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clownao · 5 years

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Sticky Situation

A Kimura + Okano fic, for Day 5 Adventure/ Travel of Assassination Classroom Rarepair 2019 hosted by @handy-dandy-headcanons

[FFN] [AO3]

Summary: Kimura and Okano get stuck in a net while adventuring. And they can't get out.

I’ve always been interested in their dynamic :D They’re like opposite and chaotic versions of ChibaHaya. And Okano and Kimura are pretty similar in personality and skill set as well.

Full fic under read more!

"Yoo! Race you to that mountain!"

Kimura groaned as Okano shot off. "Oy! You got a head start!" he complained.

Okano seemed to consider for a bit, slowed her footsteps then turned around. Her purple hair whipped in the wind, and her face practically glowed in the fading evening light. She was visibly excited at the prospect of exploring a new place.

"You two! Don't go running about!" Kataoka, the vice leader of their group, scolded. "We're here on a mission. We're supposed to learn how to survive in the wild, not enter unknown and potentially dangerous places!"

"You're kind of being a spoilsport," Maehara, who was setting up a tent, commented. "What's the fun in being out here without an adventure?"

"You're right, but we also shouldn't take unnecessary risks." Isogai crouched, snapped his fingers, and a spark appeared in a pile of leaves and twigs. Flames started to lick the pile, sending a thin ribbon of smoke twisting in the air. "Great, the fire's going."

"Isogai, be careful that the fire doesn't burn your uncovered half!" Maehara teased, making reference to how Isogai's fancy-looking armour only covered his front half.

As Kimura watched the rest of the group set up camp for the night, he felt a nudge in his ribs. He spun to see Okano, a wide grin on her face. "You still up for that race? It's not like they," she gestured to the group, "can't manage without us."

Logically, Kimura knew it was nearing nighttime, and it would be foolish to separate from the main group. But they'd travelled the entire day, seeing nothing but endless plains and boring grass and a few low-level slimes. The mountain was the first interesting thing they'd seen, and besides, when did Kimura think logically? The thirst for adventure was running in his veins. The mountain was calling out to him, begging to be explored. Kimura's limbs twitched in anticipation. He and Okano were fast. They could probably outrun any monsters (if there were any).

"Let's gooooo!" Kimura cheered and broke into a run, Okano hot on his heels.

The duo sprinted up the slope and nimbly leaped past boulders and roots. Okano grabbed a vine and used it to swing Tarzan-style. Kimura tried to follow her, but ended up almost smashing into a tree trunk.

"Aww, that was bad luck!" Okano teased, a few paces ahead of him.

"Oh, shut up!" Kimura snapped, but it all honesty he wasn't mad. He grinned and dashed in front of her. Okano's scowl brought him great satisfaction.

The duo encountered some slimes but easily defeated them. According to what Okano vaguely remembered from Kataoka's lecture, there were some higher level monsters around the mountain, but neither of them recalled which type of monster.

"If we don't remember, it's probably not important," Kimura said carelessly. He looked back at where their camp was, the fire now a bright tiny dot against the dark murky canvas.

Okano was a few steps ahead of him. She tapped her feet on the ground and said, "Yeah, I agree- AAAAAA!"

Kimura turned his neck so quickly he nearly gave himself backlash. "Okano?"

Then he saw the white net.

A large net made out of sticky white lines was dangling from a tree, presumably some trap set by a monster. And Okano was twisted in the net, her body upside down. Kimura's heart leapt in his throat.

"I'm coming!" he bellowed and leapt towards her-

Which was a stupid move, as he just ended up caught in the trap too.

Something soft and slimy wound itself around his ankle and hoisted him up. The dark world spun before Kimura's eyes and he screamed. Before Kimura could even cast a spell, he was tossed into the net and he crashed against Okano.

Okano yelped sharply and Kimura assumed he had squished her, so he tried to move but realized he couldn't. The net didn't allow any movement and Kimura was sure he was partly upside down.

They both struggled to no avail. Apparently the net was also enchanted and restrained their magic. They couldn't just burn the net or cut it using magic. Okano tried to hit the net but ended up accidentally kicking Kimura. When he tried to defend himself, he grabbed Okano's leg, which resulted in a swift whack to his face.

"I'm not molesting you!" Kimura exclaimed, exasperated. "Who do you think I am, Okajima?"

"You try having your leg all felt up," Okano retorted grumpily.

They continued to writhe like dying fish until Kimura felt like he'd exhausted every single cell in his body. Defeated, he flopped and Okano, who was pressed against him, did the same.

It was impossible to escape without outside help.

"This is stupid," Okano crabbed. "You shouldn't have charged over here."

"Huh, aren't you just the same?" Kimura argued. "Besides, you should've warned me."

"Maybe this gigantic-ass net is a warning enough!"

Kimura's limbs were uncomfortably entangled with Okano's. Kimura genuinely tried to avoid most body contact but it was inevitable in some cases. He was feeling as awkward and mortified as she was. Okano leaned back and her hair somehow brushed against his… leg. Kimura cringed. Thankfully Okano didn't have long hair or the situation would get even more ticklish.

Kimura sighed. "We should stop squabbing. It's not going to help."

Okano was silent. "What can we do to help?"

Kimura noted the setting sun and the gradual darkness surrounding them. Soon, they wouldn't be able to see anything. Kimura's chest clenched with unease.

"Do you think the others are searching for us?" Okano asked quietly.

"At the very least, I'm sure they've realized we've disappeared for too long. Should we yell to attract attention?"

"No, all the monsters are just going to find us." Okano tried to fiddle with the net again. "What if the creature who made this net comes across us…"

A cold shiver ran down Kimura's spine. "We'll just make a run for it, I mean, we're fast." His words sounded hollow even to him.

"I feel if we stay like this for a few more minutes, we'll be attacked by cramp," Okano complained.

Kimura stayed silent and he squinted his eyes in an attempt to see better in the dark. Now that Kimura had time to think properly, it was probably a very bad idea to have him and Okano out alone, as they were too similar in terms of skills and personality. They needed some common sense to balance out their impulsiveness.

"We're dangling from a branch, right?" Kimura asked as he tried to look up.

There was a pause. "You want to break it?" Okano asked skeptically. "It's not exactly a thin branch."

Kimura let out a sigh. "Well then, do you have any other ideas?"

After some awkward knee bumping and elbow jabbing, the duo managed to cause the net to swing from side to side in hopes of loosening it. Unfortunately, they were both either too light or too weak, as the net didn't really shift its position.

Within minutes, every bit of remaining energy had drained out of the duo. They ended up leaning against each other for support, panting. Kimura was feeling nauseous from all the spinning, and he really hoped he wouldn't vomit all over himself and Okano.

"It's getting really dark now," Okano peeped.

Kimura's stomach twisted. "Umm, I'm sure they'll find us," he laughed in a feeble attempt to reduce the tension. They were both such lost causes. They really should find someone to accompany them on their next excursion.

"Yo! Did anyone call us?"

Upon hearing that familiar voice, Kimura visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging.

"Maehara!" Okano exclaimed, sounding a lot more delighted by the boy's presence than usual.

Two boys came into Kimura's upside down view, wielding torches. Isogai and Maehara's familiar faces were illuminated by the flickering flames. They both immediately started to cut the ropes of the net.

"Yay! We're saved!" Kimura whooped, feeling immensely grateful for his classmates.

As Isogai tried to serve the ropes using magic, he coughed. "Well actually… we've been here for some time… we were trying to see if you guys can get out on your own…"

Kimura's jaw dropped. Any ounce of gratefulness he had vanished in a blink of an eye. "WHAT?" he bellowed, while wriggling himself as if he could somehow strangle Isogai that way.

"It was my idea," Maehara interjected sheepishly. "Of course, we made sure you were safe. We kind of wanted to teach you a lesson, that sometimes no one can come and save you. That's why you have to watch out for yourself."

Next to Kimura, Okano let out a feral growl. Kimura could clearly picture bloodlust brimming in her dimmed violet eyes. "Maehara Hiroto… I'm going to kill you…" she seethed.

The net broke apart and the duo tumbled down. Due to their agility, they managed to get up on their feet pretty quickly. Okano immediately kicked Maehara in the groin. Maehara automatically doubled over and grunted in agony. Kimura and Isogai winced, feeling the second hand pain.

"You should've saved us from the get go!" Okano hollered in Maehara's ear.

"But then you two won't learn your lesson!" Maehara howled in return.

Kimura deadpanned, "Oh great, they're bickering. Again."

Isogai shrugged his shoulders casually. "But we really should be going back. Kataoka's going to slaughter us otherwise."

When the party returned to their camp, Kataoka was predictably angry yet concerned for Kimura and Okano. With a stern frown on her face, she rapped their heads sharply.

"DON'T do anything like that again, you knuckleheads!"

"None of this would've happened if we weren't so bored," Kimura muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately for Kimura, Kataoka heard him. "Better be safe than sorry," she chided.

"Yeah, whatever," Kimura huffed.

#assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #fanfiction #kimura justice #kimura masayoshi #okano hinata #kimura and okano #handydandyrarepairweek #handydandyrarepairweek2k19 #this is probably my only contribution #i continue to be assassinated by a classroom

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wafflesetc · 6 years

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I’ll be there for you, Chapter 17 (previously)

A/N: Folks, this is it. The final chapter of IBTFY. It’s been a long, slow, ride for these two. And it’s ending on nothing but a good time. Thank you for every kind word, like, kudos, DM, ask and reblog you’ve given this fic. It means more than you’ll know.

The biggest of biggest thank you’s to @kkruml and @missclairebelle who fix every wrong, make it right, and give me something substantial to post. They’re the real magic workers BTS of this fic and I literally could not have done it without them.

To @jules-fraser and @thefraserwitch thank you for the constant encouragment.

And the biggest thank you for this fic has to go to @balfeheughlywed, for without her text post I don’t even know how many months back, this fic wouldn’t even be here.

One Month Later Claire

I found it funny how while to any passerby who came through our apartment nothing had changed .We still had the black couch. The coffee table still had a dent in it from a game night six months past where John had inevitably drunkenly fallen and hit his head causing me to do my first ‘at home’ stitches with nothing but the unfinished vodka handle to clean out the wound and no localized anesthesia for the poor man

The kitchen still had a few broken tiles that needed to get fixed from where Jamie punched the wall. The floor still had some stains from a spot where I left a cold beer too long.

So while nothing had seemingly changed, everything too had also changed.

We had yet to out ourselves to our friends, Geillis being the one exception. We had practically almost gotten it on in her kitchen- and she’d never let me live that one down. Jamie’s belongings had slowly trickled from his bedroom to mine. ‘Ours’ I had to remind myself. His extra firm pillow was on the side of the bed where he said he liked to sleep- but I knew well enough after waking up with my entire body spooned against his, we both preferred the right side of the bed. I had learned he liked getting up with me at my ungodly hours when I was on call. There was always a whisky or cup of coffee waiting on me before I left or for whenever I came home.

He never complained when I did our laundry. He caught on rather quickly that folding clothes was not my forte and I had a tendency to leave the clean clothes in a basket in front of the dryer. That would leave him unsure if they were truly clean or dirty… Soon enough he caught on and I would come home to folded clothes that had also been put away. We had set into our own rhythm the last month. It was shocking at times when I stopped and thought about it- being with Jamie was as easy as breathing. I was coming off my sixth night on call- My trauma rotation was nearing its end, and after a massive car accident off the freeway where I had a mass casualty with six dead bodies on my watch.

I had never had that many patients die on my service in all my years as a resident and in one night it had nearly doubled.

I could feel the imaginary weight of the day on my shoulders as I entered the apartment. I could smell the beef stew in the crockpot. The table had been set, a glass of whisky waiting for me (per usual) and a large, red headed Scot with a smile.

“Ye look like ye didna have a good day. Please tell me ye dinna feel as bad as ye look.” The shrug on his shoulders and half smile made me feel like I had just kicked a puppy. He had had something planned tonight and I was coming in ruining it.

Did I look as bad as I felt, though? Apparently. His words were the tip of the iceberg for me, sending me down into full meltdown mode. “I had six patients die in the A&E tonight.”

“That massive accident I saw on the news?”

“Yes.” My voice faltered. I took a step towards him and he rushed to my side. His arms encompassed me and I felt him crush me tightly against his body.

“Ye did everything ye could to save them, I know ye did Claire.” I felt the tears running down my face as he continued. “Christ. Ye have a gift, Sassenach. Yer hands- ye’re a healer. I know ye did everything you could and then some. Just because the devil is tryna scheme ye, dinna let him get ye.”

“I could have done more…” My voice cracked as I tried to defend circumstances I knew were well out of my control.

I felt his chest tighten as he squeezed me even more taut to his body. “Dinna go there. Ye did everything ye could. Ye look like ye have been hit by a train. Hell I havena seen ye in nearly a week, Sassenach. Ye’re tired, overworked, and hungry.” He kissed the top of my head and gave my rear end a tight squeeze. I could tell he was trying to lighten my mood and he was doing a decent job at it so far. “We’re no’ going to have a pity party because that’s no’ who ye are.”

“I love you.” I mumbled into his chest. He knew me better than I knew myself sometimes- and he was right. I had endured a hard week and this was just the cherry on the top.

“I ken ye do, and I thank ye for it. How about I draw ye a bath and then we can eat and try and take yer mind off of things?” I looked up to see his blue eyes darken in the centers.

“You just want to get laid.”

“Maybe.” He smiled, kissing the bridge of my nose. “Ye will have yer courses any day now, and I just want to love on every inch of ye….”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been moody lately. It’s probably the combo of being overworked and PMS. It has been a while since we’ve…”

“Eight days, no’ that I’m counting.”

He was counting and I had to admit it: I found it rather endearing. He had tried to seduce me this past week. The first time was on my first morning of my seven in a row, but when my cellphone went off with an emergency trauma surgery, our supposed hour to get ready together was cut short. The second time he had texted me naughty phrases all day and told me to stay up a ‘wee bit’ past my bed time- and I had tried and failed miserably.

I blushed as I nudged his chest with my head. “You’re involved with a doctor now. Odd hours of being on-call and mood swings come with the territory. This weekend I will be all yours- you can do whatever you’d like to me.”

“A whole weekend, aye?”

“Relationships are compromise right? I’ve been too exhausted to satiate the fiend of a boyfriend I have- so I’ll give him my body, all weekend. Purely at his disposal.” This earned me a hearty laugh and he kissed my forehead.

“Ye make me sound like a nymphomaniac, Sassenach.”

“I mean… There’s nothing wrong with having a healthy sex life.”

“So I can make love to ye then- after ye have taken a shower?” He smiled at me and gave me the worst attempt at a wink I’d ever seen. (And threw me off just a touch.)

“Yes.” I choked. “Only if you promise to never wink at me again.”

“Deal. Do hurry though, Sassenach. I am no’ a verra patient man.”

I disentangled myself from his arms and escaped to the bathroom. I shed the scrubs from my body, tossing them in the hamper as I heard the soft croons from Frank Sinatra come from the kitchen.

“You’re such a romantic,” I said to myself. “And all mine.”

He was, and I was incredibly lucky. Turning the shower on, I felt my phone vibrate on the counter.

Geillis: You need to tell the others. I am tired of covering for you two. John knows something is up!

“Jamie,” I yelled taking a step into the shower. “When are we going to tell the others we’re together.”

“Mmphm.” Jamie grunted entering the bathroom. I rolled my eyes at him through the glass shower door and lathered my hair in shampoo.

“We both know they’ve been rooting for us since you moved in.”

“I ken.”

“And?”

He strode the few feet across to the glass and drew a heart in the condensation. “I like having ye as my little secret.”

“Bloody Scot.” I mumbled rinsing out my hair. “We can’t hide forever. I have that function next week at the hospital- John is a donor there, you know he’ll see us.”

“Fine. Game night on Friday and we can tell them.”

I mouthed I love you as he sashayed away in his defeat. “Hurry, yer food is goin’ to go cold.”

II finished washing my body and shaving my legs. Turning off the water, I heard The X-Files theme song bellow from my phone. Grabbing for my towel I saw the hospital’s caller ID On the screen.

“Dr. Beauchamp,” I answered in my doctor tone.

“Hey, Claire- it’s Geillis,” My female friend started on the other end of the line.

“Hey, what’s up? I’m off. If it’s a surgery, transfer to the night rotation doctor, I am off for the weekend.”

“It’s no’ that…” She took a breath and was silent for a moment. “I dinna ken how to tell ye.”

“What is it?” I asked as I reached for my body lotion.

“Do ye remember how ye were worried about your hemoglobin levels, anemic or whatnot since ye have been working so much?”

“Yes,” I hesitantly said. I had been scared I wasn’t eating and sleeping enough, causing some issues. I had her run a CBC panel just to put my mind at ease. I hadn’t really thought anything would come back- let alone for her to call me. “What is it?” She caught the edge in my voice as if I were giving bad news to a patient’s family.

“I…”

“Just say it, Geillis.”

She took another breath and clicked her tongue. “You’re pregnant.”

Suddenly- it all made sense. The exhaustion and mood swings, the insatiable demand for Jamie.

“I’ll only ask once,” Geillis said. “Is it Jamie’s?”

“I…” I was speechless. “Yes.” I finished. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“I ken. We’ll talk later.”

As I was hanging up the phone, I turned to the doorframe and saw my 6’3” and rather formidable Scot standing in the doorframe.

“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost, Sassenach. Are ye almost ready?”

I opened my mouth to speak but failed at words.

“Is everything alright?”

“No.” I said firmly. A smile crept across his face and he shook his head at me, though I could tell it was merely from confusion. “I mean, no but yes, but no, but yes. I don’t bloody know!” I raised my hands at him and shook my own head.

“Talk to me.”

“I…” I took a breath and placed my hands on the sink turning my face away from his eye contact. “We’re getting another roommate.”

“I’m sorry, I dinna understand.” His voice was quiet. I could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. He had a pensive look on his face, a small smile in his eyes. I could see the realization coming across his face slowly but surely.

“Another roommate.” I whispered taking one hand and placing it over my abdomen. “Do ye ken what I mean now, Fraser?”

“Claire….” He uttered taking a step into the bathroom. “Are ye….”

“I’m pregnant.”

I felt his hands on my waist as he turned me back to face him- his eyes covered with a thin film of tears and a smile from ear to ear.

“Another roommate, then.” He agreed placing a hand on my stomach.

And it was in that moment, any unknown or uncertain fear I had about the next chapter in our lives- whatever came, whatever we endured, as long as he kept looking at me like that- I knew we’d be just fine.

“Another roommate.” I smiled, placing my hand atop his, giving it a squeeze. “Another bloody roommate.”

#Outlander #outlander fanfiction #Jamie x Claire #Jamie Fraser #Claire Beauchamp #I'll be there for you AU #myfic!#omg I finished a whole fic?!#WOT #craigh na queue

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fanfoolishness · 6 years

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Leaving Home (Lavellan, Varric)

The rain blustered at the opening of the cave, forcing their small cookfire to sputter and flare. Namira sighed, casting another thin barrier over the cave’s entrance. It was enough to block most of the rain while still allowing a wisp of smoke to escape, but it made the cave’s air humid and still.

It didn’t help that they still were scarcely out of the rain. The cave was such a shallow area carved from the mountainside, and with the four of them packed into its small space, the moisture from the endless and inescapable damp built up fiercely. She sat against the stone wall, somehow both chilled and sweaty.

Namira stirred their dinner, humming tunelessly to herself. Strange how the weather of the Storm Coast could behave so differently from the northern Free Marches she and her clan had traversed the past few years. The Waking Sea had never seemed such a great divide on the map, but she keenly felt the distance now.

The Storm Coast was beautiful, yes, but it was a wilderness that would be best traversed with friends and family, and these men she journeyed with were nearly strangers still. She gazed out at the rain amidst lush green spires and salt-carved stone, as lonely as she had ever been, and the beauty of the trees and surging sea left her hollow.

Strange the way circumstance could change a thing. She’d have jumped at the chance to explore new locales just a few years ago; of course, she had never expected she would be the only Lavellan for leagues. She had never thought she would miss the arid heat and the ever-present scent of sage and juniper. But now, as a lone Dalish in the wet and cedar-scented air, she’d take a sunburn in a heartbeat.

At least the food smelled comforting. She and Varric had brought down a ram while Blackwall and the Iron Bull scouted ahead for camp. Namira was not an especially skilled hunter or butcher, but part of her First training required familiarity with all roles in the clan. Her butchery would have earned a tucked frown of mild disapproval from the venerable huntress Marellin. Still, it was more than adequate for their purposes.

The ram’s meat was gamey and pungent, but it mellowed with the addition of wild onion and garlic. Marjoram and spindleweed rounded the flavors further. Rough-chopped black lotus roots, starchy and thick, added body.

She stirred experimentally at the stew. Despite the herbs, so different from those found near Sundermount, the stew still somehow smelled of home. It would be ready soon, a welcome addition to the dried hardtack safe in their packs.

Gentle snores drew her attention. Blackwall and Bull had drawn second watch, and were trying to get some sleep at the very back of the little cave. Surprisingly, they were succeeding despite the less than ideal conditions. She found herself impressed by their versatility, and turned to Varric.

No hint of drowsiness played around Varric’s eyes. He slept as little as she did, most nights. Perhaps it was a dwarven thing. He sat a few feet away, his fountain pen scratching at the vellum he was never without. Luckily he’d been prepared and brought it wrapped in wax for this expedition. She peeked at his writing, noting neat, flowing script in shining black ink.

“What are you writing, Varric?” she asked, stretching and setting the tin ladle back down on a dry stone. “If you’re keeping a diary, I’m afraid today’s adventures were rather lacking. ‘Stumped around in the mud. Passed the same pine tree three times. Fought another damn bear.’”

Varric raised his head, hazel eyes crinkling in a smile. “Shit, you nailed it, Doodles. The Inquisition experience! Maybe after you seal the Breach they should keep you on as a master scribe.”

“Do you really think I can seal it, after all?” Namira asked, faltering. Her left hand clenched reflexively around the ever-present buzzing in her palm, a constant reminder of the strange magic that had marked her. “Assuming the mages will help us…”

“Trust me, no one wants a giant hole in the sky. If we can get an audience with them, they’ll join up, no questions asked,” said Varric. He capped his pen carefully, slipping it back into a pocket of his heavy leather jacket. “And if they don’t? Sister Nightingale’s not the only one with contacts. I’ve got some favors I can call if we need.” His brows rose suggestively. “The Seeker might not be so thrilled with some of them, but trust me, we’ve got options.”

“Is that who you write to?” asked Namira. She folded her arms, resting them on her knees. “I’m sorry. I’m prying, aren’t I?”

“Well, I can tell you’ve never trained under a bard,” Varric chuckled. “You’re not one for subtlety, are you?”

“That obvious?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sorry. It’s just --” Namira bit her lip, gazing out at the gathering dark. She could still easily make out the towering shapes of the pines beyond the cave’s entrance, but she knew by now that the others saw only blackness. “Cassandra, Bull, Blackwall, Sera… you’re the only other one here who’s left home behind. So I wondered if you write to them. Hawke and the others.”

Varric was quiet for a moment. “Kirkwall hasn’t been the same since Blondie -- since the Chantry incident. Not as many people there as there used to be. I write to some of them, sure. But some of them aren’t so easy to find.”

“You mean Hawke.”

“More than just Hawke,” Varric protested. “Most of them left Kirkwall when she did. Merrill and Aveline are the only ones who stayed.”

“Hawke is special though, isn’t she?” said Namira. “I notice it’s Tale of the Champion, not Tale of the Champion and Friends.”

Varric looked at her appraisingly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head, his cheeks slightly pink. Maybe it was the smoke from their fire. Namira eased up on the barrier at the cave’s mouth, opening it up a little to allow more smoke to dissipate.

Varric shrugged, his cheeks returning to their normal color. “You couldn’t call it that. Terrible title. My publisher would laugh me right out of my contract.” He waved one gloved hand. “But you’re right. Hawke’s special.” A short huff of breath: she nearly mistook it for a sigh. “Never knew anyone like her.”

“Do you know where she is? Truly, I wouldn’t tell Cassandra. It sounds like Hawke’s had enough to be going on with,” said Namira earnestly.

“For once, I don’t have to lie. I don’t know where she is. I know a few places she’s been, but right now? Nah. She moves around.”

“Are they still hunting her? It’s so clear in your book that what happened in Kirkwall wasn’t her fault,” said Namira. “Assuming the tale is accurate, of course.” She tried to keep her tone light, but couldn’t help the nagging, guilty feeling that she was prodding a sore spot.

“I wrote a lot of the real shit in my book. But I left out plenty. Things that were just too much to write down.” He looked uncomfortable.

“I know what you mean. Writing can be dangerous, can’t it? I don’t write much for others myself,” said Namira hastily, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. She’d gone too far, hadn’t she? “Or, I do, but it’s record-keeping; marriages, illnesses, births, deaths, the daily history of the clan. Things that are important to remember for the future.”

She picked up the ladle, stirred again. The stew bubbled. “I don’t put down feelings.” That wasn’t strictly true; her personal journal with its drawings and musings lay in her pack, wax-wrapped and magic-sealed. She hurried to amend the statement, unwilling to speak even the smallest half-truths. “At least, not where anyone else can read it.”

Varric’s mouth turned up at one edge like the start of a smile. It didn’t quite finish the motion. “Maybe that’s best. Less incriminating, anyway.”

Namira set the ladle down and rummaged in her pack for the waxcloth bundle containing the hardtack. The stew was nearly ready. “Maybe.”

She paused, looking down at the bundle of shem food. Everything about it was foreign: a beeswax wrapper instead of candelilla, the shape of the hardtack, the smell of it. “Sometimes writing helps, I think. Other times it makes things worse, reminding myself of what I lack. I miss my home. My people. Why did I ever leave them?”

Varric folded up his stack of vellum papers. “Well, if it’s any consolation, sometimes home leaves you first.” This time, the motion his mouth made was nothing like a smile.

Namira let out a long breath. “I didn’t mean to darken the mood,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

“Herald, demons are falling out of the sky, mages and templars are killing each other all over the place, and we’re here in the ass end of nowhere chasing who knows what. I have to say the mood’s pretty dark already. No need for you to add worrying about the dwarf to your list of shit to deal with,” said Varric.

“If you insist,” said Namira. “But you’re certain? Because I would worry about you, if it would help.”

“I’m flattered, but fine. Honest.” He gestured to the stew. “That done? It smells a hundred times better than Hawke’s cooking, and a thousand times better than mine.”

“Yes, it’s ready. But oh, Varric,” said Namira sadly. “This isn’t even particularly good food by Dalish standards. It’s just make-do food. What did you eat in Kirkwall?”

“Sometimes it’s best not to know,” he said with a wink. He clambered to his feet and to the back of the cave, not even needing to bow his head beneath the low ceiling. He started nudging the others awake. She watched him joke with them, jovial as ever.

She knew she’d hit him somewhere delicate with her clumsy attempts at conversation. She’d been so eager to talk about what was bothering her she hadn’t stopped to consider if he wanted to talk about it. She ladled soup into thin tin bowls, staring pensively at the way it steamed, wishing she had been wiser. She supposed that was the difference between the Keeper, and the First.

Outside the rain blustered, and the winds squalled, and the waves crashed. Inside the little cave, their little group shared bowls of rich woodland stew, making their plans for tomorrow and looking to the future.

Varric caught her eye during a lull. She looked steadily at him. Really? You’re all right? she asked silently.

He grinned, dragging his bread through the stew before popping it into his mouth. “For make-do food, this is delicious, Doodles. Good stuff.”

She smiled back, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the nearby cookfire or the hearty food. She took a bite of her stew. It was good, better than she had thought it would be.

“Thanks, Varric.”

#varric tethras #lavellan #dragon age: inquisition #da:i #namira lavellan #with a little hint of #hawke x varric #the storm coast

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chocmarss · 7 years

Text

long looks at the sun

Summary: A poorly kept secret is a disaster that’s waiting to burst into their faces.

voltron. sheith. anna karenina au. T (ao3)

I started this out of impulse after watching Anna Karenina ft. Keira Knightly, and I thought I'd continue this until it'll turn into a full fledge fic but it didn't and, well,

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But I really like this piece and I recommend watching the movie because it's so aesthetically pleasing. Enjoy!

A poorly kept secret is a disaster that’s waiting to burst into their faces.

“You're beginning to look desperate,” Allura murmurs against the rim of the flute glass, letting Keith feather a kiss onto the silken glove of her knuckles. “It's unattractive.”

Perhaps, but the thought doesn't bother him as he merely ignores the stares from the people milling around the room, and instead accepts another glass of the same red wine that's been passed into his hold while he makes himself comfortable on the empty space beside her. He takes a sip, and he knows how hard she's trying to not roll her eyes at his dismissal. “Is there any chance that he'll come?”

Because the flows of dresses and fitting suits doesn't impress him as much as the event should, where lovely men and women alike hide their laughter from the other in such peculiar way of embarrassment, since they think dignity is more important than showing their full honesty.

He thinks they're wasting their time, and takes another sip when one of the older women gives him a look that could wilt a weak heart.

Ah, so the news of what he's done a few days ago have spread. Of course, Keith knows this to be a fact that the bystanders hated to not see him woo the prince they've all been rooting for; the lovely blue-eyed beauty would surely look stunning with the sergeant, and the sighs and whines of those doesn't get a chance with both of them would be silenced into defeat by then.

But, it’s not entirely his fault he sees the same steel stare making an appearance at the ballroom, and they have been as striking when he first sees them on the train.

“Now that he knows you exists?” He doesn't bother to glance at her as he searches past waiters and extravagant furnitures that has been bought with her money. “I wouldn't doubt it. But, I heard his husband is here as well.”

He stills, but makes a show of twirling the glass to the side, as if to aspect the fine art that’s barely visible on it. “They came together?”

“I've suspected that Shiro would came here first alone,” the accusation under her tone makes Keith shift his gaze towards her, but the blank look she dons doesn't par with the words leaving her mouth. “But, of course, Count Lotor doesn't usually have the time to attend to these things without having the need to be somewhere else, so there's a chance he's coming here in favour of not leaving his husband alone again.”

Keith doesn't reply, but the dissatisfaction that churns in his gut makes him set aside his wine a little too noisily, just beside his service cap, where it takes a moment for him to pull out the little silver casing from his suit pocket and popping the cigarette into his mouth.

He's already lighting up the stick when a certain hush falls over the room.

Keith thinks that's a grand entrance if it's needed to be said.

Taking a slow drag, he releases the smoke above his head while Allura fans the remains of it away from her face, watching their new guest walk in.

Broad shoulders fills in the black suit he wears, the silvers cuffs near his wrists gleams dimly under the lights while his feet bore the shoes of a man who has everything what humanity nowadays keened for. It's a posture of someone who knows he's forbidden to be seen alone when his spouse should be by his arm, but the gait of his strides suggests he doesn't care when his eyes zeroes onto Keith.

Finally.

A small upturn of his lips, Keith stands up with a grace that suggests the faint whispers doesn't bother him as he stabs the butt of the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

Allura greets Shiro with a hum when he kisses the back of her hand. “Shiro, darling. I thought that you weren't able to join us.”

“I did too,” Shiro responds with a small laugh, straightening up to his full height. “But, you insisted.”

She chuckles. “Yes, well, I wasn't going to leave you out of my party now, would I?”

“I suppose.” Then, he moves his gaze towards Keith, who's silently amused at the attempt of a neutral face Shiro tries to make. “Sergeant Kogane.”

“Count Shirogane,” Keith greets with an offer of his hand, letting Shiro return the formalities with a firm shake. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Shiro mutters when Keith raises their connected hands to his lips, leaving a kiss onto Shiro's knuckle while not breaking eye contact. “I didn't expect you to be here either.”

“Allura let me use her house as my second home,” Keith tells him, taking his time to slip away his fingers from his hold. “She's a very dear friend, sometimes.”

“Yes, because my father insisted you stay here whenever you visited,” she says with a faint touch of annoyance in her tone, but her eyes sparkles with mirth. “You don't know how grateful your mother is to have a brat like you under tight leash.”

“When has that ever stopped me?” Keith questions with a quirk of his eyebrows, and Allura scoffs lightly before sipping her drink.

Then, she narrows her eyes at the entrance, before getting up with a smooth motion as she hooks her arm into Shiro's, surprising the man as she tugs him towards the table of beverages at the side of the room. “Come, Shiro. You're probably thirsty.”

Keith watches them leave before allowing his gaze to stray towards the door, where he sees the white hair of Count Lotor making his way in, sharp yellow eyes looking over the crowd with a sweep of his lazy gaze.

It takes Keith that moment to leave the lounge before he's seen, his cap in hand. He walks towards where Shiro and Allura stands, and they're talking in a low tone as she passes him a shot glass of clear liquid.

His shoulder brushes against Shiro's as Keith stands beside him, where the taller man glances at him in enquiry when he begins to speak, “I'll have to make my leave,” Keith says, meeting Shiro's gaze unwaveringly. “Mama would want see me at the moment, and I can't make any excuses not to or she'll have my head.”

“So soon?” Shiro asks, and it looks as if they're alone again in the middle of the marble floor.

Keith realises this would be a hard habit to pick out if they don't prevent it.

“Unfortunately,” he answers, giving a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and faces Allura with a bow. “I'm sorry this has to cut so short.”

“You'll miss the fireworks.” She warns, where the people are already gathering for the show in the middle of the clearing as the roof begins to slide open. “and the after-party that comes with it.”

“Another time, maybe,” he says, turning around to take his leave. “I'll send both of your regards to Mama.”

Keith manages to avoid Lotor on his way out, inhaling the cold air of winter as he escapes the suffocating cloud of the room, before he hears the smack of footsteps against the floor becoming louder.

“You're leaving.”

The statement makes Keith pause on his way down the small stairs, and he turns around to see Shiro standing behind him with something scorching in his eyes, one that Keith tries not to think of too deeply. “I'll be going to Saint Petersburg for my promotion,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumbs against the white cloth of his cap. “Mama thinks it's best for me and my future, but seeing you made contemplate that all over again.”

“When do you leave?” The demand is weak even to Keith, but the heat of determination is unmistakable underneath it.

“Tomorrow, if I decided to take up the offer,” Keith studies the man, who looks as if he’s preventing himself from going nearer towards Keith. “Do you want me to go?”

Shiro let's out a breath of laughter, running his hand over his hair in disbelief. “Don't make it seem as if it's about me.”

“Do you want me to go?” Keith repeats his words, and Shiro looks away. “I'll be stationed there for three years before I'll come back here, but that's not even a guarantee.” He pauses, letting the words sink in properly. “I'll probably stay there for a long while.”

“And I can't make you do anything,” Shiro says. “It's what you want.”

“What about you, Shiro?” Keith shoots back, holding onto his gaze. “What do you want?”

Shiro clenches his jaw. “Nothing.”

It takes a second longer for Keith to study Shiro's total disregard of pulling himself back together, where he exposes what he feels without a care of his title or what it means to slather his husband's name with the kind of actions they shamelessly committed.

Then, Keith nods shallowly, wearing the service cap on his head. “The train leaves in the morning, I won't be able to see you until my three years are up, and I apologise if I overstepped my boundaries the whole time we were in the same room.” He tips his head. “I'd like it if we remained as friends, if that isn't-”

“Don't,” Shiro cuts him off sharply, taking a subconscious step forward. “I don't- you know we're not just friends.”

Keith gives him a chance to collect himself, and Shiro meets his eyes again with a clench of his jaw.

“You can't make it look that way,” Shiro continues, back straightening. “You can't leave while denying what we have.”

Death wouldn't be as quiet as the air between them after that; it wouldn’t be as cold, nor as stifling as if its long and bony fingers clasps around their airways with all the eagerness of a raging bull.

But Keith pushes them all away with a small smile. “Of course.”

#sheith #Keith Kogane #Takashi Shirogane #Keith #Shiro #Allura #Lotor #shotor #Voltron #Voltron Legendary Defender #Vld #marswrites #marsrb

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godswritingfreak · 7 years

Text

The Soul of Rebellion Awakens

Felt like writing up this section of Persona 5. Mild beginning of game spoilers for those who haven’t played yet. It seemed dramatic and I like rewriting sections of video games sometimes, to put my own spin on it, or doing my best to capture the feeling of the scenes with purely words instead of the visual medium video games employ.

“Hey… Hey wake up!”

The voice stirred him from unconsciousness, and he sat up slowly, his head throbbing. What had happened? When he opened his eyes he was greeted to the sight of a murky stone dungeon, straight out of a fantasy film. Right, the castle sitting where the school was supposed to be. Those big soldiers. What was going on?

“You alright?”

He looked over and saw the blond boy he’d followed to the castle. “I’m fine.” The blond seemed okay too, aside from the fact they were both trapped in this cell.

“Same, more or less,” the blond replied, before turning back to look out the cell bars. “Looks like this ain’t no dream… Ugh, what’s goin’ on!?” The blond suddenly ran up towards the door and began banging on it. “Hey, let us outta here! I know there’s someone out there!”

Considering how the guards from before had treated them, he had a feeling this wasn’t exactly the best idea. However, only silence and the faint sound of flowing water answered the words.

“Dammit, where are we!?” The blond shouted again, walking back to him. “Is this some kinda TV set…?”

Before he could answer a scream of agony echoed down into their cell from somewhere else in the dungeon. He stood, alarmed, and a shiver ran down his back. They both rushed to the cell door and tried to see where it was coming from.

“The hell was that just now…?”

The screaming dwindled before slowly sputtering to a halt.

“Woah… woah, woah, woah, woah, woah… You’re shittin’ me, right? This is real bad…! Isn’t there some way outta here!? C’mon, we gotta do something!” The blond asked, panic beginning to creep into his voice.

He looked around the room. There was the wooden cot he had been passed out on. Chains hung up on the wall, barrels in the corners. But nothing useful. Not a thing. Were they really trapped down here? Were they going to end up screaming like the person they’d heard?

“Hey, you hear that?” The blond suddenly spoke up.

He turned back to the bars and also heard it: footsteps and clanking metal. Before long one of the masked guards walked up to the door, armour clanking loudly.

“Be glad that your punishment has been decided upon. Your charge is unlawful entry. Thus, you will be sentenced to death.”

“Say what!?” The blond shouted.

Death did seem a bit much for accidental trespassing…

“No one’s allowed to do as they please in my castle.”

This voice was new, coming from behind the guards at the cell door. It also sounded vaguely familiar, but he was having a hard time placing it… That is until the man walked up to them, moving past the guards as they gave way. He was dressed in a red, fur-lined cloak decorated in red and pink hearts. He seemed to wear no pants, only sandals, topped with a golden crown atop his black hair. Staring at them with golden eyes was the teacher the blond boy had been complaining about, the one who had given the girl a ride to school. But he hadn’t had golden eyes then…

“Huh? Wait… Is that you, Kamoshida?” The blond asked, incredulous at the sight of a familiar face.

The man scoffed. “I thought it was some petty thief, but to think it’d be you, Sakamoto… Are you trying to disobey me again? It looks like you haven’t learned your lesson at all, huh?” Kamoshida’s voice was menacing, and he wondered what history there was between the two. “Oh, and you brought a friend this time… because you can’t do anything for yourself.”

Now the man’s tone had turned mocking, and the blond, Sakamoto, seemed to be egged on by it. “This ain’t funny you asshole!”

“Is that how you speak to a king!?” Kamoshida spat. “It seems you don’t understand the position you’re in at all. Not only did you sneak into my castle, you committed the crime of insulting me - the king. The punishment for that. Is death.” The man swung out his arm in a commanding gesture, and a guard stepped forward. “It’s time for an execution! Take him out!”

The students backed away from the door, and he could tell Sakamoto was starting to get legitimately worried. “S-Stop it…!”

There was little power to his voice now however, and the guards opened and stepped into the door, cornering the blond in the back corner, leaving him up against the side wall. This was really bad. This wasn’t a joke, it wasn’t a prank, this was serious, whatever it was. The guards’ weapons looked truly sharp, and whoever this man was that looked like the teacher sounded deadly serious about killing them.

Sakamoto spoke up again as he was cornered “...Goddammit…!” The boy’s voice quivered with fear, but he seemed to pull himself together enough to charge forward, ramming into one of the guard’s shields with enough force to knock it to the ground. “I ain’t down for this shit!” Sakamoto yelled, looking at him. “C’mon, we’re outta here!”

Before either of them could act however, another guard came up and punched Sakamoto in the stomach, sending him reeling with a loud groan, stumbling up against the wall near the hanging chains. He tried to push forward but the guards regrouped, and all he could do was push uselessly against their stocky stances.

Slowly falling to his knees, Sakamoto looked up. “Just go! Get outta here! These guys are serious!”

He glanced towards the open door. All that stood between him and freedom was the kingly teacher. It could’ve been easy enough to push past and run off. He didn’t deserve to die after all, did he? He didn’t deserve anything he’d been put through. Not the assault charge. Not the school transfer. Not the scorn of all those he met. Not this dungeon. Not death. All he had to do was run…

“Oh? Running away, are we?” Kamoshida taunted. “What a heartless friend you are.”

Guilt struck at his heart and his feet stayed rooted.

“He… ain’t a friend…” Sakamoto argued, still gasping for breath. “C’mon! Hurry up and go!”

Sakamoto was trying to absolve any guilt for staying. The boy wasn’t a friend, they were strangers, it was even true. Why stay for someone he didn’t know? But that ended up only making it worse. His legs began to feel weak, panic settling in truly now.

“What’s the matter? Too scared to run away?” Kamoshida taunted further, laughing at his indecision. “Hmph, pathetic scum isn’t worth my time… I’ll focus on this one’s execution...”

The guards grabbed Sakamoto and lifted him by the arms, while another came to crowd him back into the corner, preventing any further attempts at escape. Kamoshida walked up to him, his face now turned away, and laughed as he began to beat on the blonde boy, until he dropped back to the floor, face down, groaning in pain.

Kamoshida spat on him and scoffed. Where’d your energy from earlier go? A peasant like you isn’t even worth beating. I’ll have you killed right now.”

A guard tossed Sakamoto across the floor. He winced at the sight, his mind reeling at what was happening. Sakamoto didn’t deserve this either, no one did. Especially after trying to save him. He couldn’t just let this happen.

“Stop it!” He shouted, his voice sounding feeble against the actions he was witnessing.

Kamoshida turned to face him. “What? Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know who I am.” He glared back, doing his best to try and look threatening while being held back by the two massive guards.

“That look in your eyes irritates me!” The man’s leg came out suddenly, kicking him in the chest, throwing him against the wall. It hurt, bad, and knocked the wind out of him.

“Hold him there… After the peasant, it’s his turn to die,” Kamoshida ordered, turning back to Sakamoto.

“No!” He shouted, running forward on instinct, but the guards immediately grabbed him and threw him back against the wall, pinning him by the shoulders.

Kamoshida stalked towards Sakamoto, laughing.

“No… I don’t wanna die!”

Pure fear had entered Sakamoto’s voice, and all he could do was stand there and watch. This wasn’t fair! Why were they even here! Why did they have to die!?

“This is truly an unjust game… Your chances of winning are almost none.”

A soft, female voice echoed through his mind, and when he blinked, there was suddenly and aetheric, glowing butterfly flying right through the middle of the room. The others were oblivious to its presence, but he sensed the voice was coming from it.

“But if my voice is reaching you, there may yet be a possibility open to you…”

He blinked again and the room was back to normal, the butterfly missing. But now another voice, deeper, dangerous, but calling to him.

“What’s the matter? Are you simply going to watch?”

But what can I do?

“Are you forsaking him to save yourself? Death awaits him if you do nothing.”

I-I don’t… I can’t!

“Was your previous decision a mistake then?”

Suddenly visions of the woman he’d attempted to save, of the man who’d dealt him the assault charges, of the police arresting him, flew through his mind. He hadn’t hesitated then.

“It wasn’t.”

He was surprised at the conviction in his own voice, and he suddenly felt his anger rising. Sakamoto was lifted by his collar, Kamoshida still laughing, the guard holding the boy lifting a sword to his throat.

He began to struggle, refusing to let this scene play out, but the guards held him fast, and the voice, again, spoke.

“Very well… I have heeded your resolve.”

Something shook him to the core. Was it pain? He wasn’t sure, exactly, but it was strange, and made him cry out as though it hurt.

“Vow to me,” the voice demanded. “I am thou, thou art I…”

He continued screaming, as the voice grew in volume and power, this feeling increasing.

“Thou who art willing to perform all sacrilegious acts for thine own justice! Call upon my name, and release thy rage! Show the strength of thy will to ascertain all on thine own, though thou be chained to Hell itself!”

With a final scream, the feeling settled, and where there was once weak and shaking legs, he stood steady. Where before he had struggled, he stood still. Where before there was doubt and fear, he now stood firm and furious.

“Execute him!” Kamoshida ordered.

“That’s enough!” He shouted back.

“...What. Was that…?” Kamoshida asked venomously, turning slowly to look at him.

The guard released Sakamoto, who took in a gasp of air to his previously choked throat.

“You desire to be killed that much? Fine!” Kamoshida nodded to one of the guards.

It lifted its shield and bashed him across the face, knocking him to the side, but he kept his footing. Two other guards rushed in and pinned him to the wall, crossing lances across his throat. Sakamoto fell fully to the floor, exhausted. The guard who hit him lifted his sword to strike.

Then power flowed through him. It was like a rush, enough to blow out into the room, knocking the guards away from him, Kamoshida’s cloak billowing. There was suddenly a mask upon his face. It was surprising. It was… wrong. It shouldn’t be there! It needed to come off! But it wouldn’t! He tugged and pulled, but it wouldn’t come off! Pull harder! It needed off! It began to tear at his skin, and he felt the wet and warm sensation of blood flowing down his cheeks. He pulled harder, and it finally ripped free, the pain swelling, but not nearly as much as the need to remove the mask. He screamed with the pain and elation of finally removing the mask.

And then power. Incredible power rushed through him, around him, overtaking him in literal blue flame that engulfed his body. The menacing voice from earlier began to laugh, and he realized this was what he had been offered. Kamoshida and the guards could only look on, unknowing what was happening. Chains came to his hands as the flames dispersed, revealing another figure behind him, the source of the voice. As he gripped them, he tossed them away, shattering, releasing him from his prison of doubt and fear.

The guards were flung across the room as his awoken power rushed through the dungeon cell. Kamoshida, eyes wide with horror, fled to the doorway. Sakamoto was frozen in place, out of fear, pain, or a combination, he didn’t know. Or care. There would be time later. Instead he turned to Kamoshida, who summoned his guards. They retook their footing and stood between this new threat and their king.

“I am the pillager of twilight - Arsene!” The voice announced, his aetherial body floating behind him.

Arsene was cloaked in red, a billowing jacket, tall boots. A tall black top hat. Large, black, feathered wings, and horns that jutted forward flowing with a red-black colour. It was a menacing sight, and he saw Sakamoto press himself closer to the wall he was leaning against. Kamoshida looked shaken, but refused to retreat.

“I am the rebel’s soul that resides within you. If you so desire, I shall consider granting you the power to break through this crisis.”

He looked up to the figure, determination clear on his face. “Give me your power.”

The being grunted in approval. “Very well.”

“Who the hell are you!?” Kamoshida demanded. He grunted and pointed forward. “Never mind, start by killing that one!”

The armoured guards suddenly poured forth a red-black liquid, dissolving, then reforming into new, twisted shapes. They looked like jack-o-lanterns, with a witch hat, a cloak and holding forth a lantern.

“You’ll learn the true strength of my men!” Kamoshida laughed.

The flew into a formation ahead of him, and he turned to face them. Arsene hovered behind him, and spoke again. “Detest the enemies before you! Change that animosity into power… and unleash it!”

He concentrated on the enemies, and on the feeling of power flowing through him. Blue flame burst from his mask, and he held his hand up to it. He called up on Arsene to attack, and a burst of red-black energy shot up from beneath one of the crypt-dwelling pyromaniac pumpkins and it screamed with pain as the tendrils pierced its body. Both of them then darted forward, lanterns swinging. He did his best to block the attacks, but they buffeted him. But it didn’t hurt like the guards had done to him earlier. It was a minor inconvenience at best.

“Now, swing your blade!” Arsene commanded.

A new instinct poured forth, and he dashed to the one who he’d pierced earlier, finding a dagger now in his hand that wasn’t there before. He sliced at the pyromaniac and it exploded in a cloud of black fog.

“This power of mine is yours!” Arsene announced. “Kill them however you want. Run wild to your heart’s content!”

Finally, he could feel the full strength of Arsene in him. It could guide his attacks, protect him from pain, and unleash Hell’s wrath upon his enemies. All this power was his to command. And he intended to use it.

With another burst of energy, he once more summoned the power of Arsene, his cursed energy piercing the remaining pyromaniac, and killing it in a single blow. He laughed, reveling in his power and the death of his enemies. The scene quickly calmed. The guards dispatched. He alone in the room now, with only Sakamoto and Kamoshida.

The boy broke the silence first. “What…?”

Suddenly reality snapped back into place. They had been in danger. He had fought - and killed! - the guards! And… he was wearing a new coat and suit, all black, with blood red gloves. When had this happened? What was that he had just done?

“What was that just now?” Sakamoto continued questioning.

He didn’t know. Not really. But… it had felt good…

“You little…!” Kamoshida stalked forward, boldly, unwilling to let him do what he pleases.

Sakamoto quickly found his footing and charged the older man. Just like the guard from earlier, the boy tackled Kamoshida to the ground, knocking him flat.

“Hah! You like that, you son of a bitch!?” Sakamoto taunted.

“The keys!” He shouted.

The boy looked down and quickly snapped up the ring of keys Kamoshida or one of the guards had dropped.

“Lock him in!”

They ran out, slammed the door shut, and Sakamoto quickly locked the gate.

“Damn you!” Kamoshida shouted, getting to his feet and gripping the bars of what was now his cell.

“Hey!” Sakamoto turned to him, ignoring the petulant man. “What was that just now!? And… your clothes!”

As if by his mention alone, the black coat disappeared, and his school uniform returned.

“Woah, it went back to normal! What the hell?”

He had no idea, and he no longer cared. All that mattered was they were free, and they had to leave. The power had saved them once, but without really knowing what it was or how it worked, he could not guarantee it would save them again.

“You bastards!”

“This is effin’ nuts... Let's scram! You lead the way!”

Sakamoto turned and looked Kamoshida in the eyes. “Nyeeeeh!” He taunted before tossing the keys into the small river that was running through the middle of the dungeon.

They both took off running, leaving Kamoshida alone in his cell, rattling the bars.

“You goddamn theives…! After them! Don’t let them escape!”

#my writing #persona 5

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 53: Sasha

Beep! Beep! Beep!

“No.” Basira’s voice manages to sound matter-of-fact and authoritative despite being muffled by Sasha’s shoulder blades.

Sasha groans and rolls forward to slap at her alarm clock. “Well, you don’t have to get up, but I have work today.”

“Ugh. I should. I really need to start looking into getting a new job, but…” Basira sighs and flops back against the pillows. “Think I’ll wait until this whole…thing is done. Might be hard to get time off to go chasing down killer mannequins in a taxidermy shop.”

Sasha grumbles wordlessly, then gets up to start getting dressed.

She follows the smell of coffee and something sweet into the kitchen, where she finds Wade standing at the stove. Sasha’s never been much for cooking—she’s eaten more homemade meals in the last year than she has in the preceding nine put together—and her kitchen isn’t well-stocked, but she laid in a supply of the basics after work on Friday in anticipation of her uncle coming home, and she’d tried to make something for him yesterday. Seeing him standing there trying to cook himself is at once unexpected and familiar.

He looks up and smiles at her. “Good morning, sunshine,” he teases her.

“Morning,” Sasha mumbles. She pours herself a cup of coffee, sweetens it automatically, and downs about half of it in a single gulp, at which point she feels human enough to give her uncle a smile and a hug.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” Wade hugs her back with one arm, then flicks his wrist and flips the pancake he’s cooking into the air before catching it neatly. “Still got it. Your friend doesn’t eat bacon, right?”

Sasha tries not to be embarrassed. She’s a grown woman and this is her flat, and Wade has made it clear he respects her and her choices and she’s allowed to do whatever the hell she wants, but she’s still got the same feeling she had when she was sixteen and he nonchalantly asked if her boyfriend wanted eggs or if he’d already escaped out her bedroom window. “Right.”

“Well then, these are almost ready. Would you rather eat at the table or standing around like a bunch of twenty-somethings in a bad sitcom?”

“I’ll set the table.”

Basira comes out just as Wade is plating the last of the pancakes and greets him with no trace of discomfort; Sasha envies her for that ability to stay calm and unruffled. As they eat, Sasha asks her uncle, “What are you planning to do today?”

Wade looks pleased. “Actually, I have an interview at nine. A gentleman wrote me last week and said he thought there was a position I might be qualified for. I—I suppose he has an eye out for upcoming releases that might have skills he needs.”

There’s a hesitancy there, and Sasha is almost tired enough to give into the static and reach for his secret, but stops herself at the last minute. “You’ll have to tell me all about it after work. Or I can call you at lunch.”

“I’d like that.” Wade grins.

Basira leaves with Sasha twenty minutes later. While she’s in less need of coffee than usual, thanks to her uncle actually making a pot—she really ought to get a programmable coffee maker, but she’s never managed to get around to it—she has a routine and she doesn’t want to break it now. They ride together until Basira has to get off to change trains; she pats Sasha’s shoulder, wishes her luck, and vanishes.

Melanie arrives at about the same time Sasha does, from the other direction but also clutching her usual cup of coffee. When they get down, Tim is having an apparently good-natured argument with Jon about whether he needs help getting his jacket off over the cast while Martin makes the first tea of the day. He glances over his shoulder with a smile that looks a tad strained at the edges. “Morning. How’s your uncle, Sash?”

Sasha returns the smile. “Settling in remarkably well, all things considered. He’s even already got an interview for a job. Seems excited about it. How was your weekend?”

“Quiet,” Martin says after a brief pause.

“Tim didn’t wrap your room in tinfoil or staple all your furniture to the ceiling?” Sasha teases.

Tim holds up his casted hand. “With this?”

Sasha laughs. “Fair point.”

Martin smiles again as he sets a cup down in front of Tim and hands another to Jon. “Seriously, it was a good weekend. Charlie’s birthday was yesterday, so…”

“He came over and helped us with his cake,” Jon tells her. His eyes light up the way they usually do when he talks about the little boy. “Martin found one of those old-fashioned hand-crank ice-cream makers somewhere, and it still works, so we made ice cream, too. Spent the rest of the evening playing board games.”

“Betrayal at the House on the Hill,” Tim supplies.

Melanie frowns. “How old is this kid? Nine?”

“Eight,” all three of the boys say in unison.

“Good. Start ‘em young.” Melanie thumps down in her chair. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Jon’s smile fades. “Honestly…I think we need to focus on the usual work today. Statements, filing…all of that. I’d—I’d like to have things as much in order as we can, before…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish. They have a location—Melanie’s been doing a lot of poking around, using skills she honed during her Ghost Hunt UK days, and managed to confirm that the Unknowing will be taking place at a museum called the House of Wax in Great Yarmouth. They have a time; Melanie and Tim’s combined efforts have led them all to estimate the ritual will be going off sometime on the sixth of April, God alone knows why. They even have something approaching a plan, which is a novelty. Actually, they have two plans, sort of. Now all they have to do is…wait.

Sasha hates waiting.

She gives it a go, though. It’s all busywork, it’s a way of marking time, but she knows it means something to Jon, and subsequently she knows it means something to Martin and Tim. Honestly, the three of them are obviously stupid in love with each other, it’s borderline ridiculous. It’s also kind of touching, watching them together—the gentle touches, the small acts of service, the wordless communications, the way they lean into one another when they’re sitting together. The fear on their faces when one of them is hurt or in danger, the relief when one comes home safe and sound, the smiles when they think the others aren’t looking. Add Charlie into the mix and they’re an absolute mess of domesticity and sap.

They’re also scared shitless about what’s going to happen on Thursday night, and she doesn’t need the Eye’s power to see that they’re afraid of losing one another, so if squaring away files they’ve been neglecting will make them feel better, she’ll suck it up and do it.

The four assistants work away at their cluster of desks in more or less silence; Jon’s in his office, but the door is propped open. He’s recording, judging by the rise and fall of his voice, but Sasha guesses they aren’t real statements or he’d have it closed. They’ve all been working away for a couple hours when the Archives phone rings.

“Not it,” Martin says without looking up.

“Not it,” Tim and Sasha say in unison.

“I hate you all,” Melanie claims and picks up the phone. “Archives.”

She leans back in her chair, twirling the cord around her finger and looking for all the world like a teenager from every single nineties sitcom Sasha ever watched talking to her best friend or boyfriend, except that her expression is one of utter disgust. “Yeah. Okay. Yes, sir.” Her Doc Martens thump onto the floor as she leans forward to hang it up.

“Let me guess,” Tim says dryly. “Elias?”

“Yeah. Wants to see all of us in his office, ASAP. He says it’s important.” Melanie’s voice drips with contempt.

Martin sighs and scrapes his chair back. “Jon?” he calls.

Jon appears in the doorway of his office. “I heard. Let’s get this over with.”

They all trudge their way upstairs. Rosie gives them her usual bland, pleasant smile and asks about Tim’s hand, then announces them to Elias and ushers them in. Sasha starts slightly when they walk in to find Basira and Daisy standing there, Basira with her arms folded over her chest and an expression of faint annoyance and Daisy with her hands in her pockets and a look of utter disgust. Elias is watching with that smarmy, oily smile of his that makes Sasha want to set his hair on fire and see how long he’ll burn, like a cheap kerosene lamp.

“Thank you, Rosie, I’ll call if we need you,” he tells Rosie.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard.” Rosie backs out of the room—reluctantly, to Sasha’s eyes—and pulls the door shut behind her.

There’s a brief pause before Elias speaks. “Thank you all for coming.”

Sasha sighs impatiently. She’s not the only one; they all make various noises of frustration and annoyance. Is Elias even capable of talking like a normal human being anymore, or is he deliberately playing up the Evil Overlord trope? Jon’s lips press into a thin line before he says, “Well, you said it was important.”

Elias flicks his gaze over to Basira and Daisy. “I’m glad you could come as well. I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable—”

“What do you want?” Jon interrupts, sounding tired and annoyed. Sasha sees Martin’s hand twitch and silently wills him and Tim both to keep it together. The last thing they need is for Elias to know the depth of their feelings for one another.

“To help,” Elias says pleasantly. “Do you have your recorder running?”

“Of course he does,” Melanie says, sounding unimpressed.

“I…” Jon looks down at his hand, as if he’s just realized he’s holding the official Archives recorder. “Yes.”

“Well, then, I’ll speak clearly,” Elias says. He folds his hands on his desk and meets Jon’s eyes. “You will soon be attempting to stop something few have witnessed and fewer still have survived.”

“Not alone,” Jon says quietly.

“We’re, um—” Basira shoots a sideways glance at Sasha, her expression hard to read. “I think we’re all going.”

“Yes.” Elias doesn’t look all that happy about that, to be honest. “And I believe your plan—ah, simplistic as it may be—does have a reasonable chance of working.”

“Well, thank you.” Jon’s voice is dry as the Sahara, but Sasha sees him stiffen slightly. They’ve known all along that Elias probably knows more about what they’re planning than they want him to, but to hear him confirm it…

“It should work. It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Daisy growls.

“Well, quite. But given that there is every likelihood that one or more of you may end up confronting the Stranger in a rather direct manner, I thought it best you have an idea of what you might encounter.”

Jon and Martin both throw identical quick, pained looks in Tim’s direction; Tim doesn’t seem to notice. Sasha sighs. “Oh.”

Elias reaches into a drawer—not, Sasha notes, the one containing his gun. If his gun is still in there. “Detective Tonner was kind enough to bring me Gertrude’s tapes, as soon as her superiors released them.”

Startled, Sasha turns to look at Daisy. Basira, too, is looking at her with raised eyebrows. Daisy ignores them both. Jon doesn’t look at her. “Of course they did.”

“There is one I feel it may be wise for you to hear. All of you,” Elias adds, his gaze sliding over Tim and Martin in particular—or is that Sasha’s imagination? He places a loaded tape recorder on his desk. “May I?”

There’s a chorus of sighs and groans. Elias is really laying it on thick. “Fine,” Tim mutters.

Elias presses Play.

Sasha feels the familiar sensation of the statement flowing through her. Like with every other one of Gertrude’s tapes she’s listened to, it’s not as satisfying as most and doesn’t fill her as thoroughly as even an older statement. She’s always assumed that it’s because it’s more…regurgitated, that it’s empty calories in a way, but with what she knows now, she wonders if it’s just that more of the energy from Gertrude’s tapes goes to Martin. If their family connection makes their connection through the Eye stronger as well.

She banishes the thought ruthlessly from her mind and listens. She’s heard of Wolfgang von Kempelen and his Mechanical Turk, of course. One of her papers in uni was on the history of automata and artificial intelligence, so of course she’s heard of it. At least those details that are known to the general public…

Suddenly, with a jolt, it occurs to her that she knows where this statement is going, where it ends up. At first she thinks it’s the Eye granting her knowledge, but then, suddenly, she remembers a conversation with Gertrude Robinson she had once regarding the papers she’d included in her portfolio when she first applied at the Institute, including the one mentioning the Mechanical Turk, and she remembers a later conversation where Gertrude asked her to come down to the Archives and spent an hour picking her brains for everything she remembered from her research, then handed her a letter and said I thought this might interest you, my dear.

She’d been flattered. Gertrude didn’t call anyone my dear.

The tape clicks off, almost making her leap out of her skin. There’s a beat of silence before Jon says, slowly, “Right.”

“Is that it?” Basira demands.

“It’s unlikely to be identical. The stranger is not known for its…consistency.” Elias stows the recorder away.

“But something like that?” Basira presses. Sasha’s come to know her well over the last few months and she knows Basira likes facts, good solid things she can sink her teeth into. She doesn’t do well with maybes and we-hopes. “We can’t trust what we see.”

Elias nods sagely. “The familiar may seem strange, the strange familiar.”

“One long category error,” Sasha muses.

“Well, isn’t—I mean, that’s what the Stranger wants, isn’t it,” Martin says. It’s not a question. “For us to doubt everything.”

Jon brushes his fingers against Martin’s for the briefest of seconds. Sasha hopes Elias hasn’t seen, but at the same time, what can he do about it at this point? “No one ever said it was going to be easy.”

Which is true. The Primes have never underestimated the danger they’re going to be in. Elias looks pleased. “Brilliant. I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to see. You should have an easier time of it than the others.”

“I doubt that,” Jon says, a bit acerbically.

Elias eyes the four assistants skeptically. “Well, it should, I hope, give you an edge. Otherwise I would never suggest you going yourself.”

You are such a terrible liar, Sasha thinks but doesn’t say. Aloud, she says, “Well, I guess we’ll all find out, won’t we?”

“No,” Elias says. “I understand you will be taking Detective Tonner and Basira with you?”

“We’re going with them,” Daisy growls, and the rewording speaks volumes.

“Quite. Then honestly, Jon, I think you have all you need. Your…assistants should remain here.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters. “No, no, we can help—”

“Too many will attract attention,” Elias says. “And while I know your team have been…acquiring abilities, shall we say, none of them are on your level, and Melanie doesn’t even have that.”

“Melanie was planning to stay behind anyway,” Melanie says with false brightness and gritted teeth.

Elias nods as if this was all his idea. “And of course, Sasha, I would expect you wouldn’t want to risk death or…worse. Especially now.”

At those words, Sasha freezes and her blood runs cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your uncle seems to be settling in well. I’d imagine he’ll do well here, but of course you wouldn’t want him to worry.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “What. Do. You. Mean.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Elias’s smile broadens. “Well. I certainly wouldn’t want to steal his thunder, so to speak. But nevertheless, I should think the last thing you would want to do is worry him, or risk leaving him so soon.”

Sasha hasn’t been planning on staying…but honestly, she’ll be a liability if she goes, she rationalizes, and even if he’s being a smarmy arse about it, Elias isn’t necessarily wrong. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“So the five of us—” Tim begins.

“No,” Jon says firmly. “Elias is right, it’s going to be—I can’t put you all at risk like that. It’s too dangerous.”

“Tough,” Tim says bluntly, his face tight with anger. “We’re not risking you. You don’t want to take all of us, fine, but you’re not going alone. Either Martin goes or I do.”

“I…” Jon looks stuck. Sasha bites the inside of her cheek. So far this has been going exactly according to plan, but she doesn’t think Tim is faking that anger. She files that away to ask him about later.

Martin puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I—I think you’re right, Jon. I’d be more of a—I’ll stay behind. But please take Tim.”

“I’m not sure how much help Tim will be with his hand in a cast,” Elias says with a raised eyebrow.

Jon’s lips thin. “I will take that under advisement.”

“Fine.” Elias appears to give up the fight. Sasha doesn’t trust it. “Now, unless there was anything else…?”

“Not if—no,” Jon says finally.

“Excellent. Well, it’s a three-hour trip up to Great Yarmouth,” Elias tells them. “When do you plan to leave?”

“We think the ritual is going to be Thursday,” Jon answers.

“Perfect. I’ll be in touch with you on Wednesday to confirm the arrangements.” Elias beams. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

It’s a clear dismissal, and they all file out quietly. Rosie watches them in undisguised interest as they pass her desk, but they leave the office and head down the stairs in total silence, Daisy and Basira accompanying them.

The second the door to the Archives closes behind them, Basira asks, “Do you think he bought it?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Martin says, flicking his eyes towards the trapdoor.

Jon nods. “Do, ah—can you two come back later? Say around four?”

“I’m off today,” Daisy growls.

“R-right. Right. We’ll…reconvene then. Go over the plan one last time. Confirm a few last scheduling details. Thank you.” Jon manages a smile, then turns to Tim and Sasha. “In that case, I’m sorry to have delayed you two so long, but you can go ahead and get your lunch.”

Sasha’s a bit startled. She’s honestly lost track of time. “I’m not actually hungry right now, but thanks, Jon. I’ll just keep working. Someone else can go.”

“It’s Monday,” Martin points out. His cerulean eyes are wide with worry—almost fear. “You and Tim always go to lunch on Mondays.”

Sasha’s about to remind him of all the times they didn’t take their lunch together when Tim nods and takes her elbow with his good hand. “That’s right, it is. Feels like it’s been a week this morning. C’mon, Sash, let’s go.”

“O-oh! Sure,” Sasha says, surprised. She grabs her jacket off the back of the chair and follows Tim out the door.

It’s a nice, moderate day, exactly Sasha’s kind of weather. There’s a fish and chips shop just across the nearest footbridge they usually go to on Mondays, and they walk in an unusually charged silence. Sasha waits until they’re settled at the table opposite one another before she says, “You didn’t forget it was Monday.”

“You were going to duck out,” Tim counters.

“I didn’t realize you needed this so much.”

“I don’t necessarily. It’s routine, though. It’s a ritual. That’s important to him.” Tim’s face softens. “When Jon left for Beijing…Martin told me he and his dad had this ritual they used to do the night before he left on a voyage, and the last time his dad left, he fell asleep in the middle of it. And then his dad didn’t come back. I guess he’s a little superstitious, but I’m not going to argue with him. It matters to him. So yeah, if it helps him feel like we’ve done everything we can to make sure this goes off successfully, I’ll go to lunch with my best friend.” He gives her a pretty good impression of his signature cheeky grin. “It’s a sacrifice, but I’ll manage.”

Sasha flicks a fallen bit of batter at him, pinging it off his cheek. “Arse. Well, then, while I’ve got you as a captive audience—what’s wrong?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you, Sash?”

“Yes. I’m keeping my eyes firmly inside my own head and out of yours, so I don’t know what you’re actually thinking. And you’re impossible to read. Also, I don’t think you were altogether acting in Elias’s office.” Sasha points a chip at Tim, then pops it into her mouth. “So. Spill.”

Tim sighs. All traces of false mirth disappear from his face. “Just…can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course,” Sasha says, a bit bewildered.

“Look after them for me, will you?” Tim evidently sees the look of confusion on her face, because he elaborates. “Jon and Martin. Wh—if I don’t come back from this, if I die—”

“I thought the plan wasn’t going to have you anywhere near the actual ritual.”

“The timing on the—we’ll have to talk it over with Daisy, but I think it’s going to be tight. There’s a risk I’ll be bringing the building down on my head,” Tim says. “It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s worth it if it keeps them safe. Just promise me that if it does happen, you’ll look after them for me. I-I’m sure they’ll be fine without me.”

“The hell they will.” Sasha sets her packet of fish and chips down on the table a little harder than necessary. “Tim, I don’t need the Beholder to know how you three are, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. It will devastate them if they lose you. Just like it would devastate you to lose them.”

Tim looks away. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same! They’re not going to let you go in there with a death wish.”

“I don’t want to die, Sasha,” Tim explodes. At least he’s keeping his voice down. “I’m just saying, if I do…please. Just…just make sure they’re okay. Make sure they don’t…break.”

Sasha doesn’t want to, she really doesn’t, but she also knows this is important to Tim, so she nods. “If that happens…I promise I’ll do my best for them.”

Tim relaxes. “Thank you.”

“But,” Sasha stresses, “you have to promise to do your best to live. Especially if, as I strongly suspect, you’re not discussing this with them. Because I swear to God, Timothy Stoker, if you die I will be telling them that we had this talk, and I’m sure you don’t want them furious with you.”

“Duly noted.” Tim grins, but doesn’t meet her eyes.

Sasha is about to push him when her phone rings. A quick glance at the display screen, and she flinches. “Sorry, Tim, this is Uncle Wade. I’ve got to take this.”

“Go ahead.” Tim breaks off a piece of cod and stuffs it in his mouth.

Sasha thumbs the CALL button. “Uncle Wade, hi, I’m so sorry, I was going to call you but—”

“It’s fine, it all worked out.” Wade sounds like he’s barely keeping a lid on his emotions. “I only just got out myself.”

“Of your interview?”

“No, no, that—that was over hours ago. Sasha, I got the job! He hired me on the spot. We did all the onboarding paperwork then and there, and I actually got to start today. I’ve been spending the last couple hours getting set up, learning the ropes, all that sort of thing.” Wade says all of this in an excited rush she hasn’t heard from him since she was thirteen. “Someone just popped in to let me know I could go take a lunch break. I just got so into it I forgot about food. I was hoping you’d be on your lunch break and I could talk to you.”

Sasha smiles, relieved. Her uncle’s adjusting to freedom a lot better than she had feared he would, and it’s good to hear him so much like the man she remembers. “That’s great! What are you going to be doing? Where do you work?”

“You are talking,” Wade says proudly, “to the Executive Director of Information and Operations Technology at the Magnus Institute.”

“So your job title is the E-DIOT?” Sasha teases, and then her mind catches up to the last part of what he’s just said. “The Magnus Institute?”

Tim snorts his drink out of his nose. Wade still sounds delighted. “It surprised me, too. Did you know the Institute doesn’t have a proper tech department? I mean, of course you do, you’ve worked there seven years now. But yes. Mr. Bouchard wrote me last week saying that he knew I was getting ready to be released from prison and that he’d very much like to interview me about the position. He wants me to integrate all the systems in the building, troubleshoot programs and technology, that sort of thing. It’s just me for right now, but once I give him a list of what needs to be done and what resources I’d need to do it, I might have a staff to work with. We’ll see.”

“That’s…that’s wonderful, Uncle Wade.” Sasha can’t bring herself to dampen his enthusiasm by pointing out how terrifying an organization this is.

“I know it’s a bit—I know what you’ve told me about the Institute,” Wade says, as if he’s reading her mind. “But quite honestly, in my position, I can’t afford to be all that choosy about a job. The pay’s good. The pay’s great. He’s offering me way above the industry standard. And to just walk out of prison and walk straight into a high-paying position? In my field?” His voice softens. “Plus, I get to work with you. That’s worth a lot to me.”

“And to me,” Sasha says. She smiles warmly. “So what’s your next step?”

“This afternoon I’m going to start going round the different departments, talk to the heads and staff and whatnot, figure out what they need in terms of tech. What they need as an isolated system, what it would help to have integrated with what other departments.”

“Brilliant! Definitely come by the Archives today. I want you to meet the rest of my family.” Before it’s too late, Sasha adds mentally. “We’ve got a meeting at four, but—”

“Say no more. I’ll be there at three, how’s that?”

“Sounds good. See you then. I love you, Uncle Wade.”

“Love you too, Puddle-Duck.” Wade pauses. “And don’t worry. I won’t call you that in front of your friends.”

Sasha laughs and hangs up.

Tim watches her seriously. “He was interviewing at the Institute? Is that what Elias meant?”

“More than that. He’s already been hired.” Sasha rubs a hand over her face. “Guess that’s as good a reason as any to stay back. At least I won’t be in any danger. Probably.”

“You’ll be fine.” Tim knocks back the last of his drink. “C’mon, finish up and we’ll head back. Loads to do before we save the world.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #death mention #emotional manipulation #gaslighting #slight suicidal ideation #prison mention

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captivesrp · 5 years

Photo

Anwen sits up sleepily, rubbing her eyes. The light of early morning has just begun to creep its way into the small tent that Anwen and Ffrewgí now share.

Why did she wake up so early? Absentmindedly, Anwen scratches a scab on her ankle. The scab brushes off easily, showing smooth, unmarked skin beneath. Anwen blinks at it for a moment. She remembers getting that scratch—she stumbled against something yesterday and scraped her ankle. If that was just yesterday, how is it already better?

A sound from Ffrewgí makes her look up. He is watching her.

Anwen points at her ankle. “Did that …?”

Ffrewgí nods. “I don’t know how, but I can … feel things suddenly. Heartbeats, blood, scratches. And I can do things to them.”

Anwen looks down at her ankle. “You healed it?”

Ffrewgí nods.

“Wow. That’s … amazing!” Anwen’s eyes meet Ffrewgí’s again. He is looking at her curiously.

“Do you feel different at all? Since … the creature. And Alaric.”

“I don’t know,” Anwen replies slowly. “Somehow I feel like everything is different; that I’m … different. But I don’t understand what it is.”

“But you can’t, like, heal anybody?”

Anwen shakes her head. Nothing like Ffrewgí described—being able to feel heartbeats and things like that. An image of Ffrewgí kneeling over Alaric’s body flickers through her mind. “Is that what you used in the … memory? When we brought Alaric back?”

“I think so. It didn’t make sense, then—the whole memory is so mystical. But now I really feel it.”

“I remember, when I found Alaric’s spirit, I could … feel the wind. Like you said you can feel blood or a scratch. I wonder if I can …” Anwen stops speaking as she becomes aware of how still the air is in the small tent. Without even thinking, she knows how to move it, and she does. As the air stirs around her, her awareness expands beyond her sight. Outside the tent, an early morning breeze winds its way through the village. At Anwen’s bidding, it rushes into the tent in a great gust of wind, nearly taking her breath away. A small autumn leaf tumbles in the swirling breeze, landing gently in her hand. Anwen stares at it as the movement around her fades and the air once again becomes still.

Flushed with exhilaration and wonder, Anwen looks up at Ffrewgí. He is staring at her in astonishment. Anwen herself is speechless. In the gentle stillness of the air around her, she can feel the energy, just waiting, like anything is possible.

“So what now?” Ffrewgí’s question fills the silence.

A wild, terrifying hope sets Anwen’s heart beating even faster. “Escape?”

* * *

Anwen’s mind races as quickly as her fingers as they tie the knotwork of the net she is mending. Is escape really possible? It must be. It has to be. The tribe has been getting lax—no one had even noticed Alaric’s presence last night. And now Anwen and Ffrewgí—and maybe the others too—have miraculous new abilities they did not have before.

Without looking up, Anwen senses the wind stirring the tent flaps and curling around the swaying trees. Smiling, she shifts a finger of breeze so it blows her hair back from her face. Only a couple knots left. Someday … someday soon she will be free, and she will sit by the sea and mend her own people’s nets, and make bracelets for her sister.

A desire to once again create and enjoy beautiful things fills her heart. Anwen still remembers the time she and Ffrewgí tried crafting together, and then were told not to. If they can escape, that will be possible again! It has been so long since she made something just because she wanted to make it.

When the repair is finished, Anwen returns the net to its place in the river. Even though she should return to the village, she takes a moment to follow the wind as it curls along the riverbed. Autumn leaves rustle and float slowly to the ground, only to be lifted again, swirling into the air.

Struck by a sudden idea, Anwen creates a swirling breeze, like the one lifting the leaves into the air, only bigger. She steps up onto it—and floats effortlessly above the ground. With a light gust of wind behind her, Anwen glides over the river, landing gently on the far side.

A sound! Someone is there! Anwen whips around to face the intruder, and sees Ffrewgí looking at her with wide eyes.

“So the creature did give you a gift!” Ffrewgí says with wonder in his voice.

Anwen laughs in delight. “This is so incredible!”

“What else can you do?”

“Anything that the wind can do … or that I can imagine the wind doing! It feels like anything is possible.”

The forest around them grows silent. Anwen’s heart beats faster, thoughts of escape again filling her mind. Would Ffrewgí attempt it with her?

A movement in the corner of her vision draws Anwen’s attention—Heulwen is there, too.

As Heulwen steps forward, the ground by her feet begins to rise, lifting a small autumn flower. Heulwen takes the flower, complete with its unharmed root-ball, and hands it to Anwen with a shy smile.

Gently, Anwen takes the flower from Heulwen. “You have a gift too!”

“Ever since I remembered Alaric …”

Anwen smiles and looks over at Ffrewgí. “And now all three of us can do things that we couldn’t do before.”

“Ainsley was also in the memory,” Heulwen adds. “He must’ve got a gift as well!”

“Yes!” Anwen agrees. Then, “I haven’t seen him yet today.”

“We should all meet tonight,” Ffrewgí suggests. “With the others, too.”

“Okay, let’s!” Anwen says eagerly. “I can tell Ainsley and Murchadh.”

“I’ll try to talk to the others, then.”

With a plan to meet in the field as soon as their tasks are done, they go their separate ways.

Anwen finds Ainsley easily enough—he is sitting just outside his tent. Murchadh, though, is nowhere to be found. All day long, Anwen keeps her eyes open, making detours whenever she can. Murchadh is not in his tent. He is not at the archery range. He is not anywhere she would expect to find him. Come to think of it, she did not see him at all yesterday either.

Finally, her work for the day is done, but there is still no sign of Murchadh. She cannot leave to meet the others without him! Swallowing nervously, Anwen walks up to the nearest tribesperson she can find.

“Um, excuse me—do you know where Murchadh is? I’m supposed to do something for him.”

The tribesperson barely looks her direction. “He’s gone. Disappeared last night.”

Anwen stumbles backward. Gone? Murchadh is gone? Blindly, she hurries to join the others.

Anwen is approaching the field when she sees Ffrewgí just ahead of her. At her call, he turns and waits for her.

“You didn��t find Murchadh, did you?” Ffrewgí asks, as if he already knows the answer.

“He’s gone!”

“Ashrille and Wyddryr, too.”

“Do you know anything? Where did they go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they …” Ffrewgí trails off and looks out toward the field. In the distance, Anwen can see two figures waiting—Heulwen and Cydwag. Anwen and Ffrewgí hurry to join them.

After Ainsley arrives, Anwen looks slowly around the group of peers. “I guess that’s all of us that are coming, then.”

“What about the others?” Cydwag asks.

“They’re gone. We couldn’t find them anywhere.”

Cydwag’s eyes widen. “None of you know where they’ve gone?”

Anwen shakes her head and looks around at the others, seeing her confusion and concern reflected in their eyes.

“What should we do?” Ffrewgí asks.

“Try to find out where they’ve gone?” Anwen suggests.

“How?” Cydwag asks. “And if they didn’t tell any of us, then …”

Silence falls over the group. Anwen looks over at Ffrewgí. “Do you think the creature is behind this somehow? It’s behind everything else that’s been happening.”

“But we all think—we all know that the creature is good,” Ffrewgí replies. “Why would it take Murchadh and the others away? Do you think that …”

“But they wouldn't—” Anwen swallows, “Murchadh wouldn’t just leave us. There has to be some explanation.” As much as she tries, Anwen cannot ignore the gnawing dread creeping over her. Murchadh said he would be there to help her … but her father said he would be home in two days, and he never came back.

“They all took the pact.” Cydwag’s voice cuts through Anwen’s thoughts. “We have to imagine, wherever they’ve gone, it was their choice. Right?”

“Sometimes things happen that leave you no choice.” Anwen can feel her face getting hot. “And sometimes we do have a choice. Like right now. And we probably don’t have long, so we should figure out what we’re going to do.”

It is too late. Anwen’s mind is caught back into the chaos and confusion surrounding her father’s disappearance.

He is not coming back.

Anwen winces. In her mind she sees the well-meaning villagers of Chwythu shaking their heads, telling her to just give up.

He is not coming back.

What if Murchadh never comes back? Anwen fights back her fears and memories, only to see expressions of confusion and defensiveness on the faces of her peers. They do not understand. They do not know anything about Anwen’s father, or why this matters so much to her. Why should they even care? Anwen stares at the ground. “Sorry,” she whispers without looking up. The weight of grief and isolation presses down on her again. If only Alaric was here. He would understand.

Cydwag breaks the silence. “Murchadh and the others are gone. We don’t know where. We can wait for them to come back, or …” She looks around. “It feels like something big is about to happen here. I know I’m not … I don’t have a gift like the rest of you. But I’ll help you however I can.”

Anwen feels a hand slip into hers, and Heulwen says quietly, “We can do something. Together.”

Gratefulness floods over Anwen and she squeezes Heulwen’s hand in return.

“I think Murchadh would want us to act,” Ffrewgí says simply. Anwen agrees. They need to do something. But what?

“So, what can you all do?” Cydwag asks.

Anwen looks at Ainsley with interest—his is the only gift that she has not witnessed yet.

Ainsley looks down at the ground. “I can make things appear,” he says timidly. Out of nowhere, a bear appears and plods a slow circle around Ainsley. As it fades away, Ainsley sits down.

“What … what are you sitting on?” Ffrewgí stammers.

Ainsley looks down. There is a span or more of empty air between him and the ground. “You can’t see it?”

“See what?” Ffrewgí asks. “You’re sitting on nothing.”

“Or something only you can see,” Anwen says thoughtfully. It would not be the first thing that only Ainsley could see.

“Weird …” Ainsley mutters.

That moment, a loud noise erupts from the direction of the village. The children exchange worried glances.

“We’ve been out here too long,” Cydwag says. “What’s our plan?”

Anwen takes a quick breath. “Escape? Tonight?”

“Now?” Ffrewgí asks.

Anwen looks back toward the village. What was that noise? Has their absence been discovered? Movement in the darkness sparks her fears. “Now works for me,” she agrees, glancing over at Ainsley. There is a look of grim determination in his eyes.

“I’ll trust you. Let’s move!” Cydwag says urgently, her eyes fixed in the direction of the village.

Heart pounding, Anwen hurries with the others toward the far side of the field. Before they reach the shelter of the trees, they hear a loud shouting behind them. Looking back, Anwen sees a large Gwaedwn woman running toward them, gaining quickly.

“Run!” Cydwag cries. “Run!”

Fear freezes Anwen’s blood. They can’t outrun Máerl. They need more time. They need—the wind!

In an instant, Anwen creates a great wind, a gale as strong as a storm at sea, blowing directly in the face of their pursuer. Máerl bows her head against the force of the wind, taking one slow step forward, and then another. “Come on!” Anwen gestures to the others. Now is their chance to get a head start, before the wind dies away. As she starts to run, Anwen sees that Ffrewgí stands motionless, an expression of terror on his face. She grabs his hand and pulls him along after her. Soon they are among the trees on the far side of the field.

Ahead of her, Anwen sees Ainsley, Cydwag, and Heulwen pausing in the trees. “I’ll make a decoy trail,” Ainsley is saying. A track of broken twigs and trampled leaves appears, marking a clear path through the trees.

Heulwen nods and points a different direction. “Everyone go this way! I’ll take care of our tracks!”

Anwen and Ffrewgí adjust their course, following Ainsley. Her heart hammering in her chest, Anwen follows close behind Ffrewgí, ducking to avoid low-hanging branches, dodging around gnarled roots and thorny brambles. Anwen runs until her lungs scream for air. She can hear Ainsley’s laboured breathing close behind her.

Just as her legs start to collapse, Anwen collides with Ffrewgí, who has stopped by a great tree. He pushes aside the fallen leaves piled around its roots, revealing a dark opening—some kind of hollow space beneath the tree. “In here!”

Ffrewgí, Anwen, and Ainsley scramble inside, huddling in the damp, cobweb-laced darkness. Moments later they are joined by Cydwag and Heulwen. The children squeeze together in the tight confines of their hiding place, trembling, breaths coming in sharp gasps.

Shouts and faint sounds of breaking branches resound in the distance. The children hardly dare to breathe.

Outside the burrow, the light of evening has nearly disappeared. If only they can remain undetected until full dark—maybe the tribe will give up searching then.

Suddenly Ffrewgí stiffens. “Someone’s coming!”

Anwen can feel panic rising. Are they trapped?

Heulwen leans forward. “I can—”

Anwen stifles a gasp as an obstruction appears over the entrance to their hiding place, sealing them in complete darkness.

Just in time. Voices—just outside—two or three Gwaedwn tribespeople, talking in voices too low for Anwen to catch any words. The children wait in terrified silence for what seems an unendurably long time. Will they be discovered? What will happen to them?

Finally, Anwen feels Ffrewgí relax beside her. “They’re gone.”

No one moves. Their pursuers may be gone, but how far? How can they know when it is truly safe to come out?

After a time, the fugitives begin to stir. One by one, they crawl out, and are met with a pitch dark night. No light of star or moon filters down through the trees above them.

A glint of red light flickers in the distance. Anwen’s heart sinks. The tribe has not given up their search—they are continuing with torches. Through the trees the children can see the light of another torch. And another.

“We need to get out of here,” Cydwag whispers.

Cautiously, the children creep forward. The flickering light glances off a tree trunk, then a branch—just enough to show their way. The torchlight gets closer and clearer—then farther away. The fitful gleams fade, and Anwen finds herself staring into complete blackness.

“This way.” Heulwen’s gesture is felt by Anwen, rather than seen. Heulwen is right. The air moves freely that direction, with nothing obstructing it. If Heulwen can feel the earth in the same way Anwen can feel the air, together they should be able to find a way through the forest.

Cautiously, Anwen and Heulwen move forward, unable to see the ground at their feet, or their own hand in front of their face. Anwen tries to pay attention to how the air around her is moving, and what it might mean. Like that disturbance in the air in front of her, she’s felt something like that before … “Careful—there’s a low branch just ahead.” Anwen reaches out her hand, and touches the branch.

“There are some rocks here.” Heulwen’s voice comes from beside Anwen.

Anwen steps carefully—just in time to avoid striking her foot.

Hand in hand, Anwen and Heulwen carefully lead the way. Anwen feels someone take her other hand, and she grasps it in return. They need to stay together—it would be so easy for someone to get lost in the darkness.

Step by hesitant step, the children go on, led by the air and the earth. As their confidence grows, they move faster. In a strange way, Anwen feels like she can see, even without her eyes. Still, she is glad when dawn arrives. Cold and tired, the children stumble on in silence, determined to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their captors. It is only when they are nearly collapsing from exhaustion that they finally find a place to rest.

Huddled in the rotting core of a hollow tree, Anwen curls up and closes her eyes. Weariness aches through her entire body, but that does not prevent a feeling of elation from sweeping over her, even as sleep overwhelms her. They did it—Anwen, and Heulwen, and Ffrewgí, and Ainsley, and Cydwag—dirty and exhausted, huddled together to keep warm . . . and free. They are free.

If only Alaric could know. He would be so glad.

#anwen #chapter twelve

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