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mostlydeadallday · 1 year

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Lost Kin | Chapter XXXI | A Simple Task

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: panic attacks, body horror, paranoia, flashbacks, referenced torture, memory loss, referenced abuse AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXI | A Simple Task First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: If you've seen the warning on Chapter 1 about pronouns, this applies especially to this chapter. Hollow's perception of themself vs. others' perception of them comes into direct conflict here, causing them significant distress, enough to also warrant a warning for unintentional misgendering.

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The vessel watched.

It watched the strange cricket build a fire in the fireplace, then light it with a flint and steel from his satchel. It watched him bring clean water and hoist it into place over the fire. It watched him fetch soap, rags, everything Hornet would need to clean it, never venturing closer than arm’s reach, and only then to hand the supplies to her before stepping quickly away.

It watched him settle back against the hearth when he finished, watched him watch its sister, watch it, his gaze unflinchingly curious, like the tip of a scalpel prodding at all its wounds and imperfections.

He knew something.

It was not possible for him to be aware of its flaws. It had never met him before, and it had revealed nothing since he stepped through the door. It had not allowed itself to react when he flinched back in fear of it, when he reached for a weapon that was not there. It had not taken the offered comfort of its sister’s hand, though something shameful within it writhed pitifully as she withdrew. And now, when he sat in Hornet’s place on the hearth, one hand resting on his knee, seemingly doing nothing at all, it did not shrink from the warm pressure of his stare, the careful examination of its cracked shell and the infection that lingered there.

Why was he here?

That was not relevant. Its sister had requested that he come here, and that was more than it needed to know. She did not appear to need its protection, and the strange bug didn’t seem inclined to do anything but sit and stare. He carried nothing but that satchel on a belt around his waist, next to an empty loop where a nail would hang. The satchel was too small to conceal much besides a throwing knife, and he appeared too common to have the ability to cast soul-spells. Not harmless, from the way he carried himself, but peaceful.

Hornet turned away from him as she stepped around it, kneeling at its left side. “Would you turn so I can reach your back, please?”

A surge of fear took hold, sweeping its control out from under it. Its next breath hissed again, hooking somewhere in its chest and pulling tight. The cricket was watching, watching everything; he would see the pain it could not hide. Even now he had surely noticed the pause before it followed orders, noting each empty moment that scraped by, another black mark on a page already filled with ink.

Perhaps he was here to see just that. Perhaps its sister needed assistance in recording its failures, in determining a better use for it.

Its heart lurched against its shell, but it did as it was told.

The stump of its shoulder throbbed, as it always did, and dull spikes of pain pushed in under its chest-plates, the deepest cysts jostling and shifting as it moved. Its view of the cricket was obscured as the room flared into white fire, but the vessel kept moving, pulling itself forward with its single arm until it lay partly on its front, its back bared to the damp air, mask tilted to keep as much of the room in view as possible.

It was no longer quite so silent when it relaxed back onto the blankets, each inhale scraping through its throat like a claw over slate. It blinked, clearing the glinting light from its vision.

He was still watching. Even more closely, now.

It lay motionless, trying not to pant, though its vents gaped desperately wide with each inhale. He might attribute this weakness to its wounds—though those wounds in themselves were a failure. If it had been perfect, it would not have sustained any injury from sealing the Radiance away. It would be hanging there now, as still and quiet as the tomb it was meant to be, alive enough to entrap her, dead enough to keep her that way.

He would find out, sooner or later, if he did not suspect already.

This weakness, damning as it was, paled in comparison to what he would have seen had he entered the room a few minutes earlier: the supposed Pure Vessel quivering with fear and longing both, pressing its mask into its sister’s hesitant touch with all the urgency of a drowning thing gasping for air, thoroughly undone by the simple task of answering the questions she’d asked it.

She touched its shoulder now, near its neck, where the chitin was warped but not broken. “Thank you.” It heard her shift, dipping a rag into the water she had heated. “I am only going to touch your back, not your shoulder. None of the blisters here have refilled, and all the wounds seem to be closed.” A pause, punctuated by a rain of droplets as she squeezed out the rag. It did not flinch when she laid the warm fabric against its shell, nor did it relax when she swept the cloth across its shoulder blade.

The cricket did nothing but stare, one finger twitching where his hand dangled casually over the hearth.

Hornet wet the rag again, laying it across a new spot, keeping her hand there and allowing the heat to seep through its chitin. Gentle heat, barely warmer than her hands, nothing like the ever-building fire of the infection. Despite itself, the vessel’s shoulders dropped a fraction from their tense curl.

Fear struck through it anew. Had he seen? Had he noticed?

Its sister sighed, taking the rag away. She sat there, silent, and it could not see her face, yet it guessed she was disappointed. Why?

“You should try to relax. Sleep, if you can.” She sounded nearly as tired as it had ever heard her. “I may need to step away to speak with Quirrel, but I will go no farther than the next room.”

Sleep. If you can.

That was an order.

Sleeping would mean shutting its eyes on the stranger in the room. Sleeping would mean that he might be there to witness whatever panic seized it when it woke.

She laid the rag over its back again, and it suppressed a shudder. It might not have much choice, if she continued; its eyes already wanted to close, despite all its objections.

It would not know whether it could until it tried.

It did not want to sleep, not with the stranger—Quirrel—watching its every move, waiting for it to expose itself. Hornet was safe, she must be, she was clever, she would not turn her back on anyone she could not trust, but it did not, could not, extend that same faith. Not when every alarm in its head was ringing, and every inch of its body crawled with awareness of his stare.

An order. Not a request. She had ordered it to sleep. If it did not obey, that would be yet another failure, and she would have yet more cause to be disappointed with it. Its heart kicked into double rhythm, lungs aching to gasp, to suck in gulps of air as the edges of the room grew dim.

It would not. It would not be undone by something so simple. It would endure much worse, to make her pleased with it.

Gradually, the breathlessness faded, as it inhaled and exhaled at a measured pace.

Sleep.

Under the cold flood of fear that demanded it stay awake, that whispered to it of what it might miss, an undertow of exhaustion pulled. Exhaustion that only grew stronger as its sister laid the cloth to its back once more, rubbing in firm circles to clean the void from its carapace. The sweet aroma of the soap she was using drifted out into the room, plucking at memories of the Palace, of the heavy, waxy flowers that only bloomed when the kingslight faded and left the gardens dim and dew-drenched.

Its eyelids drifted half-shut before it snapped them open again. Its sister was speaking.

“Where should I begin,” she murmured, and sighed. It felt her hands slide from its shell, though she replaced them immediately after, working at a new spot that sent tingles up its spine and into its mask. It hurt, but in a foregone sort of way, an echo of pain that had once been much greater. As she kept up the steady pressure, even the echo faded, one voice in the clamor going silent.

The relief was unexpected, perhaps irrelevant, with so many other pains still demanding its attention. But its next breath was longer, slower, without its intent, and it could only be further relieved that its sister—and the stranger—did not notice.

“I was in Greenpath,” she was saying, moving the rag aside to scratch lightly at its back-plate with a claw, then rubbing over the spot again with fresh water. “I have not kept careful count, but it must have been near six days ago.”

Six days. It almost shuddered again, caught at the last moment by the sharpness of Quirrel’s attention. His gaze was shifting from it to its sister and back again, and it could see the questions tugging at him, but he said nothing, and only the crackle of the fire and the drum of the rain filled the silence.

Had it only been that long since she found it dying in the Crossroads? Since it flung its nail down into the dark, since it abandoned all pretense of being what it was meant to be?

Six days since it escaped the temple. Six days of reprieve from its punishment.

Six days that it should not have lived to see.

Six days of… of…

Its eyes flared open again.

“There was a sort of… shift in the world.” Hornet ground her fangs, and a tendril of fear tightened round its throat, but her dissatisfaction seemed to be with her loss for words, rather than with it. “I know not else how to describe it. I could feel that something had changed.”

Quirrel tilted his head, pondering, then nodded slowly. His voice was soft. “I felt much the same.”

“I wondered if others would, or only myself.” Her breath brushed its shoulder as she leaned over it, working at a notch in one of its plates. “I made for the temple at once, though it took longer than I wished. The Crossroads have been nigh-impassable since—”

A pause. A silence that it fell through, deeper, deeper.

Her next words dragged it back to the surface. “They were lying in the elevator when I found them.”

At first, it did not understand why the words felt wrong, only that they did, some invisible piece out of place, as if it had grasped for something and missed, or its teeth no longer fit inside its own mouth.

It—

They?

The word had nothing to do with it. The word was something cold that dug beneath its shell, something foreign, something not fit to be there.

“I was not sure at first whether I would have to kill them,” its sister continued, with no hint of doubt or hesitation. “In self-defense, or as a mercy. They were gravely injured, and I didn’t know if they would recognize me.”

The vessel’s head was spinning. Or perhaps the world was whirling rudely around it, thoughtless of the nausea currently creeping up its throat.

It was—

They—

What was she doing?

She had named it, spoken to it kindly, given it comfort and reassurance it did not deserve, and it had accepted what was not meant for it, knowing it would not have this forever, weak enough to steal what relief was given to it in error.

But if she had done it all while assuming that it was a person, something worthy of respect, something with desires, independence, rather than a thing to be handled, a tool to be used, a weapon to strike down the divine—

Oh, she was mistaken, she must be—

The fact that it had desires, that she had guessed correctly, was worse than if she had simply been wrong. If she had been wrong, it would not have cared.

She must know what it was meant to be. She must know how her father had spoken of it, to it. She must know that its flaws were what had destroyed her future, robbed her of her inheritance and doomed her people to madness and decay. She must not continue to treat it like this, as if it was worthy of respect.

It could not tell her otherwise. It could not correct her. It should not. It had no right to.

“Once I had concluded that they would not harm me, I decided to bring them here.” Hornet wrung out the rag again, keeping one hand on its back until she finished, then resumed the careful cleaning of its backplates. “Their condition has been more or less stable since then.”

Quirrel hummed in acknowledgement. For a desperate instant, it thought perhaps he would correct her, speaking up when it could not. Its memory was faulty, frayed and tattered with the years, and it did not recognize him, did not think he had ever encountered it before, but he spoke like one of the bugs of the old kingdom, not a foreigner, not a newcomer. Perhaps he knew how it should be addressed. Perhaps he had heard it spoken of, and could stop her from—from—

“They make quite the impression,” he said, with a rueful half-laugh. “I can see the resemblance.”

Its gut twisted. Whether he did not know how to properly refer to it, or whether he was deferring to its sister’s judgement, mattered little. It inhaled harshly, forgetting its resolve to hide its flaws in front of him, and then froze when he looked down at it, an inquiring tilt to his head.

Hornet’s scrubbing stopped, removing even that small solace, and she leaned forward to look down at it. “Hollow?”

There were not enough blankets left on the bed to cover it entirely, to wrap it up and hide it from the world, but its claws twitched at the traitorous thought. Even if there had been, it would still stick out, its body too large and ungainly to be anything but an awkward lump under the covers, even if it was hidden from view.

It could not achieve what it wanted. To be invisible, to be small enough to escape notice, ignored, unimportant.

If it could not be what it was meant to be, could it not at least be forgotten?

The thought was poisonous, insidious, creeping into its failed mind as if it belonged there, as if it was not just another want that must be sought out and destroyed.

It was failing in so many ways, merely lying there, thinking, disobeying the command to fall asleep, giving in to weakness the moment it was distracted, revealing its flaws before this strange bug who had not even been there an hour—

Hornet’s hand was on its face, a warm weight beneath its eye, her palm slightly damp, smelling of flowers and soapsuds. The flutter of its breath against her wrist called to its attention just how quickly it was breathing, how far it had fallen, and how fast.

It could not stop. It was ruined now, unable even to maintain a façade of what it should be.

Perhaps this new word she used for it was a punishment. Perhaps it was meant to keep it in its place, to remind it that it had failed. To prevent it from retreating into the comforting illusion that it still had worth, that it might still be useful.

“Quirrel,” she said, and there was an oddness in her voice, a sharpness that felt like a shove, “would you go start some tea?”

Quirrel went still. Even the easy flick of his fingers stopped, and he looked intently at her, ignoring the vessel altogether.

It should not feel relieved.

“Tea,” the cricket said.

“Yes.” Hornet did not move, aside from a quick jerk of her head. “In the kitchen.”

The silence stretched just a beat too long, Quirrel still holding himself carefully, as if he might trigger some unseen trap by moving.

“Right,” he said at last, and stood. He reached back with his left hand and, after looking down at the empty space at his hip, hooked his fingers in his belt instead. “I expect that will take a while.”

Its sister did not reply, did not turn to watch him leave. She did nothing at all until he was gone, until faint sounds began to drift through the doorway, of cabinets opening and closing, items shifted about.

Then she sighed, and it felt the tension bleed out of her, felt the slight tremble of her claws against its mask as she stroked her thumb over its jaw.

It nearly shoved its face against her hand again, nearly begged for more of what she was giving it, but its heart was racing already, its breath coming short, and the stranger was still here—not in the room, not in sight, but it could not quash the creeping suspicion that he would know, that he would somehow find it out.

She seemed to understand, regardless.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, the words rasping softly through her fangs. “It’s all right.”

It was not.

It was not all right, she was wrong to handle it like this, so gently, as if it had not already broken. But oh—she was still here, and she had not stopped caring for it, ill-deserved as such treatment was, and something shriveled and starving within it was crying out for more.

She leaned back, and lifted her hand, and it thought for a desolate moment that she meant to leave it there alone, but she only reached to the side and picked up the rag again, running it in careful strokes down the vessel’s neck and between its shoulders, warmth seeping through its shell and into the knotted muscles beneath its armor.

The plates on its back were wide and tough, sloping gradually, meant to deflect blows from its neck and absorb the impact of its strikes. It did not think anyone had ever treated them so gently. Its father’s hands had been careful and deliberate when he inscribed the seals that bound it, but he wasted not a single motion, never touching it beyond what was required, and even then his fingertips would burn with soul, with freezing pain that it had had to block out, to shut away lest he sense that it was suffering.

Always, always, it lied.

Hornet’s hands were warm. Hornet’s hands did not burn, not like its father’s, not like the goddess’s rare, unwelcome touch.

And rather than touching it briskly, efficiently, or pressing to its shell like a branding iron as light surged forward to scorch away its darkness, Hornet’s hands… lingered.

Gentle, but not soft. Her palms and fingerpads were callused, and the shell overtop of her hands was nicked and scratched, much like its own.

Why was its attention fixed so firmly on this? On the warmth of the cloth trailing over its shoulder, on the idle touch of her free hand at the base of its neck? Why would she…

It was an ungainly thing, unfeeling and cold, and… why would she want…

Its eyes were so heavy.

The scant relief its sister offered brought the pain in the rest of its body into sharper focus. Every part of it ached, each limb its own dull throb. A memory dawned, a memory of restraints winding taut around its wrists, its ankles, pressure growing slowly as each one pulled in a separate direction, until the skin between its plates began to split, until the sockets of its joints strained and snapped open, until—

It jerked.

Awake, awake. That was not a dream—it did not dream—but a memory slotted out of place, something its exhausted mind had tripped over.

That was then.

The goddess was gone from it. It did not think anyone here was capable of pulling it apart. It was fairly certain it could not be useful any longer, if its limbs were torn from its real body. And its sister must believe there was something she could use it for.

The fear still took a long time to fade.

It must be truly fractured to remember such things now. To experience the pointless memories of its failure so vividly, even when it was as removed from its purpose as it had ever been.

Whatever its sister required of it, she would be disappointed if she expected its former perfection. Or perfection of any sort.

It could not currently feel much of anything about that. Strange.

It breathed, slowly, its focus drifting back to the present. The warmth. The water. The slow movement of its sister’s hand, up and down its back.

The stranger was still in the kitchen, but he had quieted now, into a general impression of shuffling motion, hushed and indistinct. Perhaps still looking for tea.

It had never seen its sister drink tea. She didn’t consume much of anything besides meat. Maybe the tea was for—

It jerked.

Awake, again.

Frustration wormed into its heart. She had asked it to sleep.

In a way, it did not have much choice. The roiling swirl of emotion beneath its shell did not seem to matter; it was falling asleep regardless, except that nerves, paranoia, something, kept yanking it back into awareness.

Hornet rubbed circles on its back. Water trickled down its shell and slipped into a gap between the plates, tickling its skin. Its breathing was a little slower now, at least, its chest not so tight nor so heavy.

It tried to relax, letting its head slump against the mattress, letting its fingers uncurl…

It was trying to do as she wanted.

It was trying.

It… it was…

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They were finally asleep, but Hornet didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare stop moving.

She kept rubbing Hollow’s back, caressing in wide, unhurried circles, the rag no longer wet, the plates already clean. This was one of the few places their armor was untouched by the splits and cracks that marred the rest of them, this span of inches below the back of their neck, above the fractured exit wounds between their shoulders.

It was one of the few places she could be relatively sure she was not hurting them.

The spellwork on their back shivered in and out of sight as she brushed across it, calling to mind the seal on the temple door that bound the other vessel away. The seal on Hollow’s mask that tied them to life, to their suffering.

Confident as she had been at first that she could unravel that, she was not so sure now. The magics written across their mask and shell surely tied into each other, winding threads in and out until the multitude of seals and spells were bound tight together. Far more complicated—and far more difficult to undo. She could unwind simple spells, given sufficient time and concentration, but nothing about this was as simple as she had first thought. The temple door was, likewise, beyond her current skills.

Undoing either one—the seal on the temple or the seals on her sibling’s body—would have consequences she could not fully know until they were upon her. And unless she was given reason to contemplate it once more, she would not so much as touch the spellwork here. It might spell an end to their existence, a mercy killing long delayed, and she would not do such a thing, not while she had hope of not needing it.

To think that she had once considered this so carelessly. When she stood there staring down at her sibling as they lay dying at her feet, she had been mere moments from a decision that would kill them.

As she had killed so many others.

No more. She would not be forced or tricked or persuaded into such a thing again. Not while her mind was her own. Not while she drew breath to protest.

She let one finger slip from the rag to trace the silver runes. Fragmented by their wounds, entire glyphs obliterated by the cracks in their chitin, they shone nonetheless, the points and lines like twisting sparks and writhing smoke, a strange, cold fire burning against the darkness.

Did she still envy them for the time spent in the wyrm’s presence, as the sole focus of his attention? Had they been aware enough to want it, yearning perhaps as much as she did for his regard?

Or perhaps they hated him too, for the way he had used them. Perhaps they had rebelled against what he created them to be, an impossible thing, a walking tomb, a living sacrifice with no way to protest their own treatment. Silent, conscious, compliant, trapped, watching their own body transform to suit the needs of another.

Oh, gods… to think that they had been able to feel everything that was done to them, every moment of it, every new crack and blister, every twist of the knife…

It was a wonder and a horror both that they were still alive.

She watched for any hint that they might twitch awake again, any movement of their eyelids or jerk of their head. Waiting it out, watching them fight their own exhaustion, had been heartwrenching, though seeing the tension unwind from their limbs as soon as they finally surrendered was its own kind of torture.

They did not move. Except to breathe, shallow and scraping, still catching occasionally, as if at another terror she was not meant to witness.

Hornet shut her own eyes, and swayed a little, her hand falling briefly still on their back.

No. No, she couldn’t sleep now, she had things to do.

She hadn’t expected their first meeting with Quirrel to go well, exactly, and it surely could have gone much worse. But of course he had to arrive just when they were beginning to relax, just when they had started to show her what they wanted. Seeing how they froze, how they locked every limb tight in an effort not to flinch or quiver, brought to mind how unreadable they had been when she first found them, and cast their behavior toward her now into stark relief.

Despite everything, despite her being the worst person they could have chosen for this, they were beginning to trust her.

Enough to go alarmingly limp under her hands, as if her touch drained something vital out of them. Enough to fall asleep when she asked, even with a stranger in the house.

Her gaze twitched toward the kitchen. The small, intermittent sounds Quirrel was making half reassured her and half set her on edge. It was not as if she could forget that there was someone else here, when his scent lingered in the room even after he had left it. Faint, restrained, in a way, but noticeable. It had something in common with the cool, damp stone of the deepest caves, and with the resinous sap that ran from tackblood vines when she scored them with needle or claw.

It was not until now, when every one of her hunter’s senses were alert to another’s presence in her house, that she realized something she had been missing.

Spiders did not rely upon scent-speak as strongly as some other peoples of Hallownest. As little as she knew about her father’s species, in both godly form and mortal, she could not rule out that he might’ve had heightened capacity for smell, though if he had, it had not passed to her. She had been taught to use scent to hunt, to detect and track another’s and to cover her own, when necessary. But once she left Deepnest, all the other ways her people marked the world—in ritual, in courtship, in battle—had been meaningless.

She had been totally alone in the Palace. She could smell it in the air.

Every morning when she woke, with the first breaths that she took, she missed them. She had not known it then, but she would always be missing them, for the rest of her long, long life.

Perhaps she could be forgiven for not noting this sooner, with everything that had happened. Perhaps she had grown too used to being alone, to waking every morning with no presence in the room but her own.

Hollow had no scent.

None at all.

As far as she could recall, they never had. She had never had much cause to perceive it, for the times she had been near them had been scarce, and any time alone with them even scarcer.

But now that she had noticed, she knew that it was not only them. Every one of her voided siblings was the same. That would explain why she had often been surprised by their sudden appearance, and why the last one left alive—the one now sealed in the temple—had been so difficult to shake as she traveled through the thick tangle of Greenpath.

Was this some property of the void, an incidental effect of their conception, or intentional? Was this just one more way her father had stolen their voice, ensuring that they could not communicate even so much as their presence in a room?

She had gone so long merely accepting that vessels were lesser. How much had this reinforced that assumption, this stark lack of something all other living bugs carried?

The reek of infection on their body could reasonably have covered any natural scent they had when she first saved them. But now even that was nearly gone, and they were blank to her—she might as well have been alone in the room.

Even the string of dead tiktiks, currently draped over the mantlepiece, dripping rainwater, smelled like something that had once been alive.

Hunger and nausea twined together in her stomach, two fibers of the same cord. She hadn’t eaten anything fresh in days, since her last trip into the city, since before Hollow spoke to her.

That day was burned into her mind, she realized. As stark as a scorch mark upon cloth, dividing before and after. The day she had stopped believing her father’s lies. The day she had accepted that her sibling was alive.

It was the prospect of food that finally made her come awake, shaking off the drowsiness that had drifted down over her while she watched her sibling sleep. It likely wouldn’t be polite to devour Quirrel’s entire catch in one sitting, but she could have, in a heartbeat.

Laying the rag across the rim of the basin to dry, she rose slowly, wincing as her knees creaked, displacing the mattress as little as possible as she stepped off of it. Hollow didn’t so much as twitch. Once they managed to fall asleep, they seemed to sleep heavily. Well-deserved, after everything they’d been through.

She wasn’t exactly comfortable with the fact that she’d guessed they might fall asleep if she was touching them, and leveraged that to her advantage. Really, it was to their advantage, too; they needed to rest, and they had been too nervous to do it, and she hadn’t wanted to tell Quirrel the full tale while they were awake and listening. Even the abbreviated version had seemed to upset them, though she had no idea why.

Still, she had tried to set a boundary—only touching them when asked—and then immediately crossed it, as soon as it was convenient.

It was ever more evident that she had no idea what she was doing.

She snagged the blanket with one claw and pulled it up to Hollow’s waist. It was instinct, more than anything else, as she had no reason to do so besides sentiment. As an intentional gesture, perhaps it would reassure them somehow, like her mother had once strung fresh silk over her nest every night, surrounding her daughter in the kind of softness Deepnest so often withheld.

Hollow deserved softness as much as she had. More, given that their life had been even more barren of it than hers.

She shook herself. How long had she been standing here, staring down at them? The tiktiks weren’t getting any fresher, and Quirrel—

Quirrel was still waiting in the kitchen, likely bewildered, in the dark about everything. That observation was rapidly becoming literal; the windows had already dimmed to grey.

Hornet stepped over to the fireplace and retrieved Quirrel’s catch from the mantle, carefully not releasing the venom that surged to the tips of her fangs. Hours-old prey was infinitely more appetizing than what she’d been eating lately, and she almost could have kissed him for bringing it. Only that would be awkward, and most likely frightening.

Much as she wanted to devour them then and there, she would at least wait until she offered him a portion of his own catch. He might not recognize hunter’s etiquette, but her own impoliteness would nettle her.

Upon a little more thought, she also gathered up the papers she’d been using to transcribe the signs—quietly, eyeing her sibling all the while.

Then she took a deep breath, bracing for battle, and went to speak with Quirrel.

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wisheduponastar · 10 months

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The Burning of Mirkwood (Gen, 1.86k)

For Day 1 of @tolkienfamilyweek. Prompt : Parent-Child Relationships

In TA 1050, Sauron settles in Mirkwood and the tower of Dol Guldur. The woods are beautiful, and well protected from any evil force that would dare walk into them. Spiders are killed, and constantly driven back. But there is an enemy that elves cannot kill, but that can kill their home - and it is fire. The necromancer is not above burning all of Mirkwood to the ground.

Or~ What if Sauron attacked Mirkwood before the Lord of the Rings took place? Legolas's feeling of it, and coming to terms with the burning of his home.

TW : Background Character Death(s), Forest Fire

“We can rebuild, Legolas.”

It is the voice of his father, the king of Mirkwood. And Legolas should trust him, should find comfort in his words. But as he looks around, at the complete devastation - all he can think about is how utterly wrong everything is. The situation, and his king.

His woods - his beautiful woods, even with the threat that was coming from them, their re-naming. His woods were still beautiful, still peaceable at times. All of his life had grown up in Mirkwood, revelling in the green under the canopies, and laughing, simply living with friends.

Now most of what remains is no longer green. It is black, a hateful nasty charcoal back - one that screams of death, and of fire. One that has taken something full of life and burnt it, burnt it so much that nothing about it remains as it was. A black that ebony, that midnight - but without the beauty of the stars.

Some bright colour remains, as Legolas silently lifts his head up to see uncomfortably far into what was once his realm. He shouldn’t be able to see this far in Mirkwood, his vision should be cut off by the trees - drawn into an endless and comforting block of green and bark brown. But now he can see much too far, because the trees simply aren’t there anymore.

Whether it is the black ash in the air, or the loss of everything dear to him in his homeland - Legolas lets out a choking cry. It hurts, still there smoke invading his lungs. Legolas’s cry of emotional pain starts to become physical, as acrid smoke invades his lungs. Wood elves should never be used to this much fire. Thranduil steadies him immediately, Legolas leaning into his fathers shoulders. For a second Legolas thinks of looking into his fathers face, but he doesn’t want to see his grief reflected back at him, and instead tries to bury his head in his fathers shoulders.

But some ash lies there as well, and to try and stop ash getting in his eyes Legolas tilts his head up again. He can see red now, red and orange. Like the trees at the very edge of Mirkwood, if it had been the height of autumn. But that colour is from the fire that still spreads. The worst part is the elves have stopped trying to put it out. Too many orcs patrol there, and the necromancer watches over it all.

Legolas hears the screams of the trees, even from such a distance, as they burn and shriek in utter, meaningless agony. Legolas hears the running of his people as well. There are no children in Mirkwood, thank the Valar, but some people are screaming. Legolas can mainly hear broken sobs, which don’t help him to try and control his own.

“How?” Legolas’s voice is much too raspy, and he breaks away from his fathers embrace, looking him dead in the eyes. “This forest has been here for ages, ada. It is burning. It is dying. We are doing nothing.”

Suddenly Legolas realises he doesn’t want to do nothing, and before his father can give him an answer he looks around for something to do. Even if what will help will hurt him, will hurt his very soul. Legolas sees far into the forest now - he can make out his kin chopping down trees as well, so the fire cannot spread completely.

He doesn’t want to cut down trees, he never has - but he will. The red and the fire cannot claim everything, not when so much of what he cares about is right there and already ash or fuel. Legolas begins to take off, only stopped by his father grabbing his wrist.

“Do not go.”

Even the king's voice is somewhat broken by smoke, although it still commands that same aura of respect, “Go further into the forest, Legolas. At the very least get to the river - see who dwells there. Come back with a force to fight, without running in on your own.”

“No,” Legolas can’t bring himself to wrench his arm free of his father, but his feet shift impatiently - eyes dart towards what will become the fire break.

“I will do what you are planning,” there is insistent in Thranduil’s voice, “Find our people - and bring them back to help our kingdom. You are not to rush off alone.”

It is at times like this, when the elvenking is able to think rationally even while everything he loves burns, that Legolas reminds himself of how great a king his father is. The respect for his king must show in his eyes, because Thranduil lets him go. And Thranduil begins to run towards the fire, sword already drawn - whether or not it would sink into tree or orc flesh.

Legolas runs through Mirkwood towards the river. He does not realise how relieved he is to be below a canopy, to not smell burning until the familiar scent of the forest rules over any scent of ash that is carried on him, or carried by the breeze.

And Thranduil is right, many elves of Mirkwood are waiting there - unsure and afraid, but still determined. Weapons brandished, and anguish painted on the face - as all they have been able to do is listen as their home dies. Legolas rallies them, and all the elves of Mirkwood go forth to face the fire.

It is hard work, and Legolas appreciates that elves do not need to sleep. Almost six hundred miles of forest need to be covered, and the swiftest elves are set off in other ways - to check the fire hasn’t spread from many places. But it seems to have only come from the necromancer, from Dol Guldur. And the hellfire did only come from there. It took three weeks to tame, to cut down enough trees that the rest of the forest will be safe. To watch from the barest thread of canopy as the flames finally die down, and their forest for now is safe.

Legolas joins the patrols that now walk on ash and death, instead of moss or other soft dirt. Any orc they kill on sight - and they steer clear of the necromancer's tower. It is a horrible, baneful thing. For too long the elves of Mirkwood fought petty games - the spiders that came from it, the orcs. And that tower instead attacks their homeland, the very heart of Legolas and his kin.

That tower will burn, just as his forest did. That it was Legolas, and every other elf vows - even if none say it out loud, it is known the elves of Mirkwood will not rest until that threat is destroyed. It takes an uncomfortably long time to take stock of damages.

Three elves died in the fires, trying to take water and being burnt or killed by orcs. A further fifty have died because of the smoke and the charred remains of their home. Most troubling of all, Legols knows of one elf that has wasted away. Died, because of the loss of her homeland.

That same grief shows on all elves of Mirkwood, especially as they look to the desolation of what used to be Mirkwood. Newfound sadness and mourning oozes out of every elf, in everything they do. From voice, to simple mannerisms. It is acknowledged by Thranduil, the grief they all feel. There is no shame in feeling sadness because of losing so much of your home.

But it is grief that every elf struggles with. Even Legolas, who has a more intimate understanding of loss, has a hard time - not to mention the elves who had never truly lost before this. Legolas has a cough now, as well. He spent too much time near the fire, breathing in so much of the smoke.

He hears footsteps, and for a second is prepared to fight before he realises they are that of an elf. Slowly, Legolas looks up - recognizing his father. Even the elvenking looks worse for wear. His clothes, he is now dressed in much more simple, warrior garb. Thranduil holds two cups of something, approaching his son silently now.

“May I sit down?” Thranduil’s voice has bounced back quicker than his own, Legolas reflected. But he smiles at his father anyway, moving slightly along, “Of course.”

When his father sits, Legolas can see clearly what is in the cups. The one nearest Legolas is semi-transparent with a tint of green, and he recognizes it. It is the medicine so many of the elves are now on for sore throats. Thranduil’s own glass, which he raises briefly to his lips, is a dark, rich red colour; wine of some kind.

The elves were fortunate enough that their material home had not been damaged. Legolas didn’t want to imagine how much destruction would occur if their stores had been lost as well. Perhaps they would have had to flee Mirkwood entirely - attempt to seek refuge in Imladris, or Lothlórien.

In his quick moment of reflection, Thranduil had been silent as well - and father and son simply stare at the wastelands of their home. Mourning together, even if it was silently.

“I am so sorry, my son,” it is Thradnuil who breaks the silence, placing his cup down before speaking, “I should have foreseen this, that the enemy would strike at our home.”

“It is not your fault,” Legolas says firmly, and with conviction, “You were not to know the necromancer would… stoop to this level of evil.”

“It is the duty of a king to plan for every eventuality,” Thranduil risks a side-long glance at his son, almost wistfully - as if he could see himself in the young prince's place.

Legolas did not know what to say, he opens his mouth then closes it again. He and his father were close, but never like this. The fact even his father is like this makes Legolas’s heart sink suddenly, and he looks down suddenly. The forest becomes even worse than before, and he looks down sharply, taking a sip of his drink instead.

“I apologise if I gave you the wrong impression,” Thranduil breaks the silence again, rather suddenly, “You know that there is still hope Legolas, do you not?”

“Is there truly?” Legolas says bitterly for a second, before he quickly utters, “I apologise for that statement my king.”

“You are my son Legolas, and you have just lost so much. I doubt you could do something that would make me angry at you for more than a second or so,” Thranduil’s voice is soothing and comforting, it reminds Legolas of when he was a young elf, when none of this had happened.

“There is still hope,” the king continues, his gaze falling into the charred remains, “Just days later wilderness grows, do you see? These woods will become Eryn Galen again.”

Legolas follows his fathers eye, and the king is right. Next to the corpse of a burnt tree, a patch of blue flowers - beautiful and brave, still working. Still hopeful, even after all this violence. Legolas looks at his father again, and smiles softly.

#legolas greenleaf #legolas #thranduil #legolas & thranduil #good parenting #lord of the rings #lotr #the hobbit #the hobbit fanficion #tolkien family week

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aadmelioraa · 2 years

Text

It's almost 2023, so I figured I'd share my updated The Last Kingdom fic recs since I have been meaning to do that all year. Below the cut you will find some shippy stuff, some introspective pieces, and a variety of characters featured (several of whom rarely get fanfic). I hope if this post crosses your path you may find a new favorite! I did limit my selection to complete fics, but you can find more recommendations, both works in progress and complete, under my ao3 tlk bookmarks. Happy New Year, and happy reading!

the leap by @irisdouglasiana

Season 5 cottagecore nuns fixit for Aalys and Aelflaed. Fixit fics are not usually my vibe tbh but this one is perfectly complex and bittersweet.

A Hard Story to Know by @wildwren

Post Season 5 fic. Aelfwynn processes her grief at the loss of her mother with the help of Aldhelm and Eadith. This fic broke my heart and mended it several times over.

no escape by @volvaaslaug

Wonderful Eadith character study and I adore the prose style as well.

come go with me by @wendy-daahling

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm political marriage (for MERCIA of course), slow burn with lots of delicious pining.

the drowned and the damned by @irisdouglasiana

Canon divergent AU centered around Osbert, Uhtred's youngest son. Addresses family trauma, cycles of violence, and legacy within the world of the show and does it in such a thought provoking way.

and, lord, she found me just in time by @jeynepoole

Hild x Iseult hurt/comfort bathing fic...so tender and so lovely.

a rope in hand for your other man by @jeynepoole

This fic is definitely for a niche audience, but if the idea of an Aethelflaed/Aldhelm/Aethelred threesome intrigues you, check it out...and there's more where that came from.

Meanwhile in Mercia by @skatingthinandice

This series is an absolute staple of Aethelflaed x Aldhelm fanfic and I am very grateful for it. Essential reading!

Daughter of Darkness by @ulfrsmal

Gen fic focused around Brida and Thyra's relationship and trauma that I, for one, desperately needed. *this fic is locked, you will need to be logged into your ao3 account to access...I still have a few invitations to send, if you need one feel free to DM me!

I go you go, my dear by alittlebitalexis

Two Osferth x Eadith fics for the Eadsferth truthers among us (no for real they were cute). Fluff and smut.

When the Party's Over by @wildwren

Aethelflaed x Erik College AU. Part of a series, read Part 1 first, I am just particularly attached to this part for...reasons.

The Maiden by @wildwren

Pirate/Witch AU for Aethelflaed x Skade. This fic is HOT and creative and HOT and gorgeously written and HOT.

To Curse a King by @pokeasleepingsmaug

Skade x Sihtric smut fic featuring magic and knife play. Very fun and sexy.

Saint of Shitty Reasons by @volvaaslaug

Edward Modern AU character study that hits 95% of my kinks.

Most CURSED among God's kin are aethelings by @wildwren

Aethelwold character study. A masterpiece though and through.

Lay Down Your Arms by @skatingthinandice

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm post Tettenhall smut, and a most worthy entry for the #GET IT AETHELFLAED tag.

clever-tongued by @tsukkinami

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm smut with wonderful tension and intimacy, it's just top tier! A classic.

in my dreams we survived by @irisdouglasiana

Hild character study, really lovely angst that makes me tear up every time.

poison by @irisdouglasiana

Brida x Skade enemies to lovers...need I say more?

fortune cookie by @jeynepoole

Competent stepdad Aldhelm, Modern AU Aldhelm & Aelfwynn bonding. A warm blanket of a fic.

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suppuration · 6 months

Text

so... on vesility and fumbling to articulate the interstices of my kintype, gender, sex, disability, and abandon knows what else

tl;dr housekin jokes were not jokes

i do have to wonder how commonplace it is to have "inanimate object" as part of one's kin definition

over the years, i've resonated with statuesᵗᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ ʰᵉᵃᵈˢ, structuresᵐᵉᵗʳᵒ ⁿᵒᶦˢᵉˢ, and houseplantsᵈᶦᵈⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵘʳᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ. i often feel more like a placeⁿᵒ ᵉˢᵗᵉᵉᵐᵉᵈ ᵈᵉᵉᵈ ᶦˢ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉᵐᵒʳᵃᵗᵉᵈ ʰᵉʳᵉ than a person

i keep returning to thoughts most would consider object fetishism, i suppose is the best term for it. not quite object TF where the subject becomes an object, but rather a mundane fetishism of identifying as an object. (mundane, in the sense that it's everyday, that it's nonsexual, that it's not uniquely isolated to fantasies/daydreaming, etc.) i do have some degree of interest in the concept sexually, of things like object TF and furniture bondage, but they feel like distinctly different notions than what i'm trying to articulate through my kin/gen(der)/venn vesility

§ my current kintype is something of an eldritch, opalescent glass statue. capable of fluidity, but favoring inertia... and, where applicable, momentum. волосы еленыᶜᵒʳᶦᵘᵐ comes to mind. a psychologist recently described me as having a "stubborn gear shift [i.e. manual stick transmission]"... and, yeah. yeah. strong overlap between my disability, neurodivergence, and alterhumanity there.

§ i've experienced a wide array of phantom limb sensations since my teens, both the presence of extra-body limbs and the absence of those which are technically still attached to me. i can't quite define every single limb i think this body doesn't account for, but inversely, i resonate with the idea that i sometimes lose awareness/recognition of part or all of some limbs because i am at that moment mounted to (or even clipped into) a surface, and that surface cropped me. i felt the latter thing for a long time prior to ever seeing the illustration for it, but i feel like this magic card's art explains things quite well.ˣ in the painting, the merging was done for vengeance, but i typically view this aspect of myself as neutral

i just... frequently feel like i lack parts of myself altogether, and it's not like they've gone missing. it's simply that they were never there to begin with, or weren't supposed to be there at all?

§ this isn't to owe myself to any deprecation or pejorative, in referring to myself by it/its. i'm an object like your favorite shirt. a concept like a sunset witnessed from a parking lot. a place like comfort.

(i aspire to be, anyway.)

§ i consider some of my features similar to those typical of depictions of biblically accurate angels. however, i neither define my aspect as divine in any earthly sense, nor necessarily associated with any particular holiness. i've had people describe me in hagiographical conceit in the past, but i'm more of a relic or reliquaryᵇᵒʳⁿ ᵃᵍᵃᶦⁿ ʰᵉʳᵉ

§ i resonate strongly with many aspects of the conceit of baphomet. multiple kintypes and fursonas over the years have had caprinid features, and the goat is probably the animal i identify with most closely... (that, and rabbits. and jackalopes.) i only just tonight encountered the terms salmacian/aphrodisian, and it describes my sentiments quite succinctly, in that my transition goals are a blending of sex characteristics

my ideal bottom surgery doesn't look anything like a phallus, and most closely approximates nullo or negation. now that my facial hair has started to come in and my voice has deepened, my biggest source of anatomical dysphoria comes from having what i consider a small chest. i've extensively researched all my possible options for augmenting my breast size. i'm at a loss how to discuss this dysphoria with medical providers, in a way they'll understand that it's gender affirmative care.

unpleasant, then, for my most common repose to be comprised of little more than a bust

...bust. my gender is bust, isn't it

i lost my plot. i'm just... gonna hit send post and hope i'm entertaining

___________

occlupanids as included here:

talking heads: yeah i know just about every turn of this ergodic mess is steeped in fallout occultism. you're welcome to leave if you can

metro noises: i tonight encountered the term aldernic, which defines having or aspiring to have a form which deviates from societal norms. the coincidence sticks out to me strongly that 1. i resonate with fallout's metro sculptures, 2. this term aldernic as a means to describe my gender, 3. the fact i call the metromen in my fallout mall the aldermen.

didn't want to hurt them: vesica urentis

no esteemed deed is commemorated here: the atomic priesthood

corium: elephant-chan's upper biological shield

born again here: no longer just a false memory now

x art by tyler jacobson

#vesication tag #wormwood ramble

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kalvanreaped · 1 year

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Hey! I saw that you're voidkin and I'm currently on a mission with someone else to find a common ground between our experiences and definitions of void. With that being said, what's it like being voidkin for you and what is a void for you?

ah, hello there @cr1ms0nakas1n! that's a nice mission, i hope you find the answers for what you're searching for even if it may not be from this post. :3 in advance please excuse any errors in the text, i'm not native English speaker and have minor dyslexia.

Quick disclaimer, em experiences memory loss and general issues, so i will try to best of my ability to answer this ask. however it may feel a bit vaguely written due to not remembering what anything feels properly. not to mention emotional numbing due to irl problems blocking things for me. also this answer will feature both eldritchkin & voidkin thoughts that i'm using to differentiate them from each other so don't mind that.

but to start i'm not exactly sure what you mean by "what void means to me"(minor word comprehending issues) so please do correct me if the answer i give next is not what you meant (/gen); But void in itself feels like it's nothing and ever-expanding maybe paradoxical, vague, and foggy or fuzzy would be a better way to describe it? sometimes i like to think about it like the minecraft void for some reason..

My voidkin identity however crosses and blends with other kintypes for me, idk if this happens with others in general but for me it does. especially with my eldritchkin & merfolk kin all in different ways which had led me somewhat to actually question my voidkin identity at some points(may be because it's been more vague due to personal problems). it feels small, like a spectator entity, like it goes around the surface of mirrors/waters etc within a space that isn't on this plane in a way that we could be aware of it. but again it's closely blended with my eldritchkin identity but it does differ from it since my eldritchkin identity is more inhumane and curious, sometimes aggressive, my voidkin identity is more null in a way and just kinda floats around and spectates, it isn't interested in external life at all. i don't experience any kind of shifts for my voidkin(at least to my knowledge that are specifically only voidkin, again blending does happen even during shifts) identity, but i feel it is an entity that lives as a paradox in a spectator type of mode.

looking at this now this may have opened my eyes about my voidkin. :0 baha oh well, i hope you found something useful out of this /gen :3

#voidkin #eldritchkin #alterhuman #otherkin #inbox asks #cr1ms0nnakas1n #i sometimes feel like eldritchkin and voidkin are sister-type kin identities #at least for me and for my experiences with them #but at the same time they're completely different from each other

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yulemon · 2 years

Text

💜 Introduction 💜

Name: Yuri / Sonic (both are ok to use)

Age: 18

Gender: Male?? maybe? I have identified as a transgender man for many years, but i’m currently trying to figure out if i’m genderfluid!

Pronouns: It/Its (preferred), He/Him

Sexuality: Bisexual

Diagnosed with:

Borderline Personality Disorder

Depression

Social Anxiety / Social Phobia

Psychotic symptoms (they tend to come and go over the span of a few weeks and are not always present)

Content Warning for Blog:

Suicidal tendencies and thoughts

Obsessive love tendencies and thoughts

Mentions of self-harm (i will never post or reblog posts with irl pictures of fresh self harm)

General venting

Self-destructive behaviour

Mentions of alcohol and substance abuse

Mentions of hospitalizations

Special Interests:

Doki Doki Literature Club

Lupin III

Sonic Franchise

Legend of Zelda: Breath Of The Wild

IRL/Otherkin Identities:

Yuri (Doki Doki Literature Club) (IRL)

Sonic (Sonic Franchise) (IRL) (Modified, not true to source)

My Skrunklies:

Daisuke Jigen (Lupin III)

Shadow The Hedgehog (Sonic Franchise)

Guzma (Pokemon: Sun & Moon)

Mipha (Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Comfort Characters:

Arsène Lupin III (Lupin III)

Daisuke Jigen (Lupin III)

Shadow The Hedgehog (Sonic Franchise)

Link (Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Sidon (Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Zelda (Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Mipha (Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild)

Natsuki (Doki Doki Literature Club)

Monika (Doki Doki Literature Club)

Sayori (Doki Doki Literature Club)

Rarity (My Little Pony, gen 4)

Guzma (Pokémon: Sun & Moon)

Luxray (Pokémon)

Piplup (Pokémon)

Whitney (Animal Crossing)

Cheshire Cat (Alice In Wonderland)

Max (Where the Wild Things Are)

Likes:

Animals

Divination (Tarot, Lenormand, Runes, etc…)

Plushies

Summer

Furry Community

Fairy Kei fashion

Cooking / Baking

Drawing

Animal Crossing

Harvest Moon: Grand Bazaar

Paleontology / study of animal evolution

Dislikes:

Sand

Mirrors

Pictures being taken of me

Being touched

People walking behind me

Being wet

Most country music

worms, larvae, and maggots of any kind

Please do not speak to me about:

Anything related to Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild unless I prompt it (I have such strong feelings on how and what they all are. Thinking stuff outside of what I think is completely valid! I just don’t want to have a conversation on it unless i ask because i know it will just upset me greatly)

The arguments between Natsuki and Yuri (They send me into a panic at worst and give me bad anxiety at best)

Weight gain / weight loss

DNI:

TERFS / BIGOTS

ANTI-NEOPRONOUNS

PRO-ANA / ANTI-RECOVERY

KFF (kin for fun)

ANTI-AGERE

#intro post #blog intro #yuri ddlc

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aqqleshiqqing-archive · 2 years

Note

Oh, I prefer Kris! I think it's the design, really--I prefer the hat and the shirt/shorts combo over the overalls Lyra has.

I did also spend a lot of time playing through Crystal as part of a Nuzlocke, and it was the first one I ever beat, so I'm pretty attached to Kris because of that--especially since Crystal was what I played because I specifically wanted Eusine content!! And, well ... Kris was the first female protagonist we could play as, which is another reason why I wanted to play through Crystal ...

So, yeah. Design is the big one. But also she's just the character I weirdly have more nostalgia for because of everything we went through--the original Johto journey, catching Suicune, beating the League, then exploring Kanto, and eventually--after much, much grinding--defeating Red in the post game with no losses, thus securing the victory of the Nuzlocke.

And my self insert's team is pretty much the same as the one I had during that Nuzlocke. I know that's a bit off topic, but ... I don't think I'd have enjoyed the experience as much without playing as Kris.

~ librarian-lover 📖

aww, is that so?? and you even did a nuzlocke challenge in crystal, that's amazing!! ive yet to try one but im excited for it hehe. this one's more than just design and i totally understand!! i have a soft spot for may since as I said before, gen 3 was the first game i ever played and having to experience the world of pokemon for the first time with may brings back so much memories whenever I look at her :) i lowkey had a kin moment with her after I learned she's with torchic ehehe (like omg we are SO alike /lh)

that's honestly so wholesome to hear? it's like you had a super deep connection with your team (the grinding to make then stronger and evolve feels like a bonding ngl) so it would feel quite odd to not include them for your insert. i love that!!

#TY FOR SHARING!!!#~ mail #that was so fun to read i was smiling all the way!

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identity-help · 4 months

Note

Ooh a new kin help blog,, your blog feels (and look? ) so cozy by the way /gen

If it's alright, can I get some timeline questions for a Giyu Tomioka kin from Demon Slayer? Just general questions would be fine [:

I'll just leave a sign off in case I come by again

— 📖🌊

Thank you, I appreciate the compliment a lot!! /g

I hope you like these!

Timeline Questions for Giyu Tomioka (Demon Slayer)

How did/do you deal with your survivor's guilt?

How did/do you honor your sister's memory?

What does your haori mean to you?

What was your first impression of Tanjiro and Nezuko? How has what you thought of them changed since?

What do you think are the most important qualities for a Demon Slayer to have?

How did you feel about your role as a Hashira?

What was your most challenging battle as a Hashira? What did you learn from it?

How did you manage the emotional toll of being a slayer and having to routinely deal with danger, grief and loss?

What was your relationship like with the other Hashira?

How did you find moments of peace or joy amidst the constant battles and dangers?

#jackai helpz #📖🌊 anon #alterhuman help #kin help #kin #fictionkin #demon slayer kin

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dsmpkinfessions · 2 years

Note

been a while but hey, gen loss tubbo here. i know im lucky to have 2 canonmates but man i just really miss my tommy.

tommy i dont remember a lot about you but i wish we could hang out again. when i went missing i wanted to reach out to you, trust me i did, but they broke my fucking phone. that town sucked

sorry i didnt tell you more. i wanted to keep ranboo safe

love you tommy <3 /p

-👑💌 (bit of an outdated signoff but still me)

#👑 💌#gen loss kin #gen loss tubbo kin #mcytkin #mcyt kin #dream smp kin #dsmp kin #dreamsmpkin #dsmpkin #dreamsmp kin #tubbo kin

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localmemoryboy · 2 years

Text

—[📼] gl!tubbo moodboard for myself!

nother kinshift

art -> 🎞

#tubbo moodboard #gl!tubbo #gen loss #gen loss tubbo #gl kin #✎ memory entry / self indulgent #tw blood

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mostlydeadallday · 1 year

Text

Lost Kin | Chapter XXX | On Friendly Terms

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: memory loss, referenced suicidal ideation, body horror AO3:Lost Kin | Chapter XXX | On Friendly Terms First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel arrives on Hornet's doorstep. Quirrel travels a lot slower than Hornet can. Mainly by virtue of not being able to fly. She may have forgotten to account for this. (She also has forgotten a lot of social niceties. For instance: how to greet someone who knocks at your front door.) I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts on the addition of Quirrel's POV. Truthfully, he's been a new sort of challenge, but I think he makes a good foil to the other two, and it looks like he'll be a regular feature of this fic going forward!

○

It had been a long day.

Several days, in fact, although life underground tended to blur those lines into oblivion. It had been mid-afternoon by Quirrel’s sleep cycle when Hornet left him staring after her over the placid surface of the lake, only a faint, dying ripple caused by the breeze of her passing to show she had even been there.

By the time he collected himself and his belongings—which amounted to pulling his nail out of the ground and sheathing it again, with as little thought directed toward the action as possible—and traveled deeper, the light had gone in the City caverns.

He stopped for the night, then spent most of the next “day” attempting to reorient himself and identify the best route to take, as well as looting several promising areas for supplies. Hornet had not exactly left him with a wishlist, but he was clinging to his vague desire to be helpful as meagre warmth against the cold wasteland in his mind.

One would think having one’s memories restored would make a mind feel full, crowded, even, but it was only emptier than ever.

Quirrel spent a second night near the King’s Station and continued onward once the light returned, with a few stops to forage for a meal before he made his way across the upper bridges and began his search of the houses in the nobles’ quarter.

He was already tired. Returning to the City always required several days’ adjustment, as the artificial light cycle appealed to some time in his species’ distant past, when his ancestors had lived aboveground.

Or… had he returned to the city more than once? The word always in the phrase he had just used made him question.

He supposed it was likely he had lived outside the city and returned to it before. His knowledge of the light cycle’s effect on his physiology suggested so. The Archives had had no such convenience, the acid tubes glowing their soft, flickering green whether the scholars were awake or asleep.

His occupation must have required him to venture into the city periodically, for him to remember so much when he arrived. He could recall the locations of some streets, had been able to head straight to the merchants’ district for supplies, and several times found himself standing in front of buildings that seemed hauntingly familiar. Certain places seemed to roll out before him in his memory, neatly marked and delineated, like a map stretched beneath his feet.

The nobles’ quarter was not one of those places.

So far, his search had been fruitless, yielding only ruined interiors, smashed windows, and a persistent stench of mildew that clung to his kerchief, despite it being soaked many times over, handily reminding him via the constant dribble of rainwater down his back.

He missed the weight of her mask on his head, he missed the effortless motion of his nail in his hand, he missed the dreamless sleep, the monotonous days, he missed when everything had been easy—

Quirrel shook himself, spraying water in an arc from the beaded tassel under his chin, and approached the next house.

Hornet’s directions had the parameters of a logic puzzle. If she had thought it important to tell him that her house had no curtains, that detail should have made it stand out from the others, but it did not. There were dozens of houses whose curtains had simply given up over the years and now lay in puddled heaps on the floor, each layer adhered to the next in a mass of fibers that would rip the whole thing apart if anyone was foolish enough to pick it up.

The stasis had failed in strange and varying ways. Some places in the kingdom were untouched, as if the bugs who lived there had simply walked out one day, leaving their belongings where they lay, and never returned. Often in these places he half-expected to find a cup of cooling tea on the table, or blankets still warm upon the beds.

And then between one stride and the next he would be in another time entirely, the road pitted and crumbling beneath his feet, houses slumping in on themselves, every veneer of civilization rotted away. If he stared too long, these structures stopped looking like structures at all, their purpose slowly eroding until what had once been mansions, theatres, libraries, hospitals, were indistinguishable from the carved cavern walls.

Part of him marveled that a kingdom as vibrant as he now knew Hallownest had been could vanish so completely into obscurity. Ravaged by its gods, haunted by their wrongs, shambling onward in a mockery of life, black regret and blinding rage pooling in its footsteps…

He let out a shaky sigh and tore his gaze away, ignoring the sense that the house continued staring at him after he turned his back. He wasn’t likely to find Hornet in that ruin.

From what he knew of her, she did not seem like the type who would tolerate a door with no lock, or a house with no door—of which he had seen plenty. Broken windows were likely also out of the question. With these generous boundaries set, he had still been wandering for hours, and had had to search eighteen—now nineteen—houses, his throat growing scratchy from the smell, and the brace of tiktiks over his shoulder becoming steadily less and less fresh.

This one looked promising so far. There was no light in the windows anywhere, but said windows were curtainless, and it was in better condition than the two on either side of it. Not the most lavish accommodations, but serviceable. Certainly better than where he’d spent the night.

He knocked.

He would open the door regardless of whether anyone answered, at least to browse through the house and find anything worthwhile, and to ensure he hadn’t missed her by chance. Still, knocking was a courtesy—and a precaution, as he didn’t think it wise to startle someone who could skewer him at thirty paces.

His attempt to find her had turned into more of an ordeal than he expected. It could hardly have been more difficult than if she’d been a fabled princess of lore. At this point, if and when she opened any of these doors, he was half expecting a demand that he answer her riddles three.

The door banged open, with a tremendous crash of doorknob against wall.

Quirrel jumped back. His hand landed on his nail hilt before he registered the bright red and pure white of Hornet’s silhouette, and remembered that this was a spectacularly bad way to greet her.

He let go of the nail as if it burned him, despite every instinct screaming that he draw it. That had nearly doomed him once before, and he recalled all too well the silver comet-streak of the needle she held now, as it split his vision and impacted the mask atop his head with a bone-jarring shock of spell against spell.

Not an experience he ever cared to repeat, unless it was on friendly terms, and he had a running start.

He had thought this meeting would be on friendly terms. After she had confessed to him, with the suppressed panic of a swimmer who’d lost sight of shore, that she did not know what to do. But she did not move, did not speak, did not even lower her needle.

At least no riddles were forthcoming.

Quirrel drew breath to speak, to apologize for his tardiness, to re-introduce himself, anything, and she interrupted him.

“Just a moment,” she said, and closed the door in his face.

Rain washed down his mask. Droplets jumped in the puddles. Quirrel’s hand hovered in midair, above his nail.

Hornet opened the door again, after far too short an interval to have done anything meaningful except, perhaps, put down her needle—which she notably had not done.

“Come inside,” she said, breathless, and any joke or quip he might have made slipped back down his throat. He swallowed and stepped forward, over the threshold, and she shut the door behind him.

He had no time to register more than the dimness of the room before Hornet threw the bolt, hissed “Stay here,” and left him blinking in the antechamber.

Curiosity sprouted like a weed in his mind, but anything other than inspecting the little he could see through the doorway seemed like a dangerous prospect. He adjusted the weight of his catch on his shoulder, then pulled off his kerchief and wrung it out, tying the damp fabric back on over his antennae.

Blue light lay in a hazy rectangle on the stained, rumpled rug at his feet. When he paused to listen, Hornet’s voice carried from the next room, tone urgent but soft, and she paused before resuming, though he’d heard no answer in return.

Had she not been expecting him?

He grimaced. He had told her about his plans after leaving the lakeshore. Plans like those didn’t tend to inspire confidence in one’s ability to keep appointments.

A rustle of cloth announced Hornet’s approach. She had put down her needle, this time. He bowed when she stepped through the doorway, though not as deeply as before—if she preferred her given name to her title, she might not want that title acknowledged in other ways, either.

“I do apologize for the delay.” He straightened, hand still resting on his chest-plate. “In my defense, I needed to restock my supplies, and your directions left something to be desired.”

She closed her eyes briefly, black eyelids flickering shut over dark brown lenses. “You apologize far too much.”

And you don’t apologize at all.

He stifled the response, though not before his mandibles twitched. His reflexive tendency toward gentle teasing had already proven unproductive with Hornet.

Before he could find anything less pointed to say, she spoke. “I did not know… when to expect you.”

An apology, of sorts, though the unspoken if stung like venom.

“Have I arrived at a bad time?” he asked, tentatively, with a glance over her shoulder at the visible sliver of parlor.

A sigh hissed through her fangs, and her gaze dropped. “There are no good times.”

“Ah.” He looked away, staring at one of the astonishingly boring portraits on the wall behind her. The ache in his arm demanded his attention, and he straightened, proffering the fresh—or slightly less than fresh—kills. “I’ve been told it’s Deepnest tradition to offer dinner to a hunter. These were dressed and cleaned this morning, though I fear they’re a bit waterlogged now.”

She reached slowly forward, fangs working under her mask with evident surprise. Or anticipation—he had very little experience reading spiders, let alone the single known spiderwyrm. Either way, she took them, her motions betraying a caution he had done very little to inspire. “Who told you that?”

His mouth opened before he realized he had no answer. He’d obviously expected to have one once he did so, but the fact that his muscle memory was intact did not mean the rest of it was.

The silence stretched awkwardly before Hornet hoisted the string of kills and appraised them. “I accept,” she said, and weighed them in her hand before lowering them again. “They are… appreciated.”

Her other hand clenched and reopened, feeling, perhaps, the lack of her weapon, and then disappeared somewhere under her cloak as she seemed to notice herself fidgeting. “I have little to offer in return, I’m afraid.”

“I take vanilla and honey in my tea,” Quirrel said, deadpan, wondering how he knew that, and Hornet snorted, and he was left feeling as if he had won something, though if the prize was her amusement, it faded after a short moment.

“It has been a long time since I had a front door to knock on,” she began, and stopped.

“Which might explain your reaction,” he offered, generously.

Damn it. He hadn’t been able to stifle it this time, and it earned him a glare. “This situation is… less than ideal,” she said stiffly. “My hospitality will be somewhat lacking. This house was only a temporary shelter of mine; I was not prepared to stay here for long periods.”

Until? he wondered, but kept his mouth shut. She was here, she had let him in; she would explain sooner or later.

“I require very little,” he returned, accepting what seemed like yet another roundabout apology. “I have lived on the road for far too long to need much.”

Hornet nodded, but did not look him in the eye. Embarrassed? Lost for words? She did not seem like the type for either, but despite her insistence that there were no good times, he had the sense that he had interrupted something, that his arrival had tipped some kind of scale, and she was now fumbling to rebalance.

Her fangs worked under her mask again, pale points flashing, though not in a threat, as it seemed to be when she lifted her chin to display them. They tightened into a grimace as she reached a conclusion she did not appear to be happy with, and she whispered an oath under her breath, one he could honestly say he never expected to hear in the mouth of a princess.

“You must do exactly as I say.” She raised a hand to forestall a protest he had not intended to utter. “For your safety, and my own, and that of my sibling. I do not ask this lightly.”

“Understood,” he said, and she eyed him, and he resisted the urge to elaborate. Verbose as he could be, his word held the most weight when he spoke simply, and after a moment she nodded and continued.

“I do not know how my sibling will take your arrival. I have told them you are a friend, and that I trust you, but I am still unsure how much they understand, or what might cause them to react.” Her next exhale was shaky, and she hastened to speak again. “Wounded as they are, they are still strong, and quicker than they look. I advise that you stay to the opposite side of the room, near the hearth, unless I tell you to approach.”

Perhaps this should not intrigue him as much as it did. He almost wished he had peeked through the doorway, if she intended to delay him in the entry much longer.

Before he agreed to this latest set of conditions, she forged onward. “In addition, please refrain from asking questions. I will explain later, but… they should need to sleep soon. I shall be happy to answer whatever you ask then.”

“Agreed.”

She looked as though she had expected him to object. He did not, but she let the silence stretch for a moment longer before she believed it.

Taking a hesitant step toward the parlor, she halted, then spun around again. “And perhaps it would be best if you left your nail out of sight. I don’t know what they might do if you appeared to threaten me.”

She looked truly apologetic for this request, in a way she had not for the others. Perhaps that made sense, if he imagined someone asking her to part with her own weapon.

“Appearing unthreatening is no trouble,” he said with a half-laugh, drawing his nail and leaning it against the door frame. His gaze lingered for a moment before he yanked it away. His next words warbled a little. “Rather the inverse is usually true.”

“Hm,” Hornet responded, and the way she scanned him head to claws made him want to laugh again, warm amusement washing over chilly regret.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, after a long moment where she didn’t move.

“No.” She shook herself, and when she turned away there were spikes bristling on the back of her neck, pushing at the collar of her cloak.

Fascinating.

He thought she might conjure yet another reason to delay him, but instead she stepped through the doorway, and after a deep breath, he followed.

He immediately amended parlor to great room; the ceiling soared up into the second story, with tall arched windows on the opposite wall that looked out onto a rather lovely rain garden. The floor and walls were bare, without any of the customary carpets and hangings, though the imprints were still there, ghosts of luxury hastily stripped away. A collection of towels and linens hung from every available surface, and an unlit chandelier dangled crookedly from the ceiling’s apex.

And on the floor in front of him—

“Oh,” he said, and then, when all other words failed him, “Oh, my.”

The creature lying atop the pile of mattresses and pillows would have turned any head in Hallownest in their prime. For a moment he could perceive nothing but the size of them. Curled slightly on their side, knees bent, arm draped across their abdomen, they made at least two of him, and their lower legs were still hidden under the ragged blankets bunched at the end of the bed. Their mask was another wonder altogether: horns pure white and triple-pointed, sweeping improbably high and coming to a gentle point at their muzzle, the seamless shape interrupted only by a pair of tapered black eyeholes that showed nothing but darkness beneath.

That, and the jagged crack that tracked through one socket, splitting their jaw and the base of one horn before curving out of sight behind their head.

Quirrel blinked. As if the crack in their mask was a flaw in the spell, his stunned daze fell away, and his next breath was sharp, almost a gasp, though he caught it and cut it off. He had the sudden urge to hold himself still, to stifle every sound, as if anything he did might hurt them, any action shatter them the rest of the way.

Their shell was scored with cracks—narrow slashes, deep punctures, shallow fracture lines that webbed from points of impact. Lower on their body, he thought he saw the subtle rippling patterns of offensive soul-spells branded into their legs. Not even their arms had been spared—

Oh, no.

What he had taken at first for a scrap of ratty fabric across their left shoulder was their skin. No shell, not even fragments—it was simply gone. As was their arm; he could see a shallow dip where the socket should be, but nothing else remained, the structure so withered and eaten away that he would be hard-pressed to identify much more.

Horrified as he was, he could not look away, though his gut twisted queasily when he noticed that the shell at the edges of the wound was deformed and roughened in a way he had only seen on burns from acid or extreme heat.

Their arm had not been cut or torn off. It had melted away.

When his gaze finally went to the blisters pushing through the cracks in their chest, the other wounds made an awful sort of sense. His hand dropped to his side, falling through empty air when he failed to find the hilt of his nail.

Hornet. Hornet had asked him to leave it behind.

He took a deeper breath to still the sudden hammer-pulse of fear in his chest. She knew what she was doing, she had lived in this kingdom far longer than he had, she would surely have the sense not to ask him to step weaponless into a room with someone infected.

The Hollow Knight had not moved, and neither had Quirrel, still just inside the doorway, within reach of his weapon and escape. If they had intended to slaughter him, they could have done it by now, and easily—regardless of the fact that Hornet stood in the way, half-turned to keep both of them in view, spikes bristling beneath her cloak, one hand held halfway out, as if to halt an altercation.

Held out not toward her sibling, but toward Quirrel.

He choked on a brief surge of indignation. What was he meant to do against that? If they wished to kill him, they simply would.

He had wondered before whether he could best his traveling friend—the other vessel—in combat. As their encounters grew more frequent, and he had more cause to observe them, he had come solidly down on an answer in the negative. The most he could hope for was to assist them, to be on the same side of whatever conflict arose at the time. He was not fool enough to fight a force of nature.

They had been a fourth this size. If that.

Hornet was glaring fixedly at him. He could only hope she wasn’t capable of injecting venom through intimidating looks as well as through more traditional means.

Quirrel pushed the fear back. Again. Spread both hands, away from his sides, and empty. She relaxed a touch, and he nodded at her.

Then he took another breath, and looked back at the Hollow Knight.

Despite the instinctive push to run, to fight, to do anything but stand still, he made himself do just that. Made himself exist with the impossibility of it, waiting for the answer to reveal itself.

He had never seen injuries this extensive on a bug that was still living.

His first assumption had been that the infection was keeping them alive. It certainly had the capacity to do so, if some of the more grotesque husks he had seen were any indication. Physical symptoms did not manifest in those who were not mentally infected as well; one preceded the other, in every case he knew of, and the condition progressed until the individual was fully taken over, prey to the whims of the murderous rage that had poisoned their dreams.

Hornet’s sibling did not seem murderous. Or enraged. They lay in exactly the same position they had been in when he stepped through the doorway, as if frozen in place, for all the world like he was a threat to them.

And perhaps he was, he thought, remembering his first impression that any move he made might break them into pieces. Hornet certainly seemed to think so. Although if they were not dead already, he doubted anything he could do would kill them.

It broke all the accepted patterns of the infection, but the Hollow Knight was alive, unchained, both infected and not. Their chest pulsed with rot, swollen sacs of orange pressing their wounds open, but their eyes were as clear and dark as the bottom of a well, fixed firmly to his face, waiting for whatever they clearly expected him to do.

Clear and dark did not mean empty, however, and the intensity of their gaze pressed against his mask like a cold hand, leaving no doubt that something there was watching him. Closely.

His gaze flicked to Hornet, and once again he resorted to the exact opposite of his instincts. Moving slowly, he stepped around the edge of the room until he reached the furthest point away, then sat down on the hearth, resting his back against the chilly slate.

Truthfully, it was the last thing he wanted to do. But if the two godspawn in the room both insisted on eying him as if he might explode, it was one of the few unequivocally unthreatening actions he could think of.

He couldn’t exactly relax, not with those two dark gazes pinned on him, but it did feel good to sit after hours of walking.

Hornet, after a further moment of tension, seemed to accept that Quirrel and her sibling were not going to fly at each other’s throats. She expelled a breath that shook slightly and stepped closer to the vessel, sinking to her knees near their head, turning her gaze away from Quirrel to nervously check them over.

The Hollow Knight did not follow suit, their attention remaining fixed in his direction. He thought he detected motion behind their mask, though when he stared into the darkness, that was precisely what he saw—more darkness. Dark in a way these caverns never were, with the remnants of kingslight still lingering. Dark as few things ever could be, dark as true blindness, or the inside of a grave.

Quirrel shook himself. His thoughts rarely trended so gloomy, though he recalled a similar effect when confronted with the unwavering gaze of his small friend. Odd, that two creatures with such vast outward differences would inspire such similar—and uncharacteristic—reactions.

Few had the chance to meet more than one vessel. Did that make him lucky? Unlucky? He certainly would not wish to give up any of his other encounters; they were rare, fleeting things, all the more precious for their infrequency, and no less meaningful for all that the only words spoken had been his. The weight of the little vessel’s presence made them an exceptional listener, and the tilt of their head as they stared up at him with those fathomless eyes, waiting for him to continue, made him wander farther afield in the conversation than was normal, even for him. To meet someone who seemed to drink in his every word, to soak up every moment in his company, was water in the desert, a gift in a kingdom otherwise defined by its emptiness.

Hornet was speaking softly, her hand resting on the bed just in front of the vessel’s mask, fingers stretched out and open, as if waiting for her sibling to place something in them. The Hollow Knight did not seem to be listening, all their focus narrowed to Quirrel, and after a moment she exhaled and sat back, though she left her hand where it was.

Quirrel opened his mouth, remembered Hornet’s prohibition on questions, and shut it again. Still, when the silence stretched on with no indication that she intended to break it, he cleared his throat.

She jumped a little, more of a twitch than anything, and her sibling’s breath caught, a soft whine that he had not fully noticed falling silent and then resuming. Now that he was listening, he could hear them breathing, though only by the horrible wet catch in their lungs, a sound he had only ever heard described as a death rattle.

Perhaps he was only digging the hole deeper, but he had her attention now, at the cost of startling her, and he was loath to waste it. “If… if there’s any way I can help…”

Hornet sat motionless, staring at the floor. With every moment that passed, Quirrel was surer that he should not have spoken. She looked as though she was holding something in, clinging to composure by her clawtips.

How long had she been here, caring for her sibling alone? He had thought she looked exhausted at the lakeshore, but if possible, she looked even worse now, her shoulders curling forward and masktip dropping until it nearly reached her chest. He knew she had heard him; her fangs parted as if to answer, but she said nothing.

“There is a kettle by the fireplace,” she mumbled after a long pause, sounding as if the words had been dragged out of her. “And clean water and shellwood in the kitchen.” She turned to look at him. “These wounds need washing, though I will not be able to finish the job tonight. While I am doing that, I will tell you what I can.”

Grateful as he was, silence still felt like the safest bet. He nodded to Hornet, then stood without a word and picked up the kettle, feeling the Hollow Knight’s eyes follow him all the way to the door.

○

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#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

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fandom-space-princess · 3 years

Text

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings apply)

Chapter 1: Awakening

Go to your kin, the messenger and healer and lightbearer. You will find them, and you will speak to them, and you will send them to me.

On the shores of oblivion’s night-black waters, the archangel Michael opens his eyes.

Read below the cut, or on AO3

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After the end of everything, a lone voice rang out, rippling across the surface of the darkness.

You cannot drown among your dreams forever, dear boy. It’s time to come up for air. Wake up.

On the shores of oblivion’s night-black waters, the archangel Michael opens his eyes.

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In the absence of other sensation, the Empty feels cold.

The notion isn’t precisely accurate: strictly speaking, sensation is defined by the one doing the sensing, and the eternal resting place of all creatures occult and celestial ordinarily has few residents conscious enough to be doing any such thing. Of those, most had no use for the concept of temperature while yet they lived, let alone the earthly subtlety to appreciate the texture of sand beneath their feet or the lap of waves along a riverbank.

Michael hunches forward with elbows on his knees, crossing his legs in the glittering charcoal sand, and watches the hypnotic swell and crash of water. He tries, largely unsuccessfully, to ignore the bitter chill.

Nothing about this is as it should be.

He has been shaken awake, and to be conscious once more is wholly unexpected. The memories of his final moments press at the edges of his mind. He skirts around them, thoughts skittering past barbs of agony and betrayal, loss and shame. Focuses instead on his situation, here and now.

“You aren’t the Shadow,” he murmurs. By design, sound doesn’t travel far here (not, at least, for one such as him), and his voice rapidly fades away to nothing amidst the hush of the sunless shore.

The entity at his side pulses, a formless drift of smoke against the greater blackness. From within its swirling depths, colors flash through spectrums visible to both human and angelic eyes. Michael blinks hard; that he has eyes to blink at all comes as an odd realization, and sets him briefly off-balance. He wears a shape, if not a vessel—but then, he wouldn’t need one here. This place is a world, certainly, but it isn’t the world. The nature of this reality is one with the nature of the cosmic void: all shifting mutability, primordiality and potential.

He looks down at his hands: pale, slender and strong. A shudder runs through him. Adam’s hands. With an effort of will he quashes a sudden desire to seek his reflection in the water before him.

After an indeterminable span of time—seconds or years, all meaningless in this place—the being deigns to acknowledge his words. You are correct, it responds. For all that the words pass directly into Michael’s mind rather than being shaped by the vocal cords of a living creature, the tone still comes across as clipped, subtly impatient. I have precious little in common with that quarrelsome pest, and that’s still more than I care for. I must speak with you, regarding matters of considerably greater import than that thing’s petty grievances. Your aid is required. You will come with me.

Michael exhales, long and low. The last echoes of his troubled dreams are all but gone, the last of the sleep draining from his limbs as they speak. It’s true, then. He’s truly awake. Outside the Shadow’s grip. “I doubt it will take that in stride.”

How unfortunate for it, then, that I don’t give a damn. The entity drops down nearer to him, smoke condensing until it more closely resembles a liquid, all quicksilver-flowing, shimmering as oil-slicked onyx. Stirring, agitating, until at last it settles into something approximating a human form. It gives the impression of turning to face Michael, though features as recognizable as eyes or mouth are notably absent. You were given a part to play, when you were created. Certain responsibilities were entrusted to you, both by your creator and on his behalf. That part is not yet complete. You are called to move on from this place. You have—decisions to make.

A chill creeps down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut against the sense of numb dread seeping through his chest.

“On the off chance this escaped your notice—” He cocks his head. Attempts to extend his awareness out around him, to take a clearer measure of the being at his side. Finds, to his frustration, that his senses are muffled, unable to reach much past the boundaries of what passes for his body in this place. A note of irritation underlies the melancholy in his voice as he continues. “—whoever you are, my history of making decisions has been both brief and disastrous. It is because of my choices that I am here, now. I have no particular reason to suspect that the outcome would be different were I to try again. And I confess that I don’t know why you would, either.”

Whoever I am, indeed. The entity, for the first time, seems amused. And you appear to be laboring under the misapprehension that I am making a request. I am not. Stop sitting there wallowing, and come. Its tone is one of utter self-assurance, complete authority, and Michael finds himself lacking the will to disobey.

Reluctantly, he pushes himself up off the sand.

The entity turns, and motions for Michael to follow. They move slowly along the shore, the way transitioning gradually from an open beach of shifting sand to an overgrown path that tracks along the water’s edge. Even the plants here, low and lush, are dark as pitch, lit only faintly by an indirect starlight from no apparent source. Michael wonders at that; wonders, too, about the water they tread alongside. An inland sea? Or a river? Yet, try as he might, he cannot see the opposite shore. This place should have no landscape at all, to the best of his not inconsiderable knowledge.

Perhaps its appearance is simply another act of will, courtesy of his benefactor.

So certain that you know who you are, it addresses him, after a while. Certain enough that, without even considering, you take the face of the last person you loved. It falls silent for the barest moment. The last person you betrayed. So, which is it? Are you a creature of decision, or indecision? A creature of love? Or of betrayal?

The words strike Michael as soundly as a physical blow. He struggles to hold his head up, gaze locked on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his reflection in the black water. Its edges blur, as though disturbed by currents far beneath the surface.

“I am a creature of submission. I was made to serve. And... I failed.”

Hmph, it replies. Such a myopic view of your own selfhood. No wonder your kind all ended up here so early. If you are so sure that you were meant to serve, then serve now. They come to a fork in the trail, and the being halts in the center of the path. Yours isn’t the only presence I require. Go to your kin, the messenger and healer and lightbearer. You will find them, and you will speak to them, and you will send them to me.

The ghost of breath catches in his throat. He’d known they were here, felt that they must be, and yet... “How do I find them?” His voice is low, rasping, a mixture of hope and trepidation.

Walk the path. The means will make itself apparent.

He turns, appraising the trail before him. When he looks back, he is alone.

Through the shadowy silence, Michael begins to walk.

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#and thus begins a week of following michael around the empty!#spnarchangelweek #spn archangels #michael spn #gabriel spn #raphael spn #lucifer spn #my fanfic #spn #supernatural

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