Random crows :)

Repost from my old OM blog because I really liked this and didn't want it trapped in an ask forever.

Notes: Angst, kind of comfort at the end (or more like, Satan's learned to find a little comfort on his own). Dola (she/her in this) is in this one so canon x oc; NOT gn!MC. Spoilers I guess for Satan's origin but we all know that at this point. Written before Nightbringer was released.

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The brothers and the human are all gathered at Diavolo's private beach, the one he'd lit with an artificial sun, making it one of the only few places in the Devildom with a true daytime. It's a trip they'd all been promised, to celebrate the end of a difficult semester. It's a well-deserved break, though whether it was a reward or actually a bribe to ensure they all ended with good standing and without issue, Dola wasn't sure.

Not that it mattered to any of them. All they cared about was the fact that they were there, away from the city and away from their responsibilities as Lords of Hell--even if it was only for a week.

The first night they’re there, the six youngest of the seven are out on the shore, excitedly pointing at the night sky. The stars are different tonight; it seems that the constellations aren’t of the Devildom’s but of the human world’s, and the brothers—the twins especially—happily show off their surprisingly extensive knowledge of the art in the cosmos.

Dola hears names she hadn’t heard them mention before—Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel, and more. It wasn’t hard to guess that they were the names of angels they knew in the Celestial Realm, some having taught them all about the stories behind each little drawing in the sky. Lucifer confirms as much when he appears next to her, watching his brothers fondly. There was a twinge of something she couldn’t quite place in his expression, but knowing his history with the Celestial Realm, she decides to stay quiet. The others may still be able to reminisce fondly of their days as angels, but Lucifer had his reasons for not sharing the same feelings, and the lack of a third pair of wings when she’d heard he originally had six was proof of that.

She looks to the others again and sees that whatever excitement Satan had earlier had faded, replaced with what was clearly a mask portraying mild interest as he listens to his brothers. Dola watches him, concerned, when Lucifer speaks up again.

‘Satan must be bored,’ he muses. His tone is thoughtful, void of amusement. ‘He’s learned everything there is to learn about your realm’s stars from his books. My brothers rehashing everything from what they learned as fledglings must be tedious to have to listen to.’

Dola looks up at him, confused, before turning her attention back to the others. Lucifer's gaze lingers on the fourth oldest, but Dola doesn't notice.

‘I suppose so,’ she agrees. The longer she watches, the longer Satan is there listening to his brothers, the more it felt to Dola that perhaps he no longer wanted to be there. She takes out her DDD and sends him a text, offering whatever she could that sounded interesting to bail him out of there.

In the distance, Satan's face lights up when he sees that he’d gotten a text from her. Without making his eagerness to leave too obvious, he excuses himself and returns to Dola—but not without raising a suspicious brow at Lucifer as they enter their rented home. Lucifer just watches them go, sighing in relief.

Dola doesn’t think much of what Lucifer said or of Satan’s sudden disinterest in his brothers’ excitement, though both things did tell her that something was off—normally Satan would’ve taken the chance to teach his brothers what he knew, wouldn’t he? And between all six of them, only Belphie could really match his knowledge when it came to the stars… But even then, he’d still contribute. In bed she asks him if he was okay and as expected, he says he’s fine.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, I just thought you seemed a little off earlier. I must’ve overthought it.’

Satan smiles at her, but it was only half as genuine as he’d liked. He reassures her that he’s alright, just tired from the day. Dola doesn’t quite buy it, but lets it slide, thinking it either truly was nothing or that he simply wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. She kisses him goodnight and holds him a little tighter tonight before drifting off to sleep.

But somehow she wakes up alone in bed. It’s ten past midnight and Satan wasn’t anywhere in the room. She figures he left for the bathroom when something outside catches her eye. From the window she sees a familiar figure sitting alone on the shore, looking up at the sky. Dola presses a hand to the glass and watches him for a few moments more. How did he manage to leave without waking her up? How long has he been there?

Those questions can be asked later, she thinks. She quickly gets up and pulls on a jacket—one of his that he’d brought knowing that the Devildom seaside would be uncomfortable cold for her—before quietly making her way past the others’ bedrooms, down the stairs, and out the door. She approaches him, purposely making enough noise to let him know she’s near. He doesn’t turn around.

‘Satan?’ she calls out to him. Despite the silence, she takes a seat next to him. She brushes her hand against his, the weight of the worry in her chest lifting ever so slightly when he intertwined their fingers. The crashing of the waves onto the shore was the only thing filling the silence. She draws little patterns on the back of his hand with her thumb.

Minutes pass without a single word exchanged before he spoke up.

‘What did Lucifer tell you earlier?’ he asks. He turns at her, expectant.

‘All he told me was that you must be bored listening to your brothers talk about the human world’s stars,’ she answers. She meets his eyes and see the beginnings of a fire calming down.

‘I see…’

She gives his hand a light squeeze. What did he assume he told her? ‘Satan, my love, what’s wrong?’

He blinks—hesitant, unsure. But takes a deep breath before facing the sea.

‘My brothers,’ he began, sighing. ‘They were all angels. Each one of them spent eons with each other and other angels in the Celestial Realm where it’s eternally day.

Some angels who’d been to the human world caught sight of what the night looked like, but they couldn’t stay to admire the dark beauty of it. Angels weren’t allowed to linger for long up there which only fueled their curiosity… Especially their curiosity of the twinkling, distant stars in the night sky.’

Satan’s brow furrows as he speaks, his gaze now down to the sand between his feet. ‘So Michael, the Archangel, once Lucifer’s closest companion among the Seraph, had a planetarium built near the palace. It bore the same constellations as your world, and Michael himself taught every curious angel what each star was and what each constellation meant. He taught my brothers everything they knew about your sky.’ He pauses to turn to Dola, who’d been watching him as he spoke. He’d been trying to remain composed but his eyes betrayed him—she sees hints of longing, of frustration that he’s fighting to push back.

Finally, it clicks. And it makes her heart ache.

‘I only know all this because my brothers have told me about it,’ Satan explains. He takes a brief, deep breath. ‘I was a part of Lucifer even during his time as an angel, yet I can only remember mere fragments of that part of my existence. Nothing clear enough to make heads or tails of, not even enough to know what Michael’s lessons were like, or even what my own brothers were like.

It’s like I was never there,’ he said, his eyes swirling with emotion. ‘Like only Lucifer existed despite me knowing that I was seeing the world through his eyes.’ He lets go of Dola’s hand to dig his fingers into the sand, his frustration finally reaching the surface. She gently calls his name as she begins to rub circles on his back, calming him down enough for him to take in a few deep breaths. Satan reaches for her once most of the tension left his body, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. Her warmth comforted him, and reminded him that there was someone he could confide in—despite his earlier frustration, just having been able to finally tell someone all this and listen made his heart feel even just a little bit lighter.

Dola rests her head on his shoulder, her arm naturally snaking around his waist. It’s only when his breathing had fully calmed that she spoke again.

‘Do you wish you could remember everything?’ she gently asked, lifting her head up to look at him. ‘That his memories that stayed with you were clearer?’

‘Despite everything, no,’ he answered. ‘The earliest memory I can vividly recall was my creation, and to me that establishes the biggest difference between me and Lucifer.

That while he was once the most beloved of angels, I have only been a demon.’

Good Omens Fic Rec List 17

Time for another edition of fics, from authors that haven’t yet been featured. As always, E-rated fics are Top Crowley. Enjoy!

1. The marriage of true minds by @hasturswig Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/34968889 Rating:  T Word Count:  12,177 (2/2 chapters, complete)

Aziraphale has his memories stolen by Gabriel. Surprisingly, he does remember Crowley, although he appears to be under the impression that they're married. When they're really not. The last thing Crowley wants to do is crush the angel's feelings with the truth, but it's difficult when the object of his affections is being so, well, affectionate. A soft and tender fic, with a conscientious Crowley and an adorable Aziraphale.

2. Ravishing by @somethingscarlet13 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031827 Rating:  E Word Count:  1,949 (one-shot)

Features the pre-show Ineffables. Crowley and Aziraphale are drunk and bored one day, so they come up with a brilliant new game:  Aziraphale dares Crowley to seduce him, and the loser has to pay for the Ritz for an entire year. But are there really any losers here? A fun and sexy romp.

3. Heaven is the Backseat of My Bentley by @siblet-spliber and @supergeek21 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/33899707 Rating:  E Word Count:  3,066 (one-shot)

Includes nsfw-ish fanart. Crowley has a carefully made scheme for the perfect proposal involving a picnic with his angel's favorite foods, when a rainstorm threatens to ruin it all. When they take cover in the Bentley, however, they make the most of the situation to indulge in a little lovemaking. Featuring Aziraphale showing his curves thanks to a wet shirt, sex in delightfully close quarters, and the ring, adding up to a perfect proposal after all.

4. Duress by sabinelagrande Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995847 Rating:  E Word Count:  6,395 (one-shot)

Hell launches a minor invasion of Earth, so Crowley kidnaps Aziraphale in order to save him from any truly nasty demons who might want to get their hands on him. As Crowley goes through the motions of pretending to be his master (all the while planning their escape from Hell), Aziraphale comes to the intriguing realization that he might not actually mind if Crowley really did take him off to some corner to ravish him. Centuries later, on their own side at last, they come up with a scenario to fulfill Aziraphale's fantasy of being overpowered by big, bad demon Crowley. Sexytimes!

5. Taking Care by Anon Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/31969666 Rating:  E Word Count:  1,821 (one-shot)

Some excellent smut with no other plot than Crowley becoming increasingly aroused by the sight of Aziraphale in his fancy duds at tedious dinner party. By the time Aziraphale goes around saying his good-byes and Crowley is able to drag him away, Crowley finds he's too turned on to drive them home. Another fine addition to the 'fucking in the Bentley' category.

6. Fly Me To The Moon by anaeifly and Augenblickgotter Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527020 Rating:  E Word Count:  970 (one-shot)

Includes nsfw fanart. Crowley gives Aziraphale a massage to help him relax. Which leads Crowley to think of other pleasant activities in which to indulge, which leads to him grooming Aziraphale's wings, and those wings turn out to be sensitive in a very particular way. Sweet lovemaking ensues.

7. All things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light by IneffableDemon Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/29155143 Rating:  E Word Count:  3,181 (one-shot)

Crowley has been assigned by Hell to become one of Leonardo da Vinci's students, but he's bored out of his skull. Art, it seems, is not for him. Things take a much more interesting turn when da Vinci requires him to start working on drawings of the human form and his model is none other than Aziraphale. In the nude. Soon Crowley is tempted to do more than just draw. Comes with nsfw fanart by Mulawasa.

8. Thrones of Pleasure by Ineffability_In_Eden Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146278 Rating:  E Word Count:  1,692 (one-shot)

A nervous Aziraphale announces he wants to try something new, to go to a sex club and show everyone how much he loves his demon. Crowley is perfectly happy to indulge him, showing him around the place and coaxing Aziraphale into deciding just what activities he would like to do. Features a blindfold, a not-so-private room with a surprisingly familiar throne, and a dominant demon who loves giving Aziraphale exactly what he wants.

tell me. about your satan brainrot. i wish to hear of it. "how do people get the courage to post smut of their oc x canon" becAUSE CRINGE IS DEAD AND OC SHIPPING IS SEXY!!! show it to me!! i want to see!

uwu for real i've just been ultra hype for satan and i'd be happy to hear abt your ships with him~ tell me. all the dynamics. sfw or nsfw, either is fine. if you want to ofc <3

If cringe is dead then why do I feel like dying when I post my writing >.< (/hj I know it’s just a matter of like… getting used to it…)

Talking about those two specifically aaaaaa gosh… I have this ask from Gray where I put down a bunch of headcanons for them, both sfw and nsfw! And anything I reblog/post that’s about them or makes me think of them gets tagged with #flos ira (<- was too shy to just straight up use dolasatan so I made a tag for it in what’s likely grammatically incorrect Latin)

Whenever I write them alone they’re usually pretty playful with each other if they’re not working on anything? And for some reason I just decided that the littlest things can get them going… Like Satan watching Dola put on some lip balm before bed a little too closely >.> Might post that thing if I ever get to editing it, but idk… I’m awful at writing out smut >.>

Lately the DolaSatan brainrot’s been about both the sfw and nsfw parts of like… Learning how to be in a relationship? Like how they navigate dealing with Satan’s anger, or how Dola learns to let herself be vulnerable around him. This morning I was thinking about Dola getting her first glimpse at Satan’s feelings regarding having never been an angel—like she knew that he was born the same day Lilith died, but it never truly clicked that that meant that Satan’s only been a demon, and didn’t have the same history the rest of the brothers did with each other. (This was definitely spurred on by Erin’s angel wings post like sdgfsdjhsgdjf oh my god less than 10 minutes after waking up I was crying in bed I—)

The scene in my head was this: the demon brothers + Dola are all at Diavolo’s private beach. Is it the same as the first beach event? Who knows. But the first night they’re there, the six youngest of the seven are out on the shore, excitedly pointing at the night sky. The stars are different tonight; it seems that the constellations aren’t of the Devildom’s but of the human world’s, and the brothers—the twins especially—happily show off their surprisingly extensive knowledge of the art in the cosmos.

Dola hears names she hadn’t heard them mention before—Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel, and more. It wasn’t hard to guess that they were the names of angels they knew in the Celestial Realm, some having taught them all about the stories behind each little drawing in the sky. Lucifer confirms as much when he appears next to her, watching his brothers fondly. There was a twinge of something she couldn’t quite place in his expression, but knowing his history with the Celestial Realm, she decides to stay quiet. The others may still be able to reminisce fondly of their days as angels, but Lucifer had his reasons for not sharing the same feelings, and the lack of a third pair of wings when she’d heard he originally had six was proof of that.

She looks to the others again and sees that whatever excitement Satan had earlier had faded, replaced with what was clearly a mask portraying mild interest as he listens to his brothers. Dola watches him, concerned, when Lucifer speaks up again.

‘Satan must be bored,’ he muses. ‘He’s learned everything there is to learn about your realm’s stars from his books. My brothers rehashing everything from what they learned as fledglings must be tedious to have to listen to.’

Dola looks up at him, confused. ‘I suppose so,’ she agrees. Why wouldn’t she when it was clear on his face that he’d rather not be there anymore? So she takes out her DDD and sends him a text, offering whatever she could that sounded interesting to bail him out of there.

His face lights up when he sees that he’d gotten a text from her. Without making his eagerness to leave too obvious, he excuses himself and returns to Dola—but not without raising a suspicious brow at Lucifer as they enter their rented home. Lucifer just watches them go, sighing in relief.

Dola doesn’t think much of what Lucifer said or of Satan’s sudden disinterest in his brothers’ excitement, though both things did tell her that something was off—normally Satan would’ve taken the chance to teach his brothers what he knew, wouldn’t he? And between all six of them, only Belphie could really match his knowledge when it came to the stars… But even then, he’d still contribute. In bed she asks him if he was okay and as expected, he says he’s fine.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, I just thought you seemed a little off earlier. I must’ve overthought it.’

Satan smiles at her, but it was only half as genuine as he’d liked. He reassures her that he’s alright, just tired from the day. Dola doesn’t quite buy it, but lets it slide, thinking it either truly was nothing or that he simply wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. She kisses him goodnight and holds him a little tighter tonight before drifting off to sleep.

But somehow she wakes up alone in bed. It’s ten past midnight and Satan wasn’t anywhere in the room. She figures he left for the bathroom when something outside catches her eye. From the window she sees a familiar figure sitting alone on the shore, looking up at the sky. Dola presses a hand to the glass and watches him for a few moments more. How did he manage to leave without waking her up? How long has he been there?

Those questions can be asked later, she thought. She quickly gets up and pulls on a jacket—one of his that he’d brought knowing that the Devildom seaside would be uncomfortable cold for her—before quietly making her way past the others’ bedrooms, down the stairs, and out the door. She approaches him, purposely making enough noise to let him know she’s near. He doesn’t turn around.

‘Satan?’ she calls out to him. Despite the silence, she takes a seat next to him. She brushes her hand against his, the weight of the worry in her chest lifting ever so slightly when he intertwined their fingers. The crashing of the waves onto the shore was the only thing filling the silence. She draws little patterns on the back of his hand with her thumb.

Minutes pass without a single word exchanged before he spoke up.

‘What did Lucifer tell you earlier?’ he asks. He turns at her, expectant.

‘All he told me was that you must be bored listening to your brothers talk about the human world’s stars,’ she answers. She meets his eyes and see the beginnings of a fire calming down.

‘I see…’

She gives his hand a light squeeze. What did he assume he told her? ‘Satan, my love, what’s wrong?’

He blinks—hesitant, unsure. But takes a deep breath before facing the sea.

‘My brothers,’ he began, sighing. ‘They were all angels. Each one of them spent eons with each other and other angels in the Celestial Realm where it’s eternally day.

Some angels who’d been to the human world caught sight of what the night looked like, but they couldn’t stay to admire the dark beauty of it. Angels weren’t allowed to linger for long up there which only fueled their curiosity… Especially their curiosity of the twinkling, distant stars in the night sky.’

Satan’s brow furrows as he speaks, his gaze now down to the sand between his feet. ‘So Michael, the Archangel, once Lucifer’s closest companion among the Seraph, had a planetarium built near the palace. It bore the same constellations as your world, and Michael himself taught every curious angel what each star was and what each constellation meant. He taught my brothers everything they knew about your sky.’ He pauses to turn to Dola, who’d been watching him as he spoke. He’d been trying to remain composed but his eyes betrayed him—she sees hints of longing, of frustration that he’s fighting to push back.

Finally, it clicks. And it makes her heart ache.

‘I only know all this because my brothers have told me about it,’ Satan explains. He takes a brief, deep breath. ‘I was a part of Lucifer even during his time as an angel, yet I can only remember mere fragments of that part of my existence. Nothing clear enough to make heads or tails of, not even enough to know what Michael’s lessons were like, or even what my own brothers were like.

It’s like I was never there,’ he said, his eyes swirling with emotion. ‘Like only Lucifer existed despite me knowing that I was seeing the world through his eyes.’ He lets go of Dola’s hand to dig his fingers into the sand, his frustration finally reaching the surface. She gently calls his name as she begins to rub circles on his back, calming him down enough for him to take in a few deep breaths. Satan reaches for her once most of the tension left his body, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. Her warmth comforted him, and reminded him that there was someone he could confide in—despite his earlier frustration, just having been able to finally tell someone all this and listen made his heart feel even just a little bit lighter.

Dola rests her head on his shoulder, her arm naturally snaking around his waist. It’s only when his breathing had fully calmed that she spoke again.

‘Do you wish you could remember everything?’ she gently asked, lifting her head up to look at him. ‘That his memories that stayed with you were clearer?’

‘Despite everything, no,’ he answered. ‘The earliest memory I can vividly recall was my creation, and to me that establishes the biggest difference between me and Lucifer.

That while he was once the most beloved of angels, I have only been a demon.’

[fic] An Interlude Between Friends

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Holly Short, Artemis Fowl II, Foaly Warnings: Feels, probably. Mentions of past (major) character death Summary: One cursory glance from the report scrolling across her visor screen and she’d already caught on that this was less a scouting mission and more Friendly Intervention, A.K.A. Maybe Get Whatever’s Gnawing At You Off Your Mind With A Friend. Or, in which Holly Short comes to terms with the changes in her life but remains grateful for the little constants—one being her friendship with a certain Artemis Fowl.

A/N: For indefiniteimpala, as part of the AF Yuletide Exchange 2019. Happy holidays! I had a lot of fun writing about Holly and Arty again and hope you'll enjoy this story :) This fic is set post-TLG, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins as I started drafting ideas before the new book was released (so no spoilers for TFT). Many thanks to Digi-bro for the last-minute beta work ♥

Fic can also be read on AO3 _______

She could hardly hold back her laughter as he recounted the incident where, out of his love for his darling mother and against his better judgement, he had offered and participated, several weeks ago, in an amateur bake-off organized by Angeline Fowl and her colleagues as part of the Trinity College fundraising event for Dublin’s homeless.

Needless to say, it had been Artemis Fowl the Second’s most excruciatingly embarrassing attempt (and subsequent failure) at making cherry soufflé. “Couldn’t you have gone with the chocolate cake instead?” Holly grinned, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “First of all, it’s not simply a chocolate cake,” Artemis said, brows creased as though offended by such blasé abasement of a world-renowned delicacy. “Sachertorte is a Viennese speciality, with an illustrious history as the centrepiece of a long-simmering feud between Hotel Sacher and Café Demel that spanned two whole centuries. And second, despite the clean simplicity of its look and flavour, it is far more tedious to bake than your classic soufflé.” Holly groaned, her grin quickly morphing into a wince. “Spare me the sordid details, Arty. Does it matter anyway? You make working the kitchens seem like an extreme sport, exploding sandwiches and all.”

This time it was Artemis’s turn to grimace, her words hearkening back to yet another old, embarrassing memory. Still, he had the grace to accept the jibe, conceding defeat. “Touché.” They sat, side by side, in the shade of a towering oak overlooking the remnants of the Martello tower and where the old Berserker Gate once stood. Clusters of orange roses bobbed between blades of green, the summer breeze a gentle ripple through the meadows. Holly closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun over her skin and the scent of the fairy roses wafting all around them. As much as she loved her home and friends back in the Lower Elements, there was always a bone-achingly deep sense of yearning that she shared with all fairies for the world above. She would always miss the unbridled joy and freedom she’d bask in whenever she soared through the endless skies, taking in the view of the lands before her, watching the sun slowly inch its way back into its woodland nest of aspen and silver birches that lined the horizon while the skies rippled from shades of burnished gold and vermilion into a deep, velvet indigo canvas where the stars would flicker, one by one, a scattering of candlelight in the night. The two friends—human and fairy—had taken to spending what little time they had together like this, whenever Artemis wasn’t traipsing halfway across the globe for weeks on end as a guest speaker for various academic conferences, or whenever Holly could spare a few days or hours off, depending on her schedule and on Commander Kelp’s fluctuating moods. Or in this case, depending on a certain centaur’s propensity for sticking his nose into other people’s business. Holly frowned. Truth be told, ever since she’d finally (albeit with a little half-hearted reluctance) accepted her promotion to Wing Commander of Recon Special Ops, she had, quite surprisingly, been in a dour mood, short on patience, and even sharper with her tongue. Foaly was used to her smart comebacks, of course, and usually he enjoyed trading witty jibes with the elf. But even he had found her words to be a touch more churlish than usual. And that was saying a lot coming from the centaur, whose hide was as thick as it gets. Holly knew Foaly was concerned, as any decent friend would be, and had tried to nudge her into talking about whatever it was bothering her, to no avail. What she didn’t realize was how far he’d been willing to go to get her to talk—if not to him, then at least to someone, even if that someone was a young Irishman waiting leagues above Haven. “‘Sightings of the extra-terrestrial inhuman kind’? I can’t believe you of all people would pull a stunt like this behind Trouble’s back,” Holly had muttered when she arrived at E1, easing her pod into the docking station. One cursory glance from the report scrolling across her visor screen and she’d already caught on that this was less a scouting mission and more Friendly Intervention, A.K.A. Maybe Get Whatever’s Gnawing At You Off Your Mind With A Friend. “I didn’t go behind the Commander’s back,” Foaly’s protest crackled over her comm speakers. “He agreed that you needed a time-out. But with your promotion to Wing Commander, and as a friend, he didn’t want to impose a forced leave upon you. I just convinced him that a tiny bluff was probably easier and way more efficient.” Holly only snorted, a flare of irritation rising from her gut. She held her tongue, however, not trusting herself from vocalizing a scathing remark. As if he had sensed her indignation through the static, Foaly gave an apologetic cough and said, “Listen Holly, I’m worried about you, all right? This probably isn’t the best way and I’m sorry for the bluff. But whatever’s been bothering you... You can’t keep it bottled up like this. Besides, it’s been a while since you two met. So, try to make the most of it, yeah?” The centaur gave a short, breathy chuckle, to lighten the mood. “Even newly minted Commanders need to gambol about in strawberry fields sometimes. I heard that in a Mud Man song once—or maybe it was by that gnome and dwarf act, Dung Beetles? Huh, I’m always mixing up the two.” And so here she was, sitting beside Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and now friend of the People, listening and laughing together with the young man as he recounted stories of his latest misadventures of the non-magical kind and with hardly any actual thievery involved. Holly hated to admit it, but even a few moments spent with Artemis like this, away from the cacophony of city life in Haven, from the growing weight of all these new responsibilities, expectations—fears, uncertainties, disappointments —it was strangely comforting. She found some solace in his company and was grateful for it, but... She sighed, hunching forward. Despite her best attempts, she couldn’t stave off her earlier sullen mood from creeping through the brief respite. The sudden shift of moods between them hardly went unnoticed by Artemis, of course. She was all too familiar with how attuned he was to the slight changes in her body language. “Something on your mind, Commander?” Artemis ventured, his voice still light with teasing. Holly flinched visibly at his use of her newly conferred title as though he’d thrown a stifling cloak over her. An uncomfortable knot twisted in her gut. “This feels wrong,” she said abruptly, feeling the pinpricks of unshed tears sting the corners of her eyes. Artemis turned towards her, a flicker of puzzlement and concern crossing his features. Still, there was something in his gaze that suggested he was already making a calculated guess about the nature of her sudden distress. But he only leaned closer, nudging his shoulder gently against hers, even as Holly kept her arms wrapped around her chest as if to shield herself from opening up. From giving voice to the dull ache of grief and loss—fears, expectations, disappointments—she had carefully kept tucked away in the background amidst all the congratulatory wishes she’d received when her promotion had been officially announced internally to the rest of LEP. “What feels wrong?” Artemis asked. He paused, uncertain at first if she’d allow the contact, then gingerly reached for her right hand with his left to lace their fingers together. “All of it,” Holly sighed in frustration. She unconsciously tightened her grip around his fingers. The warmth of his touch was consoling and seemed to soothe something within her; she felt her vulnerabilities gradually surfacing as she spoke. “I know what this promotion means to the People, and it’s an achievement to know that I’ve worked through so many hardships just to come this far. I know it, I really do! But even so... There’s a part of me that almost can’t do it. It feels almost wrong to be a new Commander. To be standing where Julius and Vinyáya once did. To replace Julius.” “Technically, it’s less a replacement since you’re assuming command of a number of squadrons and thus continue to serve the People with your skills and experience,” Artemis began, before he caught himself. “But I digress. This isn’t the time for semantics. Especially since in hindsight, you had very obviously meant it in spirit.” Holly scowled, but she couldn’t stop a tiny smile from ghosting her lips. “Artemis, you’re my best friend and I love you, but you’re incorrigibly bad at cheering people up sometimes.” “That I am, and for that, my sincerest apologies.” Here, the young man attempted a contrite grin, even as his blue eyes softened with a touch of fondness. A rare sight indeed for Artemis Fowl, reserved wholly for those dearest to him, but one that never failed to draw a soft chuckle from the elf. “Look, Holly. You’re not replacing Julius,” Artemis continued, squeezing Holly’s fingers again in reassurance. “No one can replace Julius, much like no one can replace you. And I’m not going to drown you with platitudes—I’m sure you’ve already heard more than enough in the last couple of days. But I will say this: Julius would be immensely proud of you, as much as any of us here today. You know this, and I daresay there isn’t anyone else as qualified as you to carry on his legacy and all that he stood for.” Holly found herself matching his grin with a smile of her own at his words, the dull ache of sorrow and anxiety within her lessening. She squeezed Artemis’s fingers back, and was reminded again how much she appreciated their continued companionship over the years. And not for the first time in many years, she wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t known him, and Butler and Juliet. (She imagined it might have been quieter, simpler no doubt, but she was a maverick adventurer at heart and knew the boring life wouldn’t suit her anyway.) Holly chuckled softly, her mismatched eyes—one hazel, one blue—gleaming with warmth now. “Maybe you aren’t too bad at this cheering up business.” This time, it was Artemis’s turn to laugh. He inclined his head and gave her a polite nod, accepting the compliment with as much humility as his natural inclination towards smug victory would allow. “I learned from the best.” “My word, and flattery now too?” Holly was smirking now. “If I didn’t know any better, I might suspect the mastermind Artemis Fowl has been replaced with a clone. Oh right, that had been your own idea too. What do we call you now, Artemis Fowl the Second Version 2.0? Artemis Fowl Squared?” A somewhat pained and mortified expression crossed Artemis’s features, before he let out a long-suffering sigh. “Please don’t call me Artemis Fowl Squared,” he protested weakly, fingers massaging his temples. “That joke is wholly pun-based, and is neither mathematically nor biologically correct since a clone is never 100% percent an exact copy.” But his chagrin was fleeting, and he was soon laughing again with her as he conceded defeat to the same elf twice in the span of less than an hour. Then again, Holly had always been the reigning champion of their friendly verbal banters. They sat in a comfortable silence for several moments, watching the clouds drift lazily above them, listening to the thrill of birdsong in the distant woodland. “Thanks, Arty,” Holly said at length, her voice soft and grateful. “For reminding me of what Julius would do. You’ll be there at the ceremony, won’t you? You, Butler and Juliet?” “Of course. That’s the reason why you’re here today, right? To invite us to the promotion ceremony.” Holly grinned and punched his shoulder playfully. “Don’t act all innocent. You’ve probably known all about my promotion long before today and that’s how Foaly roped you into this cheering up business and what-not. Rascals, both of you.” “You have to admit, it wasn’t too bad a plan. And it worked. Besides, we hardly get to see each other—I’m almost inclined to think that either the universe has been conspiring to keep us from spending a little time together, or that you’ve secretly been avoiding me.” Artemis’s brows were arched as though scandalized by either suggestion, even as his eyes remained bright with mirth, and Holly continued to chuckle. Then his gaze softened, lips curved into a smile as he allowed himself a moment of heartfelt sincerity. “I’ve missed you, Holly. It’s good to be with you like this again.” “Me too, Artemis.” It wasn’t long before they spotted the approaching figures crossing the meadows from the direction of the manor. Butler was leading the small group, a huge wicker basket—filled with a selection of cheese and canapés, and a bottle of Jean François Ganevat Vin Jaune—in one hand, and a picnic blanket draped over the other. Juliet trailed several paces behind him, with one of the twins, Beckett Fowl, dangling from her shoulders like an energetic spider monkey. And marching stiffly with his pale fingers gripped around Juliet’s left hand was Myles Fowl, his eyes bright and piercing behind his round spectacles. “I’ll go help Butler with the picnic blanket.” Artemis stood up, brushing grass and fallen petals from his trousers. “Be right back.” Holly watched his retreating back as Artemis walked down the grassy knoll towards his family. And it struck her then just how much her friend had grown and changed (even in a cloned body) over the last two years: his frame still angular but less gangly and more lithe; his posture relaxed, almost unguarded and amiable at times. Growth and change... For the barest of moments, in the sudden gust of wind around her, Holly thought she could almost hear the ghostly whispers of Julius Root from memories past— “This promotion is not for you; it’s for the People.” “If it makes any difference, I’m proud of you, Holly.” “... Be well.” —And she smiled then, exhaling softly as she rose to her feet. “Arty, wait.” Artemis paused, glancing back at her with a puzzled look as Holly jogged up to his side and reached for his hand. “I’ll come with you.” —End—

the yew tree 1.3a/?

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw, mutant revolutionary, ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier and claiming his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required

start reading here!)

Warnings for this part: referenced past suicide, referenced antisemitism, canon-typical references to human experimentation Rating: M Word count: 4358

3.

It’s ginger tea today. He inhales deeply, drawing in the sharp scent, trying to will away his burgeoning headache. Nearby, Sebastian bustles around the room as he checks on his stores of sedatives and serums with all the loving care of a deranged artist.

He looks away, wrapping his hands more firmly around the heat of the teacup.

“So,” Sebastian says. “Progress?”

“Nothing of note to report. You?”

“Really?” The carpet muffles the click of Sebastian’s heels as he circles closer. “I hear you’ve been getting quite cozy with our mutual friend. Is that going to be a problem?”

He makes himself smile coldly. “Spying on us, are you?”

“I don’t need to.” Again, Sebastian’s voice drips self-satisfaction. “He reports everything to me. Keep that in mind, will you?”

“No need to threaten me.” His right temple throbs, the headache setting in. Not even the ginger tea helps. “I haven’t forgotten what’s at stake. I’ll play my part.”

***

Very early on, Erik had learnt that getting Xavier out of bed is a test of his patience. Left to his own devices, Xavier will happily fall asleep again, then have the gall to act surprised when Erik wakes him for the second time. Then the third.

What is Xavier going to do if he doesn’t have a manservant at his beck and call? Just sleep the whole day away? Erik scowls as he clambers out of his narrow cot; thanks to a poor night’s sleep and a throbbing headache, he’s in an even less charitable mood than usual. He raps sharply on Xavier’s door – as predicted, there’s no response.

By now, opening Xavier’s door without further invitation is just a matter of routine, so Erik doesn’t think twice about stepping into the room. It’s surprisingly dim inside.

“Rare to see you shut the curtains,” Erik remarks. Drawing Xavier into conversation makes him less likely to go right back to sleep, he’s found.

Today, the Xavier-shaped lump on the bed doesn’t move.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

He’s answered by a muffled: “Terribly sorry, Erik, but I don’t feel well today. Why don’t you take the day off?”

“What’s wrong?”

“…Migraine.”

Oh, for – As if Xavier is the only one here with a headache. Determined to get Xavier up – it’s for his own good – Erik stomps over to the curtains and throws them wide. “Rise and sh-“

“Close the bloody curtains!”

Erik yanks the curtains shut before he even registers himself moving.

“Sorry,” Xavier grits out. The air seems to pulse with his discomfort; Erik gets a distinct sense that Xavier is fighting down nausea to talk. He looks genuinely unwell – although, really, that uncharacteristic shout of command is already a siren announcing there’s something wrong with Xavier. “I’m quite sensitive to light when I’m like this. Noise, too.”

Guilt twinges, but Erik firmly pushes it down. “Should I get Dr. Schmidt?”

“No need, he’s given me medication already.”

Erik has to fight the sudden urge to hunt down that medication and toss the lot of it out. “Anything else I can do for you?”

There’s a small movement as Xavier turns, curling further away. “I’ll be fine with some rest. I was quite serious earlier, Erik – just take the day off. Please. I’d like to be alone.”

You don’t want something to eat? Or some water? Erik opens his mouth – then immediately snaps his jaws shut again, lips thinning. He’s not here to play nursemaid to a pampered noble. If Xavier wants to be alone, then he’ll get his wish.

(Xavier has never turned down his company before. If anything, he’s always been too gregarious.)

“Have a good rest, sir,” Erik says evenly. This is none of his business.

***

Banished from Xavier’s room, Erik is left at loose ends. As soon as he catches himself dithering, Erik growls.

Damn. He’s grown soft from all that time spent playing servant. He finally has some time to himself – he should have jumped straight to investigating the connection between Xavier’s uncle and Bolivar Trask. Shaw had said he’d been carrying out his own investigations, but Erik thinks, very sourly, that Shaw has been too busy fooling around with Xavier to do much of anything.

With his frustration at this whole situation driving his powers, Erik prowls along the servant corridors, reaching out with his metal-sense in search of anything suspicious. It’s long, tedious work: the mansion is labyrinthine in its enormity, and there is metal absolutely everywhere. Forget looking for a needle in a haystack; Erik feels like he’s hunting for one specific needle in a room filled with needles. It doesn’t help that he’s not sure what he’s looking for. Hell, he doesn’t even know if there’s anything to be found.

Around noon, he takes a break for lunch and a quick check-in with Shaw, who predictably has nothing useful to say. “Just let him sleep it off, you know how fragile humans are,” had been his input.

Completely useless.

After lunch, Erik switches tracks, confining his search to Kurt Marko’s wing of the manor. The whole thing is inaccessible: locks he has no problems with, but there are plenty of servants working in the wing, not to mention Marko himself. Erik isn’t willing to take the risk of being caught when he’s still largely fumbling about in the dark at this stage. It’s not worth it.

Finding the nearest room to Marko’s wing, Erik slips inside and locks the door. He settles himself cross-legged on the plush rug, closing his eyes. To search Marko’s whole wing with his powers… He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough. He’ll need to tap into the deepest recesses of his anger for this.

Erik exhales, hating the shaky edge to his breathing as he forces himself to reach for his childhood memories. The lab in the underground bunker, alternatively lit in stark white lights that hid nothing or plunged into absolute darkness. The dead metal of the examination table. The leather straps, rubbing his wrists raw.

Anger and hate and fear – that’s the source of his power. Erik can feel it come to life, a thing of deadly edges that sends all the metal in the room shivering, and he smiles grimly to himself.

Never again. Shaw had taught him how to harness his power; he’ll never have to be afraid again.

On instinct, he sends his power diving down, down, far below the ground, where men believe they and their secrets are safely hidden away from the light of the sun.

And there – a bunker, lined with reinforced steel. Erik drags up more memories: the scientists, their cultured calm, the way they chat about their weekend plans while Erik writhes on the examination table in between rounds of testing.

The steel begins to warp from the force of his anger. Erik bares his teeth. Focus. Reconnaissance, not destruction.

Not yet.

With the distance, it’s near impossible to make out anything – he specializes in blunt force and raw power, not finesse. But he thinks – or maybe it’s his memories muddling his perception – that there are machines down there. Metal filing cabinets, many of them. He tries to search for surgical tools, but his anger is beginning to burn itself out, replaced by a nauseating churn in the pit of his stomach.

Breathing heavily, Erik lets go, flopping down to lie on the rug. Above him hangs a chandelier done in delicate metal tracery. It feels dead. All the metal in the room feels dead. Erik closes his eyes, keeping them closed until the burnt-out spark of his power slowly come back to life, and the feeling of vulnerability fades.

He’s found out all he needed to know for today. Erik glances out of the window – the sun is just beginning to set, dappling the grounds in rosy golden hues. Usually, he’d be bringing dinner to Xavier around now, and then they’ll be settling down together in the study.

He lies there, indecisive, then gets to his feet.

Half an hour later, he knocks (very, very gently) on Xavier’s door, a tray balanced on his other hand. “Are you awake, sir?”

He thinks he hears Xavier saying “come in”. Good enough. Erik opens the door just a crack, trying to avoid letting too much light into the room.

“Erik, hello.” Xavier is gingerly pulling himself up to a sitting position, his usual grace absent. It’s too dark to see much of anything in the room, but Erik is pretty sure Xavier looks like shit.

He steps closer to the bed. “I brought you some food,” he says gruffly. “Crackers, yoghurt, some nuts.”

Xavier can only manage a wan smile, but Erik can feel the gratitude coming off him in waves. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful of you, my friend.”

“Just doing my job.” Feeling unaccountably awkward, Erik sets down the tray. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

“It sounds lovely, but I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Xavier says, even though up close Erik can see that his curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat. Erik opens his mouth, about to argue, but then he remembers Shaw’s implication that Xavier had been dealing with these migraines all his life and closes his mouth again. He’ll trust that Xavier knows how to deal with his own condition by now.

“Anything else I can do for you?” He asks instead. “How are you feeling?”

“Still rather poorly, I’m afraid, but I expect I’ll be mostly recovered by tomorrow.” Xavier closes his eyes. “Did you want to use the study? You’re welcome to it.”

Indignation flares – how typical for a noble to assume he had ulterior motives for something as simple as bringing food.

Xavier grimaces, rubbing his head. “I’m sorry, Erik, did I upset you somehow?” He sounds so exhausted that the fight leaves Erik in a rush.

“No,” he says curtly. “You should eat. Have you been keeping hydrated? I’ll bring you more water.” Xavier keeps a pitcher of water by his side. It’s near empty, so Erik goes to top it up, fetching a towel and an extra basin of cool water while he’s at it. Xavier stirs but doesn’t protest as Erik wets the towel and begins to wipe gently at his forehead.

After a while, Xavier sighs quietly. “I am sorry. I had hoped to spend a more enjoyable evening with you, but…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s poor recompense, but the least I can do is offer you the use of my study. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear enough before, but it’s open to you at any time, Erik.”

He can practically feel Xavier’s distress and shame beating down on him. “Charles.” Impulsively, Erik leans closer, gently smoothing the towel against Charles’ forehead one more time. “Just relax, all right?”

Charles tilts his face back, giving Erik easier access. It would be so, so easy to lean down and brush a kiss against his forehead. “All right.”

***

Xavier is worryingly subdued the next morning, but at least he’s no longer flinching away from light and noise. Still, Erik tries to be gentle as he helps Xavier through his morning routine, privately disturbed at the lifeless look in his eyes.

Seeming to catch his unease, Xavier forces a smile. “I’ll be fine, Erik. It always takes me another day or two to recover.”

Erik looks up from where he’s kneeling on the ground, helping Xavier put on his long white stockings. The cloth whispers against Xavier’s fair skin as he draws it up, stretching it taut. “I’m surprised your uncle is still making you read when you’re like this.”

Xavier’s gaze flicks to the window. “He gets terribly displeased if I fall behind on practice.”

And here’s an opportunity to ask about Kurt’s wing of the mansion – Erik seizes his chance without hesitation. “I think I’d like to listen to you read someday. Does he ever show you off?”

“Oh, yes, but they’re rather exclusive affairs.” Erik has the keen mind of a hunter: he immediately narrows in on the way Xavier’s clasp together – a nervous gesture? “I can always read to you in private, heaven knows I do plenty of that already.”

Erik smooths the stocking against Xavier’s skin, then cradles his foot, his thumb brushing against the shapely ankle as he slides the smart buckled shoe onto Xavier’s foot. “From memory? I don’t see a single poetry book in that study of yours,” he says, half-teasing. “That uncle of yours must have quite the collection to make up for your deficit.”

“I didn’t know you had such an interest in poetry, Erik.”

“More like a curiosity. I’ve never seen a collection of poetry before, and your uncle guards his so jealously.”

Xavier’s hands twist in his lap. “You aren’t missing much.”

“So what’s it like?” Erik finishes putting on the other shoe and Xavier stands, allowing Erik easy access to get everything straightened up one last time.

“Like any other room full of books. It’s not terribly interesting.” Xavier exhales slowly, rubbing at his temples. “I’m sorry, could you please go see if Dr. Schmidt is around? I can feel another headache setting in.”

“What are you hiding, Charles?” Erik murmurs, but Xavier only blinks at him in wordless question, still rubbing slowly at his temples. Erik can tell when it’s fruitless to press a point. With a grunt, Erik pulls himself to his feet, heading off to find Shaw, who dismisses him for the rest of the day.

Erik spends another few hours wrestling with his powers, trying not to think about what Shaw could be doing in Xavier’s bedroom. His rage sparks and flares, but try as he might, the finesse he needs for investigating Marko’s bunker simply refuses to come to him.

He’s exhausted when he trudges back to Xavier’s room later that evening, a touch earlier than he normally would. Even before he rounds the corner, he can hear the murmur of excited voices, Xavier’s soft laugh drifting into the hallway.

Erik’s heart stutters. He takes the last few steps almost at a run, knocking sharply on the door and flinging it open.

Shaw and Xavier both look up. They’re seated together at the small reading table, bodies angled together, a stack of books open in front of them. Shaw’s hand is resting on top of Xavier’s. The light of the setting sun falls gently over Xavier, dusting his cheeks with a rosy glow of health.

And – Xavier is smiling, bright and warm, full of uncomplicated happiness. Again, Erik’s heart constricts in his chest. Charles had never smiled at him like that before.

“Erik! Is it time for Dr. Schmidt to leave already?” Charles gets to his feet, his hand slipping away from Shaw’s.

Erik nods tightly. Shaw is staring at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are cold, and Erik can hear clear as day: Remember the mission. “I’ve just come to see him out.” He bows to Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, doctor.”

“Nice show,” Shaw mutters to him once they’re alone, striding along the mansion’s richly-carpeted hallways. The gas lamps throw flickering, ominous shadows onto Shaw’s face. How could Xavier trust him so easily?

“See you tomorrow, doctor,” Erik growls, showing him the door.

Xavier is still at his desk when Erik returns, nibbling at his bottom lip as he leafs through one of Shaw’s books. The smile had left his face, but he looks peaceful sitting there, the very portrait of a young scholar, studious and thoughtful.

The mission, Erik reminds himself. “You were enjoying yourself.” A statement, not a question.

Xavier hums. “Come join me, Erik.”

Frowning, Erik settles himself into the chair that Shaw had just vacated. “Is Dr. Schmidt really so charming?”

Xavier arches an eyebrow, but at least he has the good grace to give Erik a proper answer: “He’s intelligent, a good conversationalist, and he doesn’t look down on me for my illness. It’s not so easy to find someone like that.”

Erik grits his teeth. “Is that all it takes to win your heart?”

“…Whatever are you talking about, Erik?”

“When you’re with him, you look –” No. He can’t do this. Shaw was a fool for thinking he could play matchmaker. “Never mind.” Erik stands abruptly. “I’ll go draw you a bath.”

***

Xavier’s health dips up and down over the next week, but even on his worst days he still invites Erik to spend evenings in his study. They’ve taken to reclining on the couch together, Erik listening with his eyes half-closed as Xavier’s cultured voice speaks of mutation and evolution, extinction and cohabitation.

(“Peace is a dream, Charles,” Erik had argued once. “Homo sapiens would never accept the idea of a more evolved species of human. Look at the world now – look at how humans war against each other!”

Erik is a mutant. He is a Jew. Peaceful protest, doing things through the proper channels – they are quaint weaknesses he doesn’t have the luxury to afford, not when the potential cost is so high. The deck had been stacked against them from the very start.

Humans only understand fear and power. He will speak to them in the only language they comprehend.

Charles had looked at him, searching, and Erik had braced himself for a reprimand, but Charles had only nodded. “I understand. I don’t even disagree entirely. But if there is even the slimmest possibility for peace…”

“I don’t believe in wishing for the impossible.” He had said, looking directly at Charles. The words had tasted bitter.)

It’s bleak and cold when Erik wakes that morning, and he can hear the soft roar of rain cascading down on the mansion – the perfect sort of weather to spend sleeping in. He grimaces as he goes through his morning routine, ready for a grueling exercise in getting Xavier out of bed.

To his surprise, Xavier is already up when he enters the room. He’s sitting by the window, his eyes fixed in the distance – looking the yew tree again, Erik bets.

Something about the scene sends a shiver crawling up Erik’s spine.

“I didn’t expect to see you out of bed already,” he remarks, joining Xavier at the window. He can’t shake the sense of wrongness. “…Did you see her again? Your aunt?”

Pale, Xavier bites his lip and nods.

Erik makes a decision. “Come on. Back to bed.” When he reaches to place a hand on Xavier’s shoulder to shepherd him there, he almost snatches his hand back – Xavier is freezing cold beneath his thin nightshirt. “How long have you been sitting here? You’ll catch a cold.”

“It might be too late for that, my friend,” Xavier murmurs, but he allows Erik to guide him back into the warmth of his blankets. Erik bustles around the room, heating up some water for tea. A quick glance at Xavier confirms he’s still staring out the window; Erik carefully flexes his power, just a little, encouraging the metal of the kettle to heat up more quickly. Soon, the comforting smell of chamomile fills the air. Erik makes two cups, going to sit with Xavier on the edge of his bed once he’s done.

Some colour returns to Xavier’s waxen skin after he takes the first sip. He smiles at Erik, tired but grateful, and Erik feels a strange warmth bloom in his chest.

“Want me to tell your uncle you’re sick today?” He offers. Xavier’s intelligence is wasted on florid poetry anyway; Erik thinks both of them would much prefer a morning of studying together.

“Very tempting.” Xavier smiles again, and Erik relaxes slightly, seeing a bit of spark return to Xavier’s eyes.

“Then let me tempt you.”

He knows right away that Xavier will refuse and he’s right; Xavier shakes his head with a look of regret. “I must keep up with my responsibilities,” he says, but makes no move to get out of bed.

Impulsively, Erik reaches out to hold Xavier’s hands. It fits perfectly into his. “You sure you’re fine?”

He’s lost his fair share. He knows all about ghosts.

Xavier’s fingers curl against his, and he holds on with surprising strength. “No. I’m not.” He says with an honesty Erik can never match. “My parents died when I was young, too young to remember them properly, and my uncle and I always had a…somewhat strained relationship. My aunt is the only real family I can remember.”

“You two were close?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Certainly, I felt a kinship with her, because….” Xavier exhales sharply, looking at the yew tree, a dark shape in the distance shrouded by mist and rain. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but, I think – I think… It was my fault. I drove her to it. It was all my fault.” His voice hitches.

I was nine when my aunt hung herself there. Erik grips his hand more tightly. “Charles –”

“I’m sorry.” Charles’ voice is very soft. He’s still looking at the yew tree, but he doesn’t shake Erik’s hand off. “I don’t think… I’m not quite ready to talk about this yet.”

“All right.”

Charles look absurdly grateful at being given even that small bit of allowance. Erik frowns to himself. “More tea?”

“No, I’m…” Charles bites his lower lip, squeezing Erik’s hand. “I’d like it if you could just stay with me. Just for a while.”

“All right,” Erik repeats, and Charles manages a small smile.

They sit in silence, drinking their tea. After a while, Charles quietly asks: “Would you mind telling me a bit about your family?”

My parents are dead. Erik bites back the reflexive answer, thinking about Charles’ request. “…What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Were you close?”

One of Erik’s most cherished memories – faded and rusted by now, but still cherished – is of the day his mutation had awoken, an uncontrollable mini-storm of coins and magnets and paperclips hovering around him as he shrieked with delight and his mother laughed and laughed. “Come see,” she had exclaimed to his father the moment he had returned from work. “Look at what our Erik can do!”

She had loved him so much. She had been so proud, even as she cautioned him to be careful, because the world is not as kind as it should be.

He can’t share this memory with Charles.

He tries to search for another memory, but it had been so very long since he had allowed himself to think of his parents that everything feels shrouded, forgotten, overshadowed by their untimely deaths. Erik feels sick to his stomach when he realizes in a moment of clarity that he had not thought of them for years except in connection to vengeance.

Charles is still watching him, a soft look in his eyes. “It’s all right if you don’t remember.”

“I should,” Erik says harshly. “I owe it to them.”

“Beating yourself up over it won’t help, yes?” Charles’ thumb strokes along his knuckles. “If you’re trying to recall happy memories, then falling back on your anger won’t help you, Erik.”

Erik blinks. “She said something similar once. My mother.” The memory comes back to him in bits and pieces, snatches of half-remembered events. “That I was too angry all the time.”

“You have a vision for the world. You value justice. And when the world falls short of the mark, I think your disappointment turns to anger.”

For someone who’s been locked up in the mansion all his life, Charles’ can be uncannily perceptive.

“Even when I was a kid?” Erik smiles wryly. “You know what, I don’t think you’re wrong. I was always angry about our circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

Erik takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “We were Jewish.” He looks at Xavier, daring him to show some sort of prejudice, but Charles only looks at him with honest curiosity. “I’ve always known that we had to be careful. That people hate, and you can’t reason with them because they want to hate. The world isn’t fair.”

Charles nods, but Erik doesn’t think he understands completely. Nobody can, unless they’ve lived it themselves.

“I can’t imagine your parents were happy that you had to be so angry so young.”

Erik grasps at the delicate, moth-eaten threads of his memories, tarnished like old silver. It frustrates him that he can’t quite recall specific words, specific conversations, but the gist of it gradually returns to him. It helps that Charles is giving him specifics to work with. “No,” he says slowly, “I think they were glad that I wanted to improve the world, to repair it. But they also wished I could live in the present more. Appreciate what was around me.”

“It sounds like quite the balancing act.” Charles looks thoughtful, tongue darting out to run against his upper lip. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Taking the time to remember what you’re fighting for, I suppose that would make you fight harder…”

“Why, Charles, I thought you hated fighting.”

Erik grins when that gets a short laugh out of Charles. “It’s only a figure of speech!” Charles protests, still smiling. “I’m not talking about violence, of course; there are different ways of fighting. Or repairing, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Maybe.” They sit in silence for awhile longer, but Erik’s thoughts are humming: it’s as if his mind had grown fogged over the years without his realizing it. Now, he’s carefully stripping away the layers of dust, trying to unearth his childhood memories for the first time in years.

Helping his mother around the house with chores, the smell of matzah ball soup filling the kitchen. His room and his favourite maroon blanket. Being read to, from storybooks, from the Torah, being patiently encouraged to question and reflect – something Shaw had later beaten from him. The holidays: food, singing, storytelling. The careful motions of his mother’s work-worn hands as she lit the Shabbat candles, ushering the Sabbath.

(Later, when he returns to his investigation of Marko’s lab, his power comes easier to him than it ever had before.

Thank you, Charles.)

(next part)

17. Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. All things change, and we change with them.

Behind a cut because this got really long.  You need to read this piece first: Unfading Memory.

Ambition

He thinks he is nineteen, but he is twenty. He carries a pot of brilliant red flowers in and puts it down near the overstuffed chairs his mothers sent.  He steps back, staring down at it for a moment, then nudges it slightly with his foot.  Two ilms to the side, and somehow the whole room feels different. His room. There isn’t enough green and growing in Ul’dah, and if he’s going to live here he wants to bring a piece of home with him.

He does not understand yet that he has brought nothing with him, that he is sculpting something new from memory.

He is twenty. It is the brief span of months where his real age aligns with the age he thinks he is, because he left home too young to know his own nameday. Once more he glances down at the scrap of paper in his hand, then up at the address. It’s snowing, but he hardly notices the cold any more. It’s part of him, as this place is part of him, as it was from birth.

He knocks, and he waits, the threshold before him the edge of the cliff upon which sits his entire world.  Beyond it, an abyss. The unknown. A revelation in blood.

The wizened old seeker who opens the door is a shock, though she shouldn’t be. She stares over the top of her half moon glasses, ears perked forward, her hair thin and gray. Her jaw works for a moment in a painfully familiar expression.  “Lior?” Her voice is weak, astonished and uncertain.

“No,” he has to pause and swallow his doubt before he can continue, “Aden.”

“Aden?” Her ears shift upward, her eyes widen, a light in them like the first ray of dawn. “Aden! Oh, oh my boy, my boy’s boy–”  She totters out and wraps her arms around him, tears already spilling down the fine lines of her face.  He returns her embrace, and thinks she feels in his arms how he always thought a grandmother would.

He hauls himself from the stone, the great split down the back of his armor exposing the wreck of his flesh beneath to the frigid air.  It burns in his lungs, it burns on his skin, and he thinks he feels the blood pulsing out begin to slow–from loss of pressure or from cold he isn’t sure.

The dragon before them thrashes as it throws someone, neck peppered with arrows, legs maimed by a dozen slashes, and yet it lumbers forward, all their efforts thusfar merely slowing it.  He sees a split second before it happens, in the way the dragon cocks its head, in the way the flesh of its throat bellows, that it is about to breathe.  “Aden!”

Flynt doesn’t need to tell him that he will not get a better opportunity.  Roger raises his shield in time, but the heat is still immense.  For Aden, in that instant there is no cold, there is no heat, there is no pain, only the sublime combination of sensations that make up a jump: the satisfying burn of his muscles pushed to the very limits of what a mortal body can tolerate; that weightless feeling at the height of the jump, the sense of peace in it; and the brutality of impact, the visceral feeling of dragonscale giving way beneath his momentum.  The spearhead feels as though it clicks into place, as if this is where it was made to fit, in between two vertebrae at the base of the dragon’s neck. The stream of fire cuts off as an ear-splitting roar of agony rips itself out of the dragon’s throat, and he pushes until blood and a thick, clear fluid gush from the wound, and the roar abruptly stops.

He is twenty one when he rests against a crumbling stone wall, afloat on an island in an endless sky. A great wyvern is curled nearby, her head resting atop a tumbled masonry block, while her youngest brother babbles on in dragonspeak.  He only catches a few words, snatches and bits he’s learned–”…practice…I must best our knight!”

“You have a long way to go,” Aden says, not looking up from the plant he is carefully sketching. The chief surveyor will want as much information about its native habitat as possible before he removes it as a sample.

“I can do a hundred more flips than you!” the child seethes–because he is a child.  He does one mid-air to demonstrate.

“But only while flying,” Aden counters.

“Flying is better! Your jumping is tedious and tiresome!”

“To you, perhaps.  But I could do it all day.”

The child makes a frustrated noise, and the wyvern gives a great huff of a laugh, a little roil of smoke escaping her snout.  “You’ll call it tiresome,” she says, “and still you’ll beg one of us to carry you when your wings grow tired, trying to prove you’re more maneuverable.”

Finally Aden glances up, and trades a knowing look with the wyvern as her brother begins his tantrum anew.  He wonders briefly what his commanding officer would think if they saw him out here.  What Flynt would think, and what Aden would say to him.

Perhaps Flynt would understand, given the nature of his assignment here. Not the one from the knights dragoon, but the one Flynt himself issued–discover what it means to be a dragoon without a war.

He turns the scrap of leather over in his hands, worrying at the edges idly.  It’s perhaps three fingers in width, a handspan long, torn on both ends.  He remembers, and he thinks, for a long moment, that he should have trusted himself.  He should have expected what eventually came.

It feels distant now, even though it’s hardly a handful of moons past. It all seems less real by the day, and yet he wouldn’t trade it.

He shoves the piece of leather into the box, a physical reminder of family he never really had, with other odds and ends before closing it up.  His tarantula’s terrarium balances perfectly on top of it, and he carries them out stacked, the little spider inside bracing itself in the tipped over mug that serves as a burrow.

As he stands on the walls of Castrum Oriens, it strikes him that moons ago he would’ve balked at being given any sort of command.  He’d done it during the end of the Dragonsong War, but that seemed different, somehow; once his fellow Ishgardians got over the shock of his race they seemed to understand that their not-quite-a-dragoon was pressed into service just as uncertainly and sorely needed as they were. Now he waits for three soldiers, a small enough squadron for reconnaissance, so chosen to lead them in part because of his work during and after the war, in part because of his very brief stint in the Adders.

Aden barely contains the urge to gawp when Ves arrives, manages because of the man in Maelstrom red, a seeker like himself with a massive axe slung across his back, and the hyur in Flames blues adjusting her glasses, trailing behind him.

“You’re…”  The seeker trails off, looking him up and down with a cocked brow and a disbelieving tone in his voice, “..the Ishgardian?”  Aden knows the man’s eyes follow the length of his spear, and he suspects the questions implied.  The tip of his tail curls upward, and his ears flatten almost imperceptibly.  The others don’t notice it, but the seeker certainly does from the way his eyes narrow and the twitching of his own tail stills.

“I am.” He pauses to let that statement hang between them just a split second, then continues. “Ser Dellebecque. It’s a mouthful in an emergency, so Aden will suffice while we’re in the field.”

Moons later he is sitting on a cliff looking out over a sea of grass, three maps laid out before him, trying to reconcile them with what he sees before him and the partially blank piece of paper in front of him.  He didn’t start this any good at drawing, but maps are something different, and he’s cultivated the surprisingly necessary skill over the past couple of years.  Wind kicks up and rustles the grass below him, waves as great as an ocean, the susurrus audible from his perch.  It catches his eye, and he looks up from the maps and down at the grass, out to the distant horizon.

Laughter wells up out of him, bright and full-throated, not the quiet chuff or scoff he lets loose in public. Real laughter, like he hasn’t allowed himself in years, totally involuntary.  It’s as if a switch has flipped inside of him as the past year comes rushing back.  He has no mind for what he’s lost, only what he’s gained.

Aden realizes he is living out all of his impossible dreams, even the ones he never intended, and that in the profound silence of this vast plain he is alone but not lonely. He no longer needs direction, he knows exactly where he is and where he’s going.

He watches the grass for a long time, mind drifting, before he goes back to his maps with a smile.