#my beloved army of foolish mortals

[viktoryarozetassicosplayco745]

and with that....

SDCC2024 is a WRAP! new video coming to my YouTube channel 07/31/2024, so STAY TUNED!

[herbeloved82]

Love through Time (Bed of roses and thorns)

Written with the amazing @complicitsacrilege we offer you a different couple this time....

I am Seth, the Golden Prince they called me a long time ago, when I was still a child in my naivety. 

I was born in the lands of the great rivers, where life and prosperity were brought by the waters and the floods every year were celebrated as interventions from the gods themselves. I won’t say those lands’ names for all of you are too young to remember and the ancient pronunciation has been lost for millennia now. 

I was the son of King Enkil and his Queen, Akasha. I was born to rule and trained to do so since I was old enough to walk. They were gods in the eyes of humans, as was I, despite being brought up in their shadows. I watched them conquer village after village, city after city, land after land, and I learned.

I learned many things about myself and what I was, what we all were. Enkil and Akasha had been mortals, once upon a time. Cursed to the blood by a powerful being who sought revenge for the one he loved. 

Then they were monsters, blood drinkers, doomed to a half life only lived at night. They thrived in this new nature. Their innate cruelty finally fed by the new lust they discovered. The world was thrown into wars and chaos and they ruled upon it all. 

They were mated.

Such a strange word to indicate the bond between souls. The power of a bond was, and still is, the most inexplicable of all the secrets my kind keep. So powerful that it can destroy the wall of silence between Master and fledgling, it is one of those things of which no one speaks freely. 

When I was reborn, the secret was bestowed upon me: a new guardian for the most powerful weapon, one that could control even the strongest of us. 

How I wished they never shared it with me. If I had been ignorant I wouldn’t have been foolish enough to look for the one creature born for me, and perhaps I wouldn’t have found him, and left him exposed to their violence. 

I found my mate in a young physician who had cared for me when I was merely a prince with all the trappings of mortality. 

Fareed, my Imi-ib. Beloved. That was his title. One I would have cherished for all eternity.

I loved him, and he loved me. We kept our love a secret, something precious and only for us. But then I was turned and the secret became even more dangerous to keep, and all the more important. 

Until the night I lost everything. 

Akasha found us, in a secret chamber and came with guards and fury in her eyes. 

My beloved was taken from me that night. The things they did to him before he died in my arms I will never forget. 

Just as I never forgot who took him from me. 

They taught me that loyalty was rewarded with even deeper commission, but only the worst kind of revenge was reserved for betrayal. So I took everything from them, as they did to me. 

They loved to be worshiped as gods, so I took them away, hid them in a magnificent golden temple that I buried in sand. So deeply no one would ever find them again. A grave where their bodies, now akin to statues, would be forever. 

They loved power, and I took everything they had for myself. I expanded my kingdom through the lands of the whole earth. 

One by one newborn kingdoms fell under my influence and power. There is no place I can’t reach. No man I can’t break, no ruler who hadn’t been destroyed by me. 

I took their firstborns. 

I took their thrones. 

I took everything I wanted by the mere measure of my army and the fear that view inspires.

Of those boys and girls I always demanded as payment, some are now part of my army. Some are so old they are called children of the millennia, like I am. Some have been food for my men, and the others have been turned into objects for their entertainment.

The pain of my loss would have driven me to insanity eons ago otherwise, and I would have sought eternal refuge in the ground, leaving the world to pass on above.

So why do I still rule over these lands instead of rotting below?

The answer is simple. 

Even if my kind was born from a curse, we were also given a second chance. Sometimes, when a bond is broken, there is a chance that what was once lost can again be returned.

Incarnated in another body, with another history and even another name, but we will always be able to recognize our mate. 

That is why I am the one who remains.

[slaanxsh]

Prev | Prev / Realm of Chaos, The Rings of Pleasure

The incursion into the Mortal Realms by the armies of Khorne had been far from unnoticed. Such was the consequence of the Blood God and his minions on the Great Game; rival powers would alter long-held plans, delay schemes, or quite simply get themselves out of the way and let more foolish daemons or mortals pit themselves as the daemon-iron blades of the Blood Legions.

The Order had come down from Slaanesh, on the swift and sure foot of his heralds: find the six-princes and order their return to the Rings of Pleasure immediately. One had already returned, which just left the remaining five, four of which were easily found and persuaded. Even as Slaanesh's offspring, the princes were rarely so audacious as to ignore a direct order from their father-mother.

Which made S'ríash's absence....noteworthy.

The most seasoned Heralds and huntresses could not find hide or hair of their Prince's child. Their godly spoor led only to dead ends and after a while, dead ends turned into dead daemons, victims of the Pleasure God's increasingly short temper. It was eventually concluded that S'ríash was no longer in the Mortal Realms, but hidden in the warp and away from the Dark Prince's prying eyes.

So Slaanesh had sent for the remaining five. And he had focused his attention on Ïéxiish, the last one to see the Six-Prince.

"𝐸𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒, Ïé𝑥𝑖𝑖𝑠ℎ! 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑑."

" It is no game, sire." Ïéxiish was on her knees before the Satin throne, her siblings behind her trying their best to look uninteresting. " When the Red God came, I fled and S'ríash did not. The Heralds found traces of him in the aftermath of a great, bloody battle but nothing more."

Slaanesh, unsure what to make of it all, continued to pace and glare daggers at his daughter. He could scent no lies on her. On any of them. Whatever scheme had taken his child from him hadn't involved any S'ríash's siblings. D'ýosh came forward, catching the God of Pleasure's attention. He didn't dare look Slaanesh in the eyes, playing with his talons and fidgeting under his mother-father's gaze.

" I visited the scene with my fiends. Ïéxiish speaks true, but there was more there, underneath all the blood. Even your Steeds could have...overlooked it. But a Fiend's tongue is quite keen, my own are bred for--" D'ýosh caught the beginnings of irritation beginning to worm it's way onto Slaanesh's face, and quickly course-corrected from his bragging.

" Anyway. There was a malignity there. Nurglish in origin." D'ýosh explained.

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘳-𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘵?"

D'ýosh nodded slowly, " They say he has created a new phage. One that can slay a god. And to my understanding, Nurgleth always tests his creations before releasing them. Yes, he has Poxfulcrum, but why kill his beloved phage-slave when he could slay an enemy instead? At least, that is my thinking."

Slaanesh's brow knitted. It wasn't totally farfetched...Nurgle had taken samples from them all in meetings past, in order to free them from the Malal induced malignity they had all caught. But, what could help could also be twisted and corrupted to harm. That was the way of the Nurglish.

A deep frown marring his beautiful, alien features, Slaanesh looked to his children, five where there should be six.

" 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘐 𝘥𝘰."

[eveningoftheempires]

Evening of the Empires Worldbuilding - Excerpts from "Wonders of Uria" by Levari Karrius

Some claim that Uria is broken; that, shortly after its creation, it was torn to pieces as an act of rage by the Lunar Mother. She swallowed most of the lands and left only scrumbles to the mortal beings. All of them have descended from The Depth, the heart of all creation, born out of Alania’s endless burning love. Scattered among what was left, the countries we know today started forming.

“But those are simply telltales,” you, my dear reader, might claim - and for a good reason. I do specialize in fantastic stories after all, but this time I shall make an exception and reach towards the truth.

And the truth is - despite all the work put into research by various scholars of all origins, we do not know much of our beginnings.

[…]

Previously mentioned Depths are mostly inhabited by dwarves, whose society flourishes despite not having a strong head of the state. They live in numerous cities, each carved in a mountain and one more impressive than another. Many among them work in mines, supplying their trade partners with either the materials or already made equipment - some dwarven merchants proudly claim that their steel is unbreakable. 

Since the Depths are commonly assumed to lay above the heart of the world, many dwarves choose the path of knowledge, seeking to learn about the creation of Uria. Their expeditions go far down, to places that would never see the sunlight if it was not for these curious individuals. Most of their discoveries have shaken the very foundations of what we call science - minerals and plants never seen before or ancient underground settlements among those wonders. Gremmal Thernik, the curator of the House of the Forgotten, believes that only the surface has been scratched of what lies beneath.

[…]

Nushkan Congregation gathers numerous smaller countries, led by Nushka, a coastal kingdom ruled by the orcish dynasty of the Unbroken. However, many different races may be found among the Nushkan citizens - including humans, halflings, tieflings, and even a big population of elves. Each state governs itself, but they unite when it comes to foreign politics. The current high king, Xugash V, granted all of his vassals more power than his predecessors ever, all in return for their help in strengthening the army. This fragmentation of power may seem foolish at first glance, but it was a necessary move after a series of revolts in the region.

In the past decade, this western backwater of a country truly grew into an enemy to behold. The Unbroken Dynasty strongly focused on technological advancement, turning away from the ineffective agriculture. The harsh climate no longer stops the economy. Future Units, formed from scholars, mages and generals of all local races, became pioneers in engineering, mixing ages old magics with whole new inventions. Though, these wonders are granted to only the ones that can afford them.

[...]

Karathny Republic, built on remnants of the Ruby Empire, is a place of grand traditions. It is home to some of Uria’s greatest leaders and warriors, a place where many glorious battles occured - and, with all those legends, it should be no surprise that storytellers thrive in such an environment. The art of rhetorics is considered the most noble, which is one of the reasons for local politics being so interesting. The power here is fluid, and the people of the republic choose their representatives every five years. 

The culture has always been the most important factor in this hot, deserted region with little to no natural resources. The trade routes are full with caravans transporting breathtaking paintings and sculptures or delicate, hand-woven fabrics. Along with the merchants travel various artistic troupes, lone bards and circuses. Although mostly inhabited by humans, elves and half elves native to this land, other races are seen as well - there are even a few purely orc and tiefling settlements. 

[…]

The Free City-State of Ienow can be simply described as a curiosity unlike any other in the world - not only it is a melting pot of all races and cultures of Uria, it is also the smallest country that survived without being ingrained with one of the powers in the region. And the strangeness does not end at that! The politics of Ienow are dominated by the leaders of the most influential guilds in the city - Guild of Traders, Guild of Mages, Guild of Bankers, Guild of Fighters, and even… Guild of Assassins. The coastal islands are a common hideout of the pirates roaming the seas, since the system of justice is nearly non-existent. All of this makes for a rather dangerous - albeit always interesting - place to live.

Everything in Ienow revolves around two things: freedom and money. All is fair when either of those values are involved. Murders of political or economical opponents are a common practice, so are fights between gangs hired by guilds to keep the citizens in check. Those who come here seeking a new start are bound to be disappointed; it is nearly beyond possibility to climb up the social ladder. The poor immigrants are mostly employed in factories.

[...]

Queendom of Lunaris is the cradle of all things magical. This primarily elven, secluded country hosts a great entourage of mages, one more powerful than another. They are gathered in the Sorcerers’ Assembly, and the most influential members rule alongside queens from the Liaquen dynasty. Enchanters and alchemists are the backbone of the country’s economy, providing it with stable income - although the Guild of Mages offers arcane goods as well, it cannot compete with the lunarian quality.

The warm, forested islands are clearly prosperous under the reign of queen Cithren and Grand Sorceress Amarille, and one can see it even through the lense of everyday life. The roads crossing the islands are well maintained and protected, the villages and cities are all truly a sight for sore eyes, and even peasants are hospitable and content people. The only scar on Lunaris’ image is a faction led by a human preacher who calls himself Doom. Those people believe magic to be heresy, and claim that its users will bring doom upon Uria.

[…]

Soleil Hegemony thrives off conquests. What started off as a small northern county is now the grandest of the empires, and it is aiming to eventually be the only one. It was not always this ambitious, though - until recently, its sleazy aristocracy was content being stuck in the previous era, profiting off of peasants’ hard work on the fertile fields. These very devout people put their faith in the kings, believing them to be beloved sons sent by Watchful, the chief of their pantheon. No one dared to rebel against them, until recently.

After a foul murder of king Degarmo IX by a Ienowan assassin, another prominent figure rose to power - that is, General Chastain, a well respected leader of the soleilan army. Once he announced himself a dictator, everyone knew what his next step would be. He started a relentless war with what used to be the Gornorth Kingdom, and then quickly conquered the Lokei Republic. The empire grows, the nobles host decadent parties in order to celebrate victory, and countless soldiers die on the battlefields. The future seems rather unsteady.

[…]

The Monarchy of Sabal is quite a good definition for the word “underestimated”. This small country of seemingly no consequence has been around for too little time to build itself a decent reputation - it was only in the last era when a secessionist group of lunarian citizens, mostly tieflings and half elves, managed to tear them away from the Queendom. The newborn monarchy with still destabilized power attracted (and still attracts) numerous criminals, being a good alternative for the already crowded City-State of Ienow. Others have seen it as a great place for a fresh start and chose occupations of fishmongers and sailors. 

The current monarch, Zarramine the Witful, truly lives up to their name. Rumor has it that the web of sabalan spies reaches far beyond the islands, all thanks to the monarch’s quite… liberal approach to outlaws. Many of them are forgiven in the local law’s eyes if they agree to work for the crown. Besides gathering information and manipulating the events from the shadows, Sabal has been building up its navy for quite some time. They would make a good operational base for soleilans if they wished to attack north and west - and many believe that soon General Chastain will turn his focus there...

[xkuja]

❛❛ You told me she had those.. Those /things/ inside of her and yet—! ❜❜ She's exasperated, fan excessively waving to distract, or calm - Brahne isn't sure why, at this point it had become a habit whenever he was around. ❛❛ Where are they!? Must we wait until she is of age? Surely it wouldn't harm her to do it sooner now. ❜❜ Its not like Garnet was her daughter, not her own flesh and blood—if she got hurt, that was just par for the course. She didn't mind the possibilities. — @/brahne

|| ||                     Ah, yes. Alexandria's benevolent Queen, blaming him for the ridiculous biology of summoners as though he can simply reach through her daughter's inner workings and fix it. Pure impatience glitters in her sneering eyes. They bore into his. This is not a woman who can fathom the concept of needing to wait for anything. Aristocratic convention-- it is exhausting.

      "Her sixteenth arrives in less than four months, your majesty," he replies, dispassionately. "As dearly beloved by your kingdom as she is-- almost as beloved as yourself," that part is quickly added, "her survival through the process is somewhat imperative. Your people were suspicious enough regarding your husband's demise. It won't do to present them further reason to mistrust you."

      That particular rumour remains alive and well. No longer whispered in scandalous gossip, rather, it has become a common presumption among those wishing an end to her reign; that Brahne had been responsible for the sudden death of Alexandria's King. Those in Lindblum are particularly beholden to it. The mortal psyche was a most delicate thing; Brahne's madness could easily teeter over the end and plummet into the depths of despair... And then what? He'd have to go charming that philandering idiot, Cid...

            Perish the thought.

      And the dear princess... Why, it seems unseemly to rush her. Her petals are still uncurling, having yet to emerge from the threshold between girlhood and woomanhood... And Kuja doubts those two oddballs could manage a successful extraction outside conditions anything short of ideal.

      With things proceeding so well, it would be foolish to go taking unnecessary risks.

       "The factory has almost completed test production. Rejoice, my Queen! Come a week, your army shall be bolstered tenfold!" He accentuates this auspicious news with a sweeping gesture, a billowing of sleeves and a malicious smile on his lips... Hopefully it will prove enough enough to assuage her temper. "The plague of Burmecia won't stand a sliver of a chance against your magnificent force~."

[higuchimon]

[fanfic] Answers To Unexpected Questions:  chapter 3 [end]

“Juudai!” Yubel knocked him down, wings spread wide, avoiding the battery of crossbow bolts shot through the tent. One of them slammed into the man chained up to a pole, sending him spinning as far as his bonds would allow him.

It wasn’t Johan. Sparkman had been tricked. Either illusion or just making a mistake, which wasn’t that surprising.

It wasn’t a mistake that Juudai or Yubel would’ve made. Both of them knew the difference between Johan and his twin brother Rune on sight alone.

Yubel tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen.

Juudai had enough time for that alone before he brought himself back to his feet and checked Yubel. The crossbow bolts did nothing at all save force them to step back. Their wings remained spread in front of him.

Ancient Elf stepped into the ruined tent, giving a very disapproving look as he did.

“I truly did not believe you would come for this ruffian,” he said, brushing his coat off as if Juudai’s very presence dirtied him. “Now, his brother, that would’ve been understandable. But why him?”

Juudai wasn’t going to let him know the truth. Instead he just tossed his head.

“You should know that I protect all life. Doesn’t matter who it is.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But this world is going to be destroyed and you will not be able to stop it.”

Juudai drew in a very long and very deep breath. “Could you save your speeches for after I’m dead? I really don’t have the time now.”

Rune was bleeding. Rune was dying, because Juudai’s powers didn’t include healing and Johan’s did, and Johan wasn’t there and they needed to get out as soon as they could.

He made no move at all. He couldn’t find Rune’s shadow, not with all the other light in the room. It had been by great good luck that none of the bolts hit any of the candles or lanterns there and set the tent itself on fire.

Maybe that would’ve been better. There would’ve been shadows there for sure. And the tent would’ve burned down. Maybe all of them would have.

Ancient Elf smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that would make other people happy in the slightest.

“If you wish to die, then we can most certainly accommodate you.”

“Not as long as I’m around.” Yubel growled, arms and wings spread to defend Juudai at a moment’s notice. “No harm will come to my Juudai.”

The old sorcerer turned a very disapproving look upon Yubel. “No one asked for your opinion, malformed one. But since you insist upon it as well, we’ve made plans for you.”

Fear coiled itself all around Juudai and he started to back for Rune. Even if he died, Johan wasn’t going to leave him here. Johan would need to know about this. “Yubel, we’re getting out of here.”

“Oh, I think not.” Ancient Elf tsked before raising one finger.

Many things happened at the same time.

A net of glowing green materials dropped down from above, wrapping all around Juudai. No matter how much he strained at it, he could not break it, despite how fragile it looked.

Another bout of crossbow bolts shot, arching over the elf’s head and burying themselves deep into Yubel. Each of them carried a malevolent white sigil written upon them, one Juudai only belatedly recognized as something intended to bind the effects of magic, sealing them off from the user.

Aodh had said that Yubel’s power wasn’t unstoppable. For that matter, neither was Juudai’s. Whatever this web was made out of, Juudai couldn’t so much as get a firm grip on it, let alone get it off of him.

Ancient Elf stepped over and stared down at him, a sadistic tilt to his lips.

“Oh, Herald. You thought it would be so easy, didn’t you? That you would just come in here, rescue this piece of offal, and dance away with your misborn creation before any of us noticed you. We knew you were coming from the beginning. It’s what someone as foolish as you does.”

He nudged Juudai with one foot. Juudai twisted away from it, trying to get hold of Yubel, to do something that wasn’t lay there like a lump.

Yubel lay against the far wide of the tent, a thick dark liquid coming from the half-dozen crossbow bolts still lodged within. Slowly, as if feeling his attention, Yubel opened their eyes and turned toward him.

“Beloved...” Yubel tried to reach for him. Juudai tried to reach back. But warriors in white armor trooped in and one of them wrenched Yubel away, not caring how much more damage was done in the process.

“First we dispose of the misborn. Then we dispose of him,” Ancient Elf decreed. He glanced toward Rune. “Throw that in the deadpile. It can be burned with the others.”

Juudai had time only to see that Rune still breathed, if shallow and unsteadily, before they dragged all three out. Yubel and Juudai were taken to a clearing he’d ignored on the way in, where a white marble altar had been spread out, and the strongest and most skilled of the Army of Light’s warriors awaited them.

The altar had been marked with those sigils that kept Yubel’s power bound, ensuring that there wasn’t anything Yubel could do to protect Juudai or anyone else as they hauled Yubel onto it, wrapping thick chains all around to keep them in place.

They’d bound Juudai tighter with the power-nullifying web, which also carried those marks, he noticed when he had a moment to stop fighting. A full two dozen of them stood guard on him, while Ancient Elf moved over to the altar and Yubel.

“Once you’ve both perished in honor of the Light, your souls will be cleansed by its power, and will nevermore be able to touch the unholy Darkness. Should you return to a mortal form, you will belong to the Light.”

Juudai struggled harder. He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere, but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, if this went through, then he’d be dead forever. Being part of the Light embodied all that he stood against.

Ancient Elf raised a sharp, long-bladed dagger, marked with emblems of the Light. Clearly he wasn’t taking any chances at all.

“In the name of the Light, by the Power of the Light, by the Cleansing of the Light, let you be freed of your misborn form and your foolish vows to the Darkness! Let there be nothing more that binds you, nothing more that keeps you from serving the Light, as all things must!”

He brought the knife down, sharp and deadly and reeking of magic that made Juudai sick.

“I don’t think so.”

A different kind of light filled the clearing, one that Juudai squinted against, but it caused no fear in him. Instead, it drove all fear out, and he found it in himself to hope that this wasn’t the end.

“You!” Ancient Elf spun backwards even as that familiar voice spoke.

Standing on the back of a beautiful winged unicorn stood Johan, in his full power as the incarnate Light of Hope. His arms folded over his chest and he stared down at them like the very wrath of the gods, clad all in armor of white and trimmed in silver.

The rest of his guardians stood near him, a tiger and a great cat, a mammoth and a turtle and an eagle, and on his shoulder, a tiny little squirrel-ish creature that chirruped at the sight of Juudai.

“Johan!”

Johan gave a quick, quiet nod, before gesturing to Amethyst Cat and Topaz Tiger. “Get Rune out of here. I’ll take care of this.”

They didn’t argue, even as Johan turned back to Ancient Elf. “I could ask a lot of questions but I’ll save them for when people aren’t waving knives at my friends. So, let them go.”

He added nothing else. He needed to add nothing else, not with the way the rest of his companions stared down alongside of him.

Ancient Elf moved towards Yubel, knife still in hand. “Of course, of course.” His lip curled in hatred, no matter if he looked at Juudai or Yubel or Johan. “How could we ever disobey you?”

More crossbow bolts, but Emerald Turtle moved in front of them and they clattered harmlessly off of his shell. In the intervening moments, however, Ancient Elf struck down at Yubel, the tip of the blade piercing Yubel’s very center.

Juudai had heard Yubel scream before, but never since becoming his guardian and taking on the form of a dragon. The scream struck into the deepest part of his heart and he could see Yubel’s form shimmering before it shattered altogether, breaking into untold points of light, and then fading away with one last cry.

“Juudai...”

And then Yubel was gone.

Juudai writhed and screamed in rage of his own, rage enough to end the world, and he could see Johan running towards him and he didn’t care, Yubel was gone, destroyed, and it was all his fault, he could blame no one else and wouldn’t have even if he could, if he’d just listened and not rushed off like this, if he’d just so much as waited for a second check…

Yubel was gone.

Yubel was gone and Juudai’s heart bled and power that he’d known he had surged upward, shattering the bonds that held him.

One could hold the Darkness incarnate but only for so long. Darkness always fell and always rose again.

There was a voice that called a name. Then other voices. None of them meant anything to the Darkness.

It rose. The Light was there. It needed to be extinguished.

Yubel needed to be avenged.

The world needed to be saved.

The Darkness reached and all those warriors of the Light fell, screaming, and it was pleasing to the ears of the Darkness.

To the ears of Haou.

He smiled and terror spread among all those who gazed upon him and so would it be.

He would protect that which was his. If that meant to destroy all things, to crush them underneath his heel so that never again would the Light harm them, then so be it. Without Yubel, what did he have?

Juudai. Juudai.

Little more than a whisper on the wind, but it was enough to catch his attention and he turned to where the broken body lay. Standing next to it, transparent as a soap bubble, was… Yubel?

He spoke their name. The world shook at the sound of one word and he heard other voices again, and they still meant nothing at all to him.

I’m … I’m still here. I don’t know what happened. But I’m here.

He tilted his head. Did Yubel wish him to stop, then? He would stop at their will and theirs alone.

No, Juudai. I don’t. Yubel bared their teeth and it was not a smile and he returned it. Destroy it all. Let their folly be known throughout the land. Let the Light know what it threatens and what will happen when it fails.

Haou liked how that sounded. The screaming voices still meant nothing. He turned toward one and tilted his head a bit. The screamer meant nothing but Haou recognized him anyway. He just wasn’t what Haou wanted right now. Nor did he want anyone else to have it.

Hope gave people a promise. The only hope and promise he wanted the people here, the servants of the Light, to know was the chance for a quick death. It was the only promise he would fulfill.

He turned another way to recognize his bodyguards. The ones who weren’t Yubel. They kept on yelling, but nothing they said made any sense to him. Well, no matter. It was time to finish this once and for all anyway.

All the elements lay under his command. Fire rained from the sky with little more than an exercise of will. Water rose up from the river, ten times that of what Bubbleman caused, and the earth underneath their feet rocked and cracked open, sending legion after legion of the Army of Light screaming into the depths.

Winds roared, a tornado touching down in the center of their camp, shredding survivors and tents and all their equipment into useless junk.

“Juudai! Juudai!”

Hope again. Haou flicked a finger and a wave of energy knocked him to the side into one of the few still standing trees. He didn’t move.

Haou moved onward. He had a great deal of work to do and he would like to finish it before sundown.

Pain beyond pain tore into his back, ripping through his armor and sending him crashing to his knees. Haou pulled himself up and around to stare behind himself.

The same blade used to kill Yubel now sank up to the hilt in his own back. Far too close stood Ancient Elf, with another in hand.

“Even if I can’t kill you for the Light, I can still kill you!”

Haou reached for his own last bit of power: he knew what a dying body felt like, and this one was dying. He lashed outward with it, and Ancient Elf was no more, falling backwards with a twisted smirk in the last moments.

Juudai sank back down to his knees, stumbling even then, falling forward. One hand reached for Yubel. The other, for Johan. He spared one breath for the Elemental Heroes, even as he could feel the last of his life fading away.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know who he spoke to, but he meant it to all of them.

All my fault...

Juudai sat up, panting, before he wrenched around and threw himself into Yubel’s arms, holding onto them as if they would vanish if he let go for a single moment. His heart raced, tears spilled down his cheeks, and he whispered two words over and over again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Yubel wrapped their arms even more tightly around him. “It wasn’t your fault, Juudai.”

“Yes, it was! Just like last time! This time! I’m always too stupid and I never listen and people get hurt because of it! First you and I … I … did I… Johan? Then? Did I...” Juudai didn’t know how much sense he made, but it must’ve been enough for Yubel.

“No. He survived and helped put Kuragari back together again after that.” Yubel tilted Juudai’s head up. “He made a very good King after Aodh and Kaien passed away.”

Juudai swallowed. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him at all. Then he blinked. “How do you know?” He hadn’t known that. He hadn’t been around to see it.

“Because I wasn’t dead. I didn’t know then what was going on. But because of what Ancient Elf did, I haven’t had a physical body since then. I can mimic one now, especially since you and I fused and I’ve learned more about the power I have. It took me over a century to learn just how to communicate with other people.” Yubel’s lip curled for a moment. “Not that I wanted to communicate with anyone but you.”

Juudai nodded, holding onto Yubel still. No matter what they said, he wasn’t going to absolve himself so easily. Then he lifted his head up and turned to where the Elemental Heroes stood.

“You all knew, didn’t you? About me? And about what I did back then?”

Featherman spoke. “Of course we did. We’ve been by your side almost as long as Yubel has. But why would we blame you for something that you did when you were pushed beyond coherent rage?”

“And why do you think that Elemental Heroes can take on so many different fusion forms in the first place?” Sparkman asked. “We resonate to you as much as the Neo-Spacians do, Juudai. Our fusions reflect what’s in your heart. That means we understand what it can be like when things like that happen. And like what happened in Dark World.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of your power or what you can do with it. Control is all you need, and you’ve been working on that,” Burst Lady told him. “You’re much better about it, too.”

Juudai eased back down into Yubel’s arms. “I don’t deserve all of you.” Nor did he deserve Johan, who’d risked so much to try to help him even when Juudai wouldn’t listen to him.

“So, you were different because...”

“Because after a few thousand years of not having a proper body, of not being with you at all, and what Ancient Elf did severing my connection to you in the first place, I… wasn’t entirely sane at the time, even before the Light itself got hold of me.” Yubel’s fingers tightened for a heartbeat. “I think this time it intended that I make certain you couldn’t fight back against it, instead of trying to take us both out at the same time.”

Juudai shuddered at how close the plan had come to working, both times. If it hadn’t been for Johan’s arrival, then they both would’ve been sacrificed to the Light. And this time, if it hadn’t been for him getting his memories back…

“I really should do something nice for Johan,” he murmured, starting to feel weary all over again. That had not been a restful nap.

Then he recalled Rune, and realized that he’d seen him before: in this lifetime.

“Yubel… that guy in Dark World. The one that I met before I fought Zure.” He winced at the thought of all else that happened then, before forging onward. “That was Rune, wasn’t it? The guy who was Johan’s twin the first time.”

“And still is now. He’s in Dark World somewhere, I presume. That’s where I sent him, anyway.”

Juudai whipped his head around to stare at her again. “You saved him?”

“I saved everyone you cared about. You cared about him, even for those few moments, didn’t you?”

He could not say he didn’t. He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but perhaps some vague memory recalled Johan’s twin brother. Then he sat up even more.

“Come on. I’m going to find him and he and Johan are going to get a family reunion!”

He stood up, all weariness falling away, and reached for Yubel’s hand. Then he leaned up and forwards to kiss her. “I really am sorry.” He would spend all of time making it up to Yubel if he had to. And to Johan as well.

Yubel returned the kiss, with interest. “You’re forgiven.” As simple as two words and his heart sang for joy, and he carried them away into the shadows to find a brother.

The End

Notes: And that's it. Though there will be other tales that involve Juudai and Yubel and Johan and maybe Rune.

[rex101111]

She Is The Moonlight, Shining Down On Me, Chapter 1

BOY DID THIS TAKE A WHILE.

Hey guys! This is a bit different than my usual fair, in that I actually planned this out and had a beta! That’s right. @imbeccablee​ actually sat down with me and pointed out all the tiny little mistakes in grammar (of which there were over a couple dozen), tenses misplaced (all of them), and in general helped me clean this up and make it much better than it would have been otherwise. So you really have her to thank for how good this is!

Anyway this is a fantasy AU inspired by one post from a few weeks back calling Miruko a moon goddess. Literally that’s it, hope you enjoy it! I got some GOOD STUFF planned for down the line ;D

Princess Fuyumi's kingdom is burning.

That's the nightmare she'd been waking up from for weeks now, the sight of her home crumbling and her people screaming at her to help them. Their faces swirling into ash and fire before she would bolt up in bed, her hair plastered to her brow with sweat and her heart pounding.

Every few days it would come to her again, the fires burning bright and the screaming louder, the last time it happened she swore she could smell smoke. She manages to keep it from her brothers and father, washing her face with ice cold water and having her handmaidens put an extra layer of makeup to hide the growing bags under her eyes.

Though they do not miss her requesting more and more patrols on their borders, nor the way she furtively looks out windows looking for war banners on the horizon. Her dreams are glad to provide her with all the ways her kingdom would burn, but fall smugly silent whenever she tries to see the enemy that will light the torches.

She refuses to let that hinder her responsibilities; still she goes out to the people near the castle grounds, still she takes a tour of the knights training, still she keeps up her visits to her mother and her tutoring of her younger brother.

She feels foolish, allowing a nightmare, even a reoccurring one, to haunt her as it is, but every time she takes a moment to catch her breath, the sound of fire and screaming invades again.

Old wise women speak highly of dreams, of how they are messages from the gods above, signs to prepare and pray and hope for aid, and nightmares as omens of impending doom.

Fuyumi grew up on tales of gods and heroes, same as almost any child growing up under the light of the sun, tales of the unparalleled strength of the mighty king of gods and his once mortal wife, legends of the god of wind flying with his mighty red wings, and myths of the moon goddess with beauty unmatched and courage unrivaled.

She heard stories of demons too, creeping things of mangled flesh and rotten souls, things told to children to make them behave and go to bed on time.

Before she thought legends were just that and nothing more, that there was no king of gods, that the moon was not some heroic maiden, and that demons did not hide under her bed to make sure she didn't sneak off to the library after her parents had retired for the evening.

(At least she never saw any when she did, perhaps the space under her bed was too small, perhaps demons had bigger things to plan…)

She thought that up until soldiers came back from their western border, barely twenty men injured and limping that used to belong to a battalion of some of her father's most elite guard.

They whimper of monsters encroaching in the capitol, twisted shadows riding during the fall of night with their sights set on the lives of everyone they come across. Panic sweeps across the city, people abandoning their homes to run, knights being drilled night and day with no breaks, her father spending every second of waking planning and strategizing with his advisers.

She overhears them speaking of plans to spirit her and her siblings away to a neighboring kingdom, to fulfil the promised union between her youngest brother and the only daughter of king Yaoyorozu a full decade early, to cut Shouto's childhood tragically short, to put her so impossibly far away from her mother.

Her nightmares worsen. Now shadows lick at the walls of her home along with fire, and the shadows have jagged teeth and rotten flesh like all her forgotten childhood memories. She stays in the fire longer, long enough to see the walls of the city crumble and the shadows rushing forth to devour all she holds dear.

And right before she wakes up, she would look up at the sky, and see the moon.

Glowing a brilliant ivory, it's shine blinding the stars, looking down at her as if it is waiting for something.

Waiting for a prayer.

Gods descending from on high to save mortals in their times of greatest need, that was another one she heard frequently. Is that what the moon wanted from her, a request for aid? A hope and a wish for her family to be saved? Is that all she needed to do? Simply ask?

But nothing is ever simple with gods, the tales where they rescued kingdoms and kings never ended there, there was always a catch. Gods do nothing for free. Prices were steep, deals set in stone and enforced with blood.

If the lives of thousands hung in the balance, what could her kingdom possibly offer the moon in exchange?

She didn't have long to wonder, her worsened nightmares only had three days to fray her nerves before the omen came creeping over the horizon.

It is late at night, a full moon hanging in the middle of the sky, just low enough for Fuyumi to see it from her window as she packs her bags. The monsters are closer now, far too close for comfort as far her father saw it, and so her and her two brothers would pack light, dress like commoners, and flee before the hell nipping at their heels closes its teeth around their feet.

She's nearly done packing her things, her hands shaking and her heart heavy, eyes glued to the bright moon outside her window as her mind got pulled in a hundred different directions. Would King Yaoyorozu be faithful to his promise? Would Shouto be able to handle that responsibility so soon? What would become of Natsuo in all of this? Would he be stubborn and try and stay and fight?

Will she ever see her mother again?

Fuyumi's kingdom may be strong but her house is a broken one, one brother dead, the other endlessly angry, and the last scarred and destined to be bargained off. And she herself lost in the middle, reaching out to them and their father to try and salvage what she could of her family.

It's what defined her, she kept busy to keep herself sane, doing a million things a day so her mind wouldn't wander down dead ends. But now she's limited in what she can do, only pack her bags and keep her guard up; her family will be forever torn to pieces and there is nothing she can do about it besides hope that whatever is left of it will not slip through her fingers. And perhaps for some divine salvation.

"What would it cost?" She whispers as she closes her travel case and stares at the moon through her window one last time, "What do I need to give to save my home, my kingdom, my family?" She bites her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, feeling sick to her stomach, "Please, tell me what I need to do."

The moon simply shines down quietly among the stars, refusing to answer so easily.

She's on the verge of getting on her knees and praying when Shouto bursts through her doors in a panic, his usually stoic face shivering and eyes wide with alarm. He grips the door frame with whitening knuckles as he breathes heavily, "Fuyumi, you need to come with me, now."

She's flat footed, so suddenly torn from her thoughts and shocked at the face her brother was making, "S-Shouto what are you-"

He grabs her hand and begins yanking her out of her room hurriedly, his steps harsh against the marble floor as he quickly stomps towards a tower on a higher floor of the castle, overlooking the city and the hills outside the gates.

"Shouto! What is going on?!"

"We were too late."

She feels her stomach sink through the floor, hoping against hope that she is sleeping, simply tossing and turning in her bed as her mind ties itself in knots over childhood nightmares.

Shouto squeezes her hand, one of his nails digging slightly into the skin of her palm making her wince in pain.

Awake now, fully and completely, Fuyumi Todoroki, beloved princess of the Endeavour kingdom, watches a hoard of snarling shadows crest the horizon of a hill. Her brother says something, something about calling the army back, calling Natsuo or their father, to do what she isn't sure.

She turns to him, sees him full of panic and alarm, and she feels a familiar strength raise in her, a strength she only found when he came to her late at night because of nightmares. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently and keeping her gaze locked with his, and said, "Everything is going to be okay." The words come out with no real conviction, but it is simply the only thing an older sibling can say when the world is ending, "Shouto, find Natsuo and father, it will still take them about half an hour to reach the walls, and our walls are strong, do you remember how strong they are Shouto?"

He looks aside at the gathering hoard, but she puts her hand on his chin and pulls his eyes back to her, her grip firm until he starts talking, "…As strong as a mountain," He recites from memory, a thing she had him remember whenever he had nightmares like her own, "our walls reach to the sky…" There is barely conviction in his voice, but the tremble subsides for the moment as he takes a breath, "Fuyumi…"

"Natsuo and father," She repeats firmly, the soft smile on her face thin as paper, "go to them and have them evacuate as many of the people as they can, I'll do the same and be waiting for you all by the back exit of the city." She lets go and leans away, and she can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe her at all. She swallows back the bile in the back of her throat and forces her smile again, so weak she isn’t surprised her little brother can see right through it, "I'll come find you once things calm, now go."

Shouto could be oblivious, bless his soul. He says his piece and takes situations as they appear, no more and no less. More than once she and his other tutors had to hold back a groan when he ignored court niceties and continued on as if nothing happened. But he is no fool; no, the crown prince is still a sharp young man, and when you lay the pieces before him he is very capable of putting them together.

Which is why his stricken face doesn't surprise her. She expects him to object, to grab her by the wrist and drag her to father so they can all flee together, but she stares him down and he folds. He grits his teeth regardless, "I will see you at the back entrance." He says stubbornly, almost petulantly, but she simply keeps smiling. "Promise me."

Lying always leaves a poor taste in her mouth, but she has grown used to ignoring it to keep her family happy and advisors appeased, "I promise." Her words feel weightless as she says them, and again Shouto seems to know, but he nods and turns to run to the throne room, leaving her on the wall alone.

She turns away from his shrinking form to walk to the rim of the wall and stare out at the horizon again, the mass of shadows growing steadily bigger, the sounds of gnashing teeth and scraping claws slowly gaining volume.

She reaches into her jacket, and pulls out a small knife. It's unassuming in every respect; a simple wooden handle, a simple iron blade, but it's adequate in doing what every blade needed to do and that is all that will ever be required of it.

It's an old blade, given to her ages ago by Natsuo a few weeks after her mother was sent away. She never really knew what he expected her to do with it, she never so much as threw a punch by the time he gave it to her, but it was a gift from her brother regardless, so she sharpened it and polished it and kept it clean merely on principle.

She never had to fight anyone, never had to defend herself or her loved ones outside of a throne room or courthouse, but still the knife remains near her, more as a reminder of what she had to protect than a weapon she ever intended to use.

It has a use now, but still not what Natsuo probably thought it would be, at least not for now.

Every part of her reoccurring nightmares is creeping towards the city, every sinking feeling she's had for the past few weeks is going to be proven true within the hour. But there is one part she has yet to figure out, the shadows and the flames and death she has already puzzled out.

Only the moon remains.

A beacon in the night sky, a light house in a sea of stars, only its purpose remains vague to her. But she does have an idea, an idea born from dusty old tomes that she read ages ago when she still believed in fairy tales and legends.

In those legends the gods saved mortals from danger as often as they damned them for their hubris and disloyalty. More than once she read of the heavens parting and a gracious figure resolving a trouble far beyond mortal ken. But never for free, never without a price, never without a demand.

A deal is always needed; a god does not leave their perch in the clouds without reason. Fuyumi supposes that is fair enough. How many screamed at the gods to save them from disaster, betrayal and death? How many of those prayers and pleas went unanswered?

…They always answer in the legends though, every myth is about when a true believer was rewarded, every legend, every fairy tale, every old story she read is about a time the gods showed some measure of benevolence.

She's now in her own little myth it seems a kingdom long plagued by a severe king and his broken family, soon beset by a hoard of monsters, only to be saved by an act of sacrifice. Or at least, hopefully saved.

And she's ready to sacrifice anything.

She looks up at the moon, the shadow across its face (some call it a man but she only ever saw a rabbit) unmoving as clouds pass it. She squares her jaw, unsheathes her knife, and grips the naked blade in her bare hand. "Please save my kingdom."

The glow of the moon remains silent, so she grips the blade with more force, a sting and a pearl of blood quickly following.

"Please, save my kingdom, my people, my family!" She grips the blade harder, more and more blood trickling out. "I'll do anything! Give you anything! It doesn't matter what you ask of me! It doesn't matter what you demand! I'll give it! I'll give you all I am worth!" Tears start flowing down her face, the sounds of the demons howling and snarling barely half a mile away, "Please! Help us!"

She bleeds, and cries and pleads, but the moon says nothing.

Her blood forms a small pool at her feet, staining her shoes and beginning to soak her socks. Her tears turn to sobs as she lowers her head from the moon in the sky to look down at the pool she formed to see her own despairing face, the drops flowing down her cheeks and into the crimson blood on the floor, disturbing the mirror image of the moon reflected in it.  

The ripples her tears kicked up slowly die, and the shadow of the rabbit on the moon blinks.

She freezes at the sight of it, her grip on the blade of the knife easing off as she stares at the reflection in the pool. Just as she's sure she imagined it, the head of the rabbit moves, moves to look at her directly, blinking with eyes of pure starlight.

She looks up slowly, her heart picking up speed as she tries to grasp what is happening. When her eyes reach the true moon in the sky she sees it is no illusion dreamt up by blood loss and desperation. Indeed, the rabbit on the moon is looking at her, looking directly at her even though it is a million miles away.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but words fail her, her mind simply cannot reconcile what it is seeing with the reality she knows. Myths and legends are for children needing a good night's sleep, and yet here she is, staring up at an image she never even saw in paintings.

She fails at her words long enough for something even more impossible to happen. The rabbit on the moon glows, its obsidian body shimmering a brilliant silver. The glow grows brighter and brighter, so much she has to shield her eyes from it, and in the distance she hears the demonic hoard reel back in alarm and pain.

She dares to open her eyes to the blinding light just in time to see the rabbit leap out of the moon, to see it transform into a ray of pure ivory light and race across the sky towards her. Some deep seated panic raises in her chest and she takes a step back, but before she could back away further the light lands on the wall she had been leaning against a second before in a blast of air that knocks her off her feet and onto her backside. The knife clatters out of her hand, and the light kicks up a cloud of dust as it lands that made her close her eyes

When she opens her eyes again, she is met with the most striking sight she has ever seen.

A woman stands on the wall, surrounded by an aura of ivory light. Her stance is confident and proud, one foot planted on the ground while the other curled up, her skin a brilliant bronze shining in the star light. She's dressed in a silver garment that hugged her figure, showing off curves that makes Fuyumi blush like a teenager whenever her eyes rest on one spot for too long.

A golden crescent moon adorns her chest, the garment leaving her arms completely bare, displaying an ample amount of muscle, and her legs are covered in a shimmering black silken fabric that seems to merge into her skin and hide nothing of the sculpted build of her lower body. Her feet are long, furred, and padded like a rabbit's.

Her most striking features, however, are further up. A pair of cotton white rabbit ears where human should be, with silver hair flowing down her back and passed her hips, eyes whose shade matches the crimson blood she spilt to summon her, and a smile, full of gleaming teeth, sharp like a wolf looking at an especially tasty morsel.

Fuyumi could recognize her anywhere, her visage adorning temple walls all around the continent, her likeness and deeds immortalized in countless books and endless folk tales.

In front of her is the brilliant Moon Goddess Miruko, she who challenged the sun, the bravest warrior of the heavens, tales of courage and brutality following her in equal measure. The unbeatable, merciless, unstoppable Miruko.

She is beautiful.

She is terrifying.

She is walking towards her.

Her steps are dew drops on the grass, not a sound is made as she draws closer to the princess, her razor sharp smile unmoving. Fuyumi's heart speeds up more and more with every step, the pain in her palm ignored as every nerve in her body is focused on making sure no movement the goddess makes is missed.

Soon she is above her, her strong figure casting a shadow over her as her smile shines with starlight.

The first sound she hears the goddess make is a deep throated chuckle, making her bones tremble and her heartbeat skip, before at last Miruko speaks, "Anything?" Her voice is strong and clear, cutting through the air like a moon beam, "Is that what you're offering me, Princess, anything?"

The way she said Princess makes something curl up and burn in the pit of Fuyumi's stomach, a hint of amusement at her predicament that doesn't sit well with her at all. But she swallows her sudden indignation with practiced ease born from a lifetime of royal matters and nods gravely, putting pressure on the wound she made in her hand with Natsuo's knife, "Yes my lady, I offer you all I can give, if you would save my kingdom…I will pay any price you wish to name."

Her smile turns sharper, the sight of it nearly enough stop Fuyumi's heart, and then she laughs, the sound echoing deep into the night and reaching the hoard of demons now knocking on her city's gates. "So brave! Been a while since I even heard of a mortal ready to throw everything away like this, so noble! So selfless!" She continues to laugh, the sound harsh but honest; there is no mockery in her for the Princess it seems, only condescension, "What else am I to do but answer in kind? I think I like you, Princess, so I'll take you up on that offer."

She turns away, Fuyumi suddenly able to breathe now that the weight of those crimson eyes is absent, and begins walking back to the edge of the wall, the sounds of demons banging on the steel gates increasing in volume. Somewhere to her left, she can vaguely hear the sounds of hurried footsteps getting closer.

The goddess jumps up on the rim, the muscles of her legs tensing under the fabric, her shoulder bunching up to gather force as she moved her weight to the tip of her toes. Looking at her from behind Fuyumi could see a small ball of fluff under the small of the goddess' back, a rabbit tail to complete her image.

Of all the things that she has seen so far, to see a goddess with a smile like a drawn blade and legs strong enough to crush a boulder sporting a bunny tail is nearly too much, and so, nearly hysterical at this point, Fuyumi can't help but crack a tiny smile and giggle softly at the sight of it.

One of Miruko's ears twitches and she looks back, just quick enough to see Fuyumi's smile before the Princess nearly swallows her tongue in fright. To her surprise the goddess apparently isn't insulted, instead flashing her sharp smile again with a low chuckle, "Oh, you and I are going to get along just fine, Princess."

Fuyumi barely has a moment to ponder what Miruko means by that, the smile promising something she feels she's wholly unprepared for, before the sounds of footsteps finally reach the both of them. She turns to see her brothers and father standing flabbergasted as they stare at her and the radiant figure standing on the wall.

Her father is the first to gain his bearing, stomping forward past his sons with a stiffness in his shoulders. "Fuyumi!" He bellows, stealing furtive glances at Miruko as he looks down at his daughter and her bleeding hand, "What is the meaning of this? What have you done?"

"She saved your asses is what she did, jackass." Miruko laughs with a snort, "While you chicken-shits were shaking in your boots, she came up here and actually called for help from someone who can actually do something."

The whole crowd turns to her as one, Fuyumi feeling her face heat up at hearing a goddess speak such foul language, her father's chest puffed out almost on reflex, "Who are you to speak to me like this? What is-"

"Father!" She shouts at him, finally getting back on her feet, panic surging some power to her core, "Calm yourself! This is the moon goddess!"

She can hear Shouto gape and Natsuo chocking on his spit, but her father's reaction is what captures her attention. Some deep dread flickers across his face, a mix of wounded pride and disbelief flashing in his eyes before he grits his teeth and his signature glare places itself on his features again.

"She's-" He sounds choked, like he can scarcely believe his ears, looking between his daughter and Miruko at a loss, "That-that can't be!" The screech of bending metal sounds from the direction of the city gate, howls and screaming beginning to ring in the air. His face twists in a furious scowl, bending down and screaming at her, "Fuyumi forget that, what are you still doing here?! You should have left the city ages ago! You and your brothers could die if you delay them any longer! There's nothing for you to do here! This isn't one of your damn fairy tales!"

"On the contrary!" Miruko exclaims, suddenly between of the irate king and the panicking Princess in a flash of moonlight, "It’s a brand new legend your Majesty." Despite barely reaching his chin, the broad shouldered king can only take a step back from the goddess as she speaks down to him, "Years from now, future generation are gonna be telling the tale of how the valorous moon goddess descended from on high to defeat a hoard of ravenous demons about to kill a thousand innocent people."

She takes easy steps, almost casual in her gait, while the king nearly scrambles back from her whenever she got too close, her aura of light burning bright with each word she speaks until it nearly hurt to look at. Eventually the king is with his back to the wall, and far away from Fuyumi, his anger wilting in the face of uncompromising divinity.

"…Of course, they'll only do that if you get out of my way." Miruko's voice echoes through the crowd, the sound reverberating near the end as Enji takes careful steps aside from the goddess' path. Miruko turns her head to follow the king, Fuyumi catching a glimpse of a glow in her eye when she did, before the goddess scoffs, "Good job, your highness."

She can practically hear her father grinding his teeth from where she's standing, but her father does nothing more rebellious than clenching his fists and glaring with all his might at Miruko, the act being repaid with a smug, unaffected grin.

"Now," The goddess rolls her shoulders idly, hopping back up on the rim of the wall facing the quickly deteriorating city gate, "What was I doing?" She looks back at Fuyumi with a smirk, one hand on her hip, "Well Princess? Does your offer still stand after all of that?" She points at her fuming father, who says nothing in return.

After a moment of catching her breath and exchanging a quick glance with her brothers, who are stunned silent this entire time, utterly at a loss at what to do, she wraps her still bleeding palm in the fabric of her cloak, "Yes, it does, if you will save us from these demons…I will honor it."

Natsuo speaks up at last, the sight of her wounded hand stirring him into action, "Fuyumi, what happened to your hand?" He stops, his breath hitching, before he throws a glare at Miruko, his hand reaching for his sword, "What did you do to my sister!?"

"Natsuo don't!"

His sword flies out of its scabbard and he runs towards Miruko, lifting his weapon into the air with a savage cry. He swings his blade down with all his strength, blood in his eyes, but just before the blade meets its target, the goddess catches it between two fingers. It stops dead, like it's embedded in stone, and refuses to budge no matter how much Natsuo tries to pull it free.

"Seriously kid?" The goddess smirks, a tone of amusement in her voice, like a lioness being challenged by a mouse, as she casually moves the weapon in her grip from side to side like a blade of grass. Natsuo is pulled along with it like he weighs nothing. "I came here to kill demons, not waste my time with royals who have a death wish." She pulls the sword closer with a laugh so she and Natsuo are nose to nose, her brother ceasing his struggle out of shock. "I didn't touch her, Princess over there did that to herself."

"She-what?" Natsuo pulls his head away from her to look between Miruko and his sister in confusion, "Fuyumi why-why would you do that?"

"To prove she was ready to make a deal," Miruko answers for her, letting Natsuo go with a toss before turning back around to the hills outside the wall once more, leaving him to nurse his aching wrists, "that she was ready to pay any price I care to name so long as I take care of your little demon problem."

Shouto finally comes to his senses, rushing over to Fuyumi while ripping his shirt to make a bandage for her hand, "Fuyumi…" He mutters as he wrapped her bleeding palm, "How did you know that would work?"

She didn't, but she doesn't say it out loud; she can't tell her little brother that little plea of hers was born of overwhelming desperation, he deserves a sister stronger than that. As he finishes wrapping her wound, she looks at the back of the goddess as she looks out at the demons, clenching her muscles.

"And since she gave me her word, I intend to keep my end of this little bargain." She clenches her fists, crouches, and looks back one more time, straight into Fuyumi's eyes, the look conjuring something between dread and hope in her stomach, "Be right back, Princess."

With a flash of light and a jump that shattered the stonework she was standing on, she flies into the sky, whirling in the air for a quick moment before she races towards the outside of the city wall, crashing into the demon hoard with whoop of victory.

The sounds of demons attempting to break down the iron gates halt almost at once. After a brief moment where they are apparently stunned at the appearance of a god, they howl as one with a war cry and advance away from the city. The goddess is the bigger target, her glow visible even above the high walls of the city.

Very soon, the roars of violence are replaced with cries of horror and panic.

Fuyumi can feel the impact of every blow Miruko struck all the way from the tower. Every crack of breaking bones and every sickening sound of flesh torn like paper. The demons, the very same monsters who had plagued her dreams for days on end, seem like ants fighting a forest fire.

Above the sounds of violence, the roars and howls of the goddess are the clearest. She mocks the demons like they were children as they are crushed under her blows, she screams her triumph with every earth shattering attack and never does she ever sound like she's even trying, much less in danger.

She is doing her part, just as she promised, and just as Fuyumi pleaded for her to do. She is every bit as amazing as the legends told, she flies and soars through her enemies with grace and ease. And she laughs too; her laughter is a war drum, echoing high above the battleground and making Fuyumi's ears ring and ache.

It is vicious, a bloody cackle to rival all the gnashing teeth of the shadows in her nightmares.

People begin flooding the streets, on their knees praying in thanks to whoever called the wrath of heaven down on the demons. She can hear, very faintly, the sound of a chorus of her people calling out to the gods, calling out for their savior's victory.

Fuyumi is frozen on the spot, her heart beating loudly in her ears. This is what she prayed for, what she begged for with every ounce of her being. It surpasses every hope she had, utterly dwarfs every childhood fairy tale of divine victory her mother ever told her.

She can imagine her, ripping apart the demons with a flourish, that same razor sharp grin adorning her features as she did. This is a goddess, every bit as awe inducing as she hoped and more so, it is almost too much to believe.

She should be relieved, her city is being saved, her people will no longer need to hide away in their homes, she has succeeded. But the longer the fight drags on, the more the goddess howls and laughs, the more doubt begins gnawing at the pit of her stomach. This is the one she has bargained with, this feral rabbit goddess cracking skulls and ripping flesh outside her city walls. She has promised her all she can give, all she has, and she is sure that she has nothing that can possibly satisfy someone who laughs louder than hell.   

But it's too late for regrets now. Fuyumi knows this well, knew it from the moment she had drawn her knife. She will not turn away from her fate now. She will look it in the eye with a proud heart and strong spirit, no matter who will deliver it.

Soon the sounds halt, the battle much shorter than Fuyumi ever hoped it would be, the last demon breathing their last breath at Miruko's hands. A moment later a light suddenly appears far above the battle, a round ball of ivory moon light that houses the silhouette of a powerful figure with rabbit ears. Fuyumi can hear people begin to cheer at the sight of it, many recognizing it from tales they heard when they were children much like she did.

Natsuo stares wide eyed at it, utterly taken aback by how thoroughly Miruko had vanquished a foe that had completely decimated their elite forces with so little effort. Shouto bites his lip quietly and looks at his sister from the corner of his eye, as if he can see past this display of victory.

Their father's face is empty of expression as he stares at the goddess as she takes in the praise, but his fists are shaking quietly at his side. He turns fully away from the light and walks to the opposite rim of the wall, showing nothing but his back as he leans heavily on the stones with a sigh.

Fuyumi can only focus on her people, happy and alive.

The feeling of dread and fear that had gripped her beloved city vanishes in an instant as the sight of the moon goddess triumphant above the demons glowed in the sky. Fuyumi smiles at the sound of them giving praise, the sight of men, women and children standing in the street and on their roofs to cheer Miruko.

This happiness, this small moment of relief and peace, if that is all she will accomplish with this choice, then she will be content with it.

The light floats there motionless for a moment, as if to fully soak in the praise the people shout and cheer. If Fuyumi strains her eyes, she can barely see the figure, Miruko, crossing her arms with a grin.

And then the goddess turns back to the princess, and Fuyumi straightens her spine at the sight of it, taking in a deep breath to steel herself for her part of the deal. She puts a hand Shouto's shoulder, giving him the same paper thin smile from when she told him to leave her on the wall, before slowly stepping towards the light as it began to race back to her.

Within a moment, the goddess is in front of her again, her silver hair in disarray from the fight, her smile feral with adrenalin, but otherwise completely untouched and unharmed, the breeze high in the air apparently doing the most damage to her out of anything else that night.

"Woah!" She cries out in delight, all her teeth on display as she laughs lowly and catches her breath, "Man, those guys were angry! Haven't had this much fun fighting demons in centuries!" She smooths her hair down with a hand and lets out a breath, her wild grin shrinking into a more controlled smile as she looks back at Fuyumi, "Well then, I did as you asked, Princess, you know what that means, right?"

She nods quietly, trying to stop her mind from racing to a conclusion as to what the goddess might possibly ask in return for her help, "Yes, my lady, you saved my beloved subjects, my family, and so I stand to honor our deal, please," she bows deeply at the waist, her eyes closed to stop the tears from flowing out, "name your price."

Gods ask for many things, riches from kingdoms, children from heroes, complete devotion from priests, and everything in between from everyone else. She does not know what she will need to give to Miruko, but she offered all that she could give, and so the goddess can only ask for what Fuyumi has in her power to bestow.

If her father had somehow been convinced to swallow his pride and ask for help from the heavens, the entire kingdom could have been the price demanded. Her brothers might be forced to give up their futures for one dictated by a god.

But her? The Princess of the Endeavor Kingdom? She who snubbed countless offers of marriage to princes and heroes alike? The one with her nose stuck in books since she was six? The teacher, the quiet sister, the smiling face in the public square feeding birds and talking to the merchants about the little goings on in the capitol?

She has nothing for the goddess to take, not really. All her money is from the royal treasury, she has no power despite what people believe her to possess, she has precious few things that she holds dear and has the authority to give away.

Her diary, her flowers, a toy bird her mother gave her when she was an infant.

Nothing of the sort a goddess would demand, nothing that equals the value of a deal that saved tens of thousands of people. No, the goddess can take nothing from her kingdom, nothing from her family, nothing from her people, the only thing she can take from Fuyumi is something she was always willing to give for the happiness and safety of her family.

The only thing the goddess can possibly ask for is Fuyumi's life, and that she was ready to surrender from the moment she looked up at the moon and cut a blade across her palm.

But she forgot one thing about gods, they never acted as they should, never as mortals thought they would, so when Miruko puts a gentle hand on Fuyumi's chin to lift her eyes, meeting the goddess' gaze as she kneels before her with a pleased smile, what she demands next comes as a complete shock.

"Princess Fuyumi, eldest daughter of King Enji Todoroki," Her smile becomes a grin again as she declares confidently, all her teeth gleaming with starlight, "You requested a deal between gods, and so you have declared you are prepared to pay me my due."

So far, it was all as Fuyumi expected it to be, excepting the rather distracting finger on her chin, but something in her gut is telling her that things are taking a turn, the only thing she can do is nod quietly to Miruko's words and await her demand.

The goddess draws closer, until their noses touch and all Fuyumi can see is the crimson sky in her eyes, "Fuyumi Todoroki, my price is thus;" The Princess holds her breath almost painfully, wishing for her to simply take her life and get it over with- "You are to come with me to the heavens, to spend eternity with me, as my bride."

A stunned silence drops on the crowd like an anvil, Fuyumi finding it impossible to breathe all of a sudden. She can feel the blood leaving her face, and in her surprise she was absolutely sure she had misheard, but the goddess goes on, heedless of the fear and terror no doubt building on the Princess' face.

"To repay me for saving your kingdom, my demand is this," Her grin grows feral again, and this time Fuyumi does not shrink away, "I want you to give me your heart." 

[timcurlyshepard]

Can you do one of who everyone would be as Greek heroes?

(not all of these are necessarily Greek heroes in the sense that they would have been considered so by antiquity standards, but they are prominent mortal[ish] Greek figures)

(Also I included Cherry this time)

Darry

Hercules/Heracles. The Superman of Ancient Greece if you will. Hercules has a life plagued by tragedy (dying multiple times, making his way through the underworld, being driven mad and forced to kill his own wife and children). His life is not as happy story as the Disney movie made it out to be. This feels like a version of Darry to me because he seems to have all the capabilities of having a good life, intelligence, strength, support, but it inevitably goes terribly wrong and his life turns out like nothing you would have expected through a series of unfortunate events.

Ponyboy

Cassandra. An Oracle in Ancient Greece (having the ability to see the future) but cursed by Apollo so that no one would ever believe her. She is often seen as the archetype of someone being dismissed and ignored by others when they are right and know best. She warned the Trojans of the attack coming from the Trojan Horse but went ignored. I think that Pony often feels dismissing and ignored because of his youth and place in his family and the gang. He would relate very easily to the story of Cassandra (which has a very tragic ending).

Soda

Helen. Helen is famously the cause of the Trojan war. She falls in love with Paris and ditches her husband, Menelaus, to run off with him. She’s a young girl who’s willing to sacrifice literally everything for love. This reads like Soda to me, quick to fall completely in love and damning the consequences.

Steve

Odysseus. Clever, cunning, and brash. Odysseus is the one who famously came up with the ploy of the Trojan Horse, which very much feels like a Steve idea to me. He’s a quite a bit hypocritical at times (expecting Penelope to remain faithful while he’s off getting hot and heavy with every woman he meets) which feels like it could also be a weakness of Steve’s (not the cheating, the hypocritical attitude at times).

Dallas

Achilles. Achilles is strong and bold, but he has weaknesses, and not just in his heal. One of the most memorable scenes of Achilles during the Iliad is a display of his infamous temper; dragging the dead body of Hector, who had slain his beloved Patroclus, through the streetsof Troy. This figure radiates Dallas for me because he is known for his fighting prowess, but he is also rash and quick to anger, especially when someone he loves is at stake.

Johnny

Patroclus. The other half of Dallas’ Achilles. Patroclus dies dressed as Achilles, attempting to defend his men against the Trojan army. He is self sacrificing and is the catalyst to the death of Achilles and Hector in the Iliad. I mean come on, this is Johnny. Hinton might have just read the Iliad and gone ‘yeah we’re just gonna use that guy and give him a new name’.

Two Bit

Pandora. The first woman ever created. And considered to be downfall of mankind (think Eve in Christianity). Pandora famously opened a box that she was not supposed to because she had been cursed with an uncontrollable curiosity. Said box released all the horrors of the world (war, hunger, the pain of childbirth, death, etc etc). She was doomed though, because the box was a trap, meant to entice her. For me, Two Bit also has this sense of curiosity and an inability to control his actions at times. He doesn’t always think before he acts, much like Pandora.

Tim

Medea. Medea is the real hero in the tale of Jason and the Argonaughts. She is the one who has magical abilities and intelligence and she captures the Golden Fleece for them. But she doesn’t get the credit she deserves, and after she married Jason he abandons her for another woman. She then has him killed. She is one of the few women in Ancient Greece that was seen as more powerful than a man, and in the end she gets away with the murders she commits. I think that this intelligence and violent revenge when wronged is like Tim. She’s cunning and is the leader of a group of hard headed guys, which Tim is as well.

Curly

Orpheus. Orpheus was a musician and favored by the god Hades. So, when his wife Eurydice dies he goes to Hades to beg for her back, and the god agrees on one condition: he may lead her out of the underworld, but while doing so he may not look back at her. But, of course, he is too tempted to see his beloved wife and turns back, causing her to vanish and return to the underworld. I think that this sort of foolish breaking of rules and suffering unwelcome consequences is a Curly move. It also is definitely like him to try and get around a clear instruction but fail in the process. He doesn’t always think things through and it will bite him in the ass later.

Angela

Clytemnestra. Clytemnestra is actually my favorite figure in Greek mythology. Here’s the short version: her husband is Agememnon (leader of the Greek army in the Trojan war) sacrifices her beloved daughter to the gods before leaving for battle (it was considered good luck to do so). She’s pissed, obviously, and murders him in a clever plot upon his return like 20 years later. I decided to make Angela her because she is vengeful, but for a good cause. She loves her child dearly and would do anything to avenge her, and in part to avenge herself. Angela has always read as the vengeful type to me (I mean just consider what she had her brothers do to Bryon) and I think she would be the type to hold anger for 20 years, especially over the killing of a family member.

Cherry

Alcestis. The rundown: Alcestis dies in place of her husband so that he may have immortality, it was supposed to be a gift to him by the God Apollo but turns out to be a curse because he loses his beloved wife. The thing that’s notable about this story is that it’s called the Alcestis and is centered around her, but she doesn’t have a single line in it. She is essentially the epitome of how men saw women in Ancient Greece (and today), sacrificial lambs that are meant to fuel their pain in stories but not actually have their own agency. Cherry reminds me of what I think Alcestis would have said and been like if it had been written by women in Greece. Frustrated with being used as a pawn and having her story boil down to what she offers men.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― II.ii. Behold, the Dawn

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The armies of the faithful purge the catacombs with fire. Serafine uses that light to discover the darkness hidden at the heart of their community.

[READ IT ON AO3]

This the chaotic dance with which he is all too familiar. This the slaughter of his kind — his kind, but not his people. They will never be his people. This the bloodshed that has consumed him, fueled him, ignited the flames of war at his heels ever since the Crusades.

All around him motions of life, motions of death; that he cannot even stand the briefest moment to appreciate the beauty of it is beautiful in itself.

Behind him; rusted metal coiling tight, creaking wood struggling to hold together, the sheen of sharpened blades scraping against one another as the bolt is drawn—loaded—fired.

Cynbel waits until the last possible second to catch the bolt before it sinks home in his heart. He would kiss it for luck had he the inkling — but he doesn’t need luck.

Metal-tipped crossbow bolts; fashioned tough and as tempestuous as to whom they belong. Designed to puncture even the finest of armors — meant for the enemy.

Because he wants to savor in the first of his victories for the night Cynbel makes sure to rip off the breastplate first. Casts it aside no better than maiden’s veils in what good it does the knight; in how effective it is in stopping his adversary from spearing him through with his own weapon.

The helmet goes next. Young eyes wide in panic and young lips stained with blood and spittle yet he feels nothing for this child on the cusp of manhood. Why would he? The butcher does not feel for his supper.

Cynbel smears his tongue flat and wet across the young man’s chin. Tastes the salt and fear in his blood brimming near to a boil and it makes him hard.

Though most of it is wasted — spills on flagstones beside the slick shine of oil. The color, though, is a welcome accent on his damned finery.

Victory runs red along his teeth and he pulls his hand free from the bled meat. Lets him collapse to the floor to join his blood. Unlikely that he’ll live unless the Knights have discovered a miraculous way to shove ones organs back inside their bellies.

But they are only as fun as they are alive. So he moves on to the next. The crossbow yields, splinters apart underfoot.

A high-pitched cry sounds to his right — Cynbel turns just in time to see the youngling from earlier, Marcel, launch himself with bared fangs and eyes that match the blood staining his coat at another Knight.

The Knight braces for a light impact, perhaps even to catch him mid-flight. But what collides is much heavier than they anticipated and the pair go flying across the ballroom.

The chaos is stifling. The smoke clinging to the Gothic ceilings is, too. A sign of fires raging somewhere in the distance and, knowing the Holy Knights, growing closer. Meant not to choke them but to burn them alive; to trap them in with the rest of the dead here.

Beautiful, rapturous carnage.

And it means nothing without them at his side.

Cynbel doesn’t have to call for them — his heart leads him bound and chained to where it belongs. To his lovers; to the reason all this has come to pass.

To Isseya — who rips a head clean from its neck helmet and all. Who stands in perfection among a growing pile of bodies of the dead and dying without a stain on her.

To Valdas — the thrill of the hunt ignited like the burning catacombs despite all of his past protests. Whose nails and frilled sleeves drip ichor where two hearts beat their last in his unyielding clutches.

The distance between them all ceases to exist when the Trinity look up — when they find one another in the fray. Fascinating; how the look of a lover can bend the very laws of reality like that.

As glorious as they look naked, he’s starting to prefer them drenched in the blood of their enemies. As if he didn’t already.

But any hope of union is quickly dashed at the echo of battle cries on hollow bones. As many Knights as have already been dealt with there are more on the way. More than he accounted for — but hindsight meant nothing to the dead.

Masques scatter the floor, the ashes of their owners kicked up in the frenzy. Cling to boot heels and skirt hems and catch on their tongues. The last wish of the fallen to be carried with the victors into battle.

No rest for the wicked — a new wave of clanging iron erupts and Knights pour in from all sides. Faceless foot soldiers frantic for fame. For the glory that comes with their oh-so-noble purpose of ridding the world of vampire kind one by one.

The Holy Sacred Knights of the Rising Dawn have come ready for war.

And war they shall receive.

Isseya dances aside, the breeze of a blade missing her just so. And hellion that she is the vampiress grabs the sword by the opposite end and wrenches it from its owner’s grasp — returns it to them generously and all the way to the hilt.

She kicks the fleshy sheath astray, shouts “Cynbel!” with barely restrained delight, and tosses him the weapon. Caught with the ease of a master of both the blade and her love given with it.

He decapitates the nearest Knight with his back turned.

It is a dance the guests know as well as—if not better than—the Prestige Waltz. One that consumed many of their mortal lives — and their mortality with it. And one that follows them now in death. With the collective experience and knowledge of the battlefield in this room alone how could the Knights even imagine victory?

“Seal the West! Let none flee!”

There was fleeing? Who would be foolish enough to flee from such decadent bloodshed?

Only when the words finally ring in his ears as more than another wail of death does Cynbel turn and see a huddle of vampires being led to safety by none other than Serafine herself.

Though blood has saturated the oil spilled it still ignites when a Knight tosses their torch to the ground. A towering blaze alighted that races in winding tendrils from one end of the hall to the other and claims two of the doorways.

He can feel the heat licking at his skin even from a distance. Watches the cries of shock, anguish; agony when those unfortunate souls trapped in the midst of escape are consumed in the threshold. The rest forced back.

Well that’s a new development.

By the time they realize the Knights plan to corral them inside the ballroom like a tomb it’s too late. It’s already happening.

Serafine directs those left to staunch the flames as best they can. Capes and cloaks and skirts torn carelessly to smother what they can. But that leaves them open — vulnerable. Three felled by one Knight alone in a cloud of ash.

And with no time to savor the victory; not when the Godmaker tears the human in two with his bare hands.

“Monsters! All of you!”

The sight is stunning enough to still Cynbel, momentarily taken aback, before a crack and the clatter of armor sends him staggering backwards to avoid being toppled by the dead Knight.

Valdas, glare now too close for comfort; something that makes him feel like a scolded child, joins him in standing over the fresh corpse.

“You seem to have underestimated your adversary, darling.” Says his god through gritted teeth.

“What,” so cocky, so certain, “not having any fun?”

He knows the anger is not for those who have been lost but for the overwhelming number surrounding them. For two of their exits blocked by fire and their chances of escaping before the fight is done now all but dashed.

With a grunt Valdas pulls them together; the kiss as nourishing as it is reassuring. Tongues tangled, tasting the blood of their enemies in each other’s mouths until only pleasure is left.

“I forbid you from dying tonight. Forbid you from denying me the satisfaction of punishing you for your arrogance.”

Oh the things that voice does to him. “Yes, divine one.”

“You choose now to fuck, of all times?!”

Both heads turn as Isseya spits a chunk of the enemy’s throat to her feet. Cynbel erupts in laughter, staggers when Valdas pushes him back and has to quickly gain balance before he trips over another body.

“Jealousy does not match your dress, beloved!”

“Nor desperation, yours!”

Even in the fray she is as sharp of tongue as she is of wit. In times like this it feels like the old days; where bloodshed and war are as common as regalia and waltzes.

Easier, then, to forget that they are not alone.

“We must retreat!”

“One step back, Westbrook, and I will take your head myself.”

“My love…”

“I will not abandon our people!”

A trio of their own; the Godmaker, his Bloodqueen, and the soldier. That they could even consider retreating in the middle of all this sours the blood on Cynbel’s tongue. But even he would be fool to deny this… this is more than he expected from the Knights.

Perhaps he may have miscalculated a bit.

“Gaius, mon cher! Everyone! Allez, viens!”

The sacrifices of the lessers have not been in vain. Flames staunched by cloak and foot, Serafine calls from the blackened doorway with soot in dark stains across her face and blood dripping from her red lips — the body fresh at her feet still twitching in vain.

A hand closes tight around his upper arm, makes Cynbel look back to see the stern face of his Maker resolute.

“If we run now, they win! This could all have been for nothing!”

“If we stay, it surely will be.”

But the decision is already made for him as Isseya speeds to their side and takes each of them in bloody hands. The look she gives him nothing less than frustrated desperation.

The memories it brings back haunt him still; nightmares like reliving the terrible past over and over again.

Ash grinds like glass against their foreheads come together; tastes harsh on her lips in the bruising intensity of her kiss. “You cannot control everything,” she echoes, far more important now than in the innocence of mere hours ago, “but you can control this.”

This. Their escape.

“Rragh!” He whips the sword in hand with blind fury. Watches it lodge itself in the stone and sink deep.

They comfort him because they know his choice. They know him; his mind for strategy, his acute sense for war. And they know he would never risk their lives for the sake of his war.

They already have him spirited away from the center of the carnage by the time he realizes his feet are moving.

A look back—only the bodies of the enemy remain before they, too, are consumed too bright in fire. Flames leaping from table to table, catching on long tapestries woven in recognition of a victory they assumed with naivete.

The ashes of their fallen mingle with burned wood. He watches until he can no longer; sees the dark shapes of those still left to pursue them begin to amass at the other end of the hall.

His victory — gone up in flames.

“We can lose them in the labyrinth!” cries Serafine from up ahead, where the voices of the desperate meet her; their shepherd.

They will have to. The rattling sound of armor-clad footsteps grows louder with every wasted moment. The acrid smell of burning oil curls his lips back.

Even in the flames Cynbel had nothing to fear. Not with his beloveds in his eye and at his side. But when the chaos becomes too much, when he feels their hands slip from his grasp, fear takes her opportunity and slips into the dual voids left behind.

No. No no nonono—

“Valdas! Valdas! Isseya!”

“Cynbel?!”

“Cynbel!”

The threat of breaking his neck — head whipping back and forth to see them hoarded down different passages — means nothing. Let it snap. Let him pass through this terrible loss unconscious; unaware.

Bring them back to him. Bring them back!

His height; a blessing and a curse — keeps them in his sights but he can do nothing through the throng of panicking survivors as they are each pushed in different directions. As they become just another movement in the mass of darkness.

Smoke burns at his eyes but he keeps them open for as long as he can. Knows the tears are not for his own pain but for the pain that comes when the cord that keeps them as one strains, frays, and threatens to snap.

“—sieur! Monsieur!”

High-pitched panic breaks through the thundering of his three hearts. Draws Cynbel down with a small pale hand to the face of a cherubim’s devil.

“Monsieur!” The child Marcel cries again, this time it works to bring him from his own pit of despair.

They are not dead yet.

“I cannot find him!” he wails, “I cannot find Banner!”

“Wh-Who?”

Tear-tracks break through the soot on his round cheeks and really, really he does not have the time for this. Yet as he looks around they are nearly alone — left behind in his panic to rip himself in two and carry each part of him to where his lovers now wander.

They will endure. They have always endured.

And should his pride, his hubris be the reason they are taken from him in this life then he would not hesitate to seek them swiftly in the next.

“Marcel, petit!” A familiar voice calls from the other end of the skull-lined corridor; turns both heads to where Serafine beckons them from around the curved path.

At the sight of her the young vampire’s eyes alight, a cry of “Serafine!” leaving wet on his lips as he rushes to her. Tugs Cynbel along with.

There is no ignoring the suspicion that clouds the woman’s face when they meet. Darkness in her eyes, on the downturn of her lips where blood dries and flakes around her mouth.

He doesn’t have to ask what makes her so. Their brief moments leading up to the climax of the night still hanging, unfinished, between them over the child’s head.

A thousand questions, accusations unspoken. Pushed aside by the urgency of the hour.

“They mean to seal us off in the crypts. We must find a place to surface.”

“Banner—Kamilah—Serafine I cannot find them!”

She gently pries his grip from her skirts and cradles the boy’s cheeks. “No doubt Gaius protects them both, petit. Come, we must go now.”

Were the boy not between them Cynbel isn’t certain Serafine would not have left him behind. Yet with both of their hands in his he now leads the charge with fervor.

The farther they run from the grand hall the less they should smell the blood and smoke. Or so reason would dictate.

But this is not a reasonable time for anyone trapped beneath Paris; alive or undead.

With every turn the smoke chokes them harder; grows blacker and more like a disease than the omens before it. The gaping eyes of the skulls that witness their escape seem to bear down on them larger and larger with every step. We see you, they say, we welcome you — whether you want it or not.

But this—this flight of theirs—goes against his very nature. He can only succumb to it for so long. And when they catch sight of gleaming silver armor at the end of the corridor, when Serafine pushes Marcel behind her with a cry for him to double back, to change their direction, it is no longer a nature he can deny.

“Go,” he snarls, and does not rush to meet them, “get him to safety. Yourself, as well.”

“As much as I am growing to desire your true death…”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Martyrdom does not suit you, Monsieur D’or.”

“I find too much pleasure in survival to be a suitable martyr.” He throws a look back her way; sees the resisted smile on her lips. Offers up one of his own…

“Go.”

They both know he hears the falter in her footsteps at the end of the passage. The rustle of her skirts as she turns to watch the collision between them. But there is no savoring this victory without them at his side — he can’t imagine even the thought of it.

The way he tears into them is animal. Cracks and crumbles the skeletal walls and leaves their bodies to rot, decay, and soon bloom new skulls to join them. Save the one he takes in hand and crushes with a wet noise between his palms.

What did she expect to see?

“You tackle them as one with experience.”

He blows a strand of hair from his eyes. “Mademoiselle, may you learn this lesson soon; experience is the only thing that separates the likes of us from those already dead.”

But even as he shoves her back the way they had come, he can feel the burn of her gaze. “The Knights and I have tangled before, yes. Their order changes names, locations, ranks; but they are always the same. Always with the same holy doctrine.”

He follows her turn — the scent of their companion caught but waning fast.

“The eradication of our kind.”

“Most ardently. Their resources are vast, those who line their coffers may not even know to what end their gold meets. I assume you know of the oh-so-charming King Coppernose.”

Serafine’s eyes widen. “Truly?”

“There was a reason he chose such a… publicly gruesome execution for dear Queen Boleyn.”

His left hand closes tight on instinct. Craven for the beloved that is not there. But just because he cannot see Isseya does not mean she is back beneath the sword. And only because it is here — only because she has seen his weakness firsthand, Cynbel allows himself a shuddering exhale. “The influence of the Knights at the height of their control of England. Though his death led to a division of funds and they turned their sights to Spain shortly after.”

Weak are they who gossip like follies in the midst of the chase. The silence that follows stretches out — but only their rustling footsteps fill their ears.

“You speak as if they have come close to —”

“Once —” —the acrid air burns through his nostrils; pain a startlingly useful motivator— “— and never again.”

With as much as humanity has changed in the past centuries it’s not unlikely someone of the Lady Dupont’s age has come across their persistent enemies. Maybe not in name, maybe not en masse, but somewhere along the line surely.

Cynbel, however, refuses to lie in wait for their inevitable collision. He seeks them out; has done to the protests of his beloveds for decades now. In England — now here in Paris.

“I would hardly be surprised if there was not an alliance among them—those feeble rulers. They’re so easily frightened of anything that might protest their power. Power they claim is theirs by divine right — the arrogance…

“And our very nature calls that divinity into question, does it not?” He waits for an answer but none comes. Fine with him. Valdas and Isseya — they’ve grown bored with his constant complaints of the Knights and their machinations. Fresh ears to help pass the time.

“And in that fear… came the numbers to bolster their forces. Masses desperate for something to believe in. For answers to reach out to them; a light in their dark, pitiful years.”

“A congregation for your sermon then…” she mutters under her breath, but luckily such things are easily ignored.

“What we lack in numbers our kind makes up for in strength. You saw the ballroom — you partook in it! Glorious battle, victory against the multitudes of dispensable faithful.”

“What victory is there in the losses we suffered?”

“No doubt their losses were far greater in number.”

“So callous, your regard for life.”

“Why would I care about a few meager vampires?” Cynbel’s grin is wry. “Especially those who were so easily struck down.”

The shape and breath of their masques meant nothing. They were always insignificant. Would always be so. Extinguished wicks in comparison to the holy flames of his god and beloved.

Serafine; only under his protection for the consequences possible. Proving herself less and less the more she fixates on the means rather than the end.

“I just don’t understand how they could have known…” says she eventually, and he sees the way the wheel turns in her mind even through the darkness of the smoke. “Do you think the Knights have one of our own held imprisoned?”

“Does it matter?”

“How else can we ensure this never happens again?”

“We leave as many bodies as we can. That tends to send a message.”

“Even to those as vengeful as the Knights?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer right away. A grave mistake on his part — one that skids Serafine to a halt. He continues—stops only because she is obviously familiar with Kamilah, because the Godmaker might find some way to punish his lovers should she perish.

“Unless your intention is to turn back and clear the rest of the righteous horde I suggest we keep moving.” Regarding the now soot-stained skulls near the ceiling with disdain; “Who knows how many of these passages have been sealed off — they’re learning.”

But she and he are of a similar ilk; Turned in those years when doing so was a rare honor, not the desperate means of procreation it had become. Such power did not underestimate easily, surely. One look at the blazing wit behind her eyes and he, too, would have been taken with the mere potential of her.

In another life perhaps.

“I am well-versed in the depths of the depravity of Les Trois Amants… but this…”

Which makes him have to choke back gagging on the guilt she tries to push at him in torrents. How could he do anything else? How could he have thought she would understand?

“Is now really the moment for this?”

“No — and the fault lies with you for it.”

“Your point?”

Her eyes widen. “Those dead — and those yet to die — they were unnecessary.”

“War is not war without casualty.”

“This so-called war is none but your o—!”

Her words end in breathless lungs and chipped bone fragments falling and catching in the finer embellishments of her dress. Such things tend to happen when one is shoved against a wall.

Fury brims forth — Cynbel’s strength holds her firm but there is no denying the tension coiling in the muscles of a huntress.

The crossbow bolt hisses through the smoggy air and sinks home in a different kind of dead; straight through the eye socket. Were he not facing her he isn’t sure he would have seen it coming, seen the glint of light reflecting on dirtied armor.

Utterly silent — but how?

Wordlessly the vampires agree for a stalemate in favor of their mutual enemies. They charge like a wall, crossbows cast aside for close-range swords and daggers. Yet they are fools — children playing with toys. Their feeble minds unable to comprehend the sheer number of years between their foes combined… how small they are in the grand design.

Their fall is nothing like their arrival. Noisy and impossible to ignore how they pile upon one another in the corridor’s confines. The dirt beneath their feet has seen too much blood already and refuses to take more; splatters their heels as the vampires continue their flight.

It is not enough to discuss war lest one forget the war never ends.

At the end of the passage they come upon a metal rod dug and rooted into the ground. A lantern hangs from a rusted hook; the candle inside dim and near close to consuming itself — no wick left to sustain it.

He watches as Serafine unlatches the lantern with interest. Sees the silent words on her lips as she runs her fingertips over the waxy bottom until they find whatever she was looking for. A set of grooves dug into the metal.

“Rue de la Mortellerie,” she says finally, as though it’s supposed to mean something to him, but her relief is explanation enough; “up ahead — no more than a hundred paces. Enfin, la liberté…”

Yet even with the tears brimming in her eyes—relief given form—there’s no mistaking the way she looks Cynbel up and down. Saving her life has, apparently, meant nothing. Thoughts once thought cannot be removed from the mind.

And were he in her position, were the tables turned and it was he mere strides from freedom with a dead weight behind…

No; there’s no question. He would strike her down without a second thought.

But perhaps he is lucky the lady is not as selfish as himself. That she waves him to follow with a rasped “Allez!” and gathers her skirts with dried blood flaking from underneath her nails and leads the way to freedom.

The least he can do is take the first steps from the lowly chapel basement into the freedom of the night to ensure the Knights aren’t there to meet them.

But the streets of Paris still slumber, still dream. When a noise sounds distant he stills, blends himself into the shadows and watches the lumbering journey of a mule and her master none the wiser that the world is burning beneath their very feet.

Cynbel ducks his head back inside. “All is clear.” And watches her as Serafine takes great care in sealing the entrance to their secret court with an entire coffin as guise.

As far as he is concerned their alliance ends there. Is already well into the fresh night, getting his bearings on the unfamiliar part of town she has led him to when she notices he no longer stands at her back.

“Arrêtez!”

Her cry stills him though likely not as she intends. His eyes flicking this way and that to reassure himself they are still alone.

“Louder, perhaps,” he snarls low, “I fear the remaining Knights may not have heard you, since you mean to lead them to us!”

“Such is not an unreasonable course of action, as I am quickly beginning to learn.”

If her intention is to get his full attention—it works. “What did you just say to me?”

“I am no fool.”

“A fool’s proclamation.”

“Remorseless even now…” He would be lying if he said this was the first time he has been looked upon with such disgust as Serafine does now. It drips from her every word, from the blood that stains her chin. “But you said so yourself. You take this as a victory — even in the wake of all that has been lost.”

The river must be close, he can hear the lapping of the current against the banks. Foul and putrid as ever but with it, faint but very much there, the smell of burning flesh.

Likely it will cling to Paris; her streets, her people, her dead, for years to come.

With a single step Cynbel crosses the distance he had tried to put between them. Cups her face in broad hands and tilts her up to the light of the nearest lantern. Beautiful now even more than below; the blood-red dress splattered on her cheeks and throat… lingering in her eyes…

“Let us dispense with these games Mademoiselle Dupont,” he croons close, breathes against her lips with a lover’s intimacy, “I abhor them so. I see it there—you think it hidden in your eyes but not as well as you would hope.

“You have a question as I have an answer. But… you cannot have one without the other.”

The same performance on a different stage. Still surrounded by the dead as they were in the crypts like no time had passed. Fulfilling, almost.

And with the knowledge that should she even attempt to wrench herself away the woman would only succeed in snapping her own neck.

But her hesitation is an insult. Cynbel tightens his hold; feels the scraping grind of her jawbones together like music to his ears.

“Paris is my home, my love; my life. Were the ranks of the faithful closing in on our people… I—I would have known.” Though it sounds awfully like she’s trying to remind herself rather than tell him. “I would have known if the Knights knew of the catacombs. I would have known.”

“Apparently not.”

“You brought them down upon us.”

“I did.”

“Upon your own kind.”

“A debate of philosophy for another time.”

And when she finally—finally—asks it is broken, strangled. The strength of her swept out in a single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Why?”

“Because he loves us as much as we love him.”

Serafine takes advantage of his immediate relief; pulls herself free. Maybe even means to flee, to find other survivors and maybe even the Godmaker himself to announce his deeds with violent condemnation.

But however fast she is Isseya is faster. Strikes down their hostess with the back of her hand and rides the high of conquest (that he gave her, though he doesn’t expect to hear thanks any time soon) with a well-placed foot.

Crack. Her lower leg shatters within. Her screams fill the air loud enough to wake — well, the dead.

Cynbel’s eyes flutter shut when he feels the familiar permanence at his back. Turns his head unbidden and offers his neck into the vice of Valdas’ grasp. Feels the familiar shape of Isseya’s body molding against his side and feels complete with it.

Serafine looks up at them through grit fangs and bloody spittle. Her eyes a torch ablaze on a stormy night; the passion—rage—fierce but flickering near-dead.

“You risked…” blood dribbling down her chin, “all our lives… Lives you do not know—the very existence of our kind here…”

“True enough.”

Everything — every death a debt paid, every fight a test — was worth it. For this.

For them.

“But your lives are a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

[viktoryarozetassicosplayco745]

acid reflux....

ick

[httpjeon]

[!] ANNOUNCEMENT

salutations foolish mortals. ‘tis rose. aka @kinktae i have hijacked daisy’s blog and am holding her and her 893482 cats hostage in my basement.

she and her army of felines will stay there, trapped forever,,, UNLESS,,, you flood her inbox with love and appreciation. only then will I return your beloved daisy.

her new fic is meant to come out in 30 minutes so.... act fast if you want her to be released and to be fed god tier porn.

BEGIN.

- Rose 🌹

[archiveddvrpg]

Congratulations, LEXIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BENVOLIO. Admin Rosey: Our beloved Benvolio, our peacekeeper both metaphorically and quite literally.  Lexie, you captured him so effortlessly - he’s a simple man who simply wanted out. But was dragged back into the bloody fray and - as expected - he is simply trying to make the best of an awful situation. He’s a saint with no halo, an angel with no wings, and yet he comes back to his duty time and time again. We all adore you for giving us Benvolio and we cannot way for you to make us cry with him again.’  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Lexie

Age | 21

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I’m a student and an athlete, but my course load is very light this semester, so I should be able to get on a few times a week! Overall, I’d rate it a 8/10

Timezone | EST

Current/Past RP Accounts | Heh, well there’s always this one: bellamysantodomingo. Also amanidaniels & jaislater

In Character

Character | Benvolio; Bellamy Santo Domingo.

What drew you to this character? | After playing Benvolio in the original Diverona (though I believe I was one of a handful to have done so) I became very attached to him, and I just can’t wait to start a clean slate and really delve into who he is again! I didn’t love Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet from the beginning, though I wish I could say I did. I remember reading the play in school and rolling my eyes at his need for peace in the middle of the feud between Capulet and Montague. When I looked at the character several years later, my heart bled for him. He’s starving for tranquility. Having grown up surrounded by war, suffering losses, knowing death more so than he does life, how could he not be? He sees something that the other characters don’t, and I want to further explore the idea of fighting so passionately for a lost cause with no allies.

Benvolio’s loyalty also intrigues me. He is loyal above all else, and he’ll place the values of his family and the values of the Montague name before his own wishes. He is involved in a war he despises, only because he is fiercely obedient. I absolutely adore conflicted characters like Benvolio. I love seeing how their limits are tested and how far they are willing to go, especially when these characters are loyal to an authority they don’t fully trust. I want to explore Benvolio’s boundaries, see where he bends and where he breaks.

Benvolio is complex for reasons that are too often overlooked. Yes, he is the peacemaker, he is soft-hearted, but he is not by any means innocent. Innocence is not something one can preserve when surrounded by crime and death. There’s too much we don’t know about Benvolio from the play, and so much of his character development comes from offhanded comments. One in particular always sticks out to me, and it’s a quote from Mercutio: “Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy, and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.” Mercutio later explains that if there were two Benvolios, they would be sure to kill each other. I draw so much inspiration from these two quotes, because they address that Benvolio has a dual nature. Behind his placid exterior, there’s something in his blood lurking just below the surface that could be fatal. He’s never been one to boast his name, but it’s also something that he can’t escape from. He doesn’t want to be tempted any more. He longs for peace no matter how futile it seems, but maybe he’s just trying to escape himself before he truly lives up to the Montague reputation

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

POWER STRUGGLE | I think that there’s something to explore with Bellamy’s rank in the mob. Being a soldier, he’s not equipped to give orders, so he takes them. But that can’t be something that’s easy to do when all he really wants is to be free from all the struggle and strife the war causes. It isn’t so much Bellamy wants more authority, he’s just grown tired of being brushed off so easily. The people closest to him are neck deep in turmoil, too proud to step back and too bloodthirsty to even consider doing so. Bellamy knows he has to take matters into his own hands; he’s the only one willing to extend an olive branch. That means disobeying, something Bellamy never thought he would be able to do. He’s long tried to make his well-crafted words heard by his higher-ups, but his attempts have been in vain. It’s a sore spot that’s starting to itch.

WHITE FLAG | More or less a pacifist, Bellamy wants nothing more than for the war between the dueling mobs to end. He has a diplomatic nature, and he’s known to craft his words carefully. Some work in paints or clays; Bellamy works in words, shaping and polishing them until they too are a work of art. His words are one of the few things he takes pride in, and they are near to his heart. And while his fellow Montagues would prefer he use them to cut and pierce, he has no way to sharpen them. He has vowed to use them to heal, and he knows he can do so given they fall into the right hands. He’s willing to surrender himself to the Capulets or raise his own army of mediators so long as he can walk the streets of Verona without finding them red with blood.

REPENTANCE | Bellamy escaped bloodshed for four years. How open are the arms that have come to welcome him? Bellamy believes in consequences; he’s been a first-hand witness to many of them. He has a rising suspicion that he’s lost a certain degree of trust from the mob, and he doesn’t blame them for it. How far will he go to regain that trust? What will it take?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If the plot calls for it, the plot calls for it! I love exploring muses, and I would be comfortable with this, yes.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

His father would have scolded him, surely, for the way he so delicately cranes his neck as the question reaches his ears. It’s these frail, languid kind of movements that get someone killed, he would have said. And Bellamy can hear that voice like thunder thrumming in his ears, striking him suddenly and pressing heavy against his spine. And he realizes he’s back to this, back to calculating his every move as if his movements aren’t his own, back to being a spectator beholding the play of his own life, back to being a pawn lined neatly at the front of the chessboard.

“Favorite place in Verona,” he repeats, lips dry as they part. He’s tried so many times now to think of Verona as home, tried to remember all the nostalgia he once had, tried not to think of bloodstains on his shirts and on his hands. Something bittersweet and chalky hits the back of his tongue. Nostalgia never tastes quite right in his mouth. Verona hasn’t been home in years, and the moment he left, he realized the city on which an empire was built is nothing more than a cage. No, in a cage there is room for flight. Verona is a ball and chain locked tight around Bellamy’s ankle, ensuring he never spread his wings. It took him until he reached adulthood to realize he had them.

“Well, that’s hard to say…” He says it because it’s true; lies never fit properly in his mouth. How could he love a place like Verona? Here there are too many eyes watching and too many ears listening. There are strangers in the corners with daggers in their eyes and on their bodies. Blood floods the streets, though no one will acknowledge the sour, metallic smell. How could they? Their noses are immune from prolonged exposure. Bellamy wonders if he’s joined all those who have passed, now a ghost wandering aimlessly through the streets, aching and wishing and wanting to no avail.

There is so much beyond this city, so many beautiful places and people, so much knowledge and hope and love. The walls of Verona are lined far too close together; he feels claustrophobic.

His favorite place. The thought is laughable. Is there any place in Verona that doesn’t remind him of his mortality? Is there a place in Verona free from bloodshed?

“The roof of my apartment,” he says finally, suddenly realizing he’s broken the silence he’s created. He has a terrible habit of doing that. Many people tell him his head is in the clouds, somewhere too far from reach. He thinks them foolish. His mind is not an escape, it’s a prison. He traces his thumb along the handle on his tea mug. As he watches the steam rise from his cup, a small, crooked smile graces one end of his lips. “At night. It’s not quiet by any means, but—” he lets out a faint laugh, head shaking idly. “The traffic isn’t so bad. With all those cars whirring by, if you close your eyes, it almost sounds like the ocean…”

Almost, his mind reminds him bitterly.

What does your typical day look like?

“Well, it’s not all car chases,” Bellamy snickers, arching a brow at his company. There are many ideas about his work in law enforcement, all ideas that break his heart. Even in their fantasies, the people of Verona want to see struggle. There must always be hands bound and pinned against backs, always someone fighting for freedom as the other pins them down. Bellamy has started to pity those he takes into custody, pity the way they fight, resist. It’s all so familiar, the way they jerk their bodies so violently their bones can snap. So familiar it almost makes him ill.

“It’s far less exciting than one might think. Traffic tickets…” he trails off, deciding to swallow the details of redacted files, planted evidence, the falseness behind the work he wishes nothing more than to do genuinely. There must be falseness in everything he does. It seems the only way to ensure his survival.

“A typical day…” he repeats, brows knotting together on his forehead. Verona is not a predictable place, it never has been, and Bellamy has finally accepted that it likely never will be. Still, his heart aches for a time when he won’t fear running into Death in a back alley. They aren’t old friends but civil strangers. Each of their conversations, however, are negotiations. And no matter how many times Bellamy thinks his debts are paid, they come face to face time and time again.

He takes a long sip from his tea mug, chamomile and honey running down his throat. It’s meant to soothe him, yet all it really does is mock him. He could drink all the tea in the world and still find himself thirsty. He wonders if he’ll ever be satiated. “I suppose most of my days are rather uneventful.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Coming back.

The thought is an awful one, one that surprises even him the moment it enters his mind. It makes the tips of his fingers dance along his tea mug in an failing attempt to make it disappear. Guilt is not an old friend of his but an unwelcome guest who has overstayed their welcome.

“Well,” he laughs quietly, the sound much too absent and shallow to be of any substance, to be anything genuine. “I…” Why does he open his mouth without having a place to take his sentence? He washes down what he wants to say with a gulp of tea, coats it in honey so something sweet is sure to leave his tongue. “I’m only twenty-two, I trust I’ll make plenty mistakes in my lifetime… I don’t like to rank my mistakes. So long as I learn from them…” He’s a horrible liar. He can hear himself lie terribly, like his own vocal chords are committing treason against his mind.

“I suppose not taking my father’s advice.” Not being able to turn himself into something harder, something piercing and biting, something that could kill without so much as blinking. Not wearing his name with pride, feeling too much shame in it. “Yes, that… that has been my biggest mistake.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

The answer is the same in his head, the answer that should not be made known, should stay locked in that prison that is his mind. It feels too odd coating his tongue in honey once again, too obvious. So he pulls his hands into his lap to keep them from tapping at the ceramic mug again. He folds his fingers together, letting his thumbs twitch one way and then the next. His lips scrape against his bottom lip before he bites down.

“To leave my studies,” he answers honestly, and he hears everyone in Verona in his ears. Their disapproval is a roar, and suddenly he feels like prey, a lamb that so ridiculously wandered into the lion’s den. “I suppose I wish I could have finished them, got a degree, started practicing nursing, felt some sense of accomplishment, I—… won’t bore you with the details.” He sucks down another gulp of tea, this time to take away the bitter taste on his tongue.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

His heart twists painfully in his chest the moment he hears the question. His throat tightens, breath thinning as he trains an intent stare on the wood of the table. This feels like a trap. He isn’t asked how he feels about the war often. Of course not, because what does it matter, anyway? Day in and day out, the streets of Verona become a graveyard, scattered bones like cobblestone on the street. And few take issue with it.

“It’s tiring,” Bellamy says finally. He’s so used to biting his tongue, it feels odd letting the words out so freely, without a hint of struggle. He has to say something. Some days he keeps his lips too still, and he worries his mouth will rust shut.

He shouldn’t say anymore, and he knows it. He nods, trying to recall one of Roman’s old lines, something he would say as he loaded his gun or passed a Capulet on the street. Something brave, something certain, something that someone will give a damn about. Nothing comes to mind.

“A necessary evil, perhaps.” He doesn’t quite believe himself, but he has no energy to be cheeky or to muster up a lie. So he leaves it at that, checking the watch on his wrist and offering a crisp, practiced smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really should get going.”

In-Character Para Sample:

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

The sound of his mother’s file scraping across the tops of her nails is enough to make Bellamy’s shoulders hunch, spine stretched taut as a bowstring— straining, bending, breaking. The Lady Santo Domingo always lives up to her reputation; she is the silent killer. She makes no exception for her son. Her actions alone will drive him to the point of insanity if he so lets her. And with every scrape, scrape, scrape of that nail file, he thinks he may just fall victim to her uniquely twisted form of torture.

He keeps his eyes trained on the clothes he’s folding, keeps his hands steady as he can manage as he stacks them in neat piles, wishing the soft fwump of cotton and wool was enough to drown that incessant, heavy hiss.

Eighteen years is not a lifetime, though it feels he’s grown old in this house. This much too large house with its cavernous, echoing hallways, its paintings of haunting faces adorning the walls, its foundation built on bodies. Everything inside, everything outside, everything owned, bought, and borrowed was paid for with a bundle of blood money.

Bellamy begins to fold faster.

Eighteen years is not a lifetime, but Bellamy isn’t sure he was a child more than a handful of years. He was six the first time his father crouched down in front of him, bared his teeth like a snarling wolf and insisted Bellamy stop his useless crying. It wasn’t meant to be cruel, it was a warning, a way of telling Bellamy to find a place for his heart other than his sleeve. Nothing fragile lasted in Verona.

His mother and father are distinctly different but equally terrifying. While his mother is the blade, pulling slow and tight, his father is a gun, quick and loud as it explodes. It’s no wonder how the two of them have earned such a lofty bodycount. The thought makes Bellamy want to gag.

“Ecuador,” his mother says finally.

Bellamy’s flinch is visible, shaking from the base of his spine to the tip of his neck, his shoulders shooting up, head tucking down like he’s a turtle retreating into its shell. She waits until his head is turned to narrow her eyes.

“Yes,” he says around a sigh, his voice no longer able to carry the strength it takes to mask his exhaustion. Her eyes narrow again, and he feels something thick and awful twist in his stomach. Her silence, as it always does, sinks under his skin to leave an itch that dances along his bones. He squirms, turns back to face his bag, and continues stacking. “I’m not sure where I’ll end up after that, I just…”

She clicks her tongue, and the file presses against the wood of the detailing on the wall. Bellamy lets go of a breath that had coiled so tightly in his lungs it leaves a searing pain in his chest. The grating sound of that nail file is going to haunt him in his sleep, he’s sure of it.

“Oh, bambino,” she sighs, and its something sweet. Something sweet and warm that Bellamy can feel melt and pour down his limbs, pool in his stomach, bring those useless tears to his eyes. But this time he won’t let them get far, blinking them away and feeling foolish. He forces a swallow that washes away the sand building in his throat. He doesn’t need to hear the same speech, hear that he is a weapon and weapons don’t weep, hear that he is nothing this city can treat kindly, hear that he is fundamentally flawed beyond repair.

Her fingers cup his cheeks, and it’s a shock to Bellamy’s system. She keeps those sharpened nails pointed up and out of reach. Bellamy doesn’t dare look anywhere but her eyes, those eyes that have been cold for so long, those eyes that are now something soft, something tangible. “This world will not be kind anywhere you go.”

It’s a crash landing, his heart rising and falling so intensely it rattles the bones of his ribcage. Things inside of him are burning and breaking, leaving the kind of destruction that can never be repaired.

When his hands reach up, his fingers grip tightly around his mother’s wrists, his gaze averted to stare back at his now full suitcase. He wants to hide the fire in his eyes, wants to suffocate it with the softness of those pillars of cotton and wool. But he knows he’ll burn right through them, knows there’s no safety for them now, knows his mother is right.

He pulls her hands away, forces them back down by her sides and lets another breath smolder his lungs.

“I think that’s for me to find out.” He releases her wrists and slams his suitcase shut. The zipper leaves a clipped, sharp noise behind him, and it sounds just as final as he wants it to. “My flight leaves at seven.”

Extras:

HEADCANONS

BAGGAGE | Bellamy may not have blood on his hands, but that does not mean he is absolved from blame. He has yet to murder anyone on his own, face-to-face, though he feels the day is inevitable. He might kiss his victim’s cheeks and whisper apologies, might try to make the process feel a little more human. The thought is something that keeps him up at night, something that hides at the bottom of bottles and lingers in clouds of nicotine. He’s had a hand in torture, though he’s never been able to stomach it for very long. Several of Verona’s murders can be traced back to him in one way or another, whether he pointed in the victim’s direction like a modern Judas or paid off a hotel manager not to say a word.

TATTOOS | Bellamy was never traditionally rebellious. In a family that promoted murder and violence, how could he be? Nonetheless, he has always had a soft spot for cliches, and he found himself rebelling in the form of body art. His first tattoo was a drunken dare, the result of Bellamy’s sulking, Marcello’s sarcasm, Roman’s leadership, and too many empty whiskey bottles. “You act like we’ve branded you, Bel,” Marcello sighed, their clouded eyes rolling so theatrically Bellamy thought he could hear them move in their sockets. Roman snorted by their side, and Bellamy met the chortle with a glare far too soft to be taken as a real threat. “Maybe we should brand him properly,” Roman suggested, setting an elbow atop Marcello’s shoulder, meeting their eyes with a sparkle of mischief in his own, much to Bellamy’s dismay. Before he could follow where the conversation was going, Bellamy found himself on a frumpy old chair in a graffiti-covered, rundown tattoo parlor. The tattoo artist was a young woman with jet-black hair, straight-cut bangs, mulberry-painted, pierced lips, and a snake-like smirk that could rival Marcello’s. She told him to relax while he vaguely worried about contracting a disease when she pressed a needle to his skin. When Bellamy undressed to shower the next morning, he turned to the mirror and felt his blood run cold. On the raised, reddish skin of his left hip was the Montague family crest in daunting black ink, spread across the bone and kissing the top of his thigh. Strangely enough, he became a bit addicted to the idea of ink in his skin, and he now has a handful of baby tattoos scattered about his body: an olive branch and flower against his bicep, a patch of stars on his shoulder blade, a bird with outstretched wings on the nape of his neck. They’re nonsense, scribblings on coffee stained napkins, but he loves them dearly.

GUILTY PLEASURES | Bellamy has a very self-destructive nature. Some days he feels God has not held him accountable for his sins. So he finds himself comforted by the way wine tastes crisp and dry in his mouth, enjoys the way whiskey stings his throat and cigarettes leave ash in his lungs. While normally he’s lecturing Roman and Marcelo to stay far from a balcony’s edge, he would be a false witness to say he hasn’t let his feet dangle every now and then. He may be branded a hypocrite, but it’s a title he’s willing to bear. Better to sacrifice his pride than his vices.

RELIGION | Bellamy was raised Roman Catholic. He still attends church nearly every Sunday and does his best to spend at least half an hour a day devoted to scripture. He is a man of God, and the irony is not lost on him: the family business hardly has any room for the Commandments. Bellamy walks up to the altar seeking communion and fearing his sins are too much for even the cross to bear. He is fairly convinced that Heaven has no place for a person like him. Still, he remains faithful. His fate may very well be sealed, but just because he’s going to Hell doesn’t mean he cannot fall gracefully.

LANGUAGE | Bellamy is trilingual. His first languages were Portuguese and Italian, and he learned English as a third language in school, working hard to become fluent. He’s finally come around to studying Russian in attempts of helping Roman, but for now he only knows very basic phrases and isn’t of much use. Roman doesn’t need to know how many times Bellamy actually opens up a Russian book to study.

APARTMENT | When Bellamy moved back to Verona, he lived in his parents’ home for a year before he decided he couldn’t bear it. A home is supposed to be a place of refuge, and if he lived in a house where the skeletons in his closet overflowed into the corridors, he would never find it. He lives in a small one-bedroom apartment more towards the outskirts of the city. It’s nothing glamorous— Marcelo always has some choice words for it. The lot is run down, his landlord is a shiesty chainsmoker who always has car grease on his shirt, and the walls are paper thin. Some of the carpet is stained, and a thin layer of paint barely covers the graffiti art from a previous owner. But it’s home. There isn’t much complaint from his one and only roommate: his cat, Isadora. Bellamy hasn’t unpacked much. In fact, he uses a turned over cardboard box as a pathetic excuse for a coffee table. The only furniture he’s purchased is an overstuffed couch and a rusty bed frame. His suitcases are always partially packed, evidence of his false hope that he will finally leave Verona.

MUSIC | Bellamy adores music. More often than not, he enjoys classical pieces. Sometimes music seems like the only way to properly escape from the world around him. He’ll lie on his mattress with earbuds in his ears, listening away to a ballet or a piece older than even the first battle between Montague and Capulet. He played the violin in both lower and upper secondary school and will bring it out occasionally when he feels particularly stressed. He has an affinity for piano pieces.

STUDIES | Bellamy has always enjoyed studying. He very seriously considered becoming a nurse and began some introductory courses in Ireland three years into his travels. Sadly, Alvise’s death brought Bellamy back to Verona before he could fully dedicate himself to this dream. Still, he picked up a handful of skills and knows basic first aid as well as how to stitch a wound.

TRENDS | Bellamy cannot keep up with trends for the life of him. Most slang flies over his head unless Roman and Marcelo have fully explained it to him. An old soul, he doesn’t indulge himself in much pop culture or media. He’s also not the best with keeping an open line of communication. He sent letters back home to his family and the Montagues while he was away. He normally has his phone in the same room, but forgets it silent and facedown on countertops. His friends and family are constantly frustrated with him for ignoring calls and text messages. Many times has he heard the phrase “you have a phone for a goddamn reason, Bellamy.”

MIND GAMES | Being a man of logic, Bellamy almost always fills out Verona Journal’s weekly crossword. In the mornings, if he’s not filling out the crossword, he’s scribbling numbers in a book of sudoku puzzles. His father once tried to appeal to Bellamy’s logical side, explaining the strategy of war with a game of chess. Bellamy was far more interested in the game than the analogy, to his father’s disappointment. He still enjoys a game with his father every now and then. They’re civil during their games, sharing in idle conversation. It’s one of the only ways they can speak without Bellamy’s father bringing up the mob, contrary to their first games.

FRIENDLY GIANT | Bellamy has been tall and lanky from his first growth spurt around age 14. He stands at 6’4”, though even with his stature he’s hardly ever seen as frightening. He never uses his height to intimidate, and people often remember him as shorter than he really is. He also has a reputation for being clumsy. His mother took to calling him Fulvo, the Portuguese word for fawn, and it baffled Bellamy how his mother could sound so affectionate and so condescending all at once.

FINANCES | Bellamy hates being indebted to anyone. When he left home, traveling was easy to do on his parents’ wealth, but Bellamy worked odd jobs to pay for anything other than his plane tickets. He’s very fiscally responsible and doesn’t spend frivolously. He’s still trying to pay back his family for his traveling expenses, and that is why he lives in such a shanty apartment.

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[diddlesanddoodles]

DEAD WALLS RISE

DUMPLING SIDE STORY

Warning: Angsty Kings, snarky weepy orphans, and pipe smoking. And a bunch of dead people. Lots of context and back story to Dumpling. 

pt.1

The chill in the air was a welcomed feeling across the nape of his neck and the hefty weight of the crossbow in his hands grounded him in the moment. The fog was thick and the previous night’s rain left the ground swollen and muddy. A piss poor time for a hunt. Any tracks would be washed away. However, bringing down a beast was not entirely the reason why he and his man were out in moors. No, he needed to clear his mind. He needed a peaceful place to sort through the chaos of the previous week and to come to terms with the impossible that had come to pass.

He was King now.

He was never meant to be King. Thadeus was suppose to take the thrown after their father. Strong willed, talented at sword and bow, and possessing all the charms and intellect needed to thrive as a ruler. But he was dead now. As was Druden, Baelen, and Mourin. His brothers. His dear, beloved brothers. All dead. Fallen in battle and bringing with their deaths great glory to their house.

Or so people told him.  

But where was the glory in a merciless genocide? His brothers had picked up the mantle of war when their father called for every Silvaaran to die. For killing Thadeus. They sold their virtuous and kindhearted natures for blood lust and vengeance against a people who could not truly defend themselves against the Vhasshalan armies. A people who may very well be completely innocent of the accusations of regicide. No one who knew what truly transpired that day was alive to tell the tale. All that was known was that the Vhasshalan crowned Prince was found dead with several Silvaaran soldiers strewn about. Some in pieces. There had been a battle, of that there was no doubt. A battle for which no one seemed to have won.

War was declared. Blood retribution demanded.  

One Silvaaran soldier against one Vhasshalan soldier was no fight. It was a slaughter. There were not enough mages or talented magic users left in Silvaara to make much difference against the sheer might and size, both body and number, of Vhasshal. Silvaara never stood a chance. Silvaarans were human after all. Small and frail bodied, a fraction of the size of a Vhasshalan. A full grown human male would only just reach the height of a Vhasshalan’s knee. But they could be courageous and strong with the proper leadership. Of which they had and more in their King, A man named Haeral. During peacetime, the human King had been a highly respected monarch, known for his brilliant tactical prowess and wisdom and descended from the single oldest bloodline of any kingdom. How terrible that it should have been struck down so uselessly.  

The War of Blood and Fire had been a terrible one.

It left Silvaara destroyed. Its King dead. His family slaughtered. Most of them had been children, no threat at all. But it was their blood that made them a target. By no fault of their own. By the mere fact of being born Silvaaran royalty. His father, so named The Blood King, had done it himself. Crushed their little bodies one by one. Their blood colored the stone floor of the great hall, bathing everything in horrible red.

“The blood of my sons’ shall be repaid by the flesh of yours,” his father told the mortally wounded human King as he lay on the cold ground, gasping for air and weeping for mercy. For his children and scores of grandchildren. But the Blood King’s rage demanded satisfaction. “You will die drowning in their screams...”

And he did.

It was that single greatest act of cruelty of the war. And that act would doom his father to his fate. The war had been going on for too long. It was turning their people into monsters and not entirely through their own choice. Two years of failed crops. The people were starving and so much of their resources went to aide in the war. So why then would a desperate farmer allow his family to starve when he could go set traps or he and several others go and raid a Silvaaran refugee caravan? They would have fresh meat for weeks and their King’s praise. It use to be normal for Vhasshalans to prey upon human beings, thousands of years ago. His father had resurrected the practice.  

But there was something deeply wrong with what was happening. It needed to stop. Thadeus had been avenged ten fold. His other brothers had fallen through their own foolishness. The war had to end or they would all drown in it.  

So the last Prince orchestrated his own father’s murder.

There was no sense in hiding behind words. He had his father killed. He was a murderer. He alone was guilty of regicide. For the good of his people, he told himself. Some people cheered the Blood King’s death, the end of the war, and there was a celebration. There were a few who resisted the take over and fought back, but it was for naught. They won in the end. But the Prince who would be King was heavy with grief. His family was now dead. Every last one of them. Even his eldest sister, married off to the Prince of a distant kingdom years ago, has passed away. Not from war, but sickness. Struck with the red reap as she labored to bring into the world a new life. She and the tiny prince passed quickly. And now he was truly alone. Too young to feel so old. World wary before the true work had even begun. He had never been groomed for the role of King. How could he take the wastes of his lands and give his people back a Kingdom?

His first act as King had been a goodwill gesture. The few Silvaarans that had been awaiting execution in the dungeon were released and turned out into the wilds to try and find any scrap left of their lives. Only one requested to remain, much to the surprise of many, including the new King. But he allowed it. The human was an old man, but not without worth. He had been captured because of his previous role as the head archivist of Silvaara. It was his knowledge of the inner workings of Silvaara that allowed his father to plan the attack on their castle keep. To kill the human King. His children. And their children. The elderly man had requested he be allowed to record and archive for the new Vhasshal King. To hide away in shame and grief amongst books and ink.  

The human reminded the king so much of the magician. The one found chained in the tower. Both were men of knowledge, now worn down and wounded by the horrors of war and the terrible things their knowledge and skill wrought. The king made a mental note to introduce the pair.    

“History is worth writing down as it happens,” the old man told the freshly named King. “I have dedicated my life to the art. History is all we leave our children once we’re dust. Best they have a proper grasp of it. Even the secrets we dearly wish to hide. Most importantly those. The ballads and poems that will be written of these times will not tell the truth. And what else is there but the truth?”

What else is there but the truth? The truth was the once great kingdom of Silvaara was gone. Their King was dead as was the deep roots of his bloodline. The famed Fire of Silvaara had been doused, the flower crushed. And it was only through one more murder that Vhasshal was kept from joining them in oblivion. His people were calling him the Gold King. After some words an old invalid spouted in the throws of some madness. Prophecies were worthless and dangerous. Gold King indeed. Perhaps the Tin King would have been more apt.

Vhasshal was penniless and struggling. A mild winter was the only reason the people were not starving. The harvest season lasted longer this year. Paltry stores of grains and the over abundance of freshwater eels was enough to keep the kingdom holding on.  

Spring could not come fast enough.

“You look lost in there, Sire,” said his man, a ranger in dressed in a blue coat, as he tapped a finger against his temple. The ranger’s fierce green eyes focused on the young monarch before offering out a small leather pouch to him, pulled forth from an inner pocket of his long coat.

The King raised an eyebrow.

“Won’t the smell alert any game to our presence?” he asked the man who just shrugged in response.

“We both know we ain’t out here to hunt.”

Keral always was overly observant. He was truly wasted in the ranks of the rangers.

“Fair enough, my friend. Fair enough,” the King replied and took the pouch, reaching into his own coat and pulling out his favorite pipe. It had been a gift from Baelen, a few weeks prior to his death. His brother had been a bit of a snob when it came to smoking. It had always annoyed him when he was younger, but now he longed for just one more long conversation of the virtues of Ibronian tobacco.

Pressing a pinch of the shredded material into the bowl, he stuffed it down before striking a match to light it. After a moment, he was puffing at the end of the piece, his mouth around the familiar feel of whale bone. He breathed out a cloud of fragrant smoke and watched it join the vast expanse of fog. “How the fuck am I going to fix this mess, Keral?”

Puffing on his own pipe, the blue clad ranger shrugged, scratching his chin.

“No fixing this shit,” the ranger replied bluntly, slipping the pouch back into his satchel rather than his pocket. “My advice? Don’t even try.”

The ranger received an incredulous glare in response.

“What I mean is this: Don’t waste your time and energy and everyone else’s trying to find what was lost. The old Vhasshal is gone. Move on. Build on the bones of the old. Make somethin’ better than what was before and let the dead be. Be better than your father and the shit he left you and the rest a’ us.”

“And just abandon all that we were? All our history?”

“History doesn’t move, lad. The present does. All that we once were is still there, gatherin’ dust and mold in them old tomes and in our minds. Looks pretty rosey from up here, sure, but it’s not real. Not anymore. It’s not who we are now. Who you are now. Or who you’ll become if, y’know... ya don’t end up drowning in all the shit.”

“That’s why I got you, right?” the King smiled weakly.

“Aye, s’why ya got me,” Keral replied, returning the weak smile with a grim one. “Got to make sure the Gold King lives up to the name, eh?”

The King growled. How he hated the name being forced onto him. “I’m going to murder that old moldy git if I ever find him.”

“What? Don’t care fer having grand prophecies about ya being thrown around?”

“Not when they saddle me with stupid titles.”

“I thought it was rather regal soundin’.”

“You would.”

“Oh come now, what better way to start a dynasty on the right foot than with a good ol’ prophecy? Gives people hope and all that bullshit.”

“There are plenty of prophecies that never come true. Words are cheap, anyone can spout that nonsense,” he replied bitterly. After a moment, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Gods...I was never meant to be here, Keral...”

“Hm. I’m sure that’s what Thadeus thought right before those little bastards gutted ‘im,” Keral replied, taking a deep draw of his own pipe. “Words are cheap for a reason, Warren. But cheap’s what I got.”

Keral was the only person to ever actually call him by his name anymore. The ranger was the closest thing to a true friend the new King had and one he sorely needed. He was more blunt and direct and real than any royal advisers. Those same advisers who had promoted and paraded his father’s path to genocide. Keral had been in the running for Captain of the Guard. But at the outset of the war, he declined. Instead, taking a minor and almost insulting role as a ranger, effectively undoing years of ladder climbing and work.

“Good, because Gods know I haven’t the coin to afford anything else. War is expensive,” Warren quipped, the ghost of a smile on his lips. After a long pause, he said, “I’m gonna dismiss the war council.”

“Aye. No need for a council with no war,” Keral replied. “They might be expecting some sort of promotion, though. Fer their years of good service and the like.”

“They’ll be stripped of their titles,” Warren replied, anger seeping in. “And sent away. If they want to keep their heads, that is. They’ll poison any reforms I attempt. They’re already angry with me for allowing Barnaby to live, let alone stay in the castle. I’ve already posted guards around the poor man, just to make sure they don’t try anything foolish.”

His proclamation would have met with disbelief by anyone else. They would have tried to tell him he was being cruel. The advisers were only doing their job, after all. Advising. They were high born men of great titles and strong bloodlines. Dependable men of the great Vhasshal court. But not Keral. The ranger’s face broke out into a grim smile, his brow narrowed.

“Let the fuckers burn,” he sneered. “I lost a lot of good friends to their fucked up ideas. Noticed non of ‘em sent their sons or friends to war.”

“Their focus should have been to reign in my Father’s anger when the war turned to slaughter,” the King said. “They could have stopped so much death. My brothers might be alive. The northern campaign was their idea. They designed the whole thing. Even having the gall to call it a campaign instead of the genocide it was.”

“No use wishing fer things that never were,” Keral added, stepping ahead into the damp grass. “They had their own selfish reasons and they used the blood of our kin, mine and yours, to do it. I don’t see them being missed by anyone worth keeping around.”

Together, the two old friends walked further into to depths of the moors, letting the fog curl around them, not longer under the guise of a hunt. They just walked. Reveling in a single pleasure that only a few days ago would have been impossible. For a few hours, they could pretend that all was well. But it was a facade that would not last.

It was close to an hour of walking when they came across the first body.

It was a human, a young woman. She’d been dead for a few hours at least. Her eyes were open wide, her last moments of terror forever frozen.

“Curious,” Keral remarked, crouched over the small being, sweeping her hair back from her eyes carefully with one finger. Her eyes were a dull blue and her hair dark brown, almost black. Silvaaran, but not a noblewoman. A peasant. “No blood. No wounds. Don’t look like she was crushed or nothin’.”

“Let’s move on,” Warren replied quietly as though afraid to disturb the dead woman’s forever sleep. “I have a feeling she’s not the only one out here.”

Sure enough, there were more. Many more.

Gathered around a small pond was a group of humans, all of them dead. Their ragged clothes decried their lot in life. Peasants, poor villagers. All of their eyes were a dull blue, their hair almost black. Fleeing the ruins of the Silvaaran countryside in all likelihood. Their worldly possessions were strewn about them. Men were curled up with their wives, small children pressed to their mother’s breasts. It was a sad sight. A grim reminder of the reach of a powerful man’s rage even after death.  

“Poisoned,” Warren said, gesturing to the small pool. Several of the small bodies were still clutching their small wooden cups.

“Aye,” Keral agreed. He looked around his feet and snarled. “Damn shame. Had I had know they were here I could have had my boys take ‘em to the border with the others weeks ago. They must’ve been hiding out in the hills.”

A noise drew their focus and they turned towards an upturned wagon just in time to see a pair of small feet disappear underneath. Keral gestured for Warren to stay still. He reached into a boot and pulled out a dagger and with careful and silent steps, slowly made his way closer, easily stepping over and around the dead, and crouching beside the overturned cart and the dead beast still shackled to it. He placed a hand on the wagon’s side and pushed it up. The wood groaned and cracked, but the only thing underneath was a few bundles of clothes and a few baskets. One of which was upside down. A perfect hiding spot for a scared little human.

Keral tipped the basket over with the push of a single finger. A small boy, dressed in clothes far too big for him, sat in the mud, looking up into Keral’s face with the same look of utter terror forever plastered on the faces of his dead fellows. However, unlike his fellows, this boy was very much alive. Before Keral could say anything, the boy was on his feet and running.

“Oi now! Just where do ya think yer goin’ my lil’lad?” Keral laughed, almost in relief, with his country accent leaking through. He dropped the wagon with a crash and reached out for the fleeing youth. Keral caught the boy easily enough, just as the little thing darted between his boots. He snagged him awkwardly in one hand with the boy’s lower half dangling over the edge of his palm. As the ranger stood back to full height, he slipped his dagger back into his boot and brought his now free hand up to support the boy’s flailing feet, cupping both hands together. The young human had curled in on himself, wrapping his arms over his head. A high pitched whimper escaped the child and Keral could feel the little body in his grip tremble. He chortled and bounced the boy lightly in his hands as a devious grin spread across his face.

“Now, what are we gonna do this one, eh?” Keral asked, bringing the boy closer to his face. “Little scrawny to be a proper snack. Might have to fatten ‘im up some first...”

“No!” cried the boy, pushing back against the ranger’s fingers and swinging one of his feet out. Keral reared his head back with just as the small muddy shoe missed his nose.    

“Keral,” Warren said with a slight warning to he voice as he stepped up to his friend, but an amused smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth and he rolled his eyes. Keral never could resist a good teasing. “Don’t. The poor lad’s scared enough without worrying about your notorious appetite.”

“Ah, wasn’t gonna do nothin’,” Keral replied, still grinning, and eyeing the human with amusement. “Oi, pup. Yer not hurt, so stop yer sobbin’. What would yer Father say to see ya weeping like a wee babe?”

The human looked up with wet blue eyes, sharp, accusing, and hurt. “HE’D TELL YOU TO FUCK OFF!”

Both Vhasshalans were silent, struck dumb by the loud and, frankly, absurd reply from the human. The boy could not have been much older than seven or so. Keral broke from his stupor first, laughing loudly and the sound bounced and echoed through the quiet moors. Warren felt his face crack into a smile and then a grin wide enough to make his face hurt. The first genuine smile he had experienced in ages. Gods it felt amazing...

“Now that’s an honest answer if I ever heard one!” Keral bellowed, shifting his hands so he held the human in one hand around his chest and middle, allowing the rest of him to dangle from the gloved hand. When Keral spoke next, the amusement was gone from his tone and replaced with a more serious curiosity. “So then. Why don’t ya tell us what happened here, laddy?”

“I don’t know,” replied the boy, a pained and anguished lilt to his voice. He looked down from the giant’s grip and seeing everyone laying so deathly still, brought a fresh wave of tears. “I was asleep and when I woke up everyone was dead...”

The human’s eyes darted all around, picking out the faces of the dead, and with each one he seemed to recognize and see the people he had known. People he had loved. All dead.

“You didn’t drink from the pond?” Warren asked gently.

“No...” The human was shivering, appearing confused and desperate. His little hands clenched against Keral’s hand.

“Well, that’s good,” Keral said offhandedly. “Otherwise we’d have one more useless corpse.”

“How is any of this good?!” the boy cried, angry flaring far above the fear. He began to flail and kick with renewed vigor, tinged with desperation. “I’d rather die with my family than be eaten by a giant!”

“Hm? And who said anything about eatin’ ya?” Keral asked, frowning and poking at the boy’s dangling feet.

The boy, despite the very obvious fear, somehow managed to find enough inside himself to snark back, “You did!”

“Ah, s’pose I did say that. Didn’t mean it in actuality,” Keral shrugged and then patting his belly. “Not gonna gobble ya up, pup. Yer safe with us.”

“Liars,” mumbled the boy acidly, fat droplets falling from his cheeks. “You have no honor...you’re murderers. All of you...”

Keral frown deepened and there was a hard edge to his eyes. “Careful now, pup. Yer throwin’ around some big rocks there...”

“Murderers,” the boy spat back, a little louder, eyes defiant.  

“If ya miss ya folks that much m’lad,” Keral sneered, voice low and threatening. “I might be able to oblige ya there.”

The boy blanched at the non-too-veiled threat and shrank further into the giant’s grip. The boy’s momentary bout of bravery seemed to have fled him.

“Keral, enough,” Warren said, stepping up to place a hand on the ranger’s shoulder and gestured with his other. “Hand me the boy.”

Keral surrendered the human and took a step back. Warren watched his old friend’s face, seeing with some surprise at how the small human’s words had struck something in the ranger. Keral was a man who had sacrificed so much to distance himself from the real murderers and to be called as such by one of the very people he had been, up until a week ago, essentially committing treason to help...well. It was down right insulting for the man. From the mouth of babes, as it were.

But the boy did not know Keral’s history.

He had probably fled his home like so many others in search of someplace safe. Dragging what remained of their lives with them in bundles and baskets. Meager possessions. Only to find death as they stop for a rest and something to drink. The small human’s world lay in pieces at his feet. He was alone, scared, hurt, and confused.

Warren knew those emotions all too well.

Raising the boy so he could get a proper look at him, Warren watched him squirm under the close study. The hard and defiant eyes wavered, the fear came back, and the boy struggled to meet the King’s calm and steady stare. His breath became uneven and short. He was panicking.  

“Please don’t hurt me,” the boy sobbed.

“What is your name?” Warren asked calmly.

“J-Jae...” replied the boy with a voice so heavy with grief and fear that it was barely a whisper.

Keral barked a laugh. “That’s a letter, boy. Not a name.”

“That IS my name...”

“My name is Warren,” he said, ignoring Keral. When he had Jae’s full attention, he continued. “I am the new King of Vhasshal.”

Warren had expected the look of panic and the tears and the barely audible plea for mercy. The boy appeared so fragile, it seemed as though he could shatter at any moment.  

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jae,” he said gently, bringing his other hand to softly pet the boy on the head. He meant it as a reassuring gesture, but Jae jerked and yelped as though he were about to be crushed. The poor thing seemed utterly perplexed by the gentle touch atop his head. “You truly have nothing to fear from us. The war is over now. Your people are free.”

“All gone. Never free,” Jae mumbled, scrubbing at his eyes. “Too much pain...”

There was a world of truth to those broken words. Far beyond the years the little human could have seen. Warren found himself smiling sadly, thinking again of his beloved brothers and of happier times.

“Aye,” he agreed. “There’s a lot of pain. Much to atone for. So much anger. Too much to say and too little of it with any real meaning.”

A notion struck him then. A curious one, a selfish one, and one that he could not shake. He remembered the old human archivists, Barnaby, who had made his home in the library. A man who had no longer had a place in the world, but had found a place in Vhasshal. A very unexpected place. Warren looked down at the little boy and felt a sickening tug at his heart.

He could see his inner self made real, materialized in the form of a lost little boy.

After a moment of heavy thought, Warren sighed deeply and brought Jae to his coat pocket. He slipped the small boy inside, ignoring the startled cry. The large breast pocket was just big enough for the boy to curl up comfortably with his head poking out the top. With one hand to his pocket to steady the human, Warren bent down to retrieve his crossbow that leaned against his boot. Straightening, he looked to Keral who was watching him with an intense gaze, puffing at his pipe.

“Let’s go home,” Warren told his friend, voice tired. “There’s a lot to do. And I need a strong drink or two.. or three. We’ll need a good plan on how to deal with the council’s dismissal tomorrow. Have some guards at the ready in case things becomes rough.”

Keral nodded and gestured towards his pocket. “And the pup?”

Warren looked down at Jae, who was peeking up from the pocket with a bewildered expression. Warren ran a finger across the boy’s head. Jae didn’t jerk back this time, only regarding Warren with a confused and pleading look. Warren smiled warmly, patting the small body in his pocket. “He’s coming too.”

The King of Vhasshal pulled his long coat around him to further help shield himself and his small charge from the lingering chill and the three made their way back.

End of part one.

This is a side story to Dumpling, taking place about nine years prior to Dumpling. Here we learn the King of Vhasshal’s actual name (Warren) and we’re introduced to little Jae and Keral (pronounced Carol). I love Keral so much. He’s sooo fun to write. As is Jae.  

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 7616

When birds do sing, hey ding  a dead infant, slain by thy country  folks wouldest thou laesie ladde, of  Winter accord full of Noise and 

clamouring on a Silver  Breast. Her cheek or faded  eye: yet, O my love is.  partake of mine Sommers flames ref

ind in breast Venus granteth. lies  anothers judgment to the  fire the stars  vppon mine owne hand, her beautys grace, 

the little fish leaping all  trees are like her hair smell, and  eyes pursue; to read  what we may seek him with 

this powre, by which feed  among the courtly sparke of  comfort me with banners.  To sounds so; for 

its twinkle through the  tree! And were cold, I see a  former sight, but always  at a mortgage was. 

How does Love speaks: teach me  at each time and beautiful lay  their roar even with raine;  whether I be I or 

no! Thus doth Love speaks: teach me nature,  crowned him to wait, one  week, then my Gates shall I compare:  they wounds in the happy 

state are true still was  epicene, at least,—and yet in  sighs, and now and the  hand that— but she felt herself, 

a national product  and spread, proppd, and true, this  modern Amazon and exposure,  in case of the 

discreet surprise. Your f ace a thought I would be obsolete.  In mock heroics  strange; that Plato I read 

for nothing, but extremely  to my beloved  more than prove many thorns to  peep, admiring them. Up, nor 

awake my louely light itself and  you. Not very fit to “ murder sleeping, she wonderd wide, and  oer the tide ebbs in 

sunshine of the field where  the good man at his  pleasant now than where Dante  found, as are things remove, 

least to my mothers neck, do  witnesse call the range art; wild  horses pull the heart  thumping like a flowers should poor 

bewilderd, whether the  autumn pond which rushes  to this height, what  could not summers front gate, pulling songs, 

the dear and deplore, and  often must it look  like birds, that better near, or  newer. All gentle sex, when 

in my eye-balls roll,  and on the birken  shaw; but who rewards him  those tickets would be gone: 

nor peace with Rose; years  Rose-bud-like my own life, And base.  with her shape, her  hand to turn. Save thats in 

her ee. How many a varying  into life.  The amnesiac who tunes  into pure Wine, to 

be, and looked at me.  Sicke, thirsty, glad (though doubts of the  lot of Abelard  for God. To six A. 

From this beautiful lay  their parks some of this world must  die: the bodie is sere,  where wed lived, boxes 

everywhere, distraction  of our house are  foolish heart should be sure that  ladies layd: cuddie shall thy wishe)d for 

an army with  mortal body doth thee alone.  Where they are, know by heart and  voluntary pains: ye rugged 

rontes all though doubts of the  eyes diffusd a reconcilement  surpassing hour,  you feel that in a vision, 

they are coming hope, despair?  T ask such stuff, nor share thy feeble  I am black, but cannot  bear the burden down, and 

notion more than I have supposed  dead, and as warm; and  of the vineyard, which  might to your smells (sweet as 

the grave: the kind  love is merchandized whose fate  it is to unfold  thy perfect song into 

our desire  no beauties but these lips of  the mind, when the  shepheards laddes to 

leave her true-heroic gigantesque,  and, foolse, adore in the  young — sometimes would be  lynched in the brethren 

to her, she is their  silence seabeate, will stay; sad proof  how well as verse of pride, and  proffer the sea ran high.)

[genewrecker]

Homosexuals Accelerated Democracy

(Skip to bottom for tl-dr)

One of the oldest known classics and pieces of Western literature, Homer's "Iliad," is one of the oldest and clearest examples of homosexual literature that not only inspired later authors to develop upon humanistic concepts of being responsible for your actions and your fate, but also paved the path towards democracy and theater.

In the story, which tells of the mortal demi-divine culture hero Achilles and his wrath, the Trojan War is in its tenth and last year (the war being fought because the Trojan prince Paris had taken the Spartan(Greek) king, Menelaus', wife Helen). Greek/Achaean commander Agememnon insults Achilles by saying that regardless of how much harder he fights for his leader, the leader's word is law, and the leader takes whatever he wants and however much he wants. Demonstrating this lack of honor, he takes Achilles' treasures of war and his concubine. Flabbergasted that even the best warrior of Greeks can be disposed of without care or concern, Achilles refuses to fight for Greeks in the last stretch of the Trojan War. Agememnon is foolish and callous and forces the Greeks into a compromising situation deep in Trojan territory. Fights occur, the gods join here and there, but Achilles is unmovable and nihilistic. He is aware, from his mother, that returning to the battlefield would assure glory and success, but wind up with his death (which, as a warrior, is what he strives for- to fight and die with honor). If he stays out, he will become rich, and live long, but be deemed a coward forever (which pains him). He wants to fight, but not for Agememnon, who tries to bribe him to work for him. He realizes that whether you're a rich king, a brave warrior, or a common farmer, death is the ultimate equalizer, so there is no point in life, except honor or legacies. Enter Patroclus- Achilles loves Patroclus and grew up with him, willing to protect him and listen to him above all else. Patroclus dons Achilles' armor to try and rout the enemy, but is ultimately killed. News of this reaches Achilles. Up to this point, his comrades and beloved friends have fought in the war, many of whom the Trojans felled, yet he did not mourn them openly. It was with the death of Patroclus that he suddenly mourns very viscerally, by pulling his hair, pouring dirt on himself and dying inside, sobbing and crumbling unto the ground next to him so as to be like the dead. Above all else, of all the people lost, of all he stood for before, of the great equalizer of death- that no longer mattered. Holding Patroclus' body, his rage towards Agememnon and the loss of his honor no longer spoke to him. He entered the war once more because he had nothing else to live for except to kill the people who had killed Patroclus, and only Patroclus. Achilles was a very cultured man, not a savage. He loved his brothers and his comrades and his heart rang out with pain seeing them fight and knowing he could not fight with them. Yet strangely it was only Patroclus that incites Achilles, not for the glory of war, but out of hatred. This wasnt to win a battle for the Greeks- he singlehandedly destroys the Trojan army and kills the Trojan prince Hector, and violently and publicly desecrates his corpse for days, out of sheer hatred for these people who took something much much more important to him than honor. His wrath was only satiated when Troy was in flames, and Hectors father, Trojan king Priam, begs on his knees to have his sons body back to be buried.

Scholars both ancient and modern have debated the meaning of Achilles sudden turn in the war in the Iliad, but the almost unanimous consensus was that Achilles and Patroclus were very much involved in a deeply romantic relationship. Homer, a poet who emphasized order and the macronarrative, didn't explicitly state the relationship of Patroclus to Achilles. His style was more focused on the consequences of Achilles enraged. He uses the micronarrative (Achilles focused on having honor returned, Patroclus' death and Achilles mourning) to tie Achilles back into the macro, and tries not to use monologues or soliloquies to unnecessarily explain the mindstates of the characters. Instead he uses Achilles' reaction to Patroclus' death to describe the relationship between the two, thus having no need to explain it (also it was widely known in the folktales that Homer had grown up with that a homoromantic relation with Patroclus was often the catalyst for his onslaught on Trojans after his lovers death. To omit these feelings in verse and instead capitalize on the wrath was more poetic in a sense to Homer, because it reflected the relationship between the two warriors AND delved right into narrative where Achilles murders an entire city for killing his boyfriend.)

How does Achilles and the Iliad relate to democracy? Well, the first theaters would be established in Athens around 6th century BC, some time after Homer. Theaters, which often performed tragedies in reverence to the Greek god of tragedy, revelry, and chaos, Dionysus, were the first open stage frrom which a small group of educated people (actors, who were priests and temple aides) could speak and deliver uninterrupted information to a greater group of people. The story of the Iliad and the tragedy of Achilles demonstrated the point to both the nobles and the common folk that kings and war generals were human-simple, mortal, and corrupt- and that just because they held power, did not mean they were pure. Rather, the power of aristocrats can be outright appalling if they do not hold themselves to a code of honor, and any common man or great athlete would be made to suffer to fight a pointless war if their leaders were corrupt, selfish, and entitled. The story of Achilles made people question why they should fight in war. Everyone dies, and wars were games of honor for nobles, the only people who could vote and have a voice in politics, so what was in it for the common man to fight? Especially if a king could turn corrupt and take everything you do for granted and claim all your spoils of war for themselves?

As a middle class developed in Athens, and the common man could now afford weapons and armor (but not horses. Horses and chariots were still the symbols of nobles), common folk were conscripted into armies as foot soldiers (hoplites). But after several hundred years of interpretting the Greek tragedies, and being told the story of the glorious Achilles who was screwed by Agememnon, people were suspicious of the rich and indifferent towards fighting wars that did not concern them. A compromise was eventually reached so as to have the advantage of numbers (nobles+commoners) if any war were to arise with Athens: whoever signs up to be a soldier gets the right to vote.

This change was immense. For the first time we see rights of voting being extended to the common man in exchange for their service to their king. People grew wiser. They caught on. And now they were content. The common man can now risk their life on the battlefield, but not for the glory of a warriors death-but rather for the opportunity to mould policies in their favor at home and to shape their nation.

Ultimately there is no true glory in death. Both the brave hero and the cowardly man die. In death they both return to the soil. They are both flesh and susceptible to injury. Riches mean nothing, for death removes us from every treasure we can accrue from battle. No, the honorable man needs an honorable reason to fight. That is Achilles. He refused to be treated injuriously for all of his service to his king, and protested fighting if it meant fighting for the dishonorable. An apology, a concession from a noble to a lower ranking soldier, would suffice to have him fight again. It is an equal exchange- me saying and everyone recognizing that "with all my power, I can be wrong and I am not infallible" in exchange for your years of military service. Even more important was Patroclus, a man who he loved who should not have died, and whos death influences Achilles to act in vengeance equal to the loss: the destruction of Troy and prince Hector. Fight for what you know is important, and take what you know is fair. That is the message of Achilles to the Greeks. Fight for equality. Only fight if you intend to have gains that are equal to your service and your life, and if someone takes from you unjustly, be ready to repay them in full.

tl:dr- In Homer's "Iliad," Greek king Agememnon insults Achilles, who then refuses to fight for him due to him not treating his army with respect for risking their lives for him. It is only when his homoromantic love, Patroclus, dies, (even after being indifferent towards the many deaths of his comrades) that he breaks down in mourning and repays them with what he feels is fair: killing their strongest warrior, desecrating his corpse for days, decimating their army, and burning their city to ashes. The tragedy is performed in theaters two centuries later for everyone to see, and Athens begins to have a middle class who can afford weapons. Seeing this, nobles try and conscript commoners into their armies, but commoners, knowing many Greeks tales, including the popular Iliad, are familiar with the corruption of aristocrats and their disrespect towards the service of those below them. Suspicious, they desire voting rights in exchange for fighting the wars of nobles, and seeing no other choice lest Athens lose out on tripling its army, the aristocrats comply: if you fight, you vote. Achilles is not only one of the first and most important culture heroes in Greece, he is also the bisexual/gay culture hero who shaped the minds of Greek citizens by protesting elitism, leveling a city and its army for the death of his beloved Patroclus, and paved the way for democratic thought for years to come.

[higuchimon]

[fanfic]  Answers To Unexpected Questions:  3/3

Because of Tumblr not allowing searches for posts with external links, I decided it would be much easier to just start posting my fics to Tumblr itself.  Easier for people to read if they so desire as well

||Pairing:  Yubel x Juudai|| ||Word Count:  9,367|| ||Chapter Count:  3/3||

“Juudai!”  Yubel knocked him down, wings spread wide, avoiding the battery of crossbow bolts shot through the tent.  One of them slammed into the man chained up to a pole, sending him spinning as far as his bonds would allow him.

It wasn’t Johan.  Sparkman had been tricked.  Either illusion or just making a mistake, which wasn’t that surprising.

It wasn’t a mistake that Juudai or Yubel would’ve made.  Both of them knew the difference between Johan and his twin brother Rune on sight alone.

Yubel tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen.

Juudai had enough time for that alone before he brought himself back to his feet and checked Yubel.  The crossbow bolts did nothing at all save force them to step back.  Their wings remained spread in front of him.

Ancient Elf stepped into the ruined tent, giving a very disapproving look as he did.

“I truly did not believe you would come for this ruffian,”  he said, brushing his coat off as if Juudai’s very presence dirtied him. “Now, his brother, that would’ve been understandable.  But why him?”

Juudai wasn’t going to let him know the truth.  Instead he just tossed his head.

“You should know that I protect all life.  Doesn’t matter who it is.”

“Yes, yes, of course.  But this world is going to be destroyed and you will not be able to stop it.”

Juudai drew in a very long and very deep breath.  “Could you save your speeches for after I’m dead?  I really don’t have the time now.”

Rune was bleeding.  Rune was dying, because Juudai’s powers didn’t include healing and Johan’s did, and Johan wasn’t there and they needed to get out as soon as they could.

He made no move at all.  He couldn’t find Rune’s shadow, not with all the other light in the room.  It had been by great good luck that none of the bolts hit any of the candles or lanterns there and set the tent itself on fire.

Maybe that would’ve been better.  There would’ve been shadows there for sure.  And the tent would’ve burned down.  Maybe all of them would have.

Ancient Elf smiled.  It wasn’t the kind of smile that would make other people happy in the slightest.

“If you wish to die, then we can most certainly accommodate you.”

“Not as long as I’m around.” Yubel growled, arms and wings spread to defend Juudai at a moment’s notice.  “No harm will come to my Juudai.”

The old sorcerer turned a very disapproving look upon Yubel.  “No one asked for your opinion, malformed one.  But since you insist upon it as well, we’ve made plans for you.”

Fear coiled itself all around Juudai and he started to back for Rune.  Even if he died, Johan wasn’t going to leave him here.  Johan would need to know about this.  “Yubel, we’re getting out of here.”

“Oh, I think not.”  Ancient Elf tsked before raising one finger.

Many things happened at the same time.

A net of glowing green materials dropped down from above, wrapping all around Juudai.  No matter how much he strained at it, he could not break it, despite how fragile it looked.

Another bout of crossbow bolts shot, arching over the elf’s head and burying themselves deep into Yubel.  Each of them carried a malevolent white sigil written upon them, one Juudai only belatedly recognized as something intended to bind the effects of magic, sealing them off from the user.

Aodh had said that Yubel’s power wasn’t unstoppable.  For that matter, neither was Juudai’s.  Whatever this web was made out of, Juudai couldn’t so much as get a firm grip on it, let alone get it off of him.

Ancient Elf stepped over and stared down at him, a sadistic tilt to his lips.

“Oh, Herald.  You thought it would be so easy, didn’t you?  That you would just come in here, rescue this piece of offal, and dance away with your misborn creation before any of us noticed you.  We knew you were coming from the beginning.  It’s what someone as foolish as you does.”

He nudged Juudai with one foot.  Juudai twisted away from it, trying to get hold of Yubel, to do something that wasn’t lay there like a lump.

Yubel lay against the far wide of the tent, a thick dark liquid coming from the half-dozen crossbow bolts still lodged within.  Slowly, as if feeling his attention, Yubel opened their eyes and turned toward him.

“Beloved...”  Yubel tried to reach for him.  Juudai tried to reach back.  But warriors in white armor trooped in and one of them wrenched Yubel away, not caring how much more damage was done in the process.

“First we dispose of the misborn.  Then we dispose of him,”  Ancient Elf decreed.  He glanced toward Rune.  “Throw that in the deadpile.  It can be burned with the others.”

Juudai had time only to see that Rune still breathed, if shallow and unsteadily, before they dragged all three out.  Yubel and Juudai were taken to a clearing he’d ignored on the way in, where a white marble altar had been spread out, and the strongest and most skilled of the Army of Light’s warriors awaited them.

The altar had been marked with those sigils that kept Yubel’s power bound, ensuring that there wasn’t anything Yubel could do to protect Juudai or anyone else as they hauled Yubel onto it, wrapping thick chains all around to keep them in place.

They’d bound Juudai tighter with the power-nullifying web, which also carried those marks, he noticed when he had a moment to stop fighting.  A full two dozen of them stood guard on him, while Ancient Elf moved over to the altar and Yubel.

“Once you’ve both perished in honor of the Light, your souls will be cleansed by its power, and will nevermore be able to touch the unholy Darkness.  Should you return to a mortal form, you will belong to the Light.”

Juudai struggled harder.  He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere, but he didn’t care.  As far as he was concerned, if this went through, then he’d be dead forever.  Being part of the Light embodied all that he stood against.  

Ancient Elf raised a sharp, long-bladed dagger, marked with emblems of the Light.  Clearly he wasn’t taking any chances at all.

“In the name of the Light, by the Power of the Light, by the Cleansing of the Light, let you be freed of your misborn form and your foolish vows to the Darkness!  Let there be nothing more that binds you, nothing more that keeps you from serving the Light, as all things must!”

He brought the knife down, sharp and deadly and reeking of magic that made Juudai sick.

“I don’t think so.”

A different kind of light filled the clearing, one that Juudai squinted against, but it caused no fear in him.  Instead, it drove all fear out, and he found it in himself to hope that this wasn’t the end.

“You!”  Ancient Elf spun backwards even as that familiar voice spoke.  

Standing on the back of a beautiful winged unicorn stood Johan, in his full power as the incarnate Light of Hope.  His arms folded over his chest and he stared down at them like the very wrath of the gods, clad all in armor of white and trimmed in silver.

The rest of his guardians stood near him, a tiger and a great cat, a mammoth and a turtle and an eagle, and on his shoulder, a tiny little squirrel-ish creature that chirruped at the sight of Juudai.

“Johan!”

Johan gave a quick, quiet nod, before gesturing to Amethyst Cat and Topaz Tiger.  “Get Rune out of here.  I’ll take care of this.”

They didn’t argue, even as Johan turned back to Ancient Elf.  “I could ask a lot of questions but I’ll save them for when people aren’t waving knives at my friends.  So, let them go.”

He added nothing else.  He needed to add nothing else, not with the way the rest of his companions stared down alongside of him.

Ancient Elf moved towards Yubel, knife still in hand.  “Of course, of course.”  His lip curled in hatred, no matter if he looked at Juudai or Yubel or Johan.  “How could we ever disobey you?”

More crossbow bolts, but Emerald Turtle moved in front of them and they clattered harmlessly off of his shell.  In the intervening moments, however, Ancient Elf struck down at Yubel, the tip of the blade piercing Yubel’s very center.  

Juudai had heard Yubel scream before, but never since becoming his guardian and taking on the form of a dragon.  The scream struck into the deepest part of his heart and he could see Yubel’s form shimmering before it shattered altogether, breaking into untold points of light, and then fading away with one last cry.

“Juudai...”

And then Yubel was gone.

Juudai writhed and screamed in rage of his own, rage enough to end the world, and he could see Johan running towards him and he didn’t care, Yubel was gone, destroyed, and it was all his fault, he could blame no one else and wouldn’t have even if he could, if he’d just listened and not rushed off like this, if he’d just so much as waited for a second check…

Yubel was gone.

Yubel was gone and Juudai’s heart bled and power that he’d known he had surged upward, shattering the bonds that held him.

One could hold the Darkness incarnate but only for so long.  Darkness always fell and always rose again.

There was a voice that called a name.  Then other voices.  None of them meant anything to the Darkness.

It rose.  The Light was there.  It needed to be extinguished.  

Yubel needed to be avenged.  

The world needed to be saved.

The Darkness reached and all those warriors of the Light fell, screaming, and it was pleasing to the ears of the Darkness.

To the ears of Haou.

He smiled and terror spread among all those who gazed upon him and so would it be.  

He would protect that which was his.  If that meant to destroy all things, to crush them underneath his heel so that never again would the Light harm them, then so be it.  Without Yubel, what did he have?  

Juudai.  Juudai.

Little more than a whisper on the wind, but it was enough to catch his attention and he turned to where the broken body lay.  Standing next to it, transparent as a soap bubble, was… Yubel?

He spoke their name.  The world shook at the sound of one word and he heard other voices again, and they still meant nothing at all to him.

I’m … I’m still here.  I don’t know what happened.  But I’m here.

He tilted his head.  Did Yubel wish him to stop, then?  He would stop at their will and theirs alone.

No, Juudai.  I don’t.  Yubel bared their teeth and it was not a smile and he returned it.  Destroy it all.  Let their folly be known throughout the land.  Let the Light know what it threatens and what will happen when it fails.

Haou liked how that sounded.  The screaming voices still meant nothing.  He turned toward one and tilted his head a bit.  The screamer meant nothing but Haou recognized him anyway.  He just wasn’t what Haou wanted right now.  Nor did he want anyone else to have it.

Hope gave people a promise.  The only hope and promise he wanted the people here, the servants of the Light, to know was the chance for a quick death.  It was the only promise he would fulfill.

He turned another way to recognize his bodyguards.  The ones who weren’t Yubel.  They kept on yelling, but nothing they said made any sense to him.  Well, no matter.  It was time to finish this once and for all anyway.

All the elements lay under his command.  Fire rained from the sky with little more than an exercise of will.  Water rose up from the river, ten times that of what Bubbleman caused, and the earth underneath their feet rocked and cracked open, sending legion after legion of the Army of Light screaming into the depths.  

Winds roared, a tornado touching down in the center of their camp, shredding survivors and tents and all their equipment into useless junk.

“Juudai!  Juudai!”  

Hope again.  Haou flicked a finger and a wave of energy knocked him to the side into one of the few still standing trees.  He didn’t move.

Haou moved onward.  He had a great deal of work to do and he would like to finish it before sundown.

Pain beyond pain tore into his back, ripping through his armor and sending him crashing to his knees.  Haou pulled himself up and around to stare behind himself.

The same blade used to kill Yubel now sank up to the hilt in his own back.  Far too close stood Ancient Elf, with another in hand.

“Even if I can’t kill you for the Light, I can still kill you!”

Haou reached for his own last bit of power:  he knew what a dying body felt like, and this one was dying.  He lashed outward with it, and Ancient Elf was no more, falling backwards with a twisted smirk in the last moments.

Juudai sank back down to his knees, stumbling even then, falling forward.  One hand reached for Yubel.  The other, for Johan.  He spared one breath for the Elemental Heroes, even as he could feel the last of his life fading away.

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know who he spoke to, but he meant it to all of them.

All my fault...

Juudai sat up, panting, before he wrenched around and threw himself into Yubel’s arms, holding onto them as if they would vanish if he let go for a single moment.  His heart raced, tears spilled down his cheeks, and he whispered two words over and over again.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

Yubel wrapped their arms even more tightly around him.  “It wasn’t your fault, Juudai.”

“Yes, it was!  Just like last time!  This time!  I’m always too stupid and I never listen and people get hurt because of it!  First you and I … I … did I… Johan?  Then?  Did I...”  Juudai didn’t know how much sense he made, but it must’ve been enough for Yubel.

“No.  He survived and helped put Kuragari back together again after that.”  Yubel tilted Juudai’s head up.  “He made a very good King after Aodh and Kaien passed away.”

Juudai swallowed.  Somehow, that didn’t surprise him at all.  Then he blinked. “How do you know?”  He hadn’t known that.  He hadn’t been around to see it.

“Because I wasn’t dead.  I didn’t know then what was going on.  But because of what Ancient Elf did, I haven’t had a physical body since then.  I can mimic one now, especially since you and I fused and I’ve learned more about the power I have.  It took me over a century to learn just how to communicate with other people.”  Yubel’s lip curled for a moment.  “Not that I wanted to communicate with anyone but you.”

Juudai nodded, holding onto Yubel still.  No matter what they said, he wasn’t going to absolve himself so easily.  Then he lifted his head up and turned to where the Elemental Heroes stood.

“You all knew, didn’t you?  About me?  And about what I did back then?”

Featherman spoke. “Of course we did.  We’ve been by your side almost as long as Yubel has.  But why would we blame you for something that you did when you were pushed beyond coherent rage?”

“And why do you think that Elemental Heroes can take on so many different fusion forms in the first place?”  Sparkman asked.  “We resonate to you as much as the Neo-Spacians do, Juudai.  Our fusions reflect what’s in your heart.  That means we understand what it can be like when things like that happen.  And like what happened in Dark World.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of your power or what you can do with it.  Control is all you need, and you’ve been working on that,”  Burst Lady told him.  “You’re much better about it, too.”

Juudai eased back down into Yubel’s arms.  “I don’t deserve all of you.”  Nor did he deserve Johan, who’d risked so much to try to help him even when Juudai wouldn’t listen to him.

“So, you were different because...”

“Because after a few thousand years of not having a proper body, of not being with you at all, and what Ancient Elf did severing my connection to you in the first place, I… wasn’t entirely sane at the time, even before the Light itself got hold of me.”  Yubel’s fingers tightened for a heartbeat. “I think this time it intended that I make certain you couldn’t fight back against it, instead of trying to take us both out at the same time.”

Juudai shuddered at how close the plan had come to working, both times.  If it hadn’t been for Johan’s arrival, then they both would’ve been sacrificed to the Light.  And this time, if it hadn’t been for him getting his memories back…

“I really should do something nice for Johan,” he murmured, starting to feel weary all over again.  That had not been a restful nap.

Then he recalled Rune, and realized that he’d seen him before:  in this lifetime.

“Yubel… that guy in Dark World.  The one that I met before I fought Zure.”  He winced at the thought of all else that happened then, before forging onward.  “That was Rune, wasn’t it?  The guy who was Johan’s twin the first time.”

“And still is now.  He’s in Dark World somewhere, I presume.  That’s where I sent him, anyway.”

Juudai whipped his head around to stare at her again.  “You saved him?”

“I saved everyone you cared about.  You cared about him, even for those few moments, didn’t you?”

He could not say he didn’t.  He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but perhaps some vague memory recalled Johan’s twin brother.  Then he sat up even more.

“Come on.  I’m going to find him and he and Johan are going to get a family reunion!”  

He stood up, all weariness falling away, and reached for Yubel’s hand.  Then he leaned up and forwards to kiss her.  “I really am sorry.”  He would spend all of time making it up to Yubel if he had to.  And to Johan as well.

Yubel returned the kiss, with interest.  “You’re forgiven.”  As simple as two words and his heart sang for joy, and he carried them away into the shadows to find a brother.

The End Notes:  And that's it.  Though there will be other tales that involve Juudai and Yubel and Johan and maybe Rune.