#／／ ✕.「VISAGE;scarred by fierce dedication.」

[tiervain]

sent to destroy me by @aegisheld​

"You can stay --" His hand gripped onto the fabric of his shirt, eyes refusing to connect with the others as he towered over his bedside. Bandages were wrapped around his arms, and chest -- magic had taken its toll, Thoron was one magic that did not need take kindly with overuse. Maybe he was asking too much, sitting in the infirmary wasn't an idle way to spend one evening. "-- If you want..."

HE HAD FAILED, AND THE KNOWLEDGE WAS A COLD WEIGHT ON HIS CHEST. When a battle usually settled into the routine of morbid tranquility, of reports assessing the casualties that inevitably followed along side them, he knew to trust that everyone would be safe. It helped to remind him that his friends were fiercely strong, smart and clever with each new battle fought and won. The former members of the Blue Lion house were more than capable of handling the situation that war and death wrought upon them. There should have been no cause for the unease that kept close to his chest, a creeping feeling that curled tendrils around his throat and gave just the slightest pressure. There was no reason to feel this way--- everything was fine. 

Felix was fine---

---yet when word came that Felix had collapsed in agony, his terse cries and frantic shouts from the rest of their group followed him, those slivers of terror tightened, threatening to choke him.

BEFORE HE COULD GO TO FELIX, HE TOOK ON THE TASK OF DIRECTING HIS SOLDIERS TO DELIVER MERCY KILLS. He took this task to heart, waving away the concern that their former Professor fixed upon them (it was hard to tell, but the subtlety of softness took hold of the Professor’s visage, making the task easier to carry out) and resolved to carry out this duty with honor. Those that fought and were felled by magic or a archer’s arrow, they were granted a quick end free of needless pain. But to the unfortunate survivors, their fated end was not kind when met by the violence of a sword or lance. Even more unfortunate were the soldiers that struggled, that even as blood welled in their lungs and gurgled in their throat as they gasp for breath. It pained Sylvain to see how desperately they clung to life, how wretched and pitiable they were. To see their weakened limbs crawled through the swill of entrails, severed limbs and crimson-stained soil to reach---what, he wondered. Light? A savior? Perhaps the loving embrace of the Goddess?

SYLVAIN DIDN’T KNOW. He had no answers, no picture to gaze upon what vision a dying man would stretch their hand towards the horizon for. Perhaps it was family. A son or daughter, a wife, a husband, a lover. It didn’t matter. And yet as his team of throat cutters delivered the mercy of ending their suffering, taking no prisoners out of the near-dead and dying men, Sylvain held pity for them. War had made them enemies, but as men crawling upon the earth, they were as close as brothers. There was to be no comfort given in this act, as cruel as he thought, not while Felix writhed in agony fighting against these poor bastards who toiled upon the living hell he stood on. By the time Sylvain had finished, he felt numb and as dead as the men whose throats he slit open. 

‘If I had been close by--- if only I had been there, I could have saved him---

---I’m a fool. The biggest fool in all of Fodlan.’

SYLVAIN ALLOWED HIMSELF TO BE LULLED INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY WHERE NO ENEMY COULD TOUCH FELIX. That no matter how strong the enemy was, Felix would walk away from every battle unscathed. His dedication and resolve that allowed him to retain a focus that aided him in his training. It was disrespectful of him not to believe he wasn’t capable of defending himself--- too proud, too stubborn, he would not allow anyone to coddle him, let alone leap to his defense--- and yet he used too much power that left him open for an attack. His defenses were breached. If he had been a moment too late, if one arrow, one well placed strike managed to penetrate Felix’s guard---

And where was the infallible Sylvain Jose Gautier? What good was he (his crest, his lineage, his damn hero’s relic) when he couldn’t protect the people he cared about?

SYLVAIN CONVINCED HIMSELF OF LIVING A LIE THAT AS LONG AS HE WAS NEAR, NO HARM WOULD EVER COME TO HIS FRIEND. Fear laid heavy inside him like a stone, solid and real; over and over and over the thought looped tauntingly through his mind that would not leave him even as he walked in the infirmary with dread sunken upon his gaze and guilt laid in his heart. That Felix could have been spared the pain he felt if only he had been by his side faster, that he watch his back for enemies that would seek to penetrate his defenses. If only he had caught such an attack, Felix would not have been forced to cast Thoron to the extent that left him bedridden.

THAT FELIX REACTED TO THE TURMOIL OF HIS THOUGHTS SHOWED HIM JUST HOW MUCH FELIX’S CURRENT STATE AFFECTED HIM. The call of his voice, rasped from pain brought him to his side before he could register that he had crossed the threshold of the infirmary. He collapsed to his side, scurrying clumsily while still stained with the taint of battle, yet his armor did not obscure his movements much. He was careful not to hover over him, or cause any distress that would evoke his ire. That Felix did not spare a cutting remark upon his current disheveled state was a testament to how badly injured he was. It struck him just how heartbreakingly fragile the swordsman lay before him, that he would allow Sylvain to see this vulnerable side to him was rare and showed an incredible deal of trust.

‘If only I were worthy of such a gift...’

KEEPING TRUE TO HIS DESIRES, SYLVAIN RELENTED ABSTAINING FROM FELIX’S SIDE AND FROM IMPARTING HIS AFFECTIONS UPON HIM. The gesture was nothing grand and hardly thought of as nothing but a simple display of genuine concern. Making quick work of removing his bloodied gauntlets freed his hands to reach out, taking hold of Felix’s hand that clenched his shirt to smooth his thumb over the knuckles and the back of his hand. The act of simply feeling the smooth yet scarred flesh brought an ache that was distinguished above the anxiety he felt: this feeling was quiet, and yet just as heavy upon his heart. Sylvain looked to Felix, noting his refusal to look at him directly and merely chuckled. 

“Then I’ll stay.” He said simply. “For however long you want me.” He then brought his hand up to his cheek, sliding his eyes shut as if to hide the tenderness and love shining within, as if frightened by how Felix would react. He couldn’t resist turning his face slightly, so that his lips pressed against the skin. He pretended it wasn’t a kiss so that he could deny it if he was questioned. They both weren’t ready to make that step into the abyss, not yet at least. But perhaps someday, they could walk out of the darkness and into the light, together. Goddess willing, he could hold Felix’s hand through all their trials. That was enough for Sylvain.

‘I’m the biggest fool in all of Fodlan...for you, Felix. Only for you.’

[sincognito]

And So The Dragons Fell From Grace | Chapter 1.

For even they have their monsters.

Pairing: Spicyhoney (Mapleblossom and papgore will be later).

Universe: Undertale, Underfell, Underswap, Swapfell (both versions).

Warnings: Slavery, Speciesism, Kidnapping, other chapters will be tagged for other content. 

Overview: When the 'fell verse' monsters broke from their barriers and stepped out onto the surface they brought with them only war and death. They fought against human-kind and were victorious, enslaving all those who could not escape their reach. They then fought against the dragons that were hidden away from the world, killing them and stealing their souls, transforming the monsters into powerful draconic beings. When the other monsters were freed they were greeted by a world ruled by cruel dragons that were swift to hunt them down and enslave them as their playthings. However, some monsters escaped from the dragons, joining with the humans that remained and now prepare to take back the surface. But does kindness still lurk in the hearts of dragons? Or have they all fallen down?

A/N: Just a quick little fic I’ve been working on recently to help get into the mood for writing again. 

Next

Read on AO3: HERE

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The cool mountain air was a stark contrast to the hot wind that usually beat down upon the valley that Rus called home. The warmth of summer had begun to slowly fade when he had left his homeland, travelling for untold hours each day to put as much distance between himself and the border of the plainlands far behind him. He had crossed the mountains that lined the territory, continuing until they were a mere blur on the horizon.

He had started up the next mountain to cross his path without pause, and he had been seriously considering stopping and resting for a few days. Rus had never been a strong monster, and weeks of constant walking had worn him down to the very brink of exhaustion. Yet, with adrenaline racing through his body and the pounding of his soul clear in his head, he managed to run.

He gasped at the air, ignoring the burning of his chest and the numbness of his legs as he pushed on, ducking between the trees and stumbling through the dew-covered grass. It was early morning and the sun had only just risen, but it was evidently enough light for the large beast to have been awake and already patrolling the mountainside for potential prey.

The rhythmic beating of wings grew louder and louder, and Rus could only just hear it over the sound of his soul. He dove through the bushes, making a break across a large clearing, sprinting as fast as his body would allow him towards the trees on the other side.

He almost made it.

Something slammed into his back, easily knocking him to the ground and pinning him with its great weight. Despite being badly winded he refused to admit defeat and continued to thrash, squirming underneath his foe until even the adrenaline had worn off, no longer able to provide any further energy. He fell limp, his whole body heaving with each deep breath and his vision clouded by black spots.

A claw dug into one of Rus’ vertebra, causing him to hiss in pain before gritting his teeth to stifle any other sounds. “What is such a pretty pet doing on my mountain?” chuckled the deep voice, a soft hum accompanying his tone, “You’re very far from home, aren’t you?” Warmth trickled down upon Rus’ body as the beast spoke, obviously trying to make the question sound as though it had no underlying statement. He knew enough about dragons to know that the cursed creature was smiling at his pitiful state. He knew what thoughts his words betrayed. The dragon thought he had just found a nice little addition to his horde.

The weight lifted from Rus’ back and he was forcedly rolled over onto his back with a rather rough shove, coming face to face with his captor. He had never seen an undead dragon quite so large before, his large slitted eyes a deep, glowing crimson, and his skull severely marred by chips and scars. Most dragons wore an armour-like hide of richly coloured scales, but this creature was nothing but bleached bones and red magic.

While the dragon might have been in his prime, his face was marked with a deep crack from his forehead to just above where his teeth sat in his snout, running directly through one of his eye sockets. The visage was terribly familiar and left a nauseous feeling in the pit of Rus’ non-existent stomach. He tensed as a large claw drew close to his neck, abruptly looping around the thick steel collar clamped around his neck and wrenching him forward. He choked weakly, grasping at the dragon’s paw to try and lessen the strain.

“Where is your master, monster?” the dragon asked, leaning down to scent him briefly. While his ‘master’ might not have spent much time near him, the way the beast’s eyes narrowed and a displeased rumble broke from his chest signalled that a tiny part of his owner’s smell remained present, even after their long time apart. “So, you’re the pet that filth was searching for,” he snarled, releasing Rus’ collar, “The runt should learn to take better care of his possessions.”

Immediately Rus turned to run, consequences be damned. However, the moment he swivelled around on his foot, a large hand grasped around his middle, pulling him back so he pressed firmly against a hard, bony chest. “Get off me!” Rus shouted, finally managing to find his voice as he struggled against the hand in vain.

The dragon either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to listen to his words, for he merely gripped him tighter, taking a moment to survey his surroundings before giving a powerful beat of his wings. It took three massive flaps to gather enough momentum before the dragon could lift his huge body from the ground, pushing off from the grass with his large hind legs as he easily leapt into the air with an excited trill.

“No, no, nononono!” Rus yelped, holding onto the dragon’s arm for dear life. He had never flown before, and although they stayed relatively low to the ground, he couldn’t fend off the terror that gripped at his soul. The dragon was going to kill him, or worse; return him to his home. He didn’t realise when his eyes had closed, but he found he couldn’t open them, desperately gasping for breath. He could feel the way they rose and fell, the sound of the dragon’s wings beating steadily barely audible over the sound of the wind rushing past them.

He felt as the dragon dipped them forward, feeling as they dropped closer and closer to the ground, and sobbed loudly. He was not enjoying flying. Not in the slightest. “Please, please, put me down, please put me down!” His fingers were digging into the dragon’s bones as he tried to hold on tighter, magic threatening to leak out from the corners of his closed sockets.

He was so drawn into his panic that he didn’t notice the lack of wind nor the missing sound of beating wings, it was only when he felt another arm gently wrap around his tiny figure and warm breath trickling down his back that he finally opened his eyes, feeling the growing heat of his face as he realised they had already landed.

He braved a glance up at the giant beast, staring into the red slits of magic that were looking back down at him with furrowed brows. The dragon tilted his head with a soft hum, before seeming to suddenly snap out of his trance, beginning to slowly walk across the large ledge they had landed upon. He held Rus with one of his front paws while using the other to assist with walking as they headed towards a large cave entrance.

Rus attempted to struggle once more, trying to loosen the dragon’s claws enough for him to free himself. Unfortunately, the grip was far too tight for him to escape, and it only wrapped tighter around his spine the harder he fought against it. “Get off me!” he hissed weakly, kicking out his feet angrily.

His resistance was only short-lived, his legs quickly reminding him of just how little energy he had to spare. He wrapped his arms once more against the dragon’s long leg, using it to take some of the strain off his aching back. The cave was only shallow, light still easily penetrating the darkness and lighting up the large structure within.

There were large pillars scattered throughout the cave, and from the ceiling hung great plants that had broken through the limestone, allowing more light to fill the cool cavern. Rus watched as water from above ran down from the stalagmites, before dropping down into shallow pools of water or onto small, newly formed stalactites. While it might have seemed damp and cold, the cave was no mere simple hole of rock, it was a dragon’s lair and that meant a certain level of luxury was to be expected.

Further into the cave beyond a small river of water that flowed down beside the step-like form of the rocks lay a brightly lit area that shone with the light of the flaming torches that sat upon the surrounding walls. Each of the columns that stood before the den were each carved into intricate artworks of dragons and fierce warriors. One dragon, however, set apart from the others, in the very middle of the cave. It stood tall, every detail of its image carved with painstaking accuracy, and its eyes almost seemed to glow a bright red from the rubies that sat in place of the dragon’s eyes.

Before the draconic statue was a large, smooth plate of stone coupled with several worn pillows. Evidently, the statue was some sort of shrine dedicated to the dragon that had once ruled over the mountain range and its surrounding plains. However, the candles that sat below the dragon’s feet sat long since extinguished, and the pillows were grey with dust.

The main section of the den was lined with numerous exotic rugs of vibrant colours and unusual textures, and there were more than a few ancient furnishings stacked throughout. However, the most prominent feature of the cave was unmistakably the enormous pile of gold and silver. Goblets and necklaces and countless jewels lay strewn across the floor every which way and there were more golden coins than Rus had seen in his entire life.

He was so distracted by the ginormous pile of valuables that he let out a surprised yelp when he was abruptly dropped onto the carpet below. He landed heavily on his tailbone with a hiss of pain, reaching back a hand to gently massage the afflicted area.

There was no point trying to escape. Rus was deep within the dragon’s lair and he had little to no chance of being able to escape it without harm. He watched silently as the dragon clambered upon the giant pile of riches, turning around to face Rus’ direction before sinking down into the gold as though it was a pool of water. He saw the dragon give a shiver, nosing its face into it with a pleased hum.

After a contented moment, the dragon opened its eyes once more, watching Rus from its radiant bed. “Come closer pet,” he purred softly, eyes softening slightly and making the dragon almost seem peaceful. He waited until Rus had inched closer before speaking again, face still slightly obscured by the precious metal, “By what name does your master call you, monster?” he asked.

One of Rus’ arm reached up to grasp his elbow, his eyes drifting off towards the floor, “Rus,” he answered simply. There was a loud snort from the dragon, and Rus realised he had been forgetting himself, clearing his throat before quickly correcting his statement, “It’s Rus, mighty dragon.”

The dragon made a satisfied sound that rumbled all through its bones upon hearing Rus’ words. With its head now raised proudly the dragon spoke again, “I am the great and terrible Edge!” he boomed, voice still thick with the previous vibrations that had left his throat, “And I am your new master.” The dragon was smirking, his smugness evident in the way his posture straightened and his head turned to one side slightly.

“My new master?” Rus echoed, frowning slightly, “I’ve already got a master, and I’m pretty sure he won’t be to--” He was cut off by a loud snort from the dragon.

“I could care less about what that pathetic excuse for a dragon thinks,” he hissed, swishing his tail in mild agitation, “I believe the phrase you monsters like to use is ‘finder’s keepers’. That is exactly how the world works, it’s not my problem the brat can’t keep a firm grasp on his own pet.”

Rus fell quiet, pondering for a moment his new situation. He had fought tooth and claw to escape from his previous owner, only to end up back in the service of another. He doubted Edge was any different to the other ugly hearted beasts he had encountered since reaching the surface, he seemed just as egotistical and demanding. “Of course, your eminence.” His hands shook slightly by his sides from where he was curling his hands so tightly into fists.

Weeks of running, weeks of hoping that against all odds he might just make it, only to be crushed the moment the dragon had spotted him from his perch high up in the sky. It was cruel, painfully so, but there was nothing Rus could do as he stood silently, glaring at the soft rug below his feet.

He didn’t notice the way the dragon’s mask dropped as he regarded him with soft eyes and a heart full of hidden worry.