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author-morgan · 4 years ago

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"I won't let anyone hurt you, you're safe with me" with eivor please... Maybe he rescues reader from the order after they had been used for different experiments or something

i am so sorry for how long this took, but I had to come up with the right plot bunny to pair with the prompt for some angst(tm). here you are, i hope you enjoy and don't mind the touch of Havi and Frigg, or in which Havi makes a promise to his sweet Frigg and keeps it even in the next life.

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

SÝNIN CIRCLES IN the clear sky above the longhouse of Ravensthorpe, and then you know your husband is not far now. Soon Eivor Wolfsmal will be back in your arms, where he belongs. The raven descends, coming to perch on your shoulder, nudging his beak against your temple —as much as you’ve missed Eivor, you’ve missed Sýnin in equal measure. Things could get surprisingly lonely without a tetchy raven around to croak at all hours of the night, steal your hairpins, and beg for treats. Reaching up, you scritch the blue-back feathers on his belly and are rewarded by a low, gurgling croak. “Have you been behaving yourself?” Sýnin bobs his head, but you have a gut feeling he’s lying for the chance at a few extra treats.

Taking to the docks, you watch along the river bends for the sail and masts of the longship. The blue-and-back sail and shields turn from the west —squinting, you can see him standing on the curved scorpion tail, looking onward to home. With a nervous smile, you rest your hand over your belly, knowing soon it will start to grow. You’ve much to tell him since he’s been gone the past weeks, building alliances with Saxon nobles across England.

“Eivor, my love,” you call, meeting him at the edge of the dock as he steps off the longship. His smile is tired but relieved when he looks upon you with Sýnin perched upon your shoulder —the best ‘welcome home’ he could ask for. You open your arms, embracing him as the crew disseminates among the settlement. Eivor pulls back, his hands —rougher than you remember— cupping your cheeks.

There’s something different in your expression, a new glow surrounding you that he cannot place. Regardless of his racing mind, he leans forward as you urge him down with a hand at the nape of his neck. It’s been weeks, and he sighs against your mouth, the burdens of the world washed away by your touch and kiss. “Walk with me?” You ask, holding fast to his hand. He nods, offering his arm. Word of the recently secured alliance can wait; he has been parted from his wife too long.

You lead him past the longhouse, the people of Ravensthorpe smiling as they see Eivor has returned and know what it is you’re going to tell him. Once Valka confirmed your suspicions, it hadn’t taken long for word to travel by way of two mischievous children.

Everyone is happy; and happy for you and Eivor, knowing you two had tried to conceive many times. Stopping beneath the great tree past the Seer’s Hut, you turn with a smile —hand settling on your middle. “I’ve good news to tell you.” Eivor lifts his brow, and your smile only widens as you reach for his hand, pressing it against your belly. He sucks in a deep breath, heart thudding in his chest and ears as he looks to you, his clear blue eyes wide with joy and surprise. You nod, resting your hand over his. “I am with child.”

Eivor is silent for a moment, gathering his words and emotions. He looks down at your belly, then back to you —overjoyed and uncertain. This is a moment you’ve only ever talked about; that he’s dreamt of when the gods were kind enough to let him have a good dream. “I’m going to be a father?” Eivor breathes, though it sounds more like a question. You nod again, eyes gleaming with tears as he rests his other hand on your stomach too. His smile too large to be hidden under his shaggy golden beard. There’s another moment’s pause, then Eivor slips his arms around you, bringing you into a tight embrace —his face tucked into your neck.

You lose track of how long Eivor holds you in his arms as if it all is only a dream and he may wake at any second. Stepping back, he takes your face into his rough hands, brushing away the tears streaking your cheeks. Eivor dips his head down, his nose brushing against yours before your lips meet —gentle and loving but still burning with fervor from the weeks of being parted from one another.

“You’ve made me the happiest man in Midgard,” he admits. You lean into him again, taking another kiss before he settles onto one knee in front of you, level with your belly. Eivor rests his forehead against your front, his hands loosely holding onto your hips. “Rest easy, little one.” Smiling, you brush back his golden hair —half-unbound from his warrior’s braids and knotted. “I will protect you and your mother.” It’s a promise.

“EIVOR,” RANDVI CRIES as he enters the longhouse, tears still fresh on her cheeks. She should not have let you go riding outside of Ravensthorpe alone, especially knowing you were with child. He clasps onto her shoulders, steadying her so she can gather her senses. “It’s Fulke.” The script is fresh in her memory, having read it a dozen times over to be certain of the ill-boding tidings. Randvi shakes her head, unable to meet her friend's concerned gaze. “She’s taken more than just Sigurd.”

“No,” Eivor breathes, but Randvi presents the scroll as proof. He skims the words —his worst fears coming to fruition. Not only did Fulke hold his brother captive, but now the conniving bitch had stolen you away too. You. His wife. The mother of his unborn child. He’d sworn to protect both of you with every breath in his lungs, and now it is an oath broken.

The sudden anger boiling under his skin is so hot it burns the fear freezing him, turning to determination. Eivor crumples the parchment, his expression twisting —no god can save you now, Fulke. “Send word to our allies.” Randvi nods, stepping back to the writing-table at the edge of the map room. “I will burn all of Wessex if I have to,” Eivor grits out, hands turning to fists at his sides as he leaves the longhouse to gather his men —a part of him feels as though he has walked this path before.

HAVI STRIDES THROUGH Fensalir with a deep sadness in his heart, but his agony cannot compare to that of his sweet Frigg. For three days and three nights, his queen has asked for solitude, and though it pained him to keep away during such times, he and the others respected Frigg’s wishes. Though Havi would not leave his dear wife to grieve alone, sending Huginn and Muninn to keep a watchful eye over the Queen of the Æsir. The two ravens are perched upon a stone bench at the edge of the fen. Thor glances over his shoulder at the approaching footsteps —his expression is weary and grief-stricken as he looks upon his father.

Gently, your son releases you from his tight embrace and rises, stepping back with a silent promise to return soon as he greets his father with a solemn nod before leaving. Havi pushes back his hood, seeing the white flowers spring from the earth with your tears. Baldr will be remembered —in deeds and songs and the blossoms brought forth by his mother’s tears. He kneels, reaching for your hands, and slides the bloody sprig of mistletoe free from your grasp. Through weary eyes, you look upon your husband —his expression twisted into the same display of forlorn grief. It makes your heart ache even more to have pushed him away, for he too lost a son. “Frigg,” he sighs.

“Havi,” you cry, falling into him. He swathes you in his black cloak, tucking you against his chest and holding you tight —a vow of retribution on his tongue. Loki would be punished for this crime. For all the realms felt the bitter void left by Baldr’s absence, and all wept, save for a giantess whose unshed tears doomed your son to Hel. The grief and anger simmering in his blood turn to something else —determination. He will not have his sweet Frigg endure this pain again; his one-armed embrace tightens as he cradles the back of your head. “I will not let another of our children fall,” Havi swears, lips brushing over your temple. “Not until our twilight has come.”

HE TWISTS HIS hands into Fulke’s leather-and-cloth armor, throwing the madwoman to the muddy and blood-slick ground. Fulke spits blood, pulling herself away from Eivor Wolfsmal on hands and knees only to find herself surrounded by his men and allies. All their weapons drawn, trained on her. The price for taking the Jarl of Raven Clan and Eivor’s wife is one to be paid in blood, and there is nowhere for her to run. She will have to suffer the wrath. “Where is she?” Eivor roars, kicking Fulke onto her back. He kneels, knee pressing into the bloody gash on her side, one of his throwing axes withdrawn and held high above his head —ready to strike.

There is no fear in her eyes, only bliss. Her work in this world now complete. “You made a choice,” Fulke laughs, choking on blood, “you chose Sigurd.” She coughs, blood-tinged spittle spattering against Eivor’s face, washed away by the pouring rain.

He roars, teeth bared and eyes burning hot with the rage of the gods. Lightning splits open the sky, thunder cracking like a great whip against the earth. “I will flay the skin from your bones and feed your eyes to my raven,” Eivor hisses.

Her smile is bloody —victorious. She knows you are leagues from here, and now the only ones who know are dead or dying. Eivor Wolfsmal could search the land for years and never find the seaside cave on the shores of Cent. “You’ll never find her,” Fulke says. One final victory before relinquishing herself to darkness and her wounds.

Eivor rises, his shoulders heaving and expression twisted. There is no time for a reunion when Sigurd limps from the fortress —clutching the stump where his hand and wrist once were— reinforcements from Wincestre draw nigh. The cry of war horns and drums echoing above the storm. He turns to Dag and Hrefna, eyes flitting over to his brother, unfit to fight in the coming battle. “See him back to Ravensthorpe,” he tells them before shifting his attention back to his allies. The day is not won yet, and Eivor will not rest until he has his beloved back in his arms.

ABOVE THE BREAKING waves of the sea, there is a whisper on the howling wind. Eivor looks to the sea below, then to Basim —his scouts working tirelessly since the siege of Portcestre nigh a fortnight ago to find leads. The culmination of their work leads him and Eivor to the southern edge of Cent to a cave guarded by Fulke’s acolytes. Eivor knows the gods are with him this day, as plain as if the Allfather whispered the affirmation into his ear.

The echoes of battle fill the air, and through the slivers of light above, you see shadows moving and hear the unmistakable cry of a raven growing closer —Sýnin. Rousing from uneasy rest, you clamber to the upturned bucket at the cell’s center, dragging chains behind you. Trembling, you clutch your swollen belly, then step up onto the bucket, fingers finding purchase on the metal grate above, slick with blood and excrements. Sýnin appears at the edge of the grate, his beady eyes staring down at you in the darkness, tilting his head this way and that. He hops up and down —talons clinking against the metal— before squawking wildly.

Eivor’s focus shifts from the dead littering the beach when he hears Sýnin inside the cave, and for the first time in weeks, you hear your name in his voice —a desperate plea. “Eivor!” His name is only a soft, airy rasp, not strong enough to carry with the raven’s calls. “Eivor!” You cry, this time louder, but your voice is broken, throat raw from days screaming and crying at the hands of Fulke and her enforcers. Sýnin’s squawks grow louder, mingling with footsteps.

The wave of relief almost shatters him when it hits and washes over his body and mind when he sees you —alive. Eivor reaches through the lattice, his fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve got you now,” he breathes, the torchlight showing the tears glistening in his clear blue gaze. You nod, smiling with cracked lips —thanking Frigg and Freyja that your prayers did not go unanswered. Eivor urges you to step down and aside, and when you do, he rears back, slamming the butt of his axe against the rusting lock, breaking it. With a sharp cry, he throws open the grate, sliding down into the darkness with you.

Hands trembling, he unlocks the manacles around your wrists and the shackle around your ankle. Each has left your skin red and raw beneath. Eivor gathers you in his arms. “Let’s get you out of here,” he says, lips brushing against your temple. You nod, eager to be rid of this damp and foul hole in the earth. Sýnin takes to your shoulder as soon as you are free, nudging his head against your temple and cheek. With a tired smile, you lift a hand to scritch the dark feathers of his underside as Eivor pulls himself free of the cell.

Eivor kneels, reaching for your hands, his thumbs brushing just above the broken skin on your wrists, and as you lean toward him, he swathes you with the coarse wool of his cloak —forehead pressed against yours. He feels the dampness on your cheeks as you press your face against his scarred neck. "I won't let anyone hurt you again,” he vows, “you're safe now.” One of his hands settles on your stomach, and you cover it with yours, holding him tightly with the other. “You’re both safe,” he whispers, and it’s only when he feels a light twitch against his hand that the realization breaks him. “I’m so sorry, my love,” Eivor chokes.

You draw back from his embrace, seeing the tears streak his face and the guilt clear on his expression. “Don’t blame yourself,” you plead, cupping his scarred cheek. “Please, don’t.” Eivor nods, though guilt still weighs heavily on his heart and will until he sees you safely returned to Ravensthorpe and tended to. He turns farther into your hand until his lips brush the center of your palm —a soft kiss, another promise.

Sýnin croaks, splashing in a puddle, and breaks yours and Eivor’s trance, reminding you both that you’re still in a cave, far from home and where you belong. He slides his arms beneath your knees and around your shoulders, rising with you. “You’re safe,” he repeats, more for himself to hear than you. Eivor breathes a deep sigh when he steps onto the beach, holding you close in his arms. Sýnin flies overhead, as do a pair of ravens — the same pair Eivor has seen in dreams of late. He smiles as he sets on the path carrying you up the cliffside, knowing Havi and Frigg had both heard his prayers.

[taglist: @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelae @darkravenqueen98 ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!

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peregrineggsandham · 3 years ago

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Do I have far, far too much work to do that I am not doing? Yes.

Have I gotten to Absolute Radiance and am now practicing her in the Hall of Gods? Also yes.

The screen is so bright gold and white it hurts my eyes. I am ready and willing to murder the sun.

Y'all. Y'all I'm so proud of myself. I am demonstrably not good at platformers - I still routinely fall trying to jump onto the one (1) platform between the two floors of the Hall of Gods. I don't track multiple moving objects on the screen well. I have a collection of facial tics that tear my eyes away for seconds at a time, largely out of my control. (I recorded most of my first playthrough and there are so many times where I just pause the game and wait for my eyeballs to cooperate again.)

And yet. And yet. Our little friend (Ghost? Ghost. I embrace this fan name wholeheartedly) and I made it through, on only the second attempt that actually reached the Pure Vessel.

I don't remember if I made a post the first time I got to them in the fourth pantheon. But. Man. The silent boss scream got me. I got chills! I love that fight, honestly - it's not easy, though I'm pretty consistent with it now, but it's got that same dance-like rhythm of Grimm and the Mantis Lords that I adore so much. I was so excited when I realized that, and figuring out how to deal with each attack reliably was so, so much fun. (Though I still can't quite time dashing through their parry strike, and get hit maybe every other time.)

And then, it was time to ascend. Just like Gorb said. He was right all along. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Gorb. (...I had been calling him Discount Radiance because of his nail spread attack, but now that I'm dealing with Absolute Radiance I've decided she's actually just Knockoff Gorb.)

And now we're here, a tiny thing, shell of wyrm and root, filled with void, pointing their little nail defiantly at the dream of the sun.

I don't know exactly how many attempts it was - though I took note of where I died, I didn't write down when I died to the same boss multiple times in a row, so the list I have likely isn't all attempts... though honestly that didn't happen all that often, since I'd Hall of Gods anyone I died to until I could beat them three times in a row comfortably and with health to spare. And preferably at least once on Ascended, though I haven't tackled the nailmasters there yet. I don't know I'll ever go for Radiant everything, but Ascended everything should be doable one day. Maybe.

...we don't talk about Markoth.

Recorded deaths: Oro&Mato > SoB [so much fun to practice, I love them so much] > Marmu [what have we learned? kill the child, quickly] > O&M [again] > Collector [easily dealt with via strategic charm rearranging] > Uumuu [after much Hall of Gods ascended hell I renamed them "Ohno"] > Sheo [whoops] > No Eyes > Traitor Lord > Lost Kin > Failed Champion [...dang it] > Flukemarm […yeah I have no excuse for that one] > Pure Vessel.

...actually the only reason I think I haven't died to Markoth in the last pantheon is because I went through practicing all the dream warriors on ascended after I realized that the pantheon uses those arenas, reached him, realized I was doomed, but got to where I could consistently get to his second phase. Turns out that translates to consistently beating him in pantheon, where it's the ascended arena but he doesn't do double damage. So. Nice.

It was definitely less than 20 attempts, maybe a solid 15. Got a decent spell-friendly charm setup now, with a little juggling on the bench after Sheo (swapping Quickslash for Unbreakable Strength to oneshot the Collector's aspids) and Hornet Sentinel (grabbing Quickslash again, and Quick Focus).

Anyways. I'm rambling. Point is... I did a thing! Hurrah!

.............................

........I am very tired.

#hollow knight #sam says stuff sometimes

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my-kindred-spirit · 4 years ago

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Which is your favourite flower, Kaz?

Summary: Two years after the ending of Crooked Kingdom, Kaz and Inej enjoy a well-deserved moment of peace and happiness in Kaz's farm, surrounded by the beauty of nature. They reflect on their past and the healing they've done, as well as on their feelings for each other.

Pairing: Kaz x Inej

Basically, this is just pure FLUFF!!!

INEJ

Inej had always loved looking at the sky. When her mind was still young and naïve, she used to imagine herself walking between the clouds on a white sparkly tightrope, leaving behind her a silver trail decorating the silent sky. She used to dream of her spirit hanging in the air and her soul flying free in the blue infinity of the firmament, with a smile printed on her face and the lightness that is conferred only by liberty sculpted in her heart.

When her mind was trying to survive the horrors that Fate had destined to her, Inej still looked at the sky. Ketterdam’s sky was grey, opaque with the steam of the cities and almost threatening in his abyssal vastness. It wasn’t arid though. It was very much alive, reached day and night by the laughs of the tourists wandering through the narrow streets of the Barrel, by the drunken songs of the men wasting themselves in the taverns and the joyful or frustrated shouts of the ones playing in the gambling halls. But the sky was also the inevitable witness of the desperate pleas of people being defrauded or robbed, of the painful cries of some poor souls abandoned by the Saints and doomed to a fate of violence and sorrows, of the desperate sobs of girls violated in the brothels.

Read it on AO3 here!

The sky had never been reached by the Wraith’s voice though. She liked to contemplate it in silence, sitting on Ghezen’s thumb and savoring all the memories of when the clouds looked softer. She had actually hanged in the air and flied as the most elegant and gracious of the birds, but her stage had been roofs and chimneys, not clouds. Her curtain had been a grey and opaque sky, not a bright and azure one. Still, she had defeated gravity, even if not how she had dreamt as a child.

Now that her mind had known pain and had wandered even through the world’s darkest meanders, Inej still loved looking at the sky. She liked to remember both the acrobatics she had performed on the rope, admired by her proud family, and the brave stunts she had succeeded in as the Wraith, with Ketterdam’sky as her sole witness. She liked to admire the blue intense sky towering on the True Sea and the azure one inundating with light and hope Kaz’s farm.

It was early June and the clouds looked softer than ever. The sun burnt high in the clear azure sky and his shiny rays softly tinged the boundless meadows gold.

Inej let her eyes part from the sky and wander around the immense verdant meadows surrounding her, which stretched as far as eye can see and finally got lost between the vague trembling lines of the horizon, in a pyrotechnic explosion of colours. She admired the flowery fields and the carpet of grass she was sitting on, embroidered with the golden light of the daffodils, the white purity of the daisies, the gentle pink of the roses, the purple of the wild geranium – her mother’s favourite flower- and the strong blue of the irises, which reminded her of the unforgiving waves colliding with her Wraith. On the distance she could see the orchards tinging the landscape pink: she recognized the light-pink petals of cherries, the darker pink and orange flowers of the peaches and then the white and pinkish heart-shaped flowers of the apricots, slowly falling to the ground and leaving place to the orange velvety drupes.

The fresh floral perfume was inebriating and the delicate scent of grass, soft and faintly damp under her touch, graced her nostrils and intoxicated her thoughts. A soft symphony of birds singing reigned in the colourful heaven and lulled her, accompanied by the gentle tune of a light pleasant breeze, the soft murmurings of the creek beyond the orchards and the melody of... of feets approaching her.

“You have picked some flowers.” Inej turned around and watched Kaz nodding to the wooden basket full of flowers, while slowly sitting beside her. This Kaz’s voice, Kaz Rietveld's voice, was not as raspy as Kaz Brekker’s one. He wasn’t even using the cane, which he had come to find unnecessary for walking on the soft grass. This Kaz, her Kaz, had longer hair on the sides and brown highlights, result of almost three weeks spent in the sun. He had even tanned a bit and gotten freckles all over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and the corners of his mouth seemed to be turned up in a smile more often than not. He was wearing simple black breeches and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No coat, no hat. No gloves. His eyes, however, were the same colour of bitter coffee as always.

“Wylan helped me earlier.” Inej observed Kaz eyeing the flowers with a troubled expression and then slowly lifting his head to look at her. “I've never given you flowers.”

KAZ

“You have picked some flowers”. Inej turned around and Kaz swore he had felt his heart stopping. The sun rays caressed her chocolate skin and framed her beautiful face. Oil black lashes fanned over her cheeks and a light breeze ruffled her silky dark hair. Her obsidian eyes resembled the darkest of the abysses and Kaz craved to forget himself and die in his pitch-dark immensity. Her vivid eyes sparkled as the brightest and most vibrant of stars and Kaz ached to live eternally and enshrine that light in a golden casket.

To Kaz, she didn’t look real, not for him. To Kaz, she looked holier that any of the Saints she devotedly believed in, so stunning that he thought he might just break down and cry if he looked at her any longer. Enveloped by the rainbow of flowers and trees, she looked like a picture painted by Purity itself, with the colourful palette of kindness and hope and the silver brush of strength and determination.

Kaz couldn’t thank any God enough that she was real. He jealously cherished every moment in which his eyes were graced with the sight of her elegant figure and kind smile, as he had never seen her before, as he would never see her again. He had learned to welcome and appreciate even the feeling of his breath catching and mouth drying whenever he looked at her, whenever he was a boy again, sure that there was magic in this world.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like dying. It felt like he couldn’t hope nor ask to breathe the same air of a heart so kind, a soul so hopeful, a mind so strong. It felt like being lost in the vastness of the universe, like navigating the tumultuous waves of the True sea, overwhelmed by feelings he never knew his hearth could fell, stunned by a fate he didn’t believe he deserved. It felt like being consumed by her, for her.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like living. It felt like he could hope to walk this land as a better man, like he had managed to pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. It felt like having been hurt and then healed, like the sorrows and ghost of his past wouldn’t persecute him for evermore, like life was worth living. It felt like being whole, like the void in his soul had been filled by her, for her.

To Kaz, looking at Inej felt like looking at the sun, like being warmed and burned, overwhelmed by a powerful oxymoron of emotions, a powerful oxymoron of life and death. To Kaz, Inej looked like the sun. To Kaz, Inej looked brighter than the sun.

“Wylan helped me earlier.” Kaz looked at the wooden basket full of flowers and a sudden realization striked him : flowers, he had never gifted her with flowers. He had given her a knife, sure, but he had done it for his own personal purposes, for turning her into his Wraith. Now they had been staying in Johannus Rietveld's farm for almost three weeks, literally surrounded by flowers, and he had never given her any. Would she have wanted him to? Would she have liked a gift that would have reminded her of her happy childhood, and not of the violence she had been forced to face? Would she have liked a gift that he would have given her had they met in another life, had they been Inej Ghafa and Kaz Rietveld, instead of the Wraith and the Bastard of the Barrel?

He shifted his eyes back to hers and murmured weakly, “I’ve never given you flowers.” Inej looked taken aback for a moment, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, before quickly recomposing herself and setting her face into a stoic, indecipherable expression. She looked straight into his eyes, pursed lips and brow furrowed, and Kaz knew he was inevitably about to enhance the list of his unforgivable sins. “Kaz”, her voice came out unbearably severe and disappointed and Kaz knew he would have gladly chosen death if it’d mean he would never be the one to bring that tone in her angelic voice again. But then her lips twitched almost imperceptibly, like she was trying with all her might to hold back Kaz’s final death sentence, and her eyes gleamed with… amusement?

A laugh, she was trying to hold back a laugh. How Inej managed to turn Dirtyhands, the brain which had broken into the Ice Court and destroyed one of Ketterdam’s most powerful man, into a lovestruck fool was downright beyond him. “Inej”, he sighed defeated and her whole face lighted up with delight, before she carefreely threw her head back and released the most infectious and crystalline of laughs. Now Kaz was sure he was going to die, mercilessly killed by the most beatific sound which had ever reached his ears, undeniably annihilated by the same laugh he craved for all-day long and graced his dreams every night, by the truest and most profound essence of her.

Her eyes sparkled with sheer love and a warm, affectionate smile enlightened her features: “Kaz, you gave me my Wraith, you found my parents for me, you restored my freedom when I thought there were no hope or salvation left for me”, she cooed fondly and tenderly, “do you honestly believe I would be upset because you never gave me flowers?”. Kaz felt his lips immediately turning up in a sincere smile and, not trusting himself with words, slowly shifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against hers, asking the permission she immediately granted, sliding her smaller hand into his callous one and entwining their fingers. It was always like this between them, a game of continuous asking and giving permissions, of constant gaining and offering trust, a game he genuinely believed they were slowly yet effectively winning.

“Do you want to know what my father used to tell me when I was little?” Inej asked softly, while lovingly drawing little circles with her thumb on Kaz’s bare hand.

“Another Suli wise proverb?” he smirked.

“No, Kaz”, she playfully rolled her eyes, “not another of our useful proverbs. He used to tell me that there would have been many boys to bring me flowers, but that only one would have known my favourite flower, or song or sweet. And that even if he’d have been too poor to give me any, he wouldn’t have mattered, because that boy, and him only, had earnt my heart.”

Kaz’s heart leaped with joy: he knew. He had never given her flowers, but he knew her favourite one, he knew. “Dahlia. Your favourite flower is the Dahlia, the red one. You told me when we saw one in the flower stall in Goedmedbridge, remember? We were following those Dime Lions. You said you liked it because it appeared elegant and graceful, but that the red colour made it look also somewhat powerful and strong.”, he blurted out with the excitement of a child. ”And your favourite sweet are those chocolate biscuits Nina made you try when you visited her in Ravka last summer. The ones she had cooked modifying Matthias's Fjerdian recipe.”

“And my favourite song?”

Hearing Inej’s trembling, touched voice snapped Kaz out of his frantic enthusiasm, his grin softening into a lovely crooked smile and devotion gleaming in his eyes. “You don’t have one. You can’t choose between all the lullabies your mother singed to get you to sleep.”

INEJ

Inej didn’t answer. She tightened her hold on Kaz’s hand, but didn’t answer. She fought the urge to cry – if from happiness or gratitude or emotion she couldn’t say-, but didn’t answer. She looked into his strong tea brown eyes as if he was a miracle of her Saints, but didn’t answer. She couldn’t, for the life of her, find her voice, because this boy, this man, had earned her heart.

She had fallen for Dirtyhands under the grey sky of Ketterdam, the man who had freed her from a cage of horrors and humiliations and had given her, if not happiness or safety, a new perspective, a new possibility at life. She had fallen for the man who, as first thing, had refused to call her with that grotesque, demeaning name Tante Heleen had given her, but had asked for her real name, for how she wished to be called. She had fallen for the Bastard of the Barrel, the man who had taught her how to fight and defend herself, how to become powerful and even dangerous, how to make others respect her. She had fallen for the man who had never wanted to own her or annihilate her identity. She had fallen for the man who, even if hadn’t promised her that, had always protected her, whatever the cost.

Then she had slowly came to know Kaz Rietveld and had fallen hard for him too. She had fallen for the boy who looked sincerely ashamed after being scolded by Mr. Fahey, for the boy who fought everyday against his demons and was willing to defeath them to be with her. She had fallen for the boy who smiled light-heartedly and laughed freely, for the boy whose eyes glowed in the sun and gleamed with a nervous yet warm devotion while braiding her hair.

She had fallen for the man who wanted her and wished to dedicate himself to her, without gloves, without armour. She had fallen for the naive, sweet boy Kaz had once been and for the man revenge and greed had shaped, a crow mercilessly remindful or who had wronged him, but also of who had been kind and fair. She had fallen for who he was becoming, a man who had known pain and hatred, but was willing to open the rusty gate of his hearth to love and friendship.

She had fallen for Kaz Brekker, the man who had returned her the liberty which had been violently snatched from her and had found her beloved parents. The man who had encouraged her ambitions and supported her constantly in her fight against the slavers.

She had fallen for Kaz Brekker. She loved Kaz Brekker, and he had earned her heart. He possessed her heart.

“I can braid your hair, if you’d like. I… I could add the flowers.” Hadn’t she just been thinking he owned her heart?

Her voice still failed her, so she resolved to nod. She watched Kaz shifting a bit to sit behind her and heard his breathing deepening. After a few instants, Inej welcomed the cherished feeling of Kaz’s long fingers caressing her inky hair with a gentleness that didn’t surprise her anymore. She felt him dividing the hair into three even parts, before crossing the left section over the middle one and then doing the same with the right section. As always, he worked in silence, section after section, strand after strand, breath by breath, brick by brick. The first times he had braided her hair, Inej had felt Kaz's fingers trembling and his breathing fastening, so she had started to ask him what was on his mind, to distract him, or she would tell him stories from her childhood, to soothe him.

Now, his fingers didn't tremble anymore and he was rather succesful in controlling his breathing, but Inej still whished to hear his concentrated voice. She still wanted to explore the gears of his psyche, to navigate the thunderous stream of his thoughts, to know the forbidden ruminations of his complex mind. “Wha”, she coughed, clearing his throat, “What are you thinking right now, Kaz?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”, he chuckled, and Inej could perfectly figure his mischievous grin.

“Kaz.”

“Darling Inej, treasure of my heart, I'm thinking about how it's taking me forever to braid all this hair. I swear I'll cut it, one day or another.”

“You wouldn't dare!”, she cried out in mock outrage, repressing a laugh.

“Would you slit my throat with Sankta Alina while I sleep, if I cut it?”

“You have to ask?”

“Then no, I wouldn't dare.”, Kaz answered with an exaggeratedly fearful tone that really didn't suit him.

They kept silent for a moment, pursing their lips, before giving in and bursting out laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks with amusement. “I never knew Dityhands was so easily scared", Inej sputtered out between laughs, “he is such a chicken, isn't he?”.

“Stop making me laugh Inej", he sniggered, “or I'll get confused and will have to start the braid from the beginning. I'm doing a delicate operation here while you just sit and laugh, you know?”

“Sorry, sorry", she wiped a tear from her left eye, “but you still have to tell me what you are thinking about.”

They slowly calmed down, quieting their breathing and setting into a comforting silence. Inej, however, had felt Kaz’s fingers slightly tensing up and when his hand shifted to take a geranium into the basket -after having secured the braid-, she asked again. “Kaz, tell me please.”

He took a deep breath. His fingers trembled. “I’m thinking if this is how it would have been. If we hadn’t become Dirtyhands and the Wraith, that is.”

Inej’s heart gave a painful squeeze. “Kaz”, she started soothingly, “we-.

“Would you want us to be only Kaz Rietveld and Inej Ghafa, sitting on the grass and enjoying the sun, while I braid your hair? Would you want me to be able to touch you as every man touches his girlfriend? Would you- ”

“No, Kaz, I wouldn’t.”, she brusquely interrupted him, “I wouldn’t.”. She swiftly turned around, took both his hands in hers without giving much thought to caution and permissions, and looked straight into his eyes with the determination of who allows for no replication. “I wouldn’t, Kaz. I wouldn’t because, if we hadn’t become Dirtyhands and the Wraith, we would have never met. And even if we had met, we wouldn’t have been who we are today, and believe me when I say I’d never change who we are, for anything in the world. It’s not Kaz Rietveld the one I’m in love with, you know. I’m in love with him, with Dirtyhands, with the Bastard of the Barrel.” Inej swore he’d never looked that dumbfounded, but she wasn’t quite finished. “I’m in love with Kaz Brekker. I’m in love with you, Kaz. As you’re in love with the Wraith, with Captain Ghafa, with Inej. Aren’t you, Kaz?”, and this time she didn’t even try to hold back the tears.

“Inej”, he murmured with a devotion who made her feel holier than the Saints she believed in, “Inej”, he repeated, while slowly untangling his right hand from hers and lifting it to her cheeks. With the gentlest touch, he captured her tears with his fingertips and delicately wiped them away, one by one. “Inej”, and if she could have bottled the sound of her name being so tenderly whispered by his lips and gotten drunk on it every night, she would have. ”Inej”, he delicately cupped her right cheek, while his other hand went to softly rest on her neck. “Inej”, he got closer to her and Inej thought her heart might just jump out of her chest, “Inej”, and he slowly lowered his head, lips hovering over her cheek. “Inej”, and his crimson lips brushed the tip of her nose, his hands slightly tremulous. “Inej", and his warm lips captured a tear rolling down her left cheek, and then another and another. “Inej", and his soft lips grazed her forehead, while she lifted her trembly hands and delicately yet eagerly rested them on his wrists. “Inej", and she had barely a moment to register the lonely tear falling from his left eye, before she finally felt the cherished pressure of his moist lips against hers, both familiar and new all at once. And a rainbow of colours and emotions exploded behind her closed eyelids.

In this moment, when Kaz's lips were pressed against hers, Inej knew that she'd never be the same again, that she'd never forget the taste of him, that she’d never give anything for granted, that she'd never stop fighting for what is good and just in this twisted world. In this moment, while she could feel the faintest brushes of tongues and the most sheer connection of hearts and souls, Inej found herself floating away, knowing nothing but Kaz, his smell, his breath, his hands on her skin, his hearth throbbing madly in his chest. In this moment, when he finally met her where she had been waiting for him, Inej thanked all her Saints and treasured the arduous path that, after years of battles and sufferings and anguish, had allowed them to live this precious instant, this precious everything.

When they finally pulled away, hearts gone mad with joy and euphoria, Inej looked into Kaz's blissful eyes and gave him a watery smile: “Which is your favourite flower, Kaz?”

A/N: Hey guys, thank you so much for reading!!! What do you think Kaz's favourite flower would be?? Tell me in the comments!

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kinnoth · 4 years ago

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Thor knows the end, but he has always known the end. Ragnarok has never been a mystery to him, to any of them. Every story ever told of Asgard ends in fire and in the darkness of nothing if one lets it go on for long enough. The Aesir have always been a doomed people: blood-loving, battle-loving, ever scratching for one more piece of glory to hold onto before the lights go out.

In truth, Thor had never expected to make it so far, and, perhaps, looking back on the trajectory of his life, he had never deserved to make it so far. The story of his life, as it has been charted, was ever one in which he would burn for a little while, then blaze for a while more, and then fall in a streak of fire, celebrated by his armies and ill-remembered by those he had conquered.

He was meant to have burned with his kingdom. His father would have burned with his kingdom. It is what is said of him in every attestation, that Odin Allfather loved his people and his kingdom until the end of both: because it was rightful, it was honourable, because it was foretold. Because Odin Allfather understood the sacrifice of kingship and the beauty of things that end.

Only greedy Thor, arrogant Thor, could have denied these people their rightful, honourable deaths. Only Thor could have snatched up these people from the glory of their own fates, and for what?

Space is cold after the fires of Asgard, cold and empty. The spiralling arms of the world tree cannot house a houseless people. All the sparkling stars that hang like fruits from its branches cannot feed them.

Thor leads his people to their doom, but he can find within himself no remorse for it. He has his brother back, standing tall and proud again beside him. Thor is not a stupid man, for all his great faults. He knows that his brother is dangerous and that he is disloyal. He has proven himself to be cruel and selfish and vain.

And yet, Loki moves beside him like his shadow as he circles through their huddled masses. Loki is good with them in a way that Thor isn't, in the way that their mother was good in the times after calamity. He touches their blackened hands and he talks to them lowly, with soothing words and gentle manner. He spins amusing tales for the children and listens, soft-eyed, to the lamentations of their mothers and fathers. They are Asgard's potters and weavers, merchantmen and clerks. They carry with them nothing but the clothes on their backs and the children in their arms. Had they been warriors, Thor might have led them and paid their way across the worlds with their swords, but as they are, they have nothing and want for everything.

He passes what assurances he can on to them. He tells them that they will be safe, that their children will not go hungry. He tells them tales of Midgard, of its glass cities and its gleaming black roads. He tells them of the rich, green hills of the Norsemen that Odin Once-King had declared would be their new home.

He feels Loki watching him. Somehow, he had forgotten how that had felt -- Loki, moving his head and his hands in subtle enquiry when emotion catches his voice; Loki, rephrasing his soldier's brusqueness into something easy and smooth; Loki remembering the details to his stories where he had forgotten. They had had a thousand years of companionship between them before these past ten in conflict and yet somehow, Thor had forgotten how it had felt to hold the weight of Loki's attention, familiar and following, as steadying as any hand.

Thor watches him as well, and, in the liminal moments in between, he drags them away from their duties and cloisters his brother away from the others. In private, Loki wears his quiet differently: his rounded shoulders find their angles and his tired eyes grow sharp and ready. Thor has him read for him the obscurities in their astronomical maps that Thor does not know enough to understand. They discuss the merits of various courses through the terrain, how to balance the preservation of their fuel next to the dangers of the shipping lanes. Loki is as studious and serious now as he is in Thor's memory. As he listens to Thor and thinks on his answers, his hand drifts absently up to his chin in a gesture he has not lost from childhood, and Thor feels again the stirring fondness he has only ever felt for his careful brother, lost in thought.

But Loki has not yet fully returned to him. It is clear in the way he stops in his sentences before they disagree and cuts away his gaze, the way he avoids Thor's hands in moments when he would not have before noticed Thor's touch. Perhaps he never will return, not wholly, and be as he was once, but Thor makes himself glad for what company he can have of him. Certain things have changed between them now in ways that he cannot hope to recover, and so Loki, though never a stranger, is perhaps more courteous than he has earned the right to be, blunter with his rebuke and shallower with his smile than Thor remembers. It is the measure of distance that Loki holds that serves to remind him always that, while Thor may again have a brother, he does not have a friend.

Perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps they can work together and they can lead their people, and Thor can put aside his ache for a better world and content himself with what he has. Because for all that he would like to do it, Thor does not trust his brother, even as he knows that he would not want to endure this long life without him. And perhaps he, too, is vain, but -- for this fragile truce between them, this makeshift peace -- he would have damned them all a thousand times without a second thought. Loki is here, and Thor believes again, as he did when he was young: that with his brother at his side, there is no quandary in the universe that the two of them cannot conquer.

Still, he startles when he feels a hand lay across his back. He is half-asleep, hunched over their star maps and logbooks again, looking for ways through disaster as though, if he looked long enough, he could divine new meaning into the numbers. He looks up to see Loki drawing his white hand back into the shadow of his cloak, a plaintive expression clearing quickly from his face.

"You are tired," Loki says. His voice is soft and unreadable. "You should rest."

"Yes," Thor replies. He had been dreaming, but of what, he doesn't remember now that he is awake. Impressions of fire and shadow splinter under the weight of waking until all that remains is the metal taste of urgency and guilt in his mouth. He sets his palm over his eyes and scrubs until all he sees again are stars. They are twenty-two jumps points outside of Asgard and he doesn't know how they are going to make it to twenty-three.

When next he looks up, Loki regards him with a look nearing sympathy. "Come with me," he says, and it is a testament to how truly tired Thor is that he follows without question. Loki leads him through a warren of utilitarian back rooms, storage spaces and servants quarters stripped bare of the Grandmaster's glitter and sculpted luxury. There is a narrow wire staircase twisting up past the rafters, and then Loki brings him into a room.

Something about the arrangement of it strikes Thor as immediately familiar, though he cannot place how. There is a low bed pushed against the wall and shelves built above it. From the ceiling hang bundles of scented dried things wrapped in scrap cloth, and on the far wall is a wide window, looking out into the void. Pale flame flickers to life in the brazier by the door and this is Loki's room, from back home, Thor realises, his private royal chamber scaled down to fit this space the size of a pauper's cell.

Thor touches the brutally bare wall. They are so close to the engines here that he can feel them humming beneath his hand. He steps after Loki into the room and passes his fingers over the fire as he walks. There is no warmth and so he reaches into the centre of it and picks up a glowing ember. It pulses like a living thing, faintly green around the edges. Foxfire, he recognises, Loki’s magic used for the crude banality of lighting a room. "Is this where you've been sleeping?" he asks, unable to keep the reproach from his voice.

Loki has opened a hidden compartment and is unpinning the cloak from his shoulders. He looks strange and unguarded for a moment, and Thor is sorry to have spoken without thought. Loki looks away. "You did not wonder?"

Thor shrugs with deliberate disaffectedness. "I didn't think it was any of my business," he says. He peers around the corners of the doorway. There is a bath beyond a half-closed door and, next to it, a meagre kitchen. It is odd to think of Loki, imperious and supercilious, cooking meals for himself off of one small hob. It is odd to think of his brother living sparsely, when their mother’s one enduring criticism of him was how he spent too freely. How much more of his life has Loki concealed from him? How else has he lived that Thor does not know?

Loki emerges from his closet, much the same but with all his dignity drawn about him once again. He plucks the coal from Thor’s hand and uses it to light the other lamps around the room. “This used to be my room when the Grandmaster took me out on his excursions," he explains. "I didn’t think anyone would mind it if I took it up again. Of course, I didn’t spend much time here,” he adds as he gives Thor back his ember. “The rooms downstairs, housing Asgard's people, those were for his guests. They are much more comfortable.”

Thor takes the glowing coal, holds it in his palm again for a moment before tossing it back into the brazier with the others. “And what were you then?” he asks suspiciously. A species of confusion mated to a kind of rage creeps up into his chest, but he pushes down on it with the ease of long practice, until naught but a faint abhorrence emerges into his conscious thought.

Loki smiles. ”Household.”

"Here,” he says before Thor can unravel his unease. A dark, ornate bottle appears between his fingertips and uncorks itself with a pop. He presses it into Thor’s hand. “Have a drink with me."

Thor twists his mouth. “Are we out of clean glasses again?” A fragrance at once sweet and sharply medicinal wafts up from the open neck. The liquid itself is nearly black.

Loki gestures as he folds himself onto the ledge by the window. He pulls a knee up to his chest and leans his cheek up against it. “Would you accept a glass from me?” he asks demurely.

Thor snorts. ”You are right, I would not.” He hesitates a moment longer before crossing the room and going to stand next to his brother. The universe spins out, endless, outside of their ark, colours of a bruise casting ghostly lights against Loki’s back and the side of his turned face. “It used to be one of your favourite tricks for your guests to find some nasty surprise at the bottom of their cups.” He offers his brother a wry look as he hands the bottle back.

Loki’s smile is small but not fully unhappy. “That was childish of me,” he agrees.

”You put snakes in my cup at my coronation.” Thor points out. “We were not children then.”

”Weren't we?" Loki asks lightly, and Thor's hackles rise, the prickle on the back of his neck like static before a storm. Loki is in some sort of mood tonight, not wholly hostile, but unsettled somehow, and Thor has ever known him to be changeable. He lifts the bottle in a sardonic salute and, smirking, tilts back his long throat and drinks deep. The glass slowly drains to clear as Loki finishes, gasping with satisfaction. He holds up the bottle, still three quarters full. "There, brother, you see?" he says, as he wipes the corners of his mouth. "Nothing to fear."

Something about the dark stain of Loki's mouth perturbs Thor in a way that strikes him wary and short of breath, but he takes the bottle back. His voice pitched low, he asks, with a cheer he does not truly feel, ”So what poison do you intend for the both of us then?”

Loki shakes his head and laughs. “No, not even poison.” His eyes are wet and a little unfocused. "Will you not drink?"

Thor hesitates a moment more but then, he too smiles shallowly and drinks. The liquor is hot on the tongue but surprisingly light, fruited like wine but without wine's cloying sweetness. He swallows. ”That is very fine," he says approvingly. The drink’s warm fingers spread down his throat and into his chest where they begin to pick at the knots tied up there. "I did not know we had anything near so fine on this ship. Is there more of it?" He tilts the bottle to read the label.

Loki scoffs. "Not enough to water your entire kingdom, if that's what you mean."

“A pity then.” Thor takes another generous swallow and the warmth spreads. These Sakaarian spirits are stronger than Asgardian mead, and Thor is beginning to think that he prefers it. “The kingdom could use a good watering after what it's just been through.” He raises the bottle. “A salutation then, to -- what are we drinking for?”

“A victory?” Loki shrugs. He moves to make room as Thor gingerly lowers himself down onto the seat next to him, careful to keep his distance. “Anything you like.”

Thor laughs hollowly. “That was a poor victory then, if that's what you'd call it.”

In the flickering light, Loki’s pale eyes shutter and he grins his brief and bitterly mirthless grin. He looks away and drinks, then leans again on his folded knee. “Do you grieve?” he asks perfectly without inflection.

Thor stops. He sees Loki’s fingers flexing white at the knuckles around each other even as his face remains impassive. His shoulders are set in perfect right angles to his spine. “You know,” Thor says contemplatively, “if you would have asked me that ten years ago, around the time you were still putting snakes in my cups, I would have said yes. I would have drank for our golden halls and our gleaming city and all of our sun-loved fields. But now." He sighs. Loki glances at him, the only indication that he is even listening. His eyes are wide and waiting. Around the room, the pale fires sputter in their wicks and spin. He has stopped his breathing. Thor reaches for him and lays the backs of his fingers lightly along his arm. Loki winces, takes a breath, but does not pull away.

Thor feels his own misgivings be gentled, and says softly, "I suppose that's what a loss as great as this shows you. When you have no choice but to choose, you pick out what's really important from the rest and you are happy that you get to keep it. We have lost so much, but it could have been more." His hand slowly flattens to curl around the lean muscle of Loki’s arm. Thor can feel the heat and the solid weight of him, welcome and familiar in a way that little else has been in these recent years.

"Brother," he begins softly. "Will you not grieve--"

"But what of all your worshippers?” Loki's expression when he turns is hard and terrible, red-rimmed eyes above a hooked sneer, and held in such rictus as if he were an animal trapped under thick ice. “Your great armies? Your Warriors Three?” he intones, as he yanks himself away from Thor’s touch, drawing back into himself once more. "Your Lady Sif?"

Thor draws his hands back into his own lap, stricken. What feats these hands have wrought, what power they hold, and yet he cannot claw back into them an ounce of his brother’s confidence. Has he not tried? Has he not let Loki draw near, examine every part of him and find him wary and uncertain, but sincere? He remembers the tentative proximity they had devised in the first night aboard the ship. Loki had asked and Thor had allowed him to draw him down, to examine his disfigured eye and to cleanse it and close what he could, to touch his fingertips through his shorn hair as he did it. What had that been but Thor's hopes laid bare? What had that been but Thor's soul beckoning: look at me; see me; recognise me; if we cannot be alone together then we will truly be alone.

Thor breathes deep and says, lowly, with a line of resignation understriking the words, “Have you brought me here to start a fight then, Loki?”

Loki's face, ruddy and savage with emotion, flinches violently. He blinks and then, as if swept by a great wind, his expression clears. “No, forgive me,” he says, his voice cool and easy. "I am." He shrugs, and, after a moment, waves his hand. The spinning lights right themselves. Another bottle appears between his fingers. He hands it to Thor and then he returns to himself, perfectly neat and self-contained.

Thor hates, suddenly, all of this, every measure of it: his brother’s carefully constructed dispassion and the way he will not fully meet Thor’s eyes; the choking fist of his own fear that this is how it has to be now, this is how they are going to be to one another from now on. Loki sits curled in on himself like a loose fist protecting a bruise and Thor is no more permitted to unfurl him to test his injury any more than he is to go back and undo Ragnarok. This he mourns, more than all else: that he used to know his brother, and he was known by him, trusted and was trusted. It used to be that when they were together, Thor had believed in immortality.

He is gripped by the sudden urge to touch Loki, as if that would make any difference, as if that would make anything better. It used to. He thinks it used to. Thor remembers how easy it had used to be to know where he was and how to make his way back because Loki would find his hand and guide him. He wants to take Loki by the shoulders and shake him, or to reach underneath the curtain of his hair and put his hand to skin.

But instead he is here, in this insatiable present that takes and takes and lets him have nothing back. Loki holds himself placidly as if nothing at all has been said or transpired, and Thor's despair turns to cold fury.

"Odin was right, you are devious and disdainful and difficult to love," Thor says icily. Loki looks at him, properly, finally. His eyes are open with surprise and confusion. Good. If Loki wants a fight then Thor is more than happy to give him one; he is hungry for Loki's pain, if he can have nothing else. Thor spurs on, heat rising up his neck and behind the sockets of his eyes, "You've found reason to hate everyone and everything that ever had the misfortune of crossing your path. Nothing is ever good enough for Loki; no one is ever good enough for Loki. There would always be something, some way you could distort an honest word into something evil, turn even the truest praise into injustice. You are so twisted we could use you as a corkscrew."

Loki recoils as if physically struck and Thor feels a rush of cruel satisfaction to see him hurt. Loki should hurt. If Thor must hurt than Loki can hurt. It is their basest of axioms: whatever Thor has, then Loki must have too.

"Little wonder why you were no good king," he spits, unsheathed now, seeking blood. He wants to see Loki break. "You look for shadows and schemes because your heart is filled with nothing but shadows and schemes. Little wonder, too, why you could not content yourself with the vast privileges of your station. You were Asgard’s prince and my brother and Odin's son, but still you found a way to be claim misuse. It is like you run from happiness. You are incapable of being grateful." He shoves the bottle back toward Loki with such force that it topples off its broad base. The fine spirits pours out of it in fat gluts.

His brother regards the drink soaking into his floor and splashing over his shoes. His pale face is awash with an awful flush. With a jerking gesture, he rights the bottle and the black liquid funnels itself back into it. He drinks for a long moment and then sets it down. His stillness has taken a different quality, wound and waiting, like a pendulum before the downswing. "I was not your brother, don’t you remember?" he says lowly. "Not your father's son, not your people's prince. I was nothing. That is what I ran from, being nothing."

Thor feels tension string through his muscles. Fighting he knows; fighting he can do; fighting comes naturally to him even if his heart is breaking. "You were one of us," he retorts through his teeth. "You were loved."

Loki lets out a great bark of a laugh and wheels to his feet. "I was not," he says poisonously. "Great Thor, mighty Thor, golden Thor, loved by all. Easy to love." He is pacing, his long strides eating up the little distance of the floor so that he has to turn every fourth step. His movement is disjointed, unhinged. Thor is reminded again of his brother, wild and caged, wreacking ruin upon himself when given nothing else to destroy. "Of course you wouldn’t see it," Loki scathes. "It is so difficult for the beloved to see that not all share in their condition, after all."

Thor draws back, raises his chin. His pulse is in his ears. He should never have come in the first place. He could have lived with what peace they had between them, and now he won't even have that. "Mother loved you," he challenges, his voice rising. "I loved you."

His brother flips his hand dismissively. "You loved everyone, what’s one more."

"I loved you best!"

Thor is on his feet as static gathers in the air. Loki stops, holds his gaze steadily, breathing hard. "I was happy," he says after a moment. "Perhaps it was never to any great effect, but I was happy once. But then, I was not who I thought I was." He drags in a breath and wrings together his trembling hands. "And I did not know what I know now." He stands in the middle of his sparse, dark little room and looks, suddenly, unspeakably small and lost. Thor steps toward him, but his brother looks up and fixes him with a glittering stare and he stops.

"So I have been selfish and self-serving, but who else but I served Loki-prince?" he says bitterly. "I was faithful to Asgard for over a thousand years and saw nothing but ashes for it. So if I took the things that Asgard would not give me in the end, ought I to be sorry?”

Thor huffs and breaks his gaze to hide his discomfort. "You were prince of the Nine Realms," he replies darkly. "What could you have possibly wanted for that could not be furnished to you?"

Loki snarls, "I have never had what I truly wanted, have you?" The room flares bright white for a moment and Thor startles, whirling about. Loki's foxfire pulses threateningly in its brazier.

Thor crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. He will not be cowed by a display of theatrics. "I had everything," he lies even though he knows it is not what Loki means.

Loki goes stiff and then, all at once, the venomous rage empties from his sharp face. He asks with a sudden, pleading sorrow, “Then do you not want?”

Greedy Thor, arrogant Thor does not respond, but his brother meets his burning gaze and seems to see through him. Thor’s heart is caught beneath his chin. He doesn’t know what Loki sees, but he prays that it is not everything.

Loki searches him a moment longer but then looks away. Thor feels a cavernous feeling as if he has been assessed somehow and found lacking. But Thor has won: his brother is crying and doing a poor job in hiding it. He waits for the satisfaction to come and to chase away the guilt.

But then Loki turns. "You're not the first I've disappointed with my unworthiness, brother," he says, quiet again, still again, distant. "You are hardly the first to cast me out because I did not suit. Hate me if you want, then," he says, a fissure opening beneath his smooth voice, "but I never hated them, your friends, your family, or Asgard. I only ever hated how they hated me, and yet you still loved them for it." He spreads his palm and light gathers between his fingertips. Thor knows what that is.

Thor lunges for him, his pulse in his ears, crossing the room in three quick strides. He seizes his brother by the wrist and Loki's pocket dimension snaps shut; whatever implement he was retrieving dissolves back into the darkness. Loki jerks away instinctively but Thor holds him tight. "I am not casting you out!" he cries. He crowds into him with his body, Loki stepping back for his every step forward until the wall stops them both. Thor pins his brother's arm. Loki looks jolted a moment, confusion opening his face as Thor leans his weight against him. They are both breathing hard. "I am not," he repeats.

Loki shoves at him with his free arm, his hand balling and gripping him menacingly by the open collar of his chest plate. "No?" he asks, acid hissing through his voice once more. "Odd, then, how that was what it sounded like."

"I was only angry," Thor says, his mouth dry, bracing, expecting the violence of his brother's anger. "I didn’t mean what I said." But Loki isn't fighting him. Thor knows how his brother fights, has been stung by those deadly hands often enough; he knows that his brother is not a man easily mastered. But Loki gasps, as though Thor has hurt him, and beneath Thor's agony and his racing pulse, a black thrill runs him through. He changes his grip on Loki's wrist, and pushes his shoulder back until his arm bends up above his head. Loki lets him, watching. Thor's mind races; his terror mounts. He feels powerful. "Brother, I didn't mean it," he rasps. "Don't go." He is trembling.

Loki's eyes grow narrow. "Oh, Thor," he breathes, "are you frightened?"

"Yes," Thor says readily. "Is that so surprising to you?" He needs to let him go, but instead his grip tightens on Loki's arm. He feels Loki's throat working, the subtle movements of his head and neck, and he feels, again, the stirring, ugly cruelty that has lived inside him all his life. Its pulse fills his mouth, like a separate thing from his own. Thor's blood and body ignite for one indomitable moment before the guilt overruns him, his own self-disgust. He puts his face into his brother's shoulder so that he might avoid his incising gaze. "Yes, I am frightened," he says hollowly. "I did not want this."

Thor is lowly and vulgar and undeserving of being called a man. He is the very basest creature, captive to his vagaries, caring for nothing but his own comfort and gratification. He will destroy this cobweb peace between them for an upper hand, drive his brother away in a fit of pique, and for what?

He feels Loki stiffen as Thor's misery makes him dull and heavy. "Want what, be specific," his brother hisses. He shoves at Thor again, curses crackling in his fist this time, no mere punctuation.

"Any of this. All of it," Thor mutters thickly. His feels his own breath hot on his face as the leather shoulders of Loki's shirt repel it back to him. The trap in his throat cannot contain his every secret, and what spills out does so like a cut vein. "Odin’s kingdom, the crown, the fate of Asgard." He squeezes his eyes shut and grieves that he cannot even be with Loki, cannot ask of him to share a drink without Loki's bad faith and his own bad impulses coming between them.

They truly are ruined, he thinks, as he counts his brother's quick heartbeats through his palm, and Thor can be neither the man he wants to be nor the man he needs to be anymore. "I did not want for them to take me," he says. "I did not want to become that which I hated, what you hated, what had killed you and our mother and made our father a stranger to us. I thought I would rather die, but now it is here anyway, and there is nowhere left for me to run."

There is a pause and then Loki says, his voice soft and careful. "It is kingship, brother. It is what we were born to do."

Thor lets out a breath like a sob. "It is a rotten job, Loki. It is rotten to its core." He lifts his head and searches his brother's face. "It consumes you, it becomes your world until your heart may hold nothing but it, and your soul may love nothing but it, and you would rather see your queen die for it and your sons disgraced for it rather than lose even a fraction of it."

Loki is not crying anymore. He looks upon Thor with such bewilderment and concern that Thor wishes, once more, to hide his despair, but that his brother deserves to be looked in the eye. "Would that I were only a man," he continues. "Would that this were only an occupation of a father being passed to a son, but it is not. It is a wolf at my door, brother, and I must let it in, but I cannot do it without you beside me."

Loki's brows are pinched, his iridescent eyes wide with honest heartache. He lifts his hand from the wall and Thor lets him go. He feels a touch alight on his temple, between the chevroned scars on his scalp. "I did not think it would hurt you so," his brother says in wonderment. He touches fingertips to the corners of Thor's eye where his sorrow has gathered but not fallen, and Thor only wishes that his brother could let himself be held.

"You are better made for it than I," Thor tells him as Loki tugs on him and Thor's head falls back down against his brother's throat. Loki hums and lays his cool hand lightly along the back of his skull, stroking contemplatively. Thor allows himself to be pacified, and the shameful, screaming something in his heart quietens for the moment, as it only ever does beneath his brother's hands. He sighs. "I need your strength and your wisdom and your friendship, Loki." He fists his fingers into the flanks of Loki's shirt and pulls meaningfully. "You asked me if I did not want, and that is it. I want you here with me. I want us to be friends again."

"We cannot be friends."

Thor looks up. His brother's eyes are wet but he smiles beatifically. "We cannot be friends," he repeats. "I will serve Asgard, I will be your brother, and I will serve you, but even I, poor fool that I am, must keep something for myself. Don't you see?" he says, his voice cracking with a building fervour. "I am as you say that I am: unworthy and ungrateful and the keeper of my own misery. I used to wish that I wasn't, but I am. And I must keep something, or else I shall have nothing at all." His fingers flex unconsciously on the edge of Thor's plate armour and, with a crunching snap, the metal rends beneath them. Loki hisses.

Thor stops him. "Loki, brother," he says, picking up his narrow hand and enfolding it between the both of his. Loki quakes, on the verge of something, and Thor sympathises even as he doesn't know what it is. He keeps his eyes cast low as he presses their hands together. "It's all right, I understand," he says, even though he does not. "Enough, hm? We are both fools." He shakes him lightly. "That's enough."

Loki's bruised hand spasms and he almost jerks it back into himself by instinct, but that Thor grasps him gently by the wrist and does not let him go. Wild-eyed, his brother stares at him, uncomprehending, first, and then recognition comes back into him. "Yes," Loki gasps. "I'm sorry. I." His fingers curl within Thor's rough palm, and warmth drifts through the pulses of Thor's blood to have his brother holding his hand again. "I am sorry." He drops his chin and looks away.

Thor shakes his head. "I have my own wrongs that I have done, and it has only been these recent years that I have had occasion to think back on them. You are right, you know," he says, smoothing his thumb over the back of his brother's knuckles for emphasis. "I have, in the past, regarded myself too highly, and I saw it as my natural right to trample over those who were less fortunate that I."

Loki huffs a little breath. "It is not difficult to do when you are the best." He wipes at his face with his sleeve and offers to Thor a smile, small and self-deprecating, but sincere -- a delicate branch, newly budded, tentatively extended but an offer of peace nonetheless.

Thor returns his smile. "No, I suppose it isn't, but I am sure that doesn't excuse it. Loki," he says, and it is as if he is finally undoing a weight that has always hung around his neck, "I am sorry."

His brother's expression remains deceptively pleasant. "For what? Be specific," he says again, a flat whisper, either soft or deadly but which refuses to reveal itself to be either.

Thor knows; he has known for a while now. His errors were ever small slights, little wrongs, but together they built a wall between them as high as the sky. But now, his brother knocks on the other side, and his humility is a small price to pay to see it torn down. He is ready to be done with it now, here, at the end of the world. "For what I said, just now" he says. "For speaking over you, in years past. For behaving as if you owed me your obedience," he says. "For taking it for granted that you were my brother and," he sighs expansively.

"For never seeing you for yourself, I suppose," he muses. He puts his hand to his brother's shoulder and stands back enough to look Loki in the eye. "You are your own man. Your path is your own to take, and though we may walk together, we do not belong to the same fate."

"You do not belong to me," he says, watching Loki watch him and knowing that, this time, he has been heard. "You are my brother, but you don't belong to me."

Thor holds his gaze with all the plain equanimity he can summon and releases his brother's hand. He waits for him to draw it back, but Loki only closes his eyes, for one slow moment. When he opens them, they are the color of sunlight passing through a calm ocean and for once, no drowned secrets lie beneath. "You have grown wise," his brother muses. He laughs, and it is a bell-clear sound, beautiful and weightless. He bows his head regally. "Worthy Thor, I am honoured."

Thor laughs, his throat thick with relief as Loki steps into him once more. He leans his cheek against Thor's shoulder and allows him to take his weight. Thor settles his arm around the back of Loki's body, and holds himself so still that he almost stops breathing. "Do you still hate me then?"

Loki settles into this new posture, his hand still resting lightly in Thor's palm. "I could never hate you," he says easily, as if this were ever plainly evident to anyone who has wished to learn it. "I was angry with you, but I never hated you."

Thor lifts his eyebrows and laughs aloud, surprised. "You have turned over a new leaf. That's more honesty than I've heard from you in aeons, brother."

Loki shrugs. "There's no harm in it now," he says. He turns Thor's hand over and idly traces his fingertip along the tendon between each knuckle. Thor's heart clenches. It was only ever his brother who would touch him like this and Thor cannot remember the last time Loki had touched him. "There are none now amongst the living who would laugh at me." A pause. "I am sorry about your friends."

Thor hums gravely. "So am I." He drops his chin gingerly atop his brother's dark hair and breathes deep of the scent of him. It is familiar and as warming as drink. He sways them together, lightly. "But they each died a warriors' deaths, and when the turning of the world comes and death comes for all of us, I shall see them again in Valhalla and be happy for it."

"Then let us drink to that." Loki ducks beneath his arm and goes to retrieve the bottle. Thor feels the loss but he follows him gladly, still holding his hand. Loki holds the liquor aloft. "To the turning of the world. To Valhalla," he announces. He drinks and, so close, Thor can see his throat working as he swallows.

When his brother presses the bottle into his hand, Thor looks at him. He says wryly, before he drinks, "Loki, we are not going to die for a very long time yet."

Loki snorts. "That is optimistic." He draws Thor back down onto the widow ledge, and Thor goes with him. Thor decides he can accept the substitute when Loki sits close and pushes them together, shoulder to hip.

"You don't believe that," Thor needles him, knocking him with his elbow. "You haven't changed so much that you would maroon yourself on a doomed ship, if you truly thought it hopeless."

Loki re-balances himself and rolls his eyes. "Well I still might leave if it suits me. You said it yourself." He flaps a hand blithely, but the cut of his words is prickly, "I am my own man, after all."

Thor's lips tighten over his teeth. "Will you?" Something hard and challenging flattens his voice, some sudden thunder, like the sort that breaks upon a fine spring day. "Are you going?"

Loki looks at him levelly but then he sighs. "No," he says peevishly, ducking away, "but I don't see why you can't just play along with it."

Thor moves the bottle away when Loki reaches for it. Loki frowns at him, annoyed, but Thor holds his gaze, unblinking, until Loki flushes beneath his pallor and looks away again. Thor doesn't let him. He catches his brother's face with his palm and turns him, his thumb holding firm upon the hard angle of Loki's jaw. Loki lets himself be turned. His face is hot. "I'm finished with playing that game with you, brother," Thor says, all humour gone. It is as if he is doomed to have this same conversation forever. He thinks back to all the times before that he has begged for his brother's constancy, and, like a mirror reflected back on itself, it is as if he looks endlessly into one image. "I will not grieve you a third time," he says. "Stay or don't, only choose one and do it."

Loki blinks rapidly. "Do you want me to stay?" He sounds choked and breathless.

Thor releases him. "Of course I want you to stay, I always want you to stay." Exasperated, his hand drifts up toward his crown to sweep in past his hair, only to remember, once it is there, that he has no hair to push back from his face. He has forgotten where and when he is. "If it were up to me, you would have never left me in the first place, but I am not your tyrant."

"No," Loki says softly, his hands twisting together in his lap. "No, you are only my brother."

Thor shakes his head and drains the rest of the drink in one swallow. "You know, historically, every time we try to talk about this, you cause a great big fuss, we fight, I beat you, and then you leave anyway." He scrapes irritably at his beard. "So do forgive me if I tire of retreading this path again."

"That was before," his brother says. He pulls his knee back to his chest and leans against it, away from Thor. His hair spills like ink over his shoulder and he looks at once exhausted and boyish, self-conscious and ancient. "And I will not apologise for it."

Thor rounds on him. "Who's asking you to?" he snaps. Loki does not respond. Thor scoffs. "So, what? Is that it? One last drink for old times’ sake?"

"That's not it."

"Then what is it, Loki?"

"Here," Loki says, producing a new bottle, amber in colour and heavier than the last. "Drink."

Thor takes it. He rips up the cork and drains the bottle with spiteful obedience. It burns. "If you're trying to get me drunk so it hurts less in the morning, it's not going to work."

"Did it hurt before?"

"Of course it bloody hurt, you blistering idiot," Thor spits. He feels fragile, cracking along his edges. "I thought you dead, twice. I drank Asgard dry the first time and I simply left after the second."

"I know." Loki slips his hand back into Thor's. It is as much comfort as it is concession, but Thor takes it anyway, pressing tight.

"I know you know." They were the worst times of his life, his world collapsed in upon him with him still trapped inside. He can hardly remember them at all, only in bursts, only in non-specifics, but of course, Loki had not intervened -- indifferent, always, as if Thor and the way his world was ending were specimen in a jar. Thor scrubs his face and holds his palm there over his aching eyes. "Thrice damned, since when are you so solicitous after my feelings." He would pull himself away from his brother's touch, if only he were not a coward.

Loki leans into him, puts his head again on Thor's shoulder. His touch and voice are faint. "I always care about your feelings, brother. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I --" He trails off, stops.

Thor waits a beat, and then a scowl forms heavily over his brow. "Is this some new habit of yours, starting sentences and then... " He gestures. When Loki does not look away this time, he urges impatiently, "Well? You what?"

"I cannot seem to disregard your dislike for me."

Thor rolls his eyes. "I've always admired you, Loki, you know that."

"Do I?"

Thor throws up his hands and leans back against the windowglass. "Cleverest man in Asgard!" he exclaims. "Cleverer than our father -- my father," he corrects irritably, "yes, all right." He looks at his brother, whose cautious eyes regard him as a that of cornered beast's regarding the hunter. Thor looks at him directly, unyielding. "You're strong Loki, and you're brilliant, and you might have been wiser than Odin one day. We all thought it; mother said so all the time. She always said that if I were ever to rule, that there was no better man than you to have at my side, and I thought it to. You have the head for rule, and the heart--"

Loki shakes his head violently, compulsively. "Not the heart, no. I've never--" He is vibrating, his eyes screwed shut, and he does not seem able anymore to choose his own words. "You, you, you're beautiful, you're perfect--"

"Brother."

"No, you see, I could never see past it, I tried." The set of Loki's face wavers, his pale eyes trapped between two incompatible realities, both truths. He looks angry and hopeful, terrified and desperately sad -- snared between belief and doubt. Thor knows that feeling. It is the same feeling caught within his own breast. "I couldn't envy you for it, so I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Even when we were apart, even when I thought you lost from me for good, down in that cell." He covers his face with his palms as if to stopper his own voice, but all he says next it is only muffled instead, "And I could never be happy. All I could ever do was want for things that I couldn't name and couldn't get."

Thor sighs. "I know. Brother, I know." He remembers the devastation that had wrecked him when he thought Loki dead, the way his insides had grown to ice and splintered as Loki had gone cold between his arms. He remembers how Jane's little, lukewarm hands had brought him up from his knees and he had looked at her as a stranger, comprehending at last that he was in a world of strangers now. His brother was dead and he would never know happiness again.

Loki's eyes search his. Thor doesn't know if he can put to speech what it is his brother is looking for, but he prays that he will find it. He chafes Loki's hand in both of his and, lost for words, presses his lips to the back of his own palm. Loki's breath shivers. He whispers, "It is not fair when I've never had room in my heart for anything but you."

When Loki kisses him, it does not feel like a surprise.

Thor responds swiftly, sweeping Loki into his lap and holding him there as Loki's vicious mouth yields beneath his. His hands seek skin, and it is given to him freely, gladly; Loki bends to meet him and his clothes part beneath Thor's hands like butter. Loki tastes of quicksilver and of the sun through new leaves, of midwinter firelight and the air after a storm. Thor remembers, now, every touch that has brought them to this, every brotherly assurance, every passing glance, every bruise -- and behind it, always, this bare and incomprehensible yearning.

Loki moans, intimate and open, and the unnameable becomes named, the shame given absolution. The whole of his life snaps suddenly into complete and perfect focus. This has been his monster all along, this clawing want, this unspeakable hunger so constant that it burned at the bottom of his every breath. Unaddressed, unacknowledged its whole long life, it had deformed him.

As Loki's mouth smears over his cheek, as his light fingers find the seams of their crude, hewn bodies and rend, it feels like standing up after a lifetime spent in a bend; it feels like the first full breath after only ever having sipped on air. Thor knows freedom for the first time he can remember, and the gnawing teeth behind all of his fear and worry and strangling precautions draw back into their ugly heads. The great inviolable question of his soul finds its answer at last: it was Loki. It was only ever Loki.

When he seizes the back of Loki's head and returns him to his mouth, his brother sighs. Thor can feel something stubborn inside of himself give way beneath the hot silk of Loki's skin and the cold marble underneath, and then, all at once Thor can feel Loki pouring through him, subtle as smoke, sharp as electricity, and when Thor pushes back, Loki opens his soul to him in welcome.

It is elemental, organic, as the way fire consumes or how the heavens turn. It is like every colour bound together into one, like sunlight. Thor can see himself through Loki's eyes, the familiar geography of his features mapped and given beautiful names: the cheekbone by which Loki has measured all other faces; the precise warmth and weight of his hands between which Loki finds his solace and his comfort; his stubborn mouth which Loki has learned for its every curve, its every salacious expression.

Thor smashes open the long-kept reservoir of his own stolen inspections, his persistent fascinations, and a flood rises within him of Loki's every aspect which he has held in covetous admiration: the fine and twining musculature of his neck and arms; the sharp, watchful intelligence behind his eyes; the deft, sinuous migration of his fingers as he weaves his spells.

Loki holds Thor within himself and Thor knows, all at once, a love so personal as a love of self, glorious as a love of empire, so desperate as a love of air or water or sustenance. Loki lives within all of him and Thor knows now that he lives within Loki as well. They have been half of each other's lives, the whole of the other's hearts, and now with the crude boundaries of their bodies and minds dissolved, Thor knows who he is. He is Loki's. Loki is his. This is truth.

Loki gasps through his open mouth, sparks igniting in his vision through Thor's eyes. Thor matches him and the both of them tremble beneath the glittering weight that has settled, diaphanous and encompassing over their shoulders. Loki buckles and Thor hides his face into his pulse.

When he catches Loki into his arms, it feels like coming home

Thor comes into himself again in pieces. When he opens his eyes, it is difficult to remember how to see again through just his own one eye, how to feel with just his skin. Loki clings to him, draped over his lap, his clothes in ruin, his limbs shivering and soft. They breathe together, as one lung, and Thor cannot stop himself from seeking the white skin of Loki's neck. His brother moves against him and captures his mouth with his own gasping mouth. His hands spread over Thor's shining arms, caressing, while Thor threads his fingers into Loki's dark, soft hair.

When Loki breaks them apart, it is so gentle that it feels like a promise rather than punishment. Thor moans. "Again." The music is his voice is lost beneath the crush of his desire.

But Loki holds him fast, his panting mouth mere breathes away, only when Thor moves, Loki does not rise to meet him. He shakes his head. "I only wanted to see," he says, as if through a dream. He touches Thor's cheek. His eyes are still shut, and he moves so slowly and clumsily that Thor steals another kiss from him before he can do anything about it.

Thor chuckles. He draws Loki's thumb into his mouth and works the knuckle with his teeth and tongue. Beneath the flickering, golden light, his brother's eyes are nearly black when they open and Thor can hear his naked want calling to his own. Thor grins. "What can I show you, brother?" He shifts a subtle measure and, for a moment, Loki's weight comes off his knees and seats fully into his lap.

Loki's breath catches. He draws his finger from between Thor's teeth and wets his curving lip. He presses his brow to Thor's, shuddering. His voice crackles as he whispers, "How it might feel to be whole."

"What do you mean?" Thor hums. His eye drifts open and then shut, and every time he closes it, he can feel the afterimages of Loki's every thought. He reaches out, touches a stray, cold curl of his brother’s building anxiety, and feels it disintegrate into light. Thor tugs on Loki's hands, kisses the hinge of his jaw and a hard coiling knot of it begin to dissolve. Loki protests faintly but he begins to struggle. Thor clamps an arm around his waist. "No, there, sit there a while," Thor insists, putting his bearded cheek against his brother's beating chest and feeling it scratch though Loki's skin. Loki grasps at his forearm. "Stay," Thor says petulantly. "You said you would stay."

"This is absurd," Loki complains. He shifts on his knees, poorly balanced on the narrow seat. "I am too tall for this."

"I don't care." He touches the back of Loki's hand on his arm and Loki lifts it readily. Thor lines their fingertips together and Loki slips his in between. He wants to put Loki onto his back and learn the taste of his heartbeat through his skin. He wants to touch his hidden thoughts and secret melancholies and learn their every shape and texture. He wants to spread his brother out into pieces, evenly, meticulously, until he is naught but motes of shimmering dust and Thor is the same.

"I do not think I could bear it if you tried for decorum right now." Thor lifts his head, smiling, his throat fully bared, and Loki touches it in wonderment, his protests forgotten.

"I would know..." Thor hears his brother murmur, so low that Thor thinks he might have imagined it. But then Loki smiles. "Take me to bed then." He kisses Thor softly. "I am cold."

Thor lifts him easily, and Loki lets him -- he lets him, god, the things Thor can do now that Loki will let him, now that he is permitted. He sets Loki atop the bedclothes and Loki watches him with unadorned hunger as Thor steps back and works deftly at the clasps and buckles of his chestplate.

"Come," he calls quietly when Thor is sufficiently bare, and he receives Thor into his bed as if he has been doing it all his life. Ensconced within the bedsheets, Loki arranges them so that they are half on top of one another. Thor kisses him again and Loki makes small, infuriating, amenable sounds as his hands drift aimlessly over Thor's skin.

But Thor wants more. He would bring Loki to the very brink of his own body, damp-skinned and pleading for Thor's mercy.

Loki groans and shivers as Thor manoeuvres him beneath his body. He would bend as Thor would bend him; he would unfurl however Thor would unfurl him. Thor knows this. He tastes his brother's anticipation and acquiescence like spilt wine. Already his elegant hands manacle themselves to the crossbars of his headboard at Thor's behest, his flanks and front spread and stretched deliciously for Thor's tasting mouth.

Thor cups his palm beneath the bend of Loki's knee, and lifts it smoothly back. The colours of Loki's mind ignite and darken. "I would know thee by thy body," he says, but it is Loki's oaths that come out. Loki groans. Thor blinks, returns, and slowly grins.

"And I would my body give to thee," Thor finishes. He waits a moment as the disbelief twists his brother's face and then resolves. Loki looks at him, new marvel in his eyes. He surges suddenly and kisses Thor, and then Thor is awash in his brother's soaring relief, his bottomless joy. His mind comes away lurid with the places of his body that Loki has imagined Thor's hands, his mouth. Loki shuts his eyes as Thor lays him back. He covers his face with his wrists. "Yes," he breathes. "To thee."

The great yawning pit of his want joins Thor's in the bottom of his stomach, as Thor fits them together and then fits himself inside.

Loki moves with him, pulled by the same tide, moved by the same moon. The geography of Loki's soul opens for him and Thor arrives upon it softly. Loki fills him, envelopes him, and Thor touches through his every thought and sensation as it passes through his grasp. It will never be enough, Thor despairs, though he is not certain if it is his thought or Loki's when it emerges. This was what Loki had meant; this was the danger all along. They've been given a single mouthful of kindness and now must know what it is to live without. They could each live ten thousand years and spend every minute of it in each other's arms, and it would not be enough.

But Loki shakes his head and opens his dark eyes. "It can be," he says, almost voiceless. "It has to be." He pulls his heels into the small of Thor's back and brings him closer. "I could not bear it otherwise." He winds his fingers into the damp buzz of Thor's hair and pulls him down to him. "Kiss me and let us dwell no more on it," he says, and Thor does as he is told, grateful, overcome, knowing the end but willing for forever.

Power builds within his body, ready and aching. Outside the window, a swirl of cosmic dust churns, violet explosions flashing through violet clouds. He glows beneath his skin, but Loki opens his mouth to him and catches his kiss as if he were tasting rain. He shudders as he comes, as Thor follows him, as Thor's blue lightning fills him, holds him gently, wreathes them both.

Loki allows him fold them together again afterwards, allows Thor to arrange them so that they can see each other as they lay together breathing. Thor's pulse is quiet within him even as his heart hums with one harmonious note. The great storm of his life, the one he had never even known he was weathering, has ended. Thor is clean, new, and the long, long past recedes easily beneath the placid waves. He looks into his brother's smooth, flushed face and he sees his future.

Thor puts his lips to his brother's brow and smiles against his skin. "I adore you," Loki says in a small voice. His fingers tighten at Thor's waist and Thor lifts his chin so that Loki may tuck himself beneath it.

Thor laughs drowsily. "I know that," he says. "You don't know how glad it makes me." Loki's dark hair has fallen from its part and it drags in cool coils across Thor's arm. Thor puts his hand through it, sweeping it back and his brother looks up at him, his eyes sober.

"I do," Loki says. His mind, always working, momentarily quietened, moils once more. Thor frowns. "It is beyond reason, brother. It is more than anything; it is more than life." Placating, Thor touches his cheek and Loki turns into him immediately. He kisses Thor's palm. "You could skin me like a lamb and my last thought would be how I love you," he says fiercely.

Thor turns his face. "I would not," he says, horrified. "I would never." Loki's brows gain a troubled furrow but he looks away, assenting. Thor strokes the furl with his thumb until Loki relinquishes it. He takes Thor's hand and kisses it once more, then lets it slide back into his hair. Thor strokes him and says more softly, "And what does it matter if it is beyond reason, if I am the same?"

"No, but can't you see?" Loki drops his head into Thor's shoulder again. "This --" he gestures miserably. "This is unnatural."

"How do you mean?" Thor lets him hide. If it makes it easier for him, Thor will hide him from himself. "So we are lovers now," he says and feels Loki's breath hitch. "So what? We share no blood, and even if we did, who would challenge it?" He strokes the line of his back until Loki breathes again, however raggedly. "We are kings of Asgard, brother, what authority reigns higher?" A laugh escapes him on a wet, choked breath and Thor rocks him, lightly, forming himself around the warm, solid, precise weight of him.

"Don't cry," he says. "Don't make yourself miserable. We've found each other now. I love you, and I have wanted you all my life." He kisses his brother's damp cheek. "I was blind not to see it before but I do see it now."

Loki pulls back and looks at him. His smile is wistful and pained. "You may say to me every beautiful word that I have ever wished to hear, and it would still be true." He unwinds himself from Thor's limbs and rises up to his elbows. Thor touches his arm, deploring the loss, as Loki wipes at his face with the backs of his wrists. "It is not the quality of love but the quantity of it," he says bitterly. He pulls at Thor's grip. "Let go," he says, quieter. "When you touch me, I can feel you inside my head."

"Yes," Thor accedes cautiously, but he does it anyway because his brother asks, "and you're inside mine." Loki sits up from the bed in one determined movement and slides off the side. Thor sits up as well, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

His brother is at his closet, and Thor watches as, one at a time, pieces dissolve from their hangers and resolve themselves on Loki's skin.

"Loki." Thor crosses the room to where Loki is standing and catches him by the elbow. A wall of dread goes up in his brother's mind, but Thor pushes past it, back into the centre of him. Loki turns to him, expressions of fear and fury, gratefulness and regret warring in the tiny movements of his brow and lips. Thor kisses him, and as before, Loki returns it without hesitation. Thor steeps into it every measure of affection he can muster, every tender feeling and assurance. His brother falters, but he steps into him. His hands waver as he slips them around the back of Thor's neck.

"Tell me what is the matter," Thor says again as he pulls his brother back into his arms.

Loki shakes his head. "You don't understand, I never." His hands fist against Thor's shoulders as Thor absently tucks a strand of his dark hair back behind his ear, and he nearly sobs. Loki takes a breath. "You know nothing; you deserve to know," he bites out. "This is not you or me. We are cursed. Odin cursed us."

Thor flinches at the sound of his father's name before he can stop himself. "What?" he demands. "How?"

His brother laughs wetly. "You know, I hoped you'd be drunker for this. You're always so much more tractable when you're drunk. You don't ask nearly so many questions." He jerks, but Thor's arms have been turned to stone. "Unhand me," he says unhappily.

"No." He can feel his brother's self-recrimination and doubt, his panic like an acid bubbling beneath the an indelible anger. He can feel his need for flight. It hits him like a fist and brings up to the surface all of Thor's own dread, his own terror.

Loki struggles again, but Thor is unmovable. "At least let me finish dressing," he scolds.

"No," Thor intones. "Explain it or don't, it matters very little to me." He looks at his brother, his eyes hard. "What do I care for curses, Odin's or no? Sod him, he was an old man with an old man's schemes. What did he know? My god, Loki, Loki." He holds his brother to him as if that were all that would make the difference, and cups his hand to Loki's face with all the murderous adoration of a cheated supplicant. "If you leave me again after this, I will never forgive you, I swear it."

Loki shakes his head. "It was he who made us like this!" he cries. One more time, he shoves at Thor, and this time Thor lets him go. Loki rounds the room, his hands flying, frantic as loosed birds. "That's why he took me," he says. His eyes are wide, landing on nothing and everything. At last he sits himself again on the edge of the bed. "I was never meant to be your brother." His head sinks into his hands, muffles his voice. "But only that I turned out," he gestures, "as I am."

Ice runs down through Thor's veins. "What do you mean?"

Loki looks up at him from above his fingertips. "Did he never tell you how he lost his eye?"

"Yes," Thor replies, crossing his arms, "he told all of us; it was never a secret. He traded it to the Norns for the wisdom to rule his kingdom."

"Yes," Loki agrees, "to rule, to ensure his line evermore." He breathes deep and sits back, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "Without slander, what do you know about the Jotnar?"

Thor sighs. He is reminded of when they were young, when his brother would try to teach him philosophy by irritating him with questions until he found the answers. "They are giants," he answers dutifully. "They are fierce warriors, they are... Blue?" Loki looks at him expectantly. Thor shrugs belligerently. "I do not know what you wish me to say."

"How do they fight?"

"With their ice magic--"

"Yes." Loki holds up one long finger. "Magic."

Thor rolls his eyes. He remembers this too, when Loki used to lead him to answers and make him feel like an idiot for not grasping their significance. "I do not understand," he concedes.

But Loki keeps going. "Your grandmother, your father's mother, who was she?"

Thor frowns. "I never met her, but she was a great lady of--"

"She was a Jotun," Loki pronounces. He stands back up again and begins pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as if in recital. "She betrayed her race and coupled with an Aesir, your grandfather, who made her a new body, a white body," Loki gestures to himself, to the pale skin of his torso that Thor had marked in worship. “She, in turn, gave her magic to her many sons, of which your father slew one by one until Asgard was his alone. That is the custom, is it not?"

Thor shakes his head, his mouth dry. He feels like he's falling, like his earth is moving beneath him, and like Loki is the only still point he can conceive, but that he won't hold still. "But I was never asked to slay you."

Loki makes a dismissive gesture. "We'll get there," he says, distractedly, "but for now consider this: your father's line runs thin. He has slain his brothers for his father's kingdom and his mother's magic but neither will have him -- he is not the most worthy, only the most brutal."

Thor feels an old instinct of obligation stir within him to defend the Allfather's name, but what does he know? What has he ever known except for what his father had taught him? He had doubted, of course, but it was ever unspoken, all spoken words too close, somehow, too loud.

Loki continues without mercy, "Odin paid the Norns, and they gave him wisdom." He spits the word. "And when it was time for him to get his get, he married a Vanir witch, your mother."

"Our mother," Thor snaps.

Loki startles, but then he sees Thor's face. "Yes," he concedes, "all right," but he goes to Thor then and slides himself back into the empty spot left next to him. He kisses Thor briefly, just left of his mouth, and then takes his hands and leads him back to the bed. Thor lets Loki sit him down and then himself over his lap. He loops his hands around him at once and lets his brother feed him the warmth and calm of his body.

Loki continues more softly, "Mother gives him Hela, you see, and he crafts her into a killer. But once the killing is done, she outlives her usefulness to him. And so now he needs another child. Someone who will rule after him."

"Me."

"Yes," Loki says, and he lays his long hand against Thor's face. "You, my brother." He says it with a sudden tenderness, as if he were sorry.

Thor swallows his agony so that Loki might see nothing but stone in his face. "Tell me the rest then."

Loki leans his head against his anyway. "Vanir magic is learned, so cannot be given, and it is not true seith," he says. "And Odin will not give up what he killed so many to take. So you are to have no magic of your own, no magic to give to your heirs, no magic for the whole of Odin's line because he cannot let go of anything." He nods in resignation. "So he goes to the source."

"Jotunheim," Thor finishes for him. How the old rage he had felt towards Odin those years back pales now in the light of this clarion fury. He who had cast them as worthy and unworthy, as noble and ignoble, who cast himself as justice and judge -- he who was himself a murderer and a thief. Thor had faced his father's many faults, counted and mourned them and had privately abjured him as a king but loved him still as a father. How can he love him now? "He takes you."

"Yes." Loki sighs, and Thor would keep him here forever if he could, as though he could be shielded from the rest of the world's misery by Thor's body. "I was Laufey's only child, you see. I had the purest blood to share."

"And then?"

Loki begins a gesture with one hand but then lets it drop. "Then he binds us," he says tiredly. "It's a simple enough ritual. Even Odin Death-Bringer could do it. I did--" he says. He swallows. He closes his eyes and leans into Thor. They hold each other up. "I suspected something of the sort," he confesses. "Years ago now, I went to speak to the Norns. They laughed when I asked them to answer my questions. They're greedy, you know. They answer to no one without a price."

Thor's hands tighten along his brother's hip. His pulse is already in his mouth, but the horror comes anyway. "What did you give them?"

Loki waves him off impatiently. "Nothing of importance, nothing you'd miss."

"Tell me anyway," Thor demands.

"I have seen my death."

Terror runs the very heart of him through. "Brother," he rasps.

Loki shrugs evasively. "I don't know when," he supplies, as if that were an assurance.

"Tell me how it happens at least."

"So that you might defy the Norns?" Loki looks at him, and Thor stares back, conceding nothing, stubborn even as he knows the immutability of the fates.

"It is nothing," Loki says at last. "It's innocence, and what good have I ever had for innocence? But they showed me what I wanted, and I found it where they said I would." He holds his hand up and the light of his pocket dimension shines again.

Thor reaches out on numb instinct, alarmed. "Wait, hold on."

But what emerges is nothing he recognizes, only a piece of silver, the size and shape of an egg, striated like the rings of a tree or of a thumbprint. Thor reaches out for it, but Loki pulls it back. "Don't touch it," he says softly. "I don't know what would happen if we both touched it. Nothing good, I suspect. They'll want to go home."

"It's--" Thor begins, but some part of him already knows.

"It's our souls," his brother tells him. It glows, faintly with its own dim light that seems almost blue against Loki's skin. "I found them buried beneath the roots of Yggdrasil. They weren't doing anyone any good there, so I took them. I thought maybe I could work to separate them, but," he shrugs.

"Here," he says. "Hold out your hand." Thor does so, and Loki drops it into his hand from a height. Thor turns it over, examining. It is heavy, heavier than he expected, but the shape does not hold, smoothly amorphous in his palm. The striations, as they had appears, are not striations at all but folds of beaten metal.

"Why?" he asks. It had been warm to the touch at first, but quickly he feels his skin going numb as if of cold. He tosses it into his other hand. The vessel warms comfortably this time even as Thor flexes his fingers until the feeling returns.

Loki twists his hands together in his lap and shrugs. "Odin needed to bind me into his line somehow, and so he did it in the most obdurate manner possible." A color of deep shame crawls up his pale shoulders. "You were to be my collar and my chain and now you see now how gladly I would have worn them. How happy I would have been to let you unmake me. What a different life we might have had--" His voice pitches and cracks, Thor reaches to steady him, but he regains himself.

"But as it turned out, I could not take up the necessary utility to give you heirs, and so he was forced to made us up this farcical brotherhood. It wasn't his fault," he says sardonically, "how was he to know? What difference is a Jotun man to a Jotun woman to a Jotun dog to an Aesir. We are all monsters after all."

Thor is frozen within himself. The whole of his history, of Asgard's history, has been turned on its head, and he would say that his brother was lying; he wants to believe that his brother is lying, except that he feels Loki's misery and fear and repudiation. He feels Loki's sour heartbeat in his own chest.

"Loki," he says, but Loki is gone from him, and though he holds the weight and warmth of him, he might as well hold to him an armful of air. He has so many questions and no way to ask them, no words that he can put together that will not cut his brother deeper than the wound he has already opened himself. "I'm sorry," he says instead. "Truly I am. If I had known --"

"What?" Loki turns to him. Every line shows on his face, and his eyelids droop in exhaustion. "What could you have done? You were a child, same as me, and Odin's crimes, such as they are," he gestures dismissively, "he will never pay for them." He draws himself back and slides from Thor's lap.

Thor doesn't know where he stands again, doesn't know where to begin. Gone is the certainty they had only just discovered as Loki crosses the room again and finishes dressing himself by hand. Thor watches him. "It isn't fair," Thor says softly.

Loki scoffs. "I do not tell you this for your pity," he sneers.

Thor shakes his head. "It is not pity, brother." He looks at his brother and silently wills him to look back. "Only that I grieve for you."

Loki sighs. He glances at Thor from over his shoulder. "You're a soft-headed fool," he says more quietly, "but I thank you." He looks down at his gloveletted hands. He is silent for a long while. "I want you, but," he says finally, then stops, and he laughs bleakly. "My god, I wish that I could have come by you honestly." He picks at his own knuckle, twisting the edge of his nail around the white joint.

"I wish that I could have met you in your father's court, or on some matter of diplomacy. I wish I could have glanced you from across a battlefield and felt my breath be taken. Your great and noble heart could have been the greatest prize I ever won, and I could have--" A line of blood splits across his finger and he stops. "We could have had each other honestly."

Thor shakes his head as he watched his brother suck the blood out from his small wound. "You would have hated me," he says hollowly. "I would have been insufferable." Loki's face twists and he scoffs. Thor stands, but goes no further. "I am only am the man I am today because of my brother." Loki looks at him, his eyes red. "I am yours, Loki," he offers quietly, spreading his hands, "as surely as if you had made me.

Loki smiles. "My very own god of thunder." He is fond beneath his bitterness. He sniffs and wipes surreptitiously at his cheeks. "For all that is worth when he cannot be anyone else's."

Thor grimaces. His hands land back at his sides, "I told you," he says. "I don't care a fig for Odin's plans and I still don't. I know my own mind. I told you that I've wanted you forever, since the cradle. Not even you can make me give that up." He knows this now, what a blind man could have seen. When he was frightened, when he was uncertain, when he was in pain, it was never Odin he went to, or Frigga, once he was out of skirts. He went to his brother. He was valiant for his father; he was gentle for his mother, but it was his brother's scorn that taught him to be kind, and, in the end it was his brother's death that taught him what it meant to be king.

If Thor could bring himself to touch him, he could make him know all of this, but Thor has taken from his brother enough to last ten lifetimes. So he tells him instead, "I am yours because without you I would have never been myself. That is fate, as I understand it." Even from across the room, he sees Loki's pale features warring again against his own unkindnesses. Thor finishes as plainly as he can, "One way or another, my life would not have been my life if it did not lead me to you."

Loki takes a step toward him unthinkingly. "I know. I am the same," he says hoarsely, but then he laughs. With the air of telling a good joke, he says, "So you see then, brother, I do belong to you after all. I never had a choice. We never had a choice. But I --" he looks at Thor with an expression full of entreaty. "I have been a slave to his devices my entire life. I cannot even conceive what shape my life might have been without his hand in it, and even now that he is dead, still he has a hold over me."

"I know," Thor says. He reaches out his hand and Loki takes it almost gratefully. He puts his arms around Thor's shoulders and so that Thor is permitted to fold himself around him, to put his cheek into his hair and breathe as if he could stain his lungs with him and keep him next to his heart forever. Loki's mind floods back into his and Thor wills him to quiet where he will be quieted, tries to soothe him where he will not. He murmurs, "It's not right, beloved. It's not fair."

Loki huffs, "Beloved."

"Aye, if that is not too forward."

His brother pauses. "It is proper," he concedes, but Thor feels a floret of pleasure bloom across his heart.

Thor laughs quietly. "Then, beloved, go. You owe me nothing, and I do not bind you. It was shameful of me to have tried." Loki pulls away and looks at him, confused, but Thor only kisses the angle of his temple and says, "I cannot right the wrongs that have been done, but I will do no more."

He steps back away from Loki and takes his hand in one of his. From the other, he produces the silver vessel. Its light pulses gold and warm in his palm.

"My brother," he says solemnly, "your lot is my lot, your hurts are my hurts, and if your soul belongs to you alone no longer, then neither does mine."

Loki clenches Thor's hand and shakes it insistently. "Brother, you don't know what it is you're offering."

Thor gazes at him soberly. "You said it yourself, what good is it doing anyone buried beneath that tree. You said they wanted a home."

"Yes but," Loki shakes his head, "you will never get it back. They will go evenly between us and, Thor, someone with greater skill than I might still be able to undo this, but if we do this, that hope is lost."

"What is it that you want?"

Loki's eyes search his face wildly. "I--" he stammers. "It's you, isn't it?" He looks bewildered and awed. "You know that. It's always going to be you."

Thor offers up his hand again. "Take me with you, then," he says, "whatever you can carry. Whatever you can fit inside your pocket." Loki laughs. His eyes are wet again but perfectly clear. Thor leans their heads together. "I can imagine you walking the skies and slipping between the stars. I can imagine the world’s only you can discover -- green worlds brimming with life. Crystalline worlds that the suns never shine. And maybe one day," he says, hushed, "when you've walked your fill, you will return, and I will welcome you into my hall and then, if you would like to stay, you can stay."

His brother breathes out quick and Thor can feel the tendrils of his breath caressing his face. "You have beautiful dreams," he whispers. "I used to wish I could live inside your dreams."

"I have never heard of a Jotun wanderer. I should like to think that my brother could be the first."

Loki nods but he says, "Wouldn't I be lonely, though? Walking alone." A beat. "I have never heard of an Aesir wanderer either."

Thor hums. "No, I suppose the Aesir are a warrior people. There isn't much wandering to be had save the travel of fighting."

"Would you come with me, if I asked you to?" Loki lays his hand carefully over Thor's chest, over his heart. "Would you walk the stars with me together?"

"Ah," Thor says, even as he feels Loki spinning tales inside his mind, great adventures across the stars, grand discoveries, quiet moments when the two of them can be alone. He pushes them gently aside. "But Asgard must have her king, but more than that, her chief protector. I cannot leave her as she is, vulnerable and unguarded."

"Brother, please," Loki says, pulling back and looking Thor fiercely in the eye. "You have spent your entire life in service of Asgard. I know," he says hastily before Thor can interject, "that that is what a king is, but even now that you are king, will you not have one thing for yourself? One dream?" he asks, his smooth voice making it sound so reasonable. "One thing that can be unquestionably and only yours? You are more than what you can do for others. You are so much more than a strong back that carries. My love, please," he says as he presses his lips to the palm of Thor's hand. "You have never had a choice either."

"No," Thor accedes, touching his brother's stained cheek, "but I would see these people safe from harm"

"And if they were safe, and then?" Loki asks breathlessly. "When there are no more wars to be waged or conquests to be had? When you have done your duty to these people, what then?"

"Then." Thor frowns outwardly, but he knows. In his heart, he knows. Kingship is sacrifice; it is a duty greater than his duty to himself. These people have nothing and want for everything, except for a king. How could he take that from them as well?

But I don't see why you can't just play along, says his brother's voice, so Thor lets himself smile slowly. "Well, I don't know. Where would you want to go first?"

Loki's face breaks then, as a storm that ends, as a new day that dawns, his smile warmer and brighter than all the sunlit summers Thor has ever known. He leans into the line of Thor's body. One hand fits into Thor's as their bound souls take up, at last, their rightful thrones. Thor feels hot and the cold and then nothing new in particular. Perhaps that is what it feels like to be whole, or perhaps it is simply only something that Thor has already found.

Loki's other hand curls gently over Thor's thundering throat. He says, "Then I can be happy--"

A moment later, his world explodes.

#thorki #thor #loki #thor/loki #accessibility for people who can't get on ao3 for whatever reason #soulbond but make it cursed #this is supposed to be post Ragnarok and literally minutes before infinity war #the idea is we take all the bad characterisations in IW and endgame and we give them context and weight so that they are sad instead of suc #be ready to see a lot of this shit bc i have a lot of notes to post about this fic #internal thor tag #internal thorki fic tag

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shera-dnd · 4 years ago

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I told you I was gonna write a fic based on it and here it is! Inspired by this fantastic piece from @kurokaneart

A pretty short story in which Weiss did not fall at the end of Volume 8, and after years of wandering Vacuo alone, she finally gets a shot at avenging her team

That design deserved a fight scene to match it and I hope I delivered on it

It had been two years.

Two years since Atlas fell from the sky.

Two years since the relics had been lost.

Two years since so many people were lost to the void.

Weiss had been alone for two gods damned years.

It was still fresh on her mind, the day her friends fell to their doom. How one by one they were swallowed by the abyss, and she had been powerless to save them. How she herself almost met the same fate, had she not been saved by her sister at the last possible moment. A sister who now carried the mantle of the Winter Maiden, passed down from yet another dead friend.

So it was no surprise to anyone that Weiss had been in a state of shock for the following few days. In fact she wasn’t even sure how long that lasted as she hadn’t been fully aware of the passage of time as her heart struggled with all it had lost.

What surprised them was when she left.

The reasonable thing to do after all that happened would have been to stick with her surviving friends, work together and do everything they could to make sure they wouldn’t lose anyone else. But Weiss wasn’t in a reasonable mood. She was grieving the loss of her family - her real family - and she couldn’t bear the notion of just replacing them, of being a part of anything besides Team RWBY.

So she wandered the deserts that surrounded Vacuo, fighting bandits, slaying grimm, all while doing all she could to keep the memory of her team alive. All while carving herself into a walking memorial to those she lost.

In time she was forced to adapt to the desert. Crying was a waste of precious water, as was cleaning her unreasonably long hair, so in time her tears dried up and her hair was cut short. Soon heels gave way to sensible combat boots, and her dress was replaced by proper armor. Months of constant physical exercise and her new fighting style had also led to changes even to her body shape, leaving her more muscular than she ever thought she could be.

Part of her couldn’t help but worry that this meant that Weiss had died with her teammates, that whoever walked Vacuo now was some other woman wearing her face. So still she latched onto scraps of her older self. The lovely blue of her favorite dress now lived on in her cape, bound to her by a metal clasp bearing her family’s symbol. Her earrings too remained, even if they brought her the wrong kind of attention from time to time.

And so the months passed and Weiss continued her travels, hunting down Salem’s followers wherever she found them. Even getting to take her anger out on a certain scorpion bastard, though she knew he was just one more piece in some impossibly large scheme to end the world.

Now two years had passed since the Fall of Atlas and once more Weiss found herself at the entrance to a relic vault as yet another huntsmen academy came under attack. This time though, she stood alone, waiting for the one person she had spent two years looking forward to seeing again.

“Well well well, here I thought I’d never have to see your face again,” Cinder’s disgustingly smug tone echoed through the underground chamber as her silhouette appeared by its entrance, “what was it that those friends of yours called you again, Ice Queen?”

Cinder had changed a lot in these past couple of years. Once again she donned a new outfit for her new environment, this one echoing some of her choices from her old student disguise back at Beacon. Though the change that actually caught Weiss’s eye was her grimm arm. She no longer bothered hiding it as the cancerous growth had now spread to cover not only her entire arm but parts of her chest and neck. Weiss wouldn’t be surprised if she found that her heart too had become grimm.

Her attitude, unfortunately, stayed the same.

“Love the new look, by the way,” she mocked, “I could almost believe you’re not just a Schnee brat.”

Weiss’s fists clenched, but she did not bother with a response. She knew how Cinder worked, she played dirty and messed with people’s heads, so the less fuel Weiss gave her the better. Instead she just cracked her neck, stretched her sword arm and called on her semblance.

A summoning glyph appeared behind her, but this time none of her defeated foes stepped out to defend her, instead frost covered her arms, slowly shaping itself into spectral white armor. She extended a hand forward and in it began to form a massive sword, pointing towards her enemy in challenge.

She was about to take down a maiden.

“Cute trick,” Cinder commented, her steps echoing as she casually walked down the chamber, “I wonder where you got it from.”

To make her point she extended her hands and a pair of swords formed in them with a flash of heat. The implication that Weiss had anything to thank Cinder for, was unfortunately enough to prompt her to speak.

“Are you always so full of--”

With a burst of flames Cinder had launched for Weiss’s throat, the glass blade nearly connecting with the huntress’s neck in that moment of distraction, before Weiss could stumble backwards and out of the way. Cinder continued to push though, strike after strike backing Weiss against the vault’s doors, never allowing her to recover her balance.

Weiss grunted as a kick to the stomach sent her reeling back against those doors. Cinder dashed for her again, but this time she was prepared. Pushing off the door with one arm she slammed an armored hand on Cinder’s chest - a small propulsion glyph appearing in her palm - and launched the maiden backwards with incredible force.

Another glyph then took shape under Weiss, sending her flying up in an arc, plunging at Cinder, ready to cut her down. The maiden simply rolled aside and jumped up before the attack could connect. Once more their blades clashed, but this time it was Weiss’s turn to take the offensive.

Back in her Beacon days, Weiss would dance across the battlefield with the precision and grace of a ballerina. Though much of said grace had been lost over the years, she still saw her fighting style as a dance of sorts, no longer a balle, but a waltz between her and her greatsword, and now Cinder found herself caught in the path of these deadly dance partners.

Weiss pushed her back with each step, advancing with every slice and spin of her sword until they found themselves once more at the center of the room. She dipped her dance partner, striking its pommel to Cinder’s human wrist and making her sword drop. She spun on her heels aiming to slice off that grimm arm, but once again their blades clashed. Cinder’s human hand flew for the grip of her remaining sword, pushing Weiss’s summoned blade with all her might.

Usually that wouldn’t work. Between her stronger physique and the Arma Gigas’s armor she could easily power through most attempts at simply blocking her attacks like this, but of course it wouldn’t be that easy. The grimm maiden was inhumanly strong after all and kept Weiss’s sword at bay with ease.

“I must say, I’m impressed,” Cinder commented, a chuckle escaping her throat as she watched Weiss struggle to match her strength, “but don’t fool yourself. We both know you’re nothing on your own.”

With that, Weiss snapped.

A propulsion glyph formed behind her, shoving her forward and adding its force to the clash. It wasn’t enough to push Cinder back, but it was enough to do something even better.

A loud crack echoed throughout the chamber as Cinder’s glass swords shattered under the intense pressure. She forged new ones from thin air, but Weiss was quick to crush those too. There were no more attempts at grace, no more dancing, no more technique or skill, just deadly force as the room was filled with the sounds of crushing glass and Weiss’s shouts, her sword slamming down again and again like a blunt instrument.

This, of course, was exactly what Cinder wanted. Her grimm arm caught Weiss’s sword with ease and a jet of flame from her mouth made the huntress stumble and fall. Casually she crushed the sword in her hand and sauntered her way to her disarmed opponent.

Weiss rose to her knees and another summoning glyph appeared before her, producing a much needed replacement sword. But before she could reach for it a fireball incinerated the glyph and the sword with it.

“This was cute,” Cinder mocked, not even bothering with any swords anymore, simply raising her hand and preparing to fireball Weiss out of existence, “but I think it’s time we put an end to it.”

It was that look. That tone in her voice like she had already won, like her defeat was never even a possibility. It was that smug attitude that gave Weiss every motivation she needed to keep fighting to the bitter end, just to show her that the last remnant of team RWBY wasn’t about to lie down and accept death.

Thankfully, team RWBY still had her back.

She launched forward and slammed an armored fist against that stupid smirk of hers. The look of absolute shock on that bitch’s face was more than enough of a reward on its own, but Weiss still had more for her.

Taking a boxing stance Weiss planted punch after punch on Cinder’s body, every jab and every dodge aided by her propulsion glyphs. Her fast movement kept Cinder on her toes as she was slammed over and over again.

With a cry of rage Cinder unleashed her maiden powers, sending Weiss flying backwards with a powerful gust of wind, but the huntress was not so easily intimidated. Another glyph caught her and launched back at her foe. Cinder smirked and raised her grimm arm. She was more than happy to capitalize on Weiss’s foolhardiness by shooting her out of the air with another ball of flames.

Unfortunately for the mad maiden, Weiss was no fool.

Another glyph appeared under her and sent her flying upwards, completely avoiding Cinder’s attack and sending spinning over her foe with the grace of a gymnast. Weiss had barely landed behind her before bashing Cinder once more, putting all her force into a single punch that sent her flying.

She knew she couldn’t waste time, she couldn’t let the maiden recover. So she called upon a massive summoning glyph and while that one prepared to unleash its fury, a smaller one appeared on Weiss’s palm. From the small glyph shot the hooked stinger of a Queen Lancer, it pierced Cinder’s grimm arm causing her to scream in pain. Then with all her strength Weiss pulled her down to the ground.

No, not the ground. She pulled her down into the waiting maw of a Giant Nevermore. The summon swallowed her whole and flew up, readying itself to dive down, slamming them both to the ground with deadly force.

Still it was not enough.

The Nevermore burst into flames as fire spewed from Cinder’s hands, feet, and mouth. The look of smug superiority on the maiden’s face now replaced with one of pure primal fury, blade after blade after blade were forged around her with a flash of her terrifying power. That...wasn’t good.

Weiss felt her hands shake and her eyes closed.

All of that, and all she managed to do was make her angry.

Two years training and preparing for this confrontation, and she still couldn’t do anything.

She couldn’t stop Cinder. She couldn’t avenge her friends, and now the last member of her team would die to her hand like all the rest.

No.

No! No!

Her team was gone, but they were still protecting her, still doing everything they could to let her keep fighting. She wasn’t gonna let her efforts and their sacrifice be in vain. She would keep fighting, and she would take Cinder down once and for all.

When she opened her eyes a glyph had taken form under her, but this one was different from the rest, for instead of her family’s snowflake, this one had the shape of a ticking clock. A haste glyph. And as it began to take effect on her body, two more summoning glyphs appeared before her. And from them Weiss drew a pair of shorter swords.

Cinder’s barrage of explosive weaponry came raining down on the huntress, but now she was prepared. With her speed vastly increased she struck forward with her twin blades, slicing down weapon after weapon with her aura, trying to find an opening through the chaos. Taking the first chance she got she crossed her blades and brought them down with all her might, shaping her aura into an X and sending it flying through Cinder’s attack.

First came a disgusting wet sound as the grimm arm was sliced cleanly off, then came the screams. Cinder cried and contorted in agony in mid air, more and more smoke rose from her wound with each passing moment, while her arm began to regrow.

That was it. That was the moment. Weiss just had to close the gap and--!

Pain wracked every muscle of her body, bringing her down to her knees. Her haste glyph had worn off, now her body burned from the overexertion, and a wave of lethargy drained all the strength from her body.

That moment of weakness was all Cinder needed to recover. She growled and with another grand display of might, she reached with her power for every last broken fragment of glass that littered the floor and set them ablaze.

Weiss had no means to escape that one.

It was as if the entire chamber had been carpet bombed, the myriad explosions tossing Weiss around like a ragdoll until she was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, dizzy, sore, exhausted. Still she pushed herself off up with all she had left.

Her summoned armor had been completely destroyed, her cape was in ruins, she was covered in soot, and her aura was barely holding it together. Proper tactics would require her to retreat, stay on the defensive, and wait to recover before taking the offense again. Weiss knew she had no such luxury.

Her only chance of survival was to finish Cinder before she had the chance to finish her. So she drew on every last scrap of energy she had left in her body and threw it all into one single desperate plan to end that monster for good.

She forced herself to stand and threw her hand forward, a black gravity glyph forming under the maiden. It pulled her down to the ground with force, but that was far from enough to keep her down. Storm winds filled the chamber, almost knocking Weiss off her feet again, weakening her glyph just enough to let Cinder stand up again.

Weiss threw her other hand and a pair of summoned Centinels emerged from the ground, wrapping themselves around their target, and dragging her back down. Cinder snarled and growled like an animal, slicing at them with her grimm claw and breathing out jets of flame.

Weiss knew they wouldn’t be able to lock her in place for long, so she quickly put the next part of her plan into motion. Another propulsion glyph formed under her and a summon glyph above. The first sent her flying through the second and she emerged on the other side, not with armor, but with a pair of spectral white wings.

Flying up as high as she could, her wings spread at the apex of her flight, holding her in place for one last moment so she could line up one final dive against her prey. One last time the Arma Gigas’s sword took shape in her hand and her wings closed around her.

She spun around her axis as her body plummeted with terrifying speed, the ground approaching her almost too fast for her to react, but right as she was about to collide, her wings spread out and for one glorious moment she was a whirlwind of death, slicing through Cinder with a spinning slash.

And for the first time in years, Cinder’s aura cracked. Blood poured out from a single long gash across her back and she collapsed to the ground. Weiss followed soon after.

She did it.

No, they did it.

Her friends had been avenged. Cinder had fallen. Weiss could finally rest.

That was all she needed right now, to just lie down, close her eyes, and get her well earned rest. The floor beneath her was hard and cold, but she didn’t mind it at all. She was so tired and this was just what she needed.

…

“Weiss!”

“Please wake up!”

“Weiss, please stay with us!”

Huh, she must have fallen asleep there on the floor. She was having that dream again. That dream where all her friends were still alive.

“Jaune, you have to help her!”

What other explanation would she have for this? For these familiar voices, for those warm touches, for the sight of silver eyes hovering just above her.

“Come on! Come on! Come on! Heal damn it!”

It was a nice dream. The kind of dream she didn’t want to wake up from.

So she closed her eyes again and drifted back to sleep...

#RWBY #weiss schnee #cinder fall #weiss schnee vs cinder fall #fight scene #weiss did not fall #ruby rose #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #jaune arc #feels #major character death

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theinfiknight · 5 years ago

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This is a lil piece of poetry I wrote because Hollow Knight made me feel so many things, so feel free to read it if you like

A land apart did he arrive Empty of life and yet alive Mind and soul he gave to keep A king is made, rejoice and weep

Thought and self given to all Stand above to answer his call Eternity, a promise made to last The king looks forward, forgotten is past

Light left behind, a cast off shell Changing, growing, kingdom doth swell Stag to beast, mushroom to moth The king rules supreme, light is forgot

Light is forgot Light is forgot Awry strays the minds of the glow hungry moths Grievously will they pay For their sins that day To forget creator til they can remember naught

One great shell of eclipsed might One fierce, one mysterious, one kindly knight One malodorous brave that stains the air The king is great, his famed five, fair

All among all acknowledge his reign Pale king, White Queen, land lives again Great doors left open to all who seek The king shines radiant, for mighty and meek

Higher beings, these words are for you alone Welcome to the kingdom that gods call home Enter this land of creator and god The king permits it, obey our laws

Welcome to Hallownest, of legend and story! Welcome to the Eternal Kingdom! Share in its glory!

Make your fortune at crystal peak! Where unearthly stone seems to sing Else in the city find that which you seek Prosperity and fortune, promises the king

Wander along down the Pilgrim's Way Take in the beauty of greenkin tamed Behold the queen's gardens, wild and fey The king shines, supremity claimed

Explore the crossroads that wind afar Where trade and life does pulse and ebb Witness it thrive, a kingdom grown large The king at the center, of the living web

Rejoice to witness his light in person In thrall lies mortal bug stood before him Misery cannot exist, nor Kingdom worsen While in his radiance. All adore him! . . . . Memory lost shall remember again Light shines through in hearts of woe Eternity crumbles, ruin begun The king is fractured by forgotten foe

Unity offered, self removed Power and might in exchange for will Join something bigger, it behooves The king is shadowed, light shines still

Oh pale one, great one! oh glorious! They beg, they cry out, they despairingly call Scorching, radiant, bright but odious The king is helpless, light takes all

No cost too great, no act too low Of root and soul, in void will they grow Empty, mindless, to cage that which shines The king will act, against power divine

No will to break, no mind to think To gaze into blackest void, and not blink No voice to cry, no soul to die All light casts shadow, and shadowed they lie

A container to hold void enslaved Vessels of purity, the umbra's shade Birthed, shaped, and left to rot The king needs them not, they are forgot

Massive birthplace of void unmade Deep and dark does the abyss go Buried within do his children fade The king closes it off, they need not know

Chosen vessel, pure and empty Son and hero made, hope renewed Tarnished forever, by love aplenty The king mistakes, purity is skewed

Despair no more! Behold in awe! Palest God's most silent son! Empty, its core, without flaw! Our Hollow Saviour, the war is won!

Peace and heart, for a time return As silent Prince does grow and learn To think, to be, to feel and to fight Light and dark in a single shell, a Hollow Knight

Greater still is surety required Firmer still must the lock hold Three chosen to ascend ever higher The king is eternal, but time grows old

A lock for diversity, of the archive's halls A scholar, the teacher, wise and prepared Mask entrusted away, the endless calls The king requires the it, the dream Monomon shares

A lock for king, for dream, for monarch Loyalty and life, given for the throne Watcher on high, spire so dark The king demands it, Lurien sleeps alone

A lock for union between high and low A deal is made, a dalliance to keep The 'beast' is tamed and seeds are sown The king's work is finished, Herrah sleeps

Beloved of beast, daughter of Wyrm Raised by root, fierce and strong Hive trained to strike true and firm The king gives life, child of silk and song

Strength misjudged, bonds created A broken vessel to chain light unbound Eternity imprisoned, no end awaited The king imposes, sacrifice enshrouds

Willingly does it rise to meet it Freely does it sacrifice its soul For only by dark is light defeated But how so is it hollow, with no hole?

Where emptiness once lay, dreams persist Ideas and love and a life to give Kindness in its brow, restraint in its fist Never meant to die, but also never to live

Unknowing, the deed is done Unwilling, the king buries his son Unfeeling, it goes away to burn Never again may it return

Never again will light release. Never again will Hallownest know peace . The seal is set, the lock is done Our knight is chained, the war is won Light fades away, Kingdom secure All hail the king, eternity is here!

Eternity is here! Forget that fear! Forget that scorching glow! Bask now in pale glory of The kingdom that eternal grows! . . . .

Fading, fading Mind and soul awake Hurting, hurting Love and heart to take Empty, so empty Hollow, he is not Foolish, so foolish Hallownest begins to rot

Shame. Sorrow. Love, Light... and another Do not think. Do not feel. Do not... Father?

Light burns harsh, angry and proud Vengeance shines through Hollow shroud Forgotten she will not be, first and brightest The king needs understand, it is no foe he might best

Orange, virulent, infection spreads Mindless, soulless, unity takes Fear the living, strong and mad, fear the mindless dead The king regrets, low and sad, strongest of wills can break

Brother turns on brother, burning, burning Madness, a frenzy, churning, churning Carnage, rage, bodies flying, flying Massacred and broken, dying, dying

Gone is the promise, left has the dream Only echoes and shadows, acid and steam Kingdom of glory, left now for dead The king is silent, low bends his head

Greenkin lost, Unn hides away Bloated fungi disfigured like clay Bound in the garden, the white lady withdraws The king has failed. Lost is the war . It's over, it's here, the doom that I feared It's done, they've won, all I hold dear Is gone, by spawn, of blight divine I've failed, oh jailed, Hollow son of mine.

Fate will not deny its course I cannot see the way, and fear the worst An end has reached its time to die Shame drowns in sorrow. Goodbye. . . . Gone is the king, cry in lament! Abandoning the very ones that he swore To protect, tearing open a mighty rent In his own heart, shut like the great doors

Dear king, how, why have you left us?! We wander and we search for you still Into darkness we stumble, for it yet does Hurt in our hearts where once was your will

They still call out your name with despair and regret For none could tame their savage souls, yet you the challenge met What you gave to bug and beast was unfathomable, and yet Foolish it was to make them, their first light, forget

The fading town reduces and dies Kingdom and city now, in ruin lies No dream, no mind, only light and pain The king is gone. What now remains?

Palace vanished, knights five, disbanded Monarch but a memory, stagways abandoned Limbo sleeps forever, mourn the paradise lost The king's love severed, this is eternity's cost

One by one the last souls burn In search of glory that will not return Enter the darkness and succumb to light The king is long gone, for he lost the fight

He lost the fight! He lost the fight! Give your self up to blinding light! Take all your dreams and hold them close The light calls out, and your willingness shows

Give in to light! Give in to light! Forget that foolish king! Forget his insolent attempt to close what never should have been!

Power, knowledge, and all that your heart desires Come to me, become greater, burn in the cosmic fire! . . .

Fools gather at kingdoms edge Drown their fear in violence and blood Ancient sorrows do they dredge The king shadows in shell molt flood

Buried in green, a hunter wastes away Closed, angry, mantis warriors stand proud Deeper, hungry, the beast's devout, decay Bereft, lost , kingdom withers in the ground

Ancient nailmasters mourn in solitude Remnants of greatness from a better age Nailsage's legacy, once strong and shrewd Now faint as marks on a torn off page

Mossmen remain in puddles of leaf Awaiting a return ever unreturning Wishing like all else, drowning in grief For a lost god that vanished after the burning

The light seeks out even those who hide Tempting the brave, proud and the mighty Even the unbending mantis lords' pride Do not blind themselves to it lightly

Even among the proud, traitors emerge Valuing strength above mind and skill Petras and warriors, lost to the scourge Caring not for the battle, only for the kill

The queen's gardens are lost to those Invaders who, expelled from their lands Enraged, swarm that thorned repose Executing the will of their light's command

Seeking palest root, bound and blind Solitude in exile, like her beloved But of the mighty, the mysterious, and kind The fierce of the five still guards what they covet

The mysterious, the heartbroken withers alone Distant from her love, far from her home Brave Ogrim slowly loses his mind, His faith and the the very life of the Kind

Outsiders, few, still sparingly appear A strange fool who thinks himself mighty A masked bug lured by memory unclear And a haughty warrior approaching doom lightly

Very few now remain in the fading town The old bug who stands by and advises The mapmaker who ever heads further down But on a distant hill, a figure rises!

A diminutive echo of deep silence That approaches unceasingly, toward The great door that does Kingdom fence, Holding aloft the ghost of a sword

That strikes at the great portal, with nail Cracked and grown old with wear With strength unseeming for one so frail Shattering the door as if it were never there

Small and weak seems the knight As it enters the land plagued bright Can an entire kingdom's fate Rest on the silhouette in the gate That enters so boldly and unafraid Unfeeling as void in which it was made Drawn once more by phantom's call Returning to the land of light's fall

No mighty strength does it seem To wield as it walks as if in dream Down the dusty, ashen road That leads to lonely, fading abode . . . . A land apart did it arrive Empty of life and yet alive Blood and corruption now does seep A kingdom is dead, sorrow and weep

Higher beings, heed well this writing Focus soul to heal crack and seam Through twisted spell or vulgar fighting You will achieve that which others can only dream

Every footstep hangs heavy with fate Into the kingdom that burns in light The speck that will confound even the great The unceasing march of the Hollow Knight

That’s all, hope you liked it. Do reblog if you did

#hollow knight #hornet #the pale king #writing #poetry #videogames #hallownest

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fleouriarts · 5 years ago

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dark goes to therapy

hello here is a fic i actually wrote around a year ago and never uploaded because i was too embarrassed. it could probably use a better name but this is what i named the file on google docs and i cannot bear to call it anything else. enjoy

You’ve barely made it through the door when your ears start ringing.

Jesus. He's here again. At some point you assumed you would get used to Dark showing up every once-in-a-while, but you were still filled with a certain disdain whenever you came home to his imitation of tinnitus.

The thing is, it's not even annoying anymore.

In fact, it's starting to get concerning.

Dark usually showed up whenever you were with Mark. You remember one of your first (and worst) encounters, where Dark unceremoniously whisked you away from a date with the other side of his coin and proceeded to threaten you with the tact of a teenage boy who'd just been broken up with. The next encounter in the sewer was much more elegant, it seemed he'd finally calmed down, but what he said was still the same: Mark is bad, I am good, join me, he doesn't deserve you. If there was one thing Dark had excelled at, it was consistency.

Him visiting you ten times in the last month was, in fact, not in line with that consistency.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by him finally materializing. This was usually the part you weren't supposed to see, the part he'd set up far in advance, but he's been sloppy lately, and so you watch as his body reconstructs itself from the void. Once his self-summoning is finally over, he stands in faux elegance above you, eyeing you up and down. You can tell when he's genuinely ready for your encounters and when he's faking it, and today, it seems to be the latter.

"So. I see you've come back to me."

"I literally haven't," you grumble. "This is my house, I came back to my house."

An unimpressed look fills his eyes. "My, so sassy. Did he teach you that?" His scowl tells you exactly who he's referring to.

"I haven't even seen Mark in, what, three months?" You retort.

"But he still... affects you."

"Yeah," you sigh. "That's how people work, Dark. Why are you here?"

He cocks his head. "Same as always. To convince you."

"No, you're not," you respond, unenthused. "If you were here for that, you'd be pulling out the whole shebang- the dark hallways, the freaky pictures, the spooky voices. Where's any of that?"

Dark scoffs. "Listen, you can't pull theatrics like those every time, see, they have to stand out. Every time does not equal standing out."

"Right." You stare at him for a moment, finding out how to phrase what you'd been needing to tell him ever since he started his frequent visits. It's blunt, but you don't want it to be mean. If it's mean, you know he won't accept it.

"You need help, man."

He strikes a sly smile. "Precisely. That's why I need you, to help me-"

"No," you cut him off. "Not that kind of help. I mean the counseling, get-your-feelings-out type of help."

His face becomes one of pure confusion. It's an emotion you've never seen him express, at least, not without a touch of anger added to it. "What?"

"You show up whenever Mark is around, right?" He says nothing, but you know it's true. "That's one of your things: you're always dramatic, you always want me to join you, and you always show up around Mark. It has been three months since I was even near Mark, and you haven't pulled out your stupid props yet. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

His eyes are starting to squint. "Are you saying something's… wrong with me?"

"I'm saying something's off," you respond, treading as carefully as you can. "You're inconsistent now. I know you got messed up from everything in your past, that's already enough reason to get you help, but now you're unraveling. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't want that to happen."

He stares you down before responding. "Do you really think I can be 'helped'?" He's drawing out his words, and you know you're in for it. "I don't think you understand. Mark took everything from me. There is nothing you or I can do to change that."

You're starting to get frustrated. "Yes, I know you can't change the past, but if you put some effort in, you can change the present," you get out, as calmly as you can. "And no, the effort shouldn't be following Mark around and harassing whoever he talks to. You're just reminding yourself of the pain; you're not his shadow."

He’s silent for a moment. You get the feeling that you’re about to die.

“You don’t know anything about me, do you?”

For whatever reason, that really gets you. “Wh- Don’t know anything about you?! Every time you come here, you sit here and monologue to me about your trauma! With rehearsed scripts and everything! I know everything there is to know about you!”

Dark’s brows furrow, and you can feel anger surging out from him. “That’s only what I show! There’s so much you don’t know, so much you’ll never know-”

“I know enough!”

Well, now you’ve done it. His shell is starting to break, projections of suffering emanating from his figure. You're about two steps away from being found dead on your living room floor in a few days.

But you have one idea. If you do it, you might stoke his rage even more, but there's the slightest chance that you won't. That you'll make him understand.

You step forward, wrap your arms around him, and brace yourself for certain doom.

…

It never comes.

Dark stops, and you still feel how his shell breaks and cracks, but it's not anger. It's confusion, shock, warmth, sadness- it's everything all at once, everything except anger.

And then he cries.

It starts as a sniffle, then a quiet cry, then breaks out into loud sobs. He hunches over, head nestling into your shoulder as he bawls his eyes out. As you glance at his face, you see that his tears aren't water- they're thick and black, like a mix of blood and tar. Unfortunately, you're wearing a white shirt, but you can take a few stains if it means helping him.

You don't know how long the two of you stay there. Seconds blend into minutes that blend into hours, as often happens around Dark, but at some point, he vanishes, and you're left alone in the shadows of your living room.

You don't see him again.

#markiplier #darkiplier #my writing #this is a mix of me loving dark to bits and wanting him to get some therapy and me just hating him he is SO annoying sometimes dfgjkdfjkdfh

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hellowkatey · 4 years ago

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angstpril day 12: dying words

Summary: Qui-Gon lives after the duel at Naboo, but the Force isn’t happy about it. Fate had already predetermined this was to be his final hours, and now he lives on borrowed time. The Force beckons, and Qui-Gon is rushing to tie up his loose ends before he fulfills his fate.

part 1 | part 2 | read on AO3

warnings: major character death (surprise surprise)

Unfinished Business (part 3)

It should be easier to come to terms with death when you know the very moment you will die. It's a cruel thing to know the moment you will cease to live.

It should be comforting to know it will be painless. Timely. As quick as the time it takes to breathe, but after the exhale there will be no inhale that follows.

Dying should be the easy part of all of this because there is no death, only the Force. It's a phrase Qui-Gon has muttered to himself many times in his years of being a Jedi, and yet... he sits on his funeral pyre and realizes he isn't ready and certainly isn't comforted.

Qui-Gon knows he was meant to die in that duel. He knows he was meant to take his last breath in the arms of his padawan, and the galaxy was meant to move onward. But the galaxy was also doomed to darkness, and if the Force let him see the suffering, he rationalized that it was asking him to stop it.

The Force denies that as its motive. Apparently, he misread the situation. Qui-Gon always thought the past was meant to flash before your eyes in the final moments before death, but apparently, it is the future you leave behind. Maybe for some who worry about missing who their loved ones will turn out to be, it's a positive. A last happy note before becoming one with the Force.

For Qui-Gon, it felt like a slap to the face. Everything he had worked for, everything the Force had led him to, was just going to end in darkness? It couldn't be right. Not with Anakin being the Chosen One. Not with the Jedi at the height of their strength, and the Force the embodiment of light. No. Qui-Gon was always taught that the future is not set in stone. Fates change as frequently as stars die across the galaxy; the future is as unknown as where the next star will be born. This is a future he cannot allow to prosper.

Looking around, he can feel things are already different.

Anakin stands at the foot of his pyre outfitted in youngling robes and a freshly buzzed haircut. His eyes are big and brimmed with tears, but there's a soft smile on his face as Qui-Gon locks eyes with him. The Chosen One has a long way to go, but his progress has already been impressive. Qui-Gon managed to convince the council to send out representatives to Outer Rim to finally investigate the issue of slavery. They've operated under the safe thumb of the Republic for far too long. Jedi are meant to step out of their zones of comfort. When he has completed his youngling training he will likely become Obi-Wan's padawan. Though they haven't yet made their partnership formal, Qui-Gon is pleased to see a faint thread of a bond already forming between the two of them.

They are two beacons of light in the Force, seemingly meant to be intertwined. While the thought of such a pairing is daunting to Qui-Gon with what he saw, he sees the divergence from his vision. Anakin's undertones of anger and insecurity have diminished greatly. Obi-Wan's signature is not laced with pain and tragedy. Whatever he has done here, whether it is a permanent or temporary detour from the future, he has at least done his duty. As a Jedi, it is all he can ask for.

It's time.

Qui-Gon raises his eyes, taking in the room of what feels like half the Jedi Temple. His gaze falls upon Obi-Wan. The new knight stands with his cloak pulled tight around him and shields pulled tighter. Behind him stands the imposing presence of his own master. It's been a few years since he's seen him. His hair has gone completely gray now, and his face has begun to show his age. Dooku still has that unreadable neutrality that used to drive Qui-Gon mad, but he can at least feel their dormant bond buzz slightly with feelings of serenity.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan approaches with his usual obedience. Now closer, the Jedi Master can see the anxiety behind his eyes and feel the racing of his mind. "The time has come."

"Are you... sure, Master?" The break in his voice is enough for Qui-Gon to question it himself. But the feeling is undeniable. For the first time in his life, the Living Force has fallen silent. He can feel the faint signatures of his fellow Jedi around him, but he has lost the connection to the energy that flows through them all. Instead, he feels the Cosmic Force creeping out of his periphery. It builds-- the same intensity, if not greater, than the Force he has come to know through his life. The last chapter of his life has already closed, and now he must submit to the next one.

"Obi-Wan, I want you to know..." he starts aloud, but shifts to the bond that flows between them-- the last piece of the Living Force he has a grasp of. 'I am so very proud of you. Your strength, your talent in the Force, and your unbreakable will have continued to impress me these last twelve years.'

Obi-Wan stares at him. Silent tears run down his cheek. 'It has been because of your teachings, Master.'

'Some perhaps,' he replies. Obi-Wan smiles. 'but there is so much more that I couldn't have taught you. Qualities that are inherent and cannot be taught. You serve a very important purpose in this galaxy, my padawan. Let the Force guide you to it.'

The exertion makes him lightheaded, and he pulls out of their bond as carefully as he can. Obi-Wan's face falls as Qui-Gon takes care to lock up his side. Bleeding bonds are a painful experience, and though there is no way this will be comfortable with his former padawan, he can try and make it a little easier. He looks back to Anakin now and reaches out his hand.

"Come, Anakin."

The boy walks to him with half the confidence he displayed when he ran into them on Tatooine. He stands on the other side of the pyre, staring at him with uncertainty.

"Do you have to go?"

"Yes, Ani, I do."

"But you're fine now. Your injury--"

"My injury has healed, yes, but my spirit hasn't." Anakin chews on his lip. Qui-Gon does wish he had more time to explain but he will trust Obi-Wan to do that for now. "One day you will understand, young one. But for now, just know the Force has decided it is my time, and I am a servant of the Force. I am leaving because it is my fate."

"Fate," Anakin mutters, wiping away a tear with his sleeve.

"I will always be with you, Ani. In the Force."

The boy jumps forward suddenly, wrapping his small arms around his neck. He hugs the boy back, all the words he just said suddenly feeling as though he lied through his teeth. The realization is striking, and he looks to Obi-Wan who is staring at him with solemnity.

I don't want to go.

But the moment he realizes this is the moment the Force decides his time has officially run out. Qui-Gon gasps slightly, and time feels as though it is slowing.

Anakin is pulled away from him, carried off with tears dripping off his chin by one of the council members. At some point, he was laid down, softly and carefully, and peering over him is Obi-Wan who takes care to brush all the loose hairs out of his face and smooth it down. Mace Windu stands on the other side, his eyes shut and hand resting supportively on Qui-Gon's wrist. Even Dooku has taken a place beside his grand-padawan, an arm on his shoulder, which is a comfort he doesn't often extend.

Though he isn't ready, and the room feels like the air has been sucked out of it, Qui-Gon does appreciate that this will be his final moment. Surrounded by everyone he loves and cherishes. Soon, he will join all the others he loves who can't be here in life, but are waiting for him in death.

He can feel his Life Force waning into nothing. In his final moments, he looks at his padawan who is desperately holding back his mourning.

"Here and now," he says, a mantra he so often repeated. And upon the last bit of his Life Force leaving, he is overtaken by the Cosmic, and the room full of people around him fades into a bright white.

The strange part about dying is that somehow everything he learned about it was right and completely wrong.

The transition from life to the afterlife was quick, yes, but painless would not be the word he would use to describe it. With the Living Force vacuumed out, his bonds are suffocated and torn from his consciousness. If he had a body and the ability to cry out he would-- yet the face he can feel such agony without a body is a mystery on its own. One by one, he feels his connection to that room of people sever. One by one, he is reminded that he is dead. Truly dead. Not in some sort of twilight, not a dream.

Yes, maybe they were right that death is not the end, it is the return to the Force, but right now he feels like an unwelcome guest. He is simultaneously drifting through nowhere and somehow everywhere in the galaxy. He has no sight, but he can feel and therefore he can see in the strange way that the Force allows him a different kind of insight.

When the last connection is torn, he truly feels as though he has been untethered and dropped into the middle of an ocean. He is trying to float, trying to keep his head up, but the forces that surround him are pushing him down. Qui-Gon grabs aimlessly until he feels a familiarity. A rope he's pulled before. So he does.

The future flashes before him again. If his previous pain wasn't enough, this is an entirely different one. The same agony. The same pit of despair. Light battles against light, except one side is horrifically tainted by an insidious dark hold. He feels the cold of darkness, the loneliness of involuntary solitude, and when he drops that link to the future as though it's burning him, he yells out into the void in despair.

"No! I was meant to prevent all of this! I lived so I could stop the darkness."

Qui-Gon has little experience with the Cosmic Force, so it surprises him when it replies.

The nature of fate is not yours to change.

"But the future... the future is not linear. It is not set in stone. Every choice... every action can change--"

You have changed the destinies of your loved ones, but their fates are solidified.

He's stupefied, his horror causing crazed desperation within him, and he flails away as though his spirit has any authority here. "I must go back! I must tell them what I know, prevent darkness from--"

You cannot return to that world. You cannot stop the darkness. This is the fate of the galaxy.

"Why?" He yells bitterly. "I-I- made sure Obi-Wan was prepared. I set Anakin on a better path, with more support."

There was a time when the Force would surround him and feel like a warm hug. It was his constant companion, his best friend. But now it wraps around him and he just feels like he is trapped. This is his end? His thanks for years of service to the Force? None of it ever mattered?

You cannot stop the darkness, the Force repeats. This is the fate of the galaxy.

#angstpril2021 #fic #daytwelve #dyingwords #major character death #final destination au done!#i feel like the ending makes all of this like a slow burn angst

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sh-rare-pair-exchange · 4 years ago

Text

For if they return they were always yours

For @aceon-ice

Summary: The tightness in her chest, the coiling coldness in her gut, the force in her lungs, preventing her from exhaling properly; it’s been a blessing framed as a curse, or a curse disguised in pleasure. Even now, she’s not sure.Her head is; stubborn, proud, unwilling to sacrifice another part of herself. Unlike her heart; brave, but foolish, vigorous, but vincible, always hoping, close to unhinged surety that the next person she offers it to, will not strike, crush, or break it.She longs for that someone by her side, someone she can trust, count on, be comfortable with, and know, no matter the troubles, hardships, or challenges they'll face, they won’t forsake her.

A/N: Hello AceOnIce, I chose a fic for Lydia/Izzy, because I adore them, and I hope you can enjoy this. It's my first fic where they are the main couple, and I was hesitant, scared to mess up, but I really enjoyed writing it. <3

Read it on ao3: HERE

The shine of the blade hits her eyes as she moves it to polish the other side, her motions stilling as her mind drifts to memories, treasured, but painful.

Her fingers brush long blond hair from her lover’s naked shoulder, her skin shining golden in the candle light. She trails her fingers along her spine, down to the small dent of her lower back, and follows with her lips the same path upwards again.

She can feel the tremors in her lover’s body, hear the small sounds of pleasure, even the smile on her lips. She shifts around towards her, gray blue eyes locking with her own, a hand cupping her neck, pulling her closer, and she loses herself in fervent kisses.

The tightness in her chest, the coiling coldness in her gut, the force in her lungs, preventing her from exhaling properly; it’s been a blessing framed as a curse, or a curse disguised in pleasure. Even now, she’s not sure.

Her head is; stubborn, proud, unwilling to sacrifice another part of herself. Unlike her heart; brave, but foolish, vigorous, but vincible, always hoping, close to unhinged surety that the next person she offers it to, will not strike, crush, or break it.

She longs for that someone by her side, someone she can trust, count on, be comfortable with, and know, no matter the troubles, hardships, or challenges they'll face, they won’t forsake her.

She wants someone like Magnus, or Clary, devoting themselves to her brothers, unconditionally.

No one has ever given themselves to her unconditionally, and it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, a toxic fracture in her heart, and endless thoughts of self-doubts, and feelings of inferiority. As if something inside her is simply wrong, and somehow, everyone knows, and leaves after taking her apart, a little at a time.

Lydia was never going to be hers. Everything about them was doomed from the start. She was a typical product of The Clave. Actually, she was a rather perfect creation. And Izzy hated her, for all the obvious reasons, but even more so, for the way she saw her own faults, prejudices, and failures reflected in her.

Thanks to Magnus, Luke, Raphael, and other Downworlders, Izzy realised that she had a long way to go before she could truly pride herself in an ally. She knew she couldn’t have escaped The Clave’s visions, not her parents’, not every Shadowhunter’s she ever had dealings with, had to learn from, but she always thought she was somehow… better.

Oddly, only through meeting, and getting to know Lydia Branwell, did Izzy really see her own shortcomings, and misconceptions. She was, and still is, grateful for that. She’s done more growing in the past year, than in all her life before that.

And she realised how exhausting, and excruciating taking yourself apart bit by bit is. To be brutally honest with herself about herself, everything she’s done, and even more so, the things she failed to do.

She’s especially thankful to her friends who helped her along this harsh journey, taught her, and opened her eyes in many ways, as well as her family, and some other Shadowhunters who felt that the old ways weren’t as golden as they were made out to be.

But she hadn’t expected Lydia Branwell to be one of them. Izzy had almost playfully cursed her beauty, because even though she was determined to hate this Clave envoy with all her might, she had two very well functioning eyes, and Lydia was sheer gorgeous.

When Izzy felt particularly petty, she even cursed her for that. But things changed, too fast for her mind to catch up. Suddenly, Lydia was on their side, and with that, on the side of innocent Downworlders they wanted to protect.

Izzy was never especially good at letting hate consume her, which some said to be one of her greatest strengths, and so animosity turned into sufferance, turned into acceptance, and surprising affection.

And soon her heart throbbed the moment Lydia entered a room, talked, smiled, and accidentally, or purposely, touched her. Even when they argued, and they did that a lot. But it helped them work out their differences in many aspects, and she just felt closer, and more drawn to her.

And when she found that she wasn’t the only one who made up reasons to spend more time together, she leapt into the feeling, into her arms, and bed.

And she was determined to have no more regrets.

She feels a blissful heaviness throughout her body, permeating her wholly, arms closing around her, rolling her over on her side, her naked body pressing into her lover’s, sheen with sweat.

Soft, thin strands of blond hair are sticking to Lydia’s face, she tries to blow from her eye, her face changing into mesmerizing laughter as she fails.

Izzy grins, and caresses all of her disturbing hair away, leaning in to press a kiss on the corner of Lydia’s smiling mouth, just to be hugged tighter, and kissed harder.

“You know,” Izzy’s head is comfortable on Lydia’s warm stomach, an arm wrapped over her, Lydia’s fingers gliding through her long, unruly hair, sending prickles along her neck, down her spine, she delights in.

“We’ve spent every night together for almost ten days.” Izzy continues, not sure why this thought took hold of her, but there’s always a reason.

“Yes, we have. And it’s been good.” Lydia says, her forefinger slowly running down Izzy’s brow and nose.

“Mmmm, yeah. Wouldn’t you like it to stay this way?” Izzy asks, sudden surprise and realisation taking her breath away.

“Even if I did, Izzy, it won’t. We won’t be here forever. Nothing is ever certain in our lives, but that things will always change.”

Izzy knew she would say something like that, there was no other option, even. Not for them. And, yet, a flicker of hope for something else was born the moment she asked, now extinguished, casting a shadow in her mind, chasing away her rare moment of levity.

She never said anything regarding this topic again afterwards, knowing how Lydia would react, knowing that hearing it from her lips would hurt even more. They were… something, but not everything, and once again, she had to accept that. She just wasn’t enough, for Lydia, or anyone, or maybe, what Alec and Jace found, was simply too rare, and most other Shadowhunters wouldn’t. She had to accept it.

Even when she knew she fell in love with Lydia, completely, she still had to accept that she was the only one, and that she was the one who would have to nurture another broken heart, once Lydia broke it off, or was sent away.

Or accepted a higher position at the Institute in Rome, with a very good chance to be promoted again.

Izzy knew that it was Lydia’s greatest wish, and ambition, and that she would always choose her head over her heart, and her career over a relationship. Izzy even understood it, to a point, but it still crushed her bone-deep to hear the words.

Lydia was leaving, and she would be happy with the decision. And Izzy had no say in the matter, and she couldn’t ask her to stay, would never plead, would not show how much it hurt, more so than she had anticipated, but it may as well.

She wished her all the best, smiled somehow, and left.

That was four months ago, and a lot had changed, again, just as Lydia said. Izzy was going to be the new Head of the New York Institute, because she too, had to put her career before anything else, because, again, she was proven wrong to want something else.

She hadn’t really talked to anyone about it, but she knew her brothers, and friends, knew, and she knew she could have cried and be comforted by them, but instead, she was grateful for Jace, and Clary’s willingness to train with her every day, and Alec’s insight into her new position, as well as Magnus, and Raphael’s teachings of more she had yet to learn, wanting to be the very best role model she could be, especially for the new generation.

Izzy blinks, the shine of the blade she’s gripped in her hands before her eyes, irritating them suddenly. She inhales, exhales, and puts the blade away, then cleans her work station.

She’s been here, on her own, for the past five evenings, just cleaning weapons, thinking, trying to unravel some of the knots in her mind. She knows she’ll be okay, generally. She knows what she has to do, must put forward, and still learn, and she knows it will never end.

And maybe, the void, sometimes filled with sadness, sometimes anger, sometimes loneliness, guilt, or pride, will become smaller in time. She can’t but try, one day at a time.

The door is suddenly pulled open, Jace storming inside, his expression grave, letting her know something bad happened.

Lydia is here, and she’s badly hurt. She was brought by two Shadowhunters who had been working with her in Rome, but Izzy can’t focus on that. She races to the infirmary, Jace on her heels, blood draining from her face as she sees her lying on the white bed, her face ashen, bruised, and bloody.

“She made us promise to take her here should anything happen to her.” Izzy isn’t able to look at the other two women in the room, her brain barely catching up with their words.

There was a demon attack, a big one, and Lydia got hurt. Izzy feels paralyzed, unable to do anything but keep staring at Lydia’s face, her eyes shut. She doesn’t even know if she’s breathing.

She suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder, and becomes aware of Jace behind her. “Iz.” She shakes her head slowly, forces air into her lungs, and steps forward, her whole being trembling.

People are rushing in and out, but she hardly notices, unable to take her eyes and mind off of Lydia’s face. Izzy’s hand shivers as she touches Lydia’s wrist, to find her pulse, weak. But alive. Time loses its meaning.

She blinks, warm, dark eyes meeting hers, a soft, compassionate smile. Magnus’ hands are moving slowly above Lydia’s motionless body, light-blue magic curling around them, into her.

Izzy doesn’t know who called him, or since when he’s been here, her eyes filling with unshed tears, her chest tight with gratitude, hope, and fear. She doesn’t know if she’s breathing herself.

“Give her some time now, darling, she needs lots of rest.” Magnus leans down, kisses her head, and makes to go, but Izzy catches his hand, clutches it tightly, looking up at him, feeling small, and fragile for a moment, not knowing what to say, her lips quivering.

“Thank you.” She thinks she might break down and cry, but she doesn’t, and he smiles at her, squeezes her hand, and leaves her alone with Lydia sleeping like before.

Except, Izzy notices finally, there’s more color in her cheeks, and the cuts and bruises have healed. There’s just some crusted blood. She gets a warm, moist cloth, and carefully wipes it off of her brow, and temple, suddenly stopping as her eyes swim with hot tears.

She moves backwards, turns away and takes a few deep breaths, fighting for composure. She puts the cloth away, and sits down again on the chair she’s been occupying for hours. She just can’t seem to move away.

She startles, not having realised she’s been drifting, her eyes taking in Alec’s face, bent down next to her. She blinks, fatigue keeping her mind hazy.

“Go get some rest, Iz, I’ll sit with her.”

Izzy turns, a rush of memories clearing her mind, staring at Lydia’s face. She’s sleeping, Izzy hopes. She’s breathing. That’s all that matters for now.

“Go on.” Alec prompts her, takes her hand gently, and pulls her off of the chair. Her body feels stiff and cold.

“No, I- I want to stay, I-”

“Just for a little while, I’ll call you immediately if anything changes.” She meets her brother’s gaze, warm, concerned, probing. She nods vaguely, but she can’t agree completely.

“I’ll just take a shower, then I’ll be back.” She knows he wants to argue, but changes his mind, smiles softly, and nods.

Her shoulders sag as she leans against the closed door outside, her head low. She feels surreal, exhausted. But there’s no time to waste. She walks the halls to her room, her boots the loudest sound around a quiet institute. It’s 1am, she notices as her gaze passes a clock, but she doesn’t care for that.

She strips, fastens her long, straight hair in a high bun, and steps under the warm water. She waits for a minute, turns it hot, waits another minute, and turns it cold, the shudders all over her body waking her up more.

She hasn’t really been able to think, but now, as she’s lathering soap over her body, her mind wanders to the start. To those Shadowhunters that brought Lydia here. She made us promise to take her here if anything happened to her.

It’s more than unusual, curious. Why would Lydia make them promise that? Why would she want to come here? It’s too strange. She can’t ask them now, as they had to leave right away. She wonders how their superiors reacted to their report. Or why no one tried to contact them - or, they might as well have, but no one told her. That’s more likely. She doesn’t care right now.

She only cares for Lydia to open her eyes, and talk to her. Explain. Just as long as she’ll be okay. Izzy rinses herself, steps out, grabs a towel and flings it around her body, walking back to her bedroom to find some casual, warm clothes.

She glances at her bed for a moment, but even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Instead she takes her stele and activates her runes to get herself through the night awake.

She slips into sneakers, fastens her hair in a neat ponytail, and heads back to the infirmary. Alec looks up, not really surprised to see her back so soon. He would do the same, be the same, so he has no leeway to reprimand her, anyway.

He stays with them for a while, quietly. She knows she could talk if she wanted to, and there are things she might want to ask him, should even, but she really only wants to stay here like this. Not talking, listening to Lydia’s quiet breathing, watching her chest rise and fall.

At some point she reaches for her hand, and tenderly takes it into hers. Her skin feels warmer, not as clammy as before. Izzy feels relief. But she has to wake up, yet.

She sends Alec home after an hour, promising to let him know if anything happens, or if she needs him. She should be the one to be here with her. She wants to be, needs to be. No matter the outcome.

~~~

She becomes aware of something touching her hair, startling her into an upright position. She didn’t exactly fall asleep, but put her head down next to Lydia’s torso, closing her eyes, her mind drifting here and there.

Newborn daylight floods in through the windows, but Izzy blinks several times, though Lydia’s eyes are open, focused on her, her fingers slightly touching her hand.

“You’re awake!” Her mind is excited, anxious, suddenly on overdrive, trying to tell her what to do, what to think, but all she’s able to do is stare at her.

“I am.” Lydia’s voice is rough, and quiet, but alert, and Izzy knows she knows who she is, and where she is, and probably also what happened.

“Are you hurting?” It’s all Izzy can ask while she’s trying to catch up. Her mind is reeling, and there is so much she wants to know, but she has to reign herself in, one thing at a time.

Lydia thinks for a moment, her body moving lightly in places under the blanket. “A little sore, much better than I should be. Magnus?”

Izzy just nods, unable to take her eyes off of Lydia’s face. She’s not as white as the pillow case, but still paler than she usually is. But she will be alright. She’s really… okay.

Izzy can’t prevent herself from grasping Lydia’s hand, holding it tightly in both of hers, for a moment unable to breathe. She exhales slowly, her chest aching.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, I’ll make sure to apologize to everyone.” Lydia sighs softly as her head slinks deeper into the pillow, her gaze falling away.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to worry about that, just- why?” She didn’t mean to end her sentence here, but she’s overcome with so many thoughts, and emotions, and she wishes she could keep a cool, calm head right now, but all of this has gotten to her a lot more deeply than she realized, and inwardly she’s stiff, and trembling.

Lydia licks her lips, and Izzy thinks she should get her something to drink, but her hands are gripping Lydia’s, and she can’t seem to let go.

“I’m sorry.”

Izzy doesn’t understand, and she hopes Lydia will explain everything, right now, or she might burst. She shakes her head, slow growing desperation winding up her stomach, chest, and throat.

Lydia clears her throat, shifts her head slightly, and glances up into Izzy’s eyes. “It was my last day, I wasn’t going on any more missions, but they came out of nowhere.” She swallows with some effort, and Izzy knows she needs water, that she should get her some, but her words are stuck in her brain, and she’s unmoving.

Her last day? She doesn’t comprehend anything anymore.

“I hoped to see you again, whatever happened.” Her voice sounds hoarse, and she’s coughing lightly, shaking Izzy out of her stupor. She turns quickly, glad the table with the water is within her reach, grabs the jug and fills a glass while keeping hold of Lydia's hand.

Lydia takes the offered glass from her, and, propping herself into a more upright position, slowly swallows half of it. She gasps, sighs, and sinks back down, giving the glass back.

“Thank you.”

Izzy puts it away quickly, and gathers her thoughts. “I still don’t understand, are you saying you-”

“Quit. I quit.” Lydia’s eyes are trained on hers, and Izzy feels a shudder rushing all along her spine. What?!

“I told them that I would come back to New York, and that they had no say in it but to accept my decision.”

Izzy notices the tiny, sad smile in Lydia’s eyes, and somehow, she still doesn’t understand anything. “But you wanted to leave, you are determined to have your own institute.” So, why would she ever want to come back? Why would she get in trouble with The Clave?

“I was- am, but… I found out I’m also a fool. Just like Jace said.” She’s smiling a little more, coughs again, and Izzy is fast to help her up, stroking her back gently until Lydia gives her a nod, and she carefully lets her lie down again.

“Jace?” Izzy’s mind, and heart, are all over the place.

“He said I was a fool to leave, and Clary agreed. Alec didn’t say anything, but he gave me that look of his, you know, the one that makes it very clear he thinks you’re wrong. I understood their view, but I wanted to be right. I needed to be.”

She sighs softly, and reaches out her free hand towards Izzy’s face, her fingertips tracing her chin. “Max once said that he liked having me around because you were always smiling when I was there. I had forgotten about that, but I had many sleepless nights, and I remembered. But I still needed duty, and career, and hard work, to determine my life, and my future. That’s what I thought, despite everything I had witnessed from all of you, I couldn’t let go of that part of me. I was too scared to, I was even ashamed, and I didn’t fully understand why.”

She drops her hand, and closes her eyes for a moment, visibly emotional, and exhausted. Izzy is letting her words process inside her mind. But she’s too scared herself, to come to a conclusion on her own, she needs Lydia to tell her everything.

Lydia opens her eyes, and focuses again. “Sorry, I feel a little dizzy, but I’m alright. All I wanted was to see you again, and talk. I didn’t expect it to be like this, but it’s maybe more than I deserve.”

She shifts a little, seeming in discomfort, but when Izzy makes a move towards her stele, she holds her back, taking both of her hands into hers. “I also realized that I needed to leave. Or I wouldn’t have understood any of this. I thought I had to fight, and defeat my emotions, my heart, but in the end, I fought, and defeated my head, and my fear, and shame, so I could come back, and be sure.”

She moves onto her elbow, upwards to be face to face with Isabelle. “I never promised you anything, because it would have been a lie, and I made sure to keep a part of us separated, because I could only allow for one outcome, for us to be apart. And I had to be away to understand everything you’ve all been showing, and teaching me, all this time. I couldn’t let it in back then. But when I was alone, finally a step further towards my goal, with every day everything felt a little stranger, until it all felt wrong. And I did try to convince myself of the opposite, but even then, somehow I knew I didn’t really mean it.”

She pauses, shifts again, and sits up properly, her long hair falling into her face, but she doesn’t let go of Izzy’s hands, merely shaking her head to make it move.

“Once I understood what was happening with me, or rather, what had happened in me, it was almost easy to let go of the set ideal of myself, and my life. And I had to agree with Jace, I was a fool.” She smiles softly, her eyes glistening.

“And I’m so sorry for making you collateral damage in my journey of finding myself, I guess. I can’t vow that I would have got here if things had been different, but I wish I didn’t have to hurt you in the process.”

She kind of slumps into herself, shutting her eyes, full of regret, and Izzy can’t but keep watching her face, so dear to her, Lydia’s words repeating over and over in her head.

She shuts her eyes, as well, gathers herself, looks at Lydia again, and slowly pulls her hands out of hers, making her startle and look at her in alarm, but Izzy soothes her quietly, and pushes her gently back down into bed, staying seated on the edge of it, her hand caressing a few strands from Lydia’s face.

“You really are a fool, a pretty great one.” Izzy smiles, her eyes burning with hot liquid.

“But I’m going to let you in on a secret.” She leans down a little, Lydia’s expression surprised, curious.

“We’re pretty much all fools here, with very few exceptions.” She smiles softly amidst realising what Lydia has been saying. She came back, she wants to stay here, she doesn’t want to be the head of some institute, she wants…

“But some of us have followed our hearts, and weren’t led astray. So, is that what you’re saying?” She leaves her hand covering Lydia’s jaw and cheek, piercing her gaze, needing certainty, because she knows her own heart, and who she wants the last person to be to give it to, and take care of.

Lydia’s eyes widen slightly, and Izzy can feel both of their hearts beating faster in the space between them, and she’s hoping, trusting it completely, to not make an even greater fool of herself.

Lydia exhales suddenly, her lips curling into a lovely smile, her eyes shining. She nods. “It would be an honor to rank amongst the fools at the New York Institute.” They’re both giggling quietly for a moment, tension falling off of them, tired, surprised joy remaining.

Lydia turns her head, cupping Izzy’s hand on her face with her own, kissing her palm, inhaling her scent, her eyes closed.

Izzy’s fighting with a sob, deep down still a little apprehensive, not yet able to chase every last shadow of doubt from her.

Until she locks eyes with Lydia once more. “I missed you.” And Izzy hears the pain in her voice, sees it in her eyes, and before she can say anything else, she leans down, touching her lips, kissing her sweetly, until Lydia’s arms fold around Izzy’s body, and she’s suddenly moved down and around, almost falling off of the bed, if not for Lydia holding her close, side by side.

“I’m not letting you go again.” Lydia smirks slightly, and Izzy, though concerned for her not fully recovered state, can’t but smile, and give in, wrapping her arms around Lydia in return, their noses brushing together.

“Then you better never scare me like this again.” She gives her a reproachful look, and Lydia’s expression softens. “I’ll do my best.”

Izzy has to be satisfied with that. “I have some news to tell you, as well.” She smiles a little, leading her mind to a safer topic, but for a split second, a crack opens inside her, fear striking her. What if she already knows I’ll be the new head of the institute, and that’s why-

“What is it? I haven’t heard any news in forever, tell me.” Lydia’s words close the crevice immediately, calmness, and happiness settling inside Izzy’s body, warming her from deep within.

“It’s not that important right now. I’ll tell you later.” She smirks, and Lydia seems regretful for barely a moment as their lips slide together, hands stroking over one another’s body, tangling through hair, and caressing the little skin that’s revealed.

Izzy feels Lydia’s lips wandering along her cheek, soft caresses, and touches, to her temple, eyebrow, and forehead, suddenly whispering right above her ear, her breath stuck, her heart stuttering.

“I love you, Isabelle, for certain.”

A tear slips from Izzy’s eye, every part of her brimming with bliss too vast to comprehend, but, finally, she feels that she’s enough, because this feels right, like she’s been found, finally able to let go of everything else.

#shrarepairexchange #sh rare pair gift exchange #shadowhunters #shrarepair2021 #aceon-ice

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