figured he'd swear his fealty first and THEN try to attack and THEN realize he needed to get a secret stone #like I get it from Gan's perspective but from RAURU'S it seems a VERY dumb move to just let Gan wander your palace after that???#Like dude #Rauru #you're kind of an idiot #ESPECIALLY since ZELDA knew this guy was trouble #and he's already attacked your kingdom!!!#like #RAURU #king rauru #why man #you're an idiot #like I don't mind his character but #what the heck #dumb move #even Link thinks so lol

26 notes · View notes

little-paperboat · 1 month

Text

i may or may not be in the process of writing a rolan x tav fic due to incessant rolan brainrot these past 3 days.

and i may or may not be able to finish it, for once.

#trying to beat the “starting a fic and abandoning it” allegations (that i throw at myself)#but it's soooo good if i say so myself (and i do)#i'm just writing all the good scenes now but then there is The Rest To Write(TM) and it will be challenging #but i can do this #i just NEED to do this to get him out of my brain because i can picture it so fucking vividly #writing #tav x rolan #rolan #rolan nation

21 notes · View notes

fictionadventurer · 7 months

Text

I have three stories that I would like to write at least some part of before the deadline for the Inklings Challenge.

I am scrolling tumblr and obsessively looking up book recommendations online.

I see some problems here.

#adventures in the inklings challenge #i am having a scatterbrained week #so very tired yet unable to sleep #mind going off in a million different directions #unable to focus because i have an event at 7 pm #i keep trying to do inklings housekeeping and then forgetting what i was supposed to do #i would like a refund on this brain #at least the obsessive book rec scrolling could be useful for at least one of the ideas #so far the plan is: finish the short story that's been my main focus for the challenge #by just starting at the beginning and writing instead of trying to finesse old material into the new outline #try to write at least one scene that's more of a prequel to the other main idea #and if by some magic i have time left (where??? i don't think you understand the concept of linear time sweetheart)#scribble out a version of the third idea #oh wait there's a fourth one!#that's one's very scribbly though #that one could realistically be written in saturday spare moments #i guess the hope with idea 3 would more accurately be a hope to *start* so it's an unfinished story to write after the deadline #rather than trying to sneak in a new story under the inklings umbrella under false pretenses

20 notes · View notes

neon-angels-system · 9 months

Text

how to stop crying: think about those two middle-aged men being in love

#yes I am being insane over Erasermic again what about it #hardest part of writing fanfic about them is the simple truth that Present Mic's hero outfit is so fucking ugly #it suits him perfectly. and it has the potential to look good. but.#Horikoshi had the vision of Mic being a middle aged man trying his best to look cool and utterly failing #who am I to disrespect that #so that gives me the challenge of trying to write soft scenes #but being unable to escape the truth that Mic must always be at least a little pathetic #that's okay. Eraser can be all the more pathetic for finding himself loving that anyway #I am a big fan of the 'unknowingly unrequited love that has been ongoing for 10+ years' trope #and Erasermic is literally perfect for it sorry

21 notes · View notes

hythlodaes · 7 months

Text

this fire is bound to burn

emile x estinien / 9.4k words spoilers up to the very beginning of endwalker

There’s something to be said for these old habits and the way they find each other again, the shadows of their bodies recognizable in the dark. Here they come alive, here they unravel the years between them.

It begins in a snow covered clearing.

Under the moonlight, Emile searches the remains of a campsite with only a story in the back of his mind. Despite the wind screeching through the air, he turns at the sound of someone approaching. Estinien stands, guarded by his armor, his face hidden by his helm, and his words are as harsh and as angry as the cold.

Emile thinks nothing of him until the Eye awakens, something suddenly alive and tangible between them.

It takes but a single moment for fate to bind them together.

—

It begins in Tailfeather, in the Churning Mists, beyond the Gates of Judgment.

What draws them closer is what pulls them apart: vengeance is a word that would dig their graves. It is a path they both know but one they cannot walk together. In anger, there is understanding. In Estinien’s freedom from Nidhogg, there is still the death of Emile’s father on the Garlean’s hands.

There is no way forward as they are.

—

It takes time, it takes distance.

—

In truth, it begins on a ship bound for Sharlayan.

It begins at the end of it all.

—

Emile blinks through the muted dark at the bunk above him, eyes roaming along flat color as the ship sways in place. He almost forgot about this—the strange adjustment to the constant motion of residing at sea. It stirs within him as restlessly as the lack of a task to focus on, and he finds that the night passes with little motivation to sleep.

In the bunk above him, he can tell by the steady in and out of Alphinaud’s breathing that he does not have the same trouble. Nor does G’raha, who sleeps just as soundly on the top bunk across the room. Below him, however, Estinien’s bunk is empty.

Emile watches the neatly made bed for too long, the feeling in his chest a remnant of their days long before this. It was always the two of them slipping away from camp, the deep blue shadows of Estinien’s face as they talked under the stars turning in the sky.

He swallows back the memories as he gets up, pulling on a sweater and his cloak. Though dulled by their years apart, it’s still instinct to seek him out, like some part of him knows they’re meant to pass the night together.

The ship is quiet. Emile moves through the dark in silence until he reaches the upper deck, where the cool sea air rushes towards him and the sound of the ocean rolls beneath the ship in heavy, slow repetitions. He takes in a deep breath, damp and salt lined, and looks for Estinien.

He finds him at the far edge of the deck, the wind pulling at his shirt and suggesting the strong shape of his shoulders down to the taper of his waist. Moonlight curves over his hair, still loose and blowing in the wind, and his arms rest before him, half leaning over the railing until he turns at the sound of Emile approaching.

For a moment they simply watch each other. It’s been some time since they’ve stood alone like this.

Estinien seems to realize it as well, judging by the smile that steals at just the edges of his lips. It doesn’t feel real sometimes that he’s here again, that they’re doing this again. Emile thought it was over after they’d said goodbye in Ishgard all those years ago. Their chance encounter in the east felt like the remnant of a memory, a feeling found and quickly forgotten again. Their reunion in Ishgard felt even more fleeting.

In Azys Lla, Emile pulled him aside, certain that he’d only have a brief window to speak with him. He’d stumbled over a quiet thank you for saving his life against Elidibus, something he regret not getting to say before.

But now—

“Couldn’t sleep?” Emile asks as he comes over to stand beside him.

“Nay,” he murmurs. His voice sounds different at this time of night; softer. “I suspect much for the same reason as you.”

Emile smiles. “When’s the last time you were this still?”

Estinien’s answering smile is just a flicker and then it’s gone. “More recently than you, if Alphinaud’s stories are anything to go by.”

Emile turns his head towards the horizon. The moonlight casts a film over the water, highlighting each rippled wave that rises from the vast dark. He remembers the same sight on a different ship, one headed east. He remembers those long days of battle after battle, death after death, with years clawing at the space in between. That it ended in a short lived victory, with Zenos’ body rising once again as the Scions fell, until Emile joined them on the First.

Remember us.

He takes a breath.

“They are.”

He can feel Estinien’s gaze slide along his profile, and he waits for the familiar question to follow. It’s never quite a question, never quite a command, but it’s always the same:

“Tell me,” he says.

Emile meets his gaze. “If Alphinaud has already spoken of it, then I’m sure there is little for me to add.”

“Still, I would like to hear it from you.”

Something in Emile hesitates—the clearest memories are the sharpest. Sometimes he still feels the sharp pain of light cracking through his body. There are nights where he still speaks to Ardbert in his dreams. As hard as he tries, he cannot forget the words Zenos spoke over him—you and I are one and the same.

There is more to it than what simply happened, would Estinien want to hear this too?

Yes, he thinks. He remembers spilling story after story before him, each one carrying more weight until he revealed the heart of him. This is something safe.

“All right,” Emile murmurs, and he picks up the thread shortly after the end of the Dragonsong War. He tells him about Baelsar’s Wall, Ala Mhigo, Kugane. He describes Hien, the Steppe—though they met there later—and Sadu. There were other women: Lyse, M’naago, and Fordola, who saw through him. The memories crawl up his throat, and once they start, they don’t stop.

Estinien listens with his hands loose and open on the railing, his eyes fixed on Emile until he too turns his attention to the horizon, fingers curling into fists. Emile doesn’t like to think of the last few years as unhappy, but it was hard, and he can hear the strain in his voice as he traces his way back to the present.

The night grows colder, and Estinien shivers once, twice—quickly, as though it’s against his will—before Emile pulls the cloak from his own shoulders and drapes it over his. Estinien glares at him but surprisingly does not protest, and as Emile continues, he watches him clutch it a little firmer around his chest, as Emile often does.

Emile doesn’t know how long they stay like that, only that his words grow slower as time drags on and the sky pales a little. He’s barely started on their time on the First, but soon the ship will wake in earnest and they’ll lose their chance to sleep entirely.

“It’s getting late,” he murmurs, and he wonders if Estinien can hear in his voice how little he wants this moment to end.

Estinien blinks at the horizon as though he’s just now realizing this, but then he nods. “So it is.”

They descend into the lower decks wordlessly, and Emile watches the line of his shoulders in front of him as they navigate the narrow halls back to their room. At the door, Estinien stops and turns to him. Familiar and unfamiliar. Memory and the present. Emile feels like he should say something, but how do you tell someone you missed them without revealing your heart?

Estinien’s mouth curves down at one corner.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, his deep voice barely above a whisper.

Emile knows immediately what he’s referring to—it was the last conversation they had after the Dragonsong War, when Estinien asked if Emile would still seek his vengeance. I have to, he’d said then, and only now does he know how foolish it was.

“I did,” Emile murmurs. “There was no satisfaction in it.”

He admits it without shame, because he knows Estinien understands. Where I once craved vengeance, I now crave rest.

Sure enough, Estinien nods. He removes the cloak from his shoulders and holds it out for Emile to take back, their eyes on each other the entire time. For a moment, neither of them move. There is a question lingering between them, something unspoken but present all the same. Emile feels its weight but cannot translate its meaning.

They pass a quiet goodnight back and forth before they slip into the room, where the only sound is the steady breathing of G’raha and Alphinaud asleep. Emile settles back into bed, turning his back to the rest of the room.

He closes his eyes, but as tired as he is, he stays awake for a long time.

—

Estinien is different.

Emile has known this since they first met again, since they freed Tiamat and he led them in Paglth’an. It’s something that only grows more certain as the days carry on. Estinien’s small smiles come more easily, his teasing remarks more frequent. The hollows around his eyes still exist but the constant anger in them is gone. Emile watches him interact with the others, and he fits in with the Scions as much as he doesn’t.

Emile is almost greedy for the easiness of these days. The cold sun tinges Estinien’s cheeks in pink, makes the white of his hair shine. He is just as restless as Emile but he does not complain, he merely busies himself about the ship. More than once Emile spots him chatting with the crew, his gaze focused as they point to the sails above them, to the horizon beyond them, or once with a map between them, plotting out their course.

The twins are near constant companions to him at first. Alisaie is just as interested in him as her brother, even if she feigns otherwise, and though Estinien feigns his own irritation with them, Emile knows how much he enjoys having them around.

Most days, however, Estinien disappears for hours at a time. Emile never asks where he goes.

It is the night that belongs to them. It becomes Emile’s favorite thing, watching the empty space of Estinien’s bunk before retreating to the upper deck to find him. There’s something to be said for these old habits and the way they find each other again, the shadows of their bodies recognizable in the dark.

Here they come alive, here they unravel the years between them.

Emile finishes telling him about the First, often tripping over his words, retracing his way back and explaining the same things differently. Estinien is patient with him, letting him figure it out as he goes, prompting him with questions where he can. It helps Emile make sense of it in his own mind, the wounds of that time still fresh, still hard to understand.

And then it turns to Estinien, who tells him about what he’s done during their time apart. Like before, his stories are short but to the point, and he tells him about where his travels have taken him, the world he’s rediscovered in this new life free from the weight of vengeance beating through his blood, the new path he found until it eventually led them back together.

They talk about Orn Khai, Alberic, Aymeric. There are things they share, and things they do not. The conversations change over the passing nights, from things that are deep to things that are lighthearted, and they laugh like a couple of kids instead of two men in their thirties.

More often than not, Estinien winds up wearing Emile’s cloak. He brought little by means of a change of clothes, and nothing warm enough to comfortably withstand the windchill at night. He never complains but Emile hates to watch him endure the cold, and so each night he pulls off his cloak and drapes it around his shoulders. Estinien, to his credit, rolls his eyes less and less each time it happens.

“Is this the same one from before?” he asks one night, fingering the worn edge of the seam.

“Aye,” Emile says, his eyes on Estinien’s hands. He wore it night after night in Dravania, using it as a blanket as they slept around the fire or throwing it on as they slipped away from camp together. “My mother wove it for me when I first left Gridania.”

Estinien’s gaze is sharp and immediately on him, and Emile looks up with a raised brow as he moves to take it off.

“I shouldn’t—” he starts.

Emile reaches out to stop him with a hand on his shoulder before he can think better of it. He watches Estinien for a moment, a question on his tongue that he will not ask. He clears his throat. “I am happy to share it with you, and I think she’d be rather cross with me if I didn’t.”

A small frown pulls at Estinien’s lips, but he does not shake off the cloak. After a moment, Emile realizes his hand is still on him and pulls away.

“‘Tis very fine,” Estinien murmurs.

“Mother is an excellent weaver,” he says, only a little embarrassed at the pride in his voice. “She’s tried to teach me many times, but in my youth I did not have the patience to dress a loom. In truth, I’m not certain that I’d have it now, either.”

Estinien laughs a short sound. “Do your sisters weave?”

“Very little,” he answers. “Renee has the skill for it but rarely the time, and Max has even less patience than me. I fear the three of us are quite the disappointment for her.”

“I’m certain she does not view it so,” he says, voice soft.

“Nay,” Emile relents, but he lets himself remember the wide windows of her studio, the dappled light that spilled through in shades of gold in the afternoon. As a teenager, he spent more time staring out at the trees than actually weaving, but he thinks the repetitive motion of it might be nice, now. “Mayhap I’ll pick it up someday.”

Estinien raises a brow. “Retirement plan?”

He laughs. “Aye, I’ll make sure to weave something for you.”

The conversation rolls on until the night winds down. He doesn’t mind when it’s over, when they retreat down below deck again. He finds himself looking forward to the way they murmur goodnight, the look they share at the door of their room, something that comes closer and closer to understanding what they’re really saying.

—

The interest in Estinien cannot be helped. It is a long trip, and he’s the newest addition to their team. The Scions give him space for the most part, but as the days stretch on, questions begin to arise.

The topic of Azure Dragoon comes up one night at dinner. It is one of the rare occasions that all of them sit down at the same time. When they’re together like this, the conversations carry on quickly between topics, overlapping in a way that only makes sense when you’ve known the same people for years.

Emile frequently loses track, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Emile was Azure Dragoon as well, though,” he hears Alphinaud say, and his attention snaps over to the other end of the table, where Alisaie’s brows turn down as she looks back at him.

“‘Tis easy to forget, with how little you speak of it,” she says.

Estinien sits across from them, and his gaze shifts to him as well. Emile lifts a shoulder. “‘Twas Estinien’s role, truly.”

“Haldrath himself possessed you, and still you give me the credit.”

Emile smiles. “No one will know that part of it. ‘Twill always be the story of the Warrior of Light and the Azure Dragoon.”

But the conversation moves on to Haldrath, to the Eyes, to Lahabrea, to the Ascians. There’s a question in Estinien’s gaze but he doesn’t say anything, disappearing into the background of the conversation as he often does.

It’s later that night, when they’re alone, that he brings it up again.

“The Warrior of Light and the Azure Dragoon,” Estinien repeats. It is bitterly cold, and the two of them sit under the cover of one of the masts to block out the wind. Emile’s cloak drapes like a blanket over their legs as they sit shoulder to shoulder, and Emile feels like a child again, hidden away from the world with him.

“Do not think that I have forgotten myself,” Emile murmurs. “But I do not presume to believe that I will be remembered as anything other than the Warrior of Light.”

“Does that not bother you?”

Emile shakes his head, letting his gaze travel up the sails, their scale even greater from this angle. He continues further up, casting his eyes among the stars above them. His shoulders drop as he considers the question. “Part of me thought of it as a burden for some time. I’d felt that there was too much expectation on my shoulders, and all that hope felt useless in the face of those I could not save.”

The weight of Estinien’s gaze no longer feels heavy, but Emile knows when it’s there all the same.

“Now I often find myself grateful for it,” he continues, eyes still full of stars. “If I am to carry one title, ‘tis an honor for it to be one that lends strength to others.”

“And what about you?” Estinien asks.

Emile finally looks at him, light ghosts over him, and there’s something melancholic in his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What lends you strength?”

Emile blinks at him for a long moment. It’s one thing to know that Estinien understands that Emile is just as mortal as everyone else, it’s another to be reminded of it again. Just as they’re talking about the magnitude of his role, Estinien looks right through it and sees him alone on the other side.

“The Scions, of course,” Emile answers immediately. “My family. The memory of those I’ve lost. You.”

The last one comes quietly. Hesitant. Estinien hears it all the same.

“Me?”

Emile is grateful for the dark covering over them as he feels his face warm all the way to the tips of his ears. “Aye, well... we’ve had similar paths, have we not? When I think of your strength in overcoming Nidhogg, it gives me hope for my own future. I’ve hardly had a moment to reflect on my freedom from the burden of vengeance, but being here with you reminds me of it every day.”

Perhaps it’s too much of an admission, but Emile cannot keep it to himself. There are things he’s had to bear alone, things that he would not burden with others, but to tell someone how they’ve helped feels important. Telling this to Estinien feels important.

Estinien looks away, and Emile watches him openly. It’s the tilt of his mouth, the slight slope of his nose, the way his bangs lower over his eyes as he considers what he said. There isn’t anyone like him, is there?

“I do not often wish things were different,” Estinien says finally. “I used to, in my youth and in my anger, but there is no point to it. Yet still I find myself wanting more for you than what the world has offered, than what I myself have asked of you, just like all the others.”

An admission for an admission. Emile can scarcely breathe.

“‘Twas important, Estinien,” he says. “All of it. Unfair at times, yes, but I do not resent what has been asked of me—especially not from you.”

Estinien looks down at his hands. “Then full glad am I that I can offer what strength I have in return. ‘Tis no one more fitting to be the Warrior of Light.”

“I should say you made a fine replacement while I was on the First.”

“Only out of fear of your receptionist,” he says, and he glances at Emile again, who laughs into the emptiness of the night. Estinien’s eyes crinkle at the corners, just the slightest hint of amusement in his expression, and Emile feels that unspoken thing again, that indefinable feeling, but finds that he’s no closer to explaining it.

He knows, in his heart, what he wants it to be.

—

It’s always present in the back of his mind.

Emile has long stopped denying his attraction to Estinien—something he’d felt the moment Estinien first took off his helm in front of him. There’s a certain beauty in the sharp lines of his face, in the angle of his eyes, the soft sheen of his hair. It’s the shape of his body, the breadth of his shoulders, the thick line of his thighs. Emile has to stay his wanting hands at the cut of his waist and the curve of his jaw, fingertips itching to brush back his bangs when they fall into his eyes.

Estinien sees him for who he truly is, he understands him in a way Emile hasn’t felt with anyone before. They can relate about such painful memories and share such stupid laughs, they can talk for hours at a time or sit comfortably in silence. Some foolish part of him feels like they were meant to find each other, but he knows that he’s greedy to want more than he’s been given.

It only grows in difficulty.

Their room is below deck. Despite the cool air above, down here it grows humid and stifling. Emile wakes with the sun even when he can’t see it. He wakes to the sight of Estinien asleep in the bunk across from him, the naked line of his scarred shoulders visible above the blanket, his long hair spread loose across the pillow, mouth parted in sleep. In the lifting shadows of the room, he is mesmerizing.

Sometimes Emile thinks about crossing the short distance between them. Early morning slips by slowly, and he lets himself imagine pulling back the covers and crawling in beside him. He wants to know what his body feels like against his, the touch of his skin, the taste of his lips. He wants to know the comfort of Estinien’s affection, know the heat of his desire, he wants to believe that Estinien could feel the same way he does.

At a certain point, Emile stops looking over at him entirely.

In his haste to get up one morning, however, he forgets to duck his head under the bunk above him. He collides with it with a solid smack in the silence of the room, and he immediately recoils with a hand to his forehead, wincing against the ache that comes in the aftermath of his shock.

“Are you all right?” he hears Estinien whisper. Emile’s attention snaps over to him. He’s on his side facing him, barely holding back a grin.

“Yes—don’t laugh,” Emile whispers back, but he can't help it either. It isn’t the first time he’s forgotten his height in a small space, and the same embarrassment creeps up his neck as he laughs, trying to keep quiet. G’raha isn't in the room—always the first awake—but he can hear Alphinaud stir in the bunk above him.

Emile is careful in his second attempt to get up, and he can feel Estinien watching him as he stands. They’ve seen each other in just about every state of undress before, but Emile still feels self conscious about his bare chest as he turns to throw on a shirt.

It shouldn’t be any different, he reminds himself as he pulls a sweater over his head next, but when he glances at Estinien, he has rolled over and his back is to him.

—

Alisaie is fast, and she hits hard.

Her and Emile take to sparring on the deck most afternoons, when the sun has reached its zenith and the chill in the air is welcome. They use wooden poles instead of lances, and Emile walks her through posture and position, step after step, strategy—things he learned at her age.

She is a quick learner, and even happier to be taught by Emile.

He doesn’t let her win —he knows that she would only be angry with him if he did. Still, he does not use his full strength against her despite the way she pushes him to. She is relentless, always looking for an opening, and tries to create one with force when Emile doesn’t let her in.

More often than not they find themselves with an audience. Scions and strangers alike stop by to watch them spar. Y’shtola merely lingers with an amused expression, Alphinaud is the only one that roots for Emile, and Thancred is the most vocal. He spurs Alisaie on, calling out where Emile’s weak spots are to give her the advantage, laughing when Emile grumbles about how unfair it is.

Estinien stops by one afternoon. They’re mid-spar, so Emile can only catch glimpses of him in their back and forth. He stands with his arms crossed, expression neutral but intent on them as he watches. Alisaie fights harder in his presence, whether out of something to prove to him or to show off—Emile isn’t sure.

Either way, his observation weighs differently. The fight continues in silence for some time before he speaks.

“You should lower your stance,” he says to her, straightforward but not quite a command.

“Emile taught me just fine, thank you,” she returns, but she does as he says. Emile adjusts, refocusing on her hands, watching her feet as she circles around him, but then—

“Emile stands too tall for a dragoon,” he comments, like it’s nothing. And it is. It’s merely an observation, but it still makes Emile hesitate long enough for Alisaie to land a hit to his shoulder, the blunt end of the wooden pole enough to leave a bruise.

“I do not care to be a proper dragoon, I care about whipping his arse,” she returns with a pointed look at Estinien.

“A fine job you’re doing at that,” Emile grumbles, rubbing his shoulder before taking ready position again.

Estinien says little else as they finish their sparring session. There’s no winner, no loser, but Emile is out of breath by the time they wind down. Alisaie looks pleased with herself, a smile pulling at her lips as she hands him the pole. Emile shakes his head and grins back at her, but his gaze turns to Estinien once she leaves.

“My stance?”

Estinien lifts a shoulder. “You hold yourself differently now.”

He carries a different weapon, it can’t be helped. Still, a sharp feeling twists his stomach—some part of him knows that what he does isn’t right. Some part of him misses wielding a lance with an ache in his chest that only makes him think of his father. Would he be disappointed in Emile? Is Estinien?

It’s something he’s wanted to ask ever since they first took to the battlefield again and Estinien wordlessly eyed the scythe on his back. The others do not like it, and as much as he understands why, it is a power he cannot yet yield.

“I could still keep up with you,” Emile challenges, though maybe it’s too bold of a claim. They haven’t fought each other since that day in Coerthas years ago, with Alberic at Emile’s back, with Nidhogg stirring in the air. Suffice it to say that it didn’t end well for either of them.

But Estinien watches him a moment, considering, before he holds out his hand for the pole Alisaie wielded.

“Show me,” he says.

Emile hesitates as their eyes stay on each other, posing both the question and the answer. Are you sure? He hands it over and the two of them slowly get into position. Both of their bodies know this dance well—Emile strikes first but Estinien meets him there. They test the waters, then they sink in.

It is a good match.

It’s the length of their reach, the same strength they use, the effortless glide of their footsteps around each other. They move so similarly that their push and pull comes naturally, and it goes on like this for some time, simply feeling each other in the fight, before Estinien pushes harder. He picks up the pace, bears down with more force, and Emile has to focus to keep up.

Their lances come to a standstill between them and for a moment, neither of them move. In the late afternoon sun, Emile watches the way Estinien’s chest heaves with exertion, mouth parted and sweat curving down his face, eyes like fire on Emile. Desire flares to life in the span of a pounding heartbeat, and Emile swallows hard.

Focus, you fool.

They continue on, their pace relentless. In time it wears on Emile, and new habits are habits nonetheless. It doesn’t register until a moment too late: he expects the bladed arch of the scythe at the end of his lance, and in its absence he creates an opening that Estinien doesn’t miss. He hits Emile hard enough to unbalance him and send him to the deck, where the hard wood digs into his elbow and knees as he tries to catch himself.

Estinien is beside him a moment later, eyes roving over him before he asks, “All right?”

“I’m fine,” Emile mumbles. He turns onto his back, sprawling his limbs out as he squints up at Estinien through the waning light. “Ali hit harder, you know.”

Estinien smirks. “And yet who knocked you on your arse?”

Estinien lowers his hand and Emile takes it, groaning as he helps him stand upright.

“Next time,” Emile says, still out of breath.

“We’ll see, Warrior of Light.”

—

Perhaps Emile’s favorite part of the night is the moment right before it begins, when he traces his way up to the deck and finds Estinien already there, staring out at the water with moonlight painting the edges of him. Something always warms in Emile’s chest at the thought of Estinien waiting for him, this anticipation being something they share.

Usually Emile has a moment to observe him, to catch a glimpse of him simply as he is, but tonight Estinien scans the deck, already looking for him.

“Come,” he says when he notices Emile. “I want to show you something.”

He takes off before Emile can question it, and Emile follows him across the deck, the two of them moving as silent as shadows in the dark. Estinien pauses at one of the main masts, glancing over his shoulder as Emile tilts his head back, looking up at the crows nest that looms far above them.

Emile laughs. “You cannot be serious.”

“Come on,” Estinien says, and begins the climb.

“Will we both fit?” Emile calls after him, but Estinien doesn’t answer. Emile watches the silhouette of him rise into the night, Emile’s cloak fluttering around him, outlined by the stars, and he has no choice but to follow. His hands are uncertain but he picks his way up, eyes straining through the dark.

There’s something meditative about the climb, the way the cold wind pulls at him, the moonlight surrounding him, and the singular focus before him. Estinien is in the crows nest when Emile reaches it, and he scrambles in beside him, the small space causing them to knock hips then shoulders, shuffling their feet until they can stand comfortably side by side.

“Why—” Emile begins, but then he glances at the sight beyond Estinien, and he has to turn his head at the scope of the sky fully surrounding them. The sea of stars stretches out from north to south, east to west, countless and shining as one. From this height he can see the dull reflection in the water below them, and sky and ocean merge together, stars above and stars below. Emile lets out a shaky breath, lips pulling into a smile as he looks over at Estinien.

Estinien glances down at his mouth for one heartstopping moment before meeting his gaze, the slightest amusement apparent in his expression. “What do you think?”

The night holds him so gently. Starlight reflects in the shine of his eyes, white light soft along the sharp lines of his face, and Emile thinks that he’s starting to memorize him, that even in this half light he’s one of the most familiar things he knows.

“It’s beautiful,” Emile murmurs, but his eyes stay on Estinien, and in this hushed world far above the sound of the water rolling beneath them, it sounds like a confession.

It’s the same feeling, isn’t it? It’s always the same, unspoken thing.

The answer is, Emile thinks, somewhere within his reach.

—

“Where do you and Estinien go at night?”

Emile stills, cup of tea in hand and halfway to his mouth. It’s Alphinaud who asks, and Emile looks over at him with wide eyes, though the question is posed innocently enough. Beside him, Alisae nearly spits out her own tea, coughing into the back of her hand as she sets her cup down with a small sound.

The three of them sit huddled around a table strewn with empty plates leftover from breakfast. Alphinaud frowns at his sister’s reaction, but he looks back to Emile, who lifts a shoulder in response.

“To the upper deck,” he answers. “Have we woken you?”

Alphinaud shakes his head. “Naught to concern yourself with, I have only noticed your empty bunks on a few occasions and presumed you were together.”

“Aye,” Emile says. “We both have a habit of staying up too late, we end up talking half the night away.”

Alphinaud seems to accept this, but Alisae stares at Emile for a long moment, her brows pushed together. Emile is about to question it when she rolls her eyes and says, “Gods above, you’re just as bad as him!”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Estinien,” she grumbles. His name sounds almost painful in her mouth. “You’re completely infatuated with each other and then act like it isn’t obvious to everyone around you.”

If possible, Emile’s eyes widen even further. “What?”

“I’ve had to listen to my brother blather on about him for years without you so much as mentioning him,” she continues, “and then all of a sudden you’re thick as thieves.”

“We’ve always been friends,” he tries.

“All I’m saying is, the man has two expressions and one is only slightly less murderous than the other. Then he looks at you and I daresay he smiles.”

“It isn’t like that,” Emile returns, distinctly reminding himself of when his sisters used to tease him about his crush on one of Renee’s friends. Mimi’s in love, they would singsong, until his ears were bright red and he’d snap at them to leave him alone.

It was childish then, at sixteen. It’s worse now, at thirty three.

Alisaie turns her attention to her brother. “Please tell Emile he’s being ridiculous.”

Alphinaud glances between them with a furrowed brow before he picks up his cup of tea and takes a sip. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Emile breathes a small laugh while Alisaie tilts her head back and drops her shoulders, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Hopeless.”

—

They grow closer to Sharlayan.

They consult the maps, they make their plans, it is inevitable that they will reach their destination soon. It has been a long trip, and morale stretches thin between passengers and crew alike, a certain weariness in the air coupled with the boredom of almost two months at sea.

On one of their last days, a group of musicians gather together on the upper deck and play song after song while the afternoon winds down into the evening. Many gather around, drawing up a seat or standing along the edges of the crowd, others dancing in the space in front of them.

Emile arrives later, as the sun begins to set. He was eating dinner with Urianger when they first heard the music, and now they follow the sound up to the deck, where they find the rest of the Scions gathered to one side, standing near the railing as the lights flicker among them, the sky behind them fading pink into the night.

Estinien stands in the back with his arms crossed, but there’s something relaxed about his posture, his expression calm as he watches the crowd. His attention snaps over to Emile as he comes closer, and a knowing smile crosses his lips—always just the hint of it but there, nonetheless. Emile smiles back, drawn like a magnet to him, and then they’re side by side again, watching the musicians as they begin another song, this one rowdier than the last.

“Do you not dance?” Emile asks, leaning in close so he can hear him.

Estinien levels him with a glare that is answer enough.

“Come on, Estinien. Never?”

His mouth presses together for a moment in that way it does when he’s debating whether or not to say something, and Emile tilts his head a little, widening his eyes. Estinien takes one look at him and sighs. “I haven’t the talent for it.”

“I’m sure you do, you’re coordinated,” he offers.

He lets it drop though, turning his attention back to those that dance. The lights catch them, making them look like shifting paintings coming to life from the relief of the night. There are couples and groups of friends alike, laughter ebbing over the music. Emile finds himself smiling, tapping his foot along to the beat.

And then—

“My mother taught me to dance,” Estinien admits, just barely loud enough to be heard over all the noise.

Emile looks over sharply, but Estinien keeps his gaze on the crowd.

“Ferndale held a festival at the change of each season,” he continues. “My brother and I would fight over who would dance with her.”

Emile clears his throat. “Who won?”

Estinien smiles, more nostalgic than happy. “She made us take turns. We’d spend entire afternoons in the kitchen learning the steps with her. We did not have an orchestrion...she would sing until her voice grew tired.”

He still stares fixedly ahead of him. For a moment Emile lets himself imagine Estinien as a child, heart aching in his chest as he thinks about two little boys in a farmhouse kitchen, dancing to the sound of their mother’s voice. He leans over to press their shoulders together. “‘Tis a sweet memory.”

Estinien looks over at him, staring at Emile for what feels like a long moment. “Aye.”

“Will you show me the dance?”

“Nay,” he says quickly, but his mouth loosens into a more genuine smile. “By all means, you should go ahead though.”

Emile shakes his head. “Only when I’m in my cups.”

It’s an obvious lie, but at least it gets Estinien to laugh. “I’d like to see that.”

They lapse back into the music and the crowd. Estinien gets his wish before long, because G’raha comes over and pulls Emile away with him onto the makeshift dance floor, half his size but persistent—not that Emile puts up much of a fight. He isn’t the best dancer but he loves feeling the music within him and letting his body follow its rhythm. Raha pulls him into his arms in a loose version of a waltz, and Emile laughs until his sides ache in his attempt to get Emile to turn under his arm.

Alisaie joins them before long, her laugh loud over the music as Emile takes her by the hands and twirls her around, lifting her in the air and setting her back down again.

Song after song passes like that, and Emile is breathless but it’s the most fun he’s had in some time. Every so often his eyes find Estinien, still watching them with his arms crossed as he leans back against the rail of the ship. He smirks at Emile, shaking his head a little, but the amusement is clear in his eyes. Emile smiles back each time, and then he’s lost to the music again.

—

It’s later that night, when the upper deck is empty, that they dance in silence.

I hardly remember the steps.

It matters not.

Emile doesn’t know why Estinien changes his mind, just that he does. They spend a long time fumbling through it, Estinien’s instructions closer to that of the Knights Dragoon as he guides him through the steps. It begins with them facing each other, hands clasped together as they cross side to side, then they turn under the bridge of their arms. They loop around, their arms drawing them closer, then further apart. It is a dance that breathes, meant to be lively, but they take it slow.

Estinien counts aloud, the rhythm certain though his feet are not, and Emile is amused by the concentration on his face, the determined line of his brow, the way his voice tightens around the constant one, two, three, when they misstep. He takes it too seriously but Emile cannot blame him, cannot tease him or poke fun, for he knows what this means.

They bring the past back to life, two ghosts from Ferndale on a ship bound for Sharlayan. He’s all but certain that this is the first time Estinien has danced like this since he was in a kitchen with his mother and brother, and he feels honored in a way that lingers like a weight in his chest. Estinien himself said there’s no point in wishing the past could be undone, but for a moment here, like this, Emile’s only wish is that he could change things for him and give him back the family he so brutally lost.

Estinien’s hands tighten around his as they seem to finally get it right, and they fall into it, each repetition more confident than the one before. Estinien stops counting aloud, and the only sounds in the night are the rolling waves and their footsteps across the deck.

Emile ducks under their arms again as they turn, but this time Estinien brings one of their joined hands to Emile’s waist, the other held above their heads, faces close as they stand chest to chest. Emile breathes him in above the sea air, and they sway in place, eyes on each other. Emile cannot be sure how long they stay like that, so entirely lost in the moment that time passes like a dream.

Eventually they slow to a stop, and Estinien wavers in the dark, shades of gray, but he’s so close that Emile would only have to tilt his head the slightest to lean in and kiss him. It would be so easy, it would—

It would ruin the threads of their friendship they picked back up these past months. You’re only seeing what you want to see, he tells himself. Still, with the closeness of Estinien in the dark, their fingers still tangled together, it’s hard to avoid the draw.

Emile makes himself let go, clearing his throat.

“I think your mother would be proud of you,” he murmurs.

Estinien swallows thickly, then nods. “Thank you.”

They linger just a moment longer, and then they walk back to their room. Emile watches the line of Estinien’s shoulders in front of him, his thoughts a mess as he tries to make sense of everything that’s happened between them lately. He knows things are different, but he thinks it’s only a matter of them being different. They are not who they were when they first met.

They stop at the door just as they always do, and Estinien gives Emile his cloak back just as he always does, but then they break routine. Estinien stays where he is, looking down at his hands, and the moment stretches on. Emile stares at the line of his jaw, his hair that falls loose around his shoulders, and feels a warmth stir in his chest. It’s hard to look away.

“Emile,” he says, his voice like gravel, and it’s then that he tilts his head up to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say anything else, and all they can do is watch each other as the silence continues to fill the space between them and wears at Emile’s heart. I’m trying to understand, he wants to say, always this same feeling again and again, and tonight it sits heavily within him. He clings to it, searching Estinien’s gray eyes dulled by the night, but the answer is still just out of reach.

Estinien’s shoulders deflate, and the moment passes. Still, a small smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Goodnight.”

Please.

Emile nods. “Goodnight.”

—

Emile keeps to himself the next day.

He doesn’t say anything to the others, he merely slips away in the morning and finds a place to sit on the deck alone. The cold morning sun falls over him and he tilts his head back to let the weak light coat his face, the bare warmth of it a distraction for just a moment.

But then he leans over the railing of the deck, resting his chin on his crossed arms, and he lays his cheek along the collar of his cloak. It smells like Estinien now, and it fills him with a longing that seeps into his bones, that drives down to the most minuscule part of him with a single truth—

He wants to be his.

He breathes in, he breathes out. He stares at the clear line of the horizon but there are no answers. They face so much ahead of them in Sharlayan, they have been through too much to get to this point. There’s no room for feelings like this—not with the Final Days looming over them, not with everything hanging in the balance. Now is the time to focus, and that means letting these thoughts about Estinien go.

Easier said than done, though. He finally decides he’s had enough of his sulking and picks his way back across the ship, where he spots Estinien with Alphinaud and Urianger, the three of them standing together on the far edge of the deck. Emile can see the easy conversation from here, the loose lines of their bodies, the way Alphinaud tips his head back with laughter as he often does whenever he’s around Estinien.

“Emile,” a voice calls from behind him, and he turns to see Thancred watching him, something careful about his gaze. “All right?”

“Fine,” he says, but his voice sounds thin. Thancred glances beyond him for a moment, returning to Emile with understanding crossing his expression.

“For a self proclaimed loner, he seems to be rather fond of company,” he murmurs.

It’s that he doesn’t mention Estinien by name, knowing full well what has been occupying Emile’s thoughts, that bodes ill for this conversation. Emile can hear the caution in his own voice, “Only some of the time.”

“Or, rather fond of your company, I should say.”

Emile sighs, half tempted to pinch his brow. “You know we’ve been friends for years.”

Thancred was there in those days when Nidhogg still claimed Estinien, and he saw the effect it had on Emile then. He is observant, and Emile is certain that he’s well aware of Emile’s reluctance to talk about him over the years, even more aware of the way they’re drawn together now that they share a goal again.

One breath in, another breath out.

“Far be it for me to meddle in the affairs of others,” Thancred says, “but I think ‘friends’ is a generous term for it.”

Emile’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t have it in him to deny it. “‘Tis close enough.”

Thancred raises a brow.

“‘Tis not that simple,” Emile tries again.

“Is it not?”

Emile wishes it was. He wishes he could take the chance with this, but there’s too much at risk. It’s too much of a complication, and the last thing he’d want to do is to ruin this easy dynamic between them.

He sighs. “Even if I were guaranteed that he felt the same, ‘tis hardly the time for such a thing.”

Thancred looks back to Estinien, Alphinaud, and Urianger across the deck, and a slow smile steals across his lips. “I daresay we have little choice in when these things happen. Or with whom.”

Emile follows his gaze to Urianger, who gestures with his hands as he speaks. Emile knows it hasn’t been easy for the two of them, but there’s been something different about both of them since they took that step. Something happier, relaxed, free.

For a moment, the thought makes him pause, and he asks himself a single, What if. When he looks back to Thancred, he shakes his head at him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I trust you’ll figure it out.”

—

They’re due to arrive in the morning.

His head spins with mixed feelings at the thought. Most of all, he’s ready to keep going. This restlessness has been a challenge, being rendered useless when he knows the magnitude of what’s before them, and he’s eager to help in the way he knows best. He’s excited to see the place that his friends have talked about so often—that old adventurer’s spirit is still alive in him, always somewhere underneath the surface.

He can’t let himself dwell on the nerves that pull at the edges of him, the questions that rise without an answer. He is not alone, and though there’s a certain dread in the back of his mind at what they could be facing, they will figure this out together.

But as much as he looks forward to leaving this ship, it means an end to this—

Emile hands over his cloak as soon as they step out into the night air, and Estinien takes it without a word. They stand shoulder against shoulder to keep warm from the wind. Or at least, that’s what Emile tells himself when he leans his weight against him, it’s what he tells himself when Estinien leans back just as much, sides pressed together against the chill of the night.

It cannot be this easy.

He looks over at him, at the way he positioned the collar around his neck so he can tuck his face into it, the way the moonlight tugs at his lashes as he blinks out at the horizon, and Emile wishes he could pause time just so he could watch him a little longer, stay with him here, stay with him safe.

They’re quiet. There’s much they could still discuss but they both seem content to enjoy these last moments together in the silence. Emile debates for too long what he could say—Alisaie and Thancred’s voices in the back of his mind—but in the end, he simply gives in to the night.

Before he can overthink it, he tilts his head to rest on Estinien’s shoulder. They sat like this once before, years ago, the night after they killed Nidhogg. There was an understanding between them underneath all that raw emotion, and the comfort of being close helped him more than he would ever admit at the time. Like then, the sharp line of Estinien’s jaw comes down to rest against the top of his head in return.

If this is all we get, then let me stay here.

The night stretches on and Emile commits it to memory: the familiar sound of the wind catching at the sails, the salt air, cold mist from the water, and the thousands and thousands of stars surrounding them. There’s the rise and fall of Estinien’s body beneath him, the even sound of his breathing, the scent of him, the way he stays and stays and stays.

The night stretches on and it stretches out—it cannot last forever.

Emile’s eyes blink slowly, and then slower. He knows they need their rest but he’s reluctant to let go. When he finally pulls away he doesn’t go far, just enough so he can meet Estinien’s gaze. He’s equally as intent on him, and Emile’s heart thunders in his chest, stealing at the peace from just a moment earlier.

Emile smiles at him, grateful for the way Estinien’s lips curve up in response, always only the hint of it but always true.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Emile admits, and he forces himself not to look away. “There were many times I thought of you these past years. Many moments where I wished we could simply talk like we used to. I know our separate paths were right for us both, but I’m glad that it led us here.”

One shaky breath follows another.

Estinien’s smile broadens a little before he looks to the horizon. “You still yet surprise me, Warrior of Light.”

“What do you mean?”

“After everything, you continue to wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Emile wills himself not to blush. “It cannot be helped.”

“Still,” he continues, and his smile fades until it’s completely gone. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”

His reassurance is so simple, so solid. Emile feels himself nod, tucking this feeling away in his chest. “We should get some rest; tomorrow promises to be a long day.”

“Aye,” Estinien says, and they separate fully this time. The cold of the night tugs at Emile as he heads back, and he doesn’t realize that Estinien hasn’t moved until he calls his name again.

“Emile.”

Emile turns around, and it’s just like last night, isn’t it? They stand across from each other, Estinien’s bangs hang low over his eyes, and for a moment Emile doesn’t think he’ll say anything else, but then—

“I thought of you too.”

The admission is quiet but determined, and Emile swallows hard, letting it wash over him as he stares at Estinien. There’s a resolve in his eyes, something immovable, and Emile takes one step closer to him, then another. Estinien doesn’t waver, not until he has to tilt his head back the smallest amount to look up at him, though his expression betrays nothing.

Emile winds his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. It’s uncertain at first—they’ve never done this before—but then Estinien wraps his arms around Emile’s middle, his grip tight as his hands bunch the fabric of his sweater and pull him closer. He turns his face into Emile’s shoulder, and Emile can feel his breath at his neck, can swear he feels his heart match his own—beat for heavy beat.

Emile tightens his own grip around him, squeezing his eyes shut as he savors the warmth of his body, the sense of security that settles in his chest, and he relaxes into the unexpected comfort of it. Nothing else matters as they hold each other close, not the fear of the future or the pain of what’s behind them. Here, they have each other, and they’re safe.

When they part, there’s something shy about the way Estinien looks at him through the shadow of his bangs, and all Emile can think is, Okay.

He finally understands.

—

It begins in a snow covered clearing, in Tailfeather, the Churning Mists, and a ship bound for Sharlayan.

It begins on the Steps of Faith.

Kill me, Estinien had asked him once. It is the only way.

Emile never even considered it.

I will not lose you, ran through his mind again and again as he and Alphinaud pried Nidhogg’s Eyes from Estinien’s body, a determination beating through his blood that he’s only felt a few times in his life, giving him a strength he shouldn’t have had left.

He thinks he knew he loved him then, too.

—

They return to their room as they do every night, but something has changed between them.

As they stand at the door, Estinien hands Emile his cloak, and they murmur goodnight back and forth in hushed voices. Tonight their glances are fleeting, tonight they do not linger.

They slip into the muted dark together one last time.

—

In the morning, she is waiting for him.

#emile/estinien #ffxiv #my writing #wolstinien #okayyyy #this took nearly two months omg x.x #and there’s so many scenes i wanted to add to but it’s already too long lol #directors commentary but i found it so interesting trying to convey estinien being equally as affected #without being in his head and him keeping his cards close to his chest #def a big challenge though #but i’m just kinda mushy bananas about them being closey

18 notes · View notes

owl-with-a-pen · 2 months

Note

I’m gonna start by saying forgive me if I’ve already sent this ask. I feel like I might have but I have a bit of a memory problem so I’m really not sure. If I have ignore this.

That said, if you’re still taking requests I would absolutely love it if you did a scene that would fit into the episode featuring the courage totem where Brainy says he can’t wake Nia but we don’t get to see the process of him trying and realizing this. I saw in the tags of an old post you were considering writing about it so if you’re still interested that would be really cool.

This may be the latest prompt yet, but I just reached this episode on my re-watch and remembered this ask specifically. So again, anon, if you're still out there, I hope you enjoy!

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The moment Brainy touched down at the Tower, he headed straight for the training room floor. The elevator moved unbearably slow, uncaring of his plight even while he tapped ineffectually at the button controlling his descent.

All the while, his mind continued to work over the last hour’s events.

Alex and J’onn had been affected by something during that altercation – clearly – and yet Brainy was struggling to pinpoint a cause. Indeed, he seemed to be having a hard time thinking of anything. He was still unnerved by the punches he hadn’t been able to evade during the fight. Punches thrown by human adversaries, civilian adversaries, and for some reason he hadn’t seen them coming. Differential calculus had failed him in the moment, leaving him with a dangerous blind spot that had nearly cost him the safety of the citizens he had been meant to protect.

Perhaps he had been unable to predict their moves because they themselves had been dictated by an otherworldly force. Or perhaps this was Vita’s doing, somehow. The Kryptonian witch had been meddling inside his projectors not hours ago, although any trace of her had been expunged completely the moment she’d fled back to her crystal.

Which meant that there was nothing wrong with him internally; no matter how many diagnostics he ran didn’t change the facts.

No. He was missing something, he had to be. And he still couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get worse.

And, if that was the case, then Nia needed to be informed. She’d stayed local to the Tower to try and use her dreams to search for Nyxly, and while Brainy hoped she’s made more progress than the rest of them, he couldn’t deny that his main priority was an entirely selfish one.

Simply, he wished to see her again.

Things always felt clearer when he had the chance to talk them out with Nia Nal, and he desperately sought that clarity now. But Nia’s job was by far the most important if they were to gain any insight for the fight to come, and he could not allow his own feelings get in the way of that.

When the elevator doors finally shuddered open and Brainy stepped foot into the training arena made makeshift den, the sense of wrongness twisting his stomach didn’t lift as anticipated. In fact, it only seemed to intensify.

Nia was sat on the other side of the room, mostly upright on one of J’onn’s scavenged antique armchairs.

Brainy’s lips twitched fondly at the sight.

Over the last few weeks, Nia had been spending more time in the dream realm than she ever had before, so much that she’d become impressively adept at appearing otherwise conscious during her meditations.

Only her soft snores betrayed her now.

Brainy folded his arms, ducking his head with another suppressed smile. As much as it pained him to disturb her dreams, their current circumstances had made it something of a necessity.

“Nia,” he said softly, not yet at her side. Oftentimes, that was all it took to reach through to her. The sound of his voice always found her eventually. No matter how far into the dream realm she may have travelled, that had always been a certainty.

Today, however, something was different.

When Nia didn’t stir after the predicted one minute and fifteen second window Brainy normally left for her, a nervousness began to creep its way into his throat. He swallowed it down quickly, crossing the room towards her.

Even his proximity didn’t appear to dispel her dreams. When he was close enough, Brainy crouched down in front of her, tentatively taking his girlfriend’s arm, attempting to reach her. “Nia Nal?”

Nothing. Nia remained perfectly still, her lips half parted.

Brainy frowned, eyes skirting across her expression, intent on finding anything that might account for this abnormality in her sleep cycle. Nia’s brow was furrowed slightly, as though she was concentrating on something very far away. Her fingers were tense, curled inward, impressing strained lines into the leather armrests.

Most worrisome. The dream realm wasn’t meant to cause such an adverse physical reaction. Nia would often wake from a dream disoriented, the physical embodiment of her astral self coinciding with that of the waking world, but that occurred after the dream had dispelled, not before.

Brainy forced his breathing to still, taking his girlfriend’s shoulders, squeezing her with gentle reassurance. He let his eyes flutter shut, focusing instead on his internal enhancements. He had long ago put buffers in place to match up against Nia’s own energy frequencies, though as her abilities had grown, he’d found himself implementing more to prepare for any variations in which her powers might manifest.

He thought he’d known what to expect, but when his attempt at connecting with her was met with a powerful snap of dream energy that lanced down both his wrists, Brainy jerked his hands away with a hiss, shaking them out.

“Sprock,” he muttered, winding a protective hand around his ring finger where her energy continued to smart. He stared at Nia’s unresponsive posture, wide-eyed, a panic flaring inside of him so fiercely that it took every ounce of his self-control not to grab for her and shake her with all his might. Anything that might wake her.

But it would do not good. Nia was protecting herself from the outside world, her energy posing a physical threat against anything that sought to disturb her focus. A soft blue highlighted her cheeks, her gloves glowing a brilliant but dangerous shade. She'd travelled deeper into the dream realm than he'd ever witnessed, somewhere that even Brainy couldn’t reach through to her.

What had brought on such prowess, Brainy wasn’t sure. Had she found new certainty in her mother’s teachings, or perhaps she was responding to a vengeful trigger set in motion by Nyxly?

Either way, Brainy should have known, should have predicted this. By being attentive to her feelings, by being present at all. He was failing her, and he was failing himself by being unable to focus on probable cause, to outline anything at all with absolute certainty. Not with Alex, not with J’onn, not with this…

It seemed he needed… help.

Brainy nearly recoiled at the notion. He hated that feeling, the vulnerability that came with such uncertainty, but he couldn’t deny it any longer. Something was wrong, and if he was going to figure it out, he needed to alert the rest of the Super Friends to Nia’s current predicament.

He balled his hands together nervously before dipping forward, cupping the side of Nia’s face so that her energy bleached his palm. He sighed, pressing his lips firmly to her forehead, taking comfort in the warmth of her skin, the sweet scent of her shampoo.

“I will return,” Brainy promised her, his voice barely a crackle in her ear.

Nia remained unresponsive throughout, though from the tightness of her expression, Brainy knew her battle raged on elsewhere. He only hoped that wherever she was, she might have heard him. Enough to know that he was not leaving her. That he would be back. He would always be back.

He didn’t allow himself to linger a moment longer, otherwise he would never have had the strength to pull himself away. Instead, he headed back towards the elevator, twisting his ring close to his chest, still hot with errant dream energy, and made his ascent known.

#supergirl #supergirl fanfiction #nia nal #brainiac 5 #brainia #querl dox #brainy #my writing #my prompts #my asks #anon #dreamerdox #brainy x nia #trying to capture brainy's uncertainty before he realises he's been affected by the totem was a challenge but I hope it worked lol #but yeah this ask is so so so old i'm so sorry. but when i was rewatching this scene the other day i just had a spark of memory that someon #had once left me this prompt and - being me - i just filed it away for later and forgot about it #it may be years late at this point but i finally answered it. my bad.

11 notes · View notes

swordsmans · 10 months

Text

finished writing the last section of The New ZoLu Fic on my work break today................ tonight after ~job 2~ i will finish the epilogue, then i'll update with the final wordcount. accounting for a few days of line edits and possible beta-reading..... it will be up in its entirety by this weekend.

i am almost free

#try not to cry at work challenge failed #im so excited about this fucking fic you have nooo idea how hard ive worked on this #legit nonstop for like ten weeks now... falling asleep writing. waking up writing. writing on my breaks. my poor partner has barely seen me #world's most self-indulgent AU but you know what??? who cares. im literally just excited to sit down and read it when it's all finished #90-ish k tailored to my own specific interests #also fuck you(affectionate) kenshi you said make it 100k but HA i held back. we are still in 5 digits #pulled out of that death spiral at the last minute. i dont think my heart could take 100k #(jumps in front of 17k in deleted scenes shh you didnt see anything)#gyro.txt

22 notes · View notes

emmafaeru · 11 months

Text

one of the things that's insane to me about terraria is it's lack of online prescence. it's the 10th best selling video game of all time. there's like 3 people who make videos about it. it's been around for 13 years. there's not even 400 fics tagged as terraria on ao3. 45 million people have played it. there are maybe 4 pieces of fanart somwhere if you really dig for them. and the crazy part is I totally agree. I have never wanted to create about terraria. I have rarely if ever wanted to consume content about terraria. this is a game I have a disgusting amount of hours in and I would give a very high rating of and I have never once gone feral over it like I have with other things I consume. terraria is this ball of awesomeness of a game mixed with this complete fucking undecipherable void of a prescence and i think it's insane

#if we're actually thinking about why though #1) the complete lack of story/worldbuilding/setting/ heavily discourages any attempt of a narrative #it would be like trying to write a captivating story about minecraft steve in minecraft block world #'but minecraft has so many stories thought up in it! like [insert minecraft smp]'#2) yes but consider that minecraft's relatively short - and frankly unfulfilling - progression #means that after you beat minecraft the only thing left to do is to create - either with yourself or other people #which incidentally is also why minecraft servers are such a big thing - becuase of that natural steer into playing with other ppl #however (as anyone who's tried to beat it knows) terraria has a LOT of progression - and it's all built to be extremly satisfying progress #which means when you beat terraria. you can beat it again! in any one of 2098456 ways you choose all of which give you a unique playthrough #incidentally this is also why in my experience servers are so much less of a thing in terraria #while the modding scene is sososo much bigger and relevant - tapping into that 'replay the thing but DIFFERENT' again type of replayability #I'm comparing terraria and minecraft btw because both are sandbox games but they have wildly different prescences #and often times people will write minecraft having more content down as 2d/terraria being more limiting creatively #but actually some of the prettiest builds in a videogame I've seen were in 2d/terraria #I think there's a more fundamental difference at play there #in the type of replayability that mc and terraria offer #one kind of forces you to create or play with others if you want more out of it #while the other offers this kind of seemingly endless well of challenges that never steers you in that co-op/creative direction #both are great in their own right #but it means that minecraft has more content 'staying power' as it is a space designed first and foremost to steer players into creating #and also most importantly - cooperating and playing with others to creat together #while terraria more often focuses on that core gameplay experience/challenge #while never steering/forcing players into that creating/co-opting space #unless they intentionally seek out that experience for themselves #see - the terraria builder community (not massive last time I checked) and server players (I don't think they exist)#also 3) eye of cthullu is stupid hard to draw in 3d without doubling over laughing #like 👁️ <- oh man look who's floating ominously!! he sure is gonna getchu!!#^ I ramble about things #also i still think terraria is better than minecraft. for the record

16 notes · View notes

fissions-chips · 3 months

Text

Think I’m gonna set myself a word limit for writing this month, instead of a set number of works. I’d like to improve on writing short-form stuff (especially angst and whump cause it’s fun) but between assignments, applications and the urge to draw I don’t want to burn out…

#I’ll set it high so it’s still a challenge… maybe like… 30k? 35k? i feel bad that I’m not sticking to the challenge but I struggle with jus #- barreling into scenes without setting up context and all of these keep turning into two-parters. I’m still having a blast though!!#it’s nice to finally just dump old ideas down onto paper (Google Docs app) it’s just hard to maintain a constant around assignments with #- midterms coming up lol. writing does take a lotta mental energy alas. and I need to scribble to replenish that energy.#but eh- I was never doing the ‘official’ challenge anyways just challenging myself. so! that’s the update!#I’ll still try to write like… 2-3 things every week though I don’t wanna lose momentum.

3 notes · View notes

rashoumon-homo · 21 days

Text

…I think that’s enough writing for today 💀

#i can’t stop laughing trying to visualize this #wtf was i on about #anyway new art challenge try to draw this scene /hj #rashoumon writes #bsd #bungou stray dogs #fic writing

6 notes · View notes

sablebay · 10 months

Text

winter, 1909

"i'm not so sure about this, henry." edie looked at her friend skeptically as the two tied on their ice skates. a boyish grin fell easily onto his face and he got to his feet (far too easily, in her opinion). "it's easy! you'll pick it up in no time, edie, i promise." he held out his hand and waited, brown eyes alight with just enough mischief to tell her that he was going to enjoy this regardless of whether or not that was true. "very well," she took the offered hand and - much like a baby deer discovering its legs for the first time - wandered onto the ice. she had grown up in the city and ice skating had not been something that her parents had ever done with her as a child. henry had pointed out the small pond that had frozen over near the school, insisting that she join him after their classes were out for the day. he used to do it all the time with his sisters, he had said. at the time, the enthusiasm had been infectious and she had quickly agreed. but now, on the ice with the skates a size too big she had borrowed from another girl, it felt like she had never before had ankles and could not recall how to use them. she lost her footing with a shriek, arms going wide and skates entirely off the ground. a strong set of arms circled her waist in an attempt to stop her from falling, but it was too late. luckily, henry had slowed the descent, and she landed in an undignified but ultimately unharmed heap on the ground. there was a beat of silence before a small giggle snuck out between her lips. "i told you!" "in my defense, i thought you would keep your feet on the ground. you jumped!" "i did no such thing, henry bailey, and you know it!" he carefully helped her back to her feet, both of them laughing. "another round, then?" he asked. a sigh, then a smile. "another round."

#gp2 #sims 4 decades challenge #decades challenge #sim: henry #sim: edie #i wanted to try writing a lil scene vs another letter i think i might mix it up here and there #ts4 #sims 4 legacy challenge #sims 4 gameplay

10 notes · View notes

chaotic-orphan · 11 months

Text

June of Doom, day 1:

“You don’t want to do that”

collapse // fear // locked door

Cw: lab Whump/science whump/dehumanisation/experiment whumpee/scientist whumper/depersonalisation/death (mentioned)/dead body (mentioned)/beating (mentioned)/torture (implied)

*~*~*~*~*

Flint came to oversee his latest project before it was to be unveiled to the rest of the world. His perfect weapon. His trained mongrel mutt that he had been beating into submission since the day it was born.

It was in an enclosed reinforced cylinder. It took Flint’s engineering team weeks to figure out something strong enough to hold it. His little devil. Obeying only the whims of its master.

The doors slid open and Flint walked in. The scientists overseeing experiment 34214 all stopped when they noticed their chief step into the observation room.

“All hands to stations,” Flint said after a moment of respectful silence. His response was a resounding: “yes sir!”

The head scientist working under Flint’s command fell into step beside him, listing off the usual run down.

Vitals: good.

Mood: as expected.

Muscle capacity: normal.

Brain function: normal.

“All is well with Wolfe today, sir,” said Thrawn. Thrawn was an eccentric to say the least, but she had loose morals and looser ethics and wanted to push the boundaries of science.

No matter the cost.

Flint could work with that.

“Doctor Thrawn I must insist you call the subject by its medical name today.”

Thrawn just glanced at him from the corner of her eye with a wicked grin on her face. “He likes the name Wolfe.”

“A bit of professionalism today wouldn’t hurt, Doctor.”

“And here I thought you liked my unorthodox approach.”

Flint smiled. “There is a line to be drawn at public occasions. Once the day is out you can call it whatever you like.”

“Subject 34214 it is, sir.”

“Excellent. We must make sure this goes off without a hitch. We’ve worked too hard and too long for it to be any less than perfect.”

“Aye, sir,” said Thrawn and then went back to barking orders at the scientists on mains control. Flint just watched with a small, satisfied smile on his face. He was the first in the history of genetics to mutate humans beyond their original form.

To make them stronger. Faster. Smarter.

Earnest Flint’s name would go down in the history books, the next chapter following Darwin’s theory of evolution. Man made evolution. Flint made evolution.

It was time to show the world exactly what Flintlock Mechanics could do.

When the donors and shareholders started arriving along with the reporters for a few paper publications into the building it definitely generated a buzz. Flint smiled and welcomed them all in his perfectly tailored grey suit and tie. He even invited his rival from College who grinned widely when they saw Flint.

“Peters,” said Flint and put his arm out. The other man, Peters, grabbed his elbow and pulled him in for a hug. “Good to see you. So happy you could make it.”

“Of course, Flint, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Peters stepping back. He was wearing a red dress shirt tucked into slacks, his stubble perfectly trimmed. The same renegade man he always was. Then Peters stepped back and revealed a raven haired woman who’s hazel eyes seemed a little too inquisitive, a little too judging.

Peters gestured to the woman in the red dress matching Peters, and said: “you of course remember Collins. Or should I say Doctor Collins.”

Flint smiled politely and bowed slightly, taking Collins’ hand in his and pressing a kiss to the knuckles: “of course. How are you Marion?”

“Intrigued to say the least, Flint,” she told him withdrawing her hand. Peters put his arm out and Collins took it with a demure smile. “Let us hope you haven’t broken too many laws of the Geneva convention for this revelation.”

Then the pair walked away, and Flint squeezed his hand into a fist, a scowl trying to make its way onto his face as he glanced after the pair. Then he took a deep breath and went back to his host’s smile and greeted his guests with charm and poise.

It was easier to walk back into the observation room while the curtains were drawn to see Thrawn smile confidently at him and put his mind at ease.

“How are our guests?”

“Opinionated and intrigued,” said Flint, not getting Collins’ comment out of his head. “Is everything perfect?”

“Running smoothly, sir.”

“Wonderful. I best go out and introduce it then.”

“You’ll do great, sir.”

Flint smiled, as thin as it was, and walked back out to the whispering crowd. Some had glasses of champagne in their hand. Peters was one such person, raising it in a toast as soon as Flint walked up to the mic.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am so happy to see so many of you showed up,” said Flint honestly, and that got a couple laughs from the crowd.

“I must admit my invitation was quite vague but I did promise you a night to remember,” said Flint, his confidence settling into his shoulder’s and his charming smile. “Tonight, you shall witness history. My team of geneticists and biochemists have developed human DNA that will bring our species into its next phase of evolution. I present to you: subject 34214.”

Flint boomed the name into the mic, stepping back and spreading his right arm wide as the curtains fell and gasps filled the room. The control room was sunk below the raised cylinder in the middle of the room, housing Subject 34214.

Gasps filled the room, some shouts of outrage demanding to know what the meaning of this was. That it wasn’t a subject but a human being.

Flint raised his hands to quieten the crowd down, his pleasant smile reassuring as he said: “I understand your concern. However, subject 34214 is not human. His DNA was sequenced into a cadaver which had donated his body to science.”

“That is an insult to his memory,” cried a man from the audience.

“Please, I understand your outrage. I understand. But without bodies donated to science we would never have the cures for modern medicine. We would never be able to fix any problem in our bodies without having first dissected them and seen what was inside,” Flint implored, and as he spoke the crowd’s outrage too settled. “Subject 34214 has human tissue. A brain. A heart. Muscles. Bones. Thoughts. Feelings.”

“How?” A clear voice demanded from the crowd. Collins. She was standing. “How can he have such things if he was dead?”

“Clinically dead,” said Flint. “Our subject was in a coma since the age of ten. At seventeen his parents having seen no brain activity decided to pull the plug. That’s when Flintlock mechanics stepped in.”

“A child cannot donate it’s body to science,” said Collins, voice hard.

“No,” said Flint, “but his parents could and did. As he told his parents he wanted to be a scientist when he was younger, they thought the best way to give him his one dream was to donate his body to science.”

A couple of lies and half truths and very lightly dusting over the intense blackmail and settlement the family received to stay quiet after signing their NDA.

Flint smiled humbly. Maybe a more human approach was better with this crowd. “We have taken to calling our subject: Wolfe, as he enjoys listening to Mozart to calm down after a long day.”

And another lie, wow. He was on a roll. Flint should have been a politician instead of a scientist. Maybe in the next life.

“May I present the one and only of his kind, Wolfe!”

Again he spread his arms dramatically, and turned to look through the observation glass and into the room to see Wolfe awaken.

It’s eyes flew open, too bright a blue to be human, blinking owlishly at it’s audience. Hair settling in its unnatural white waves. Wolfe placed a hand on the glass of its cage and stopped levitating, placing it’s feet on the ground. That elicited a couple gasps from the crowd. To know that while he slept he hovered, something not humanely possible.

Because Subject 34214 was not human.

It was human adjacent. Human-esque and that’s where the similarities ended.

“You must let us get a closer look,” said one of the shareholders. Flint found his wide eyes in the crowd. Quinton. Flint smiled as the glass to the observation deck opened and Flint invited everyone up on stage. To further inspect his creation. His creature.

A man in a slim black tailored suit and black dress shirt caught Flint’s eye as he straddled behind everyone. He was pale, red rimming his eyes to a point it almost looked painful. Sickly. Flint stopped him when he made to walk by, a cold smile found it’s way to his pale lips.

Dark eyes found Flint’s, so dark brown it almost looked black.

He stretched his hand in greeting, and said with the lilt of a French accent: “I don’t think we have been properly introduced. You must forgive me, I arrived later than expected. My name is Felix Graves. You of course need no introduction, Mr Flint.”

“My friends call me Flint,” said Flint with a charming smile.

The stranger smiled at him and it put Flint on edge. Something primal in his body screaming at him to run. “Enchanté. My friends call me Graves. How delightful to make your acquaintance.”

Then Graves dropped Flint’s hand and gestured for Flint to walk with him towards the cage. Flint obeyed.

“It is quite extraordinary what you have done here, Mr Flint,” said Graves, gesturing at the lab and the cage. “To have created life from death. It is beautiful, no?”

“Like I said, there was still life in the boy’s body,” said Flint, finding it harder and harder to keep the smile on his face.

Graves just smiled at him, turning his head so Flint could see the extent of it. It was a genuine smile, Flint could tell, but there was something behind it. Something lurking beneath skin, hidden, dangerous, malevolent.

“Ah. That is not the story you should tell the word, Mr Flint. People will get bored of semantics. You must craft the tale to enrapture the public, oui?” They stopped behind the crowd looking up at the cage and the inhuman boy. “The man who makes life from death, that is you, Monsieur.”

“And who are you, Mr Graves?” Flint asked and Graves smiled like it was the question he was waiting to be asked.

“Allow me to show you,” said Graves. He moved through the crowd with ease, slipping behind and through people trying to view the cage. Flint could only watch, eyebrows knitting together in confusion before he saw Graves stop beside the cage. Raising his hand to press to the glass.

“Mr Graves!” Flint called in a panic. “You don’t want to do that. It is unsafe.”

Graves smiled back showing all their teeth. “I know.”

The moment Graves pressed his hand to the glass Wolfe looked down at him. A cackle of green electricity lit up the cage, eliciting gasps from the crowd in delight. They thought it was part of the show.

Flint knew better.

Wolfe’s eyes went to Flint then and flashed an unnatural green.

Then the electricity went out and the lab was thrust into darkness.

The sound of glass shattering and then a scream turned to many. People panicked, running back towards the auditorium, back towards the safety of the exits. When the lights came back on Graves was gone.

And the cage was empty.

Broken from the inside out, and people were screaming. Flint just looked down to Thrawn who was standing in shock staring at the empty cage much like he was. Then he saw her fall to her knees, then collapse to the side. Only then did he see the scorch marks over her heart.

Someone grabbed his arm and turned him away from the scene, all he saw was red.

Peters.

“Hey Flint! Flint?! Look at me buddy, hey! The door’s locked, Flint. Why are the doors locked? People are panicking.”

“I— the doors shouldn’t be locked,” said Flint, breathless.

“Well they are and no one can get out. Do you have the keys? A back entrance? Hey, Flint! Look at me!”

But Flint’s eyes were drawn to the stage where Graves now stood at the microphone, his dark eyes catching Flint’s with a wink and a smirk as he said: “ladies and gentlemen, do not panic. This is no time for fear or tears. That part comes later, please everyone take your seats for the next part of this presentation.”

9 notes · View notes