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marvelatthetwilight · 3 years

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Love you more

Feeling in a giving mood so you’ve got two parts posted together! - Addie ♥️

Love you anymore

I think I love you

“I just don’t understand why I’m sitting out here, in the cold. Where is Paul? What’s going on Jared?” Just as Jared is about to speak, Sam appears from the path.

“We had a few issues in the kitchen, so there’s been a change of plans, we’re just going to hang out here until we can get everything ready. How’s your day been Y/N?” Sam attempts to distract Y/N from her suspicions as he catches a glimpse of Kim at the door, giving him the thumbs up.

Y/N doesn’t let go of her suspicions, but she’s excited to talk to her friend about her job, and she chats away about the strange incidents she had helped with that week. She was most fascinated by the different reports of larger than life wolves in the forest, and she shared her suspicions with the group about what kind of animal it must be.

The pack exchange glances, and Jared smirks, about to share his own insight, when Embry returns up the path to let Sam know the animal problem had been dealt with. “Some tourist had let their huge dog off its leash and it ran away, it’s reunited now though so we are back on track!”

“Great, Y/N, let’s head down to the beach now.” Jared says excitedly as he grabs Y/N’s hand and pulls her up from her seated position on the floor.

“I’m assuming the answer is no I can’t go and see Emily and Kim first?” She whispers to Jared, who laughs and shakes his head.

“This will be worth it, I promise.”

Jared holds out his arm to Y/N and they link, walking towards the path, sharing suspicions about the strange animals.

As they near the bottom of the path, Y/N can hear soft music, an acoustic version of her favourite song playing from a small speaker tucked under a tree.

She looks ahead and can see a low table set up on the sand, surrounded by candles, with Paul sat next to it, dressed in a smart shirt and tie.

Y/N’s face flushes, no one had ever done anything like this for her before. She thought carefully, realising that really she hadn’t understood true romance until she met Paul. He made her feel like the most precious person in the world, she felt special, she felt cared for, respected, and loved. Jared squeezes her arm and then turns around, running back up the path, leaving her to walk to Paul on her own, her heart hammering in her chest.

She takes the opportunity to take him in, admiring his face, his eyes gleaming, his gorgeous smile lingering on his cheeks. Oh I love him Y/N thought to herself. There was something about Paul that just drew her to him, and every new piece of information she found out about him just made her love him more, though she hadn’t realised that till that moment. Neither of them had said this to each other yet, and considering they weren’t even officially dating Y/N decided to keep this piece of information to herself, for the moment at least.

Y/N reaches the table and Paul stands up to hug her, pulling her in close, taking in her scent to calm his nerves. This was the moment where he would explain what Y/N really meant to him and he had been planning it all week. Kim and Emily helped him with the logistics of getting her here and making it romantic, but the words were all down to him.

Paul takes a deep breath, letting her scent fill his nostrils and calmness flow through his body. His anxiety and stress had been through the roof all day, so when things had gone wrong he couldn’t stop himself from phasing, he needed to keep calm in this moment, the last thing he wanted to do was phase in front of Y/N and scare her away.

As they pull apart from the hug, Y/N stands on her tip toes to place a quick kiss on Paul’s lips. “I missed you.” She says softly, “where have you been? Everyone’s been really weird with me since I got here.”

Paul rubs the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, takes Y/N’s hand and gestures to sit down. “From the moment I met you I fell...”

“First course is served!” Seth shouts as he and Colin come bounding down the path carrying plates.

“Seth! Not yet!” Paul says with his teeth clenched and the two younger pack members come to a stop at the table.

“Oh erm, Emily told us to bring them now, should we go back? It’ll probably get cold if we do that...” Seth shrinks back when he sees Paul’s glare directed at him.

“We will go back, Emily can just make new food! It’s fine, everything is fine!” Seth spins on the spot, heading back up the path, but when Colin tries to do the same he loses his footing and drops the plate, food landing in Y/N’s lap.

“Colin!!!” Paul growls, his face flushing and breathing deepening.

“Er, Y/N you need to move. Now.” Seth shouts as he bounds over to Y/N and grabs her arm. This only angers Paul more. Before Seth has the chance to help Y/N leave the beach, Paul is replaced by a massive, dark silver wolf, crouched and ready to spring.

“Get back Y/N, Colin, get her.” Seth instructs as he moves away and phases, a sandy coloured wolf, significantly smaller than Paul’s standing in his place instead.

Y/N doesn’t have a chance to process what has happened in front of her before more wolves appear and Colin drags her up the path to Emily’s house whilst Paul is distracted.

Over two hours passes of Y/N sitting in shock at the dining table in Emily’s house. Jacob, Emily and Quil try to calm her down, making her eat and drink, before she’s finally in a position to talk, and ask questions.

After an hour, Sam returns, and attempts to answer as many of Y/N’s questions as possible knowing that this wasn’t the way Paul wanted things to go so trying to calm Y/N as best he could.

“So where is he now? Is he ok?” Y/N asks after a few minutes of silence. She had run out of questions at this point, still trying to process, but realising that it didn’t matter, it didn’t change how she felt.

Sam smiles at this, knowing now that the imprint bond was in full force.

“He’s ok, Jared took him out to run and calm down. He should be back soon, hopefully.” Y/N nods at this, taking a sip of the coffee in front of her.

At that moment Embry, Quil and Seth come bounding in, smiles on their faces, indicating that all was back to normal.

Jared follows them in, moving to Kim and placing a kiss on her cheek before wrapping his arms around her. Y/N smiles at the interaction, and her heart lines for Paul.

Lastly, a rather sheepish looking Paul steps through the door, eyes immediately searching for Y/N, worrying that she had left. When he sees her his face breaks out into a huge grin, and Y/N returns it, standing up from her seat and moving towards him slowly, worried that too much movement could spook him.

Paul holds out his hand and they walk together back towards the beach.

“Y/N I..,” Paul starts before Y/N interrupts.

“I know Paul. Sam explained a lot of it. But...it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Paul smiles his cheeky smile, “how do you feel about me?”

“I love you Paul.”

They stop walking and Paul turns to face her, cupping her face with his hands.

“I love you too Y/N.”

“I know, but I love you more.”

Taglist:

@fatiguing-thoughts @clearwater-hoe @volturidoll13 @like-rain-or-confetti @teampaul @wallwriterstuff @awesomebooklover17 @cncogirl18 @megzdoodle @moviequeen51 @evakipara

#paul lahote #paul lahote x reader #twilight #embry call #sam uley #twilight imagine #seth clearwater #jared cameron #wolfpack

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heroineimages · 4 years

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Queen Viarra’s Mom

So for those of my readers who follow my novel’s progress, Queen Viarra’s mother, Princess Lutaxa, isn’t dead. My intent for her since pretty much when I started writing the story was for her to be absent for most of Viarra’s early career as queen. I’d planned to depict her as this legendary but absentee badass who won the heart of a Tollesian crown-prince and birthed the future empress of the Vestic Sea. Her back story was that her family are exiled Gannic royals and that seven years before the story begins, her father died and her brother and uncle led the rest of their family back north to retake their homelands. But I chose to leave Lutaxa’s fate ambiguous. Characters refer to her in past-tense, and I never specify whether she died or left with her family. Much later in the story, I wanted to have her pop back up and fight beside her daughter following her family’s failed attempt to reclaim their kingdom.

A few nights ago, I decided to reintroduce her much sooner.

While writing several flashbacks told from Elissa’s POV, I had the chance to experiment with Lutaxa’s character for the first time, and it bothered me that I’d given my badass protagonist a badass mom but don’t really get to explore their relationship. For the epilogue in Book I, I’m going to cut to Lutaxa’s defeated army, holed up in a fortified village, thousands of miles to the north. They’re beaten down without hope for more than an impressive last stand against a superior foe, when they get word of Viarra’s victories in the south. The news reminds Lutaxa that she has a home to return to and motivates her to withdraw the remnants of her army and flee back to warmer climates.

*************************************

“The thaw comes early this year,” Aunt Lutaxa observed as Reovalix stepped up beside her along the palisade.

“Aye,” Reovalix nodded, crossing his arms over his chainmail. Beyond the palisade and in the valley below, spots of dark brown were already appearing amid the coastal pines and white landscape. “Soon our enemies will start tae move again.”

“If they’re nae already,” his aunt agreed, her fur-lined hood thrown back. An enormous, brawny woman, she towered over everyone Reovalix had ever met and had a reputation for having a will like iron and an edge like obsidian. It pained him to see her looking so tired and defeated. “And soon they’ll find us here, if they dinnae kin already. Nae more word from the Cotis tribe?” she asked.

“Nae word,” he confirmed. “We’ve nae allies left—faithless cowards.”

“Nae,” Aunt Lutaxa disagreed, silver hair reflecting the midday sun as she shook her head. “Wise, nae faithless. They do wha’s smart tae protect they people. Our foes are too many, and allying wi’ us just gets people killed. We got overconfident from our early successes against the Cenali and their allies, and we failed tae deliver too many promises tae too many of our allies. We started with seven-thousand warriors and highest hopes, but now we’ve barely four-hundred warriors and this last hold-out,” she sighed, gesturing to their fortified mountain village. “We failed, and I wish I had a way tae apologize tae every ally we let down.”

“Ye never know, Aunt, we might yet win tha day when our foes come,” Reovalix offered, rapping his knuckles against her bronze breastplate.

His aunt snorted with a trace of a smirk. “Only if our foes take the biggest nosedive in competence I’ve ever witnessed,” she admitted, reaching over to stroke his fresh-shaved chin and tweak his long, coppery mustache. “But thank ye for saying sae, nephew. We may hae spent all winter fortifying, but in the end I think the best we can hope for is tae weaken they army enough tha’ other tribes might stand up tae them.” She shook her head sadly and stepped away from the palisade.

Over the winter, they’d set up in an abandoned mountain village, near a small slate quarry. The slate turned out to be focking useful, making effective, non-flammable roofs for their houses, as well as paving material for their streets and building material for reinforcing walls and palisades. As they ventured away from the walls, the sound of steel on steel echoed through the courtyard as his cousins, Talutix and Ressona pounded out new swords, spearheads, and chainmail from the last of the iron shipment they’d stolen last fall. At least they had that to their advantage.

“Though I cannae apologize to our allies, I’d like tae apologize to ye and ye sister and remaining cousins,” Aunt Lutaxa admitted, loosening her cloak from her shoulders. “This should nae hae been ye fight.”

“What d’ ye mean, Aunt?” Reovalix asked, glancing over at her. “It’s our family too. Ye fights are our fights.”

“But should nae hae been,” his aunt disagreed. “Ye were a babe when our family was exiled, and ye siblings and most o’ ye cousins hannae been born yet. When ye grandfather died and me uncle and ye father sought tae travel north and reclaim our homeland, our generation thought only o’ ourselves. We thought only o’ our own past disgraces and nae o’ the fact tha’ ye generation was nae a part o’ tha’ past. There was twenty-eight in ye generation and seven in mine when we sailed north from Valos seven summers ago. Now, I’m the only one left of me generation, and ye, ye sister, and nine cousins are all left o’ ye. Ye fought and died for a home ye never knew. And tha’s nae fair tae ye.

“And now ye’ve nowhere tae run tae,” she added, bowing her head in shame. “Nae allies left tae take us in. Ye are trapped in tha hole my generation dug for ye, wi’ no way out but death.”

“But, Aunt—”

“Nae ‘buts’!” she interrupted, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Ye should ha’ been free tae make ye own choices and live ye own life, and we took it from ye. I just want ye tae know how sorry I am. If there wae a way out, I’d happily guide all o’ ye out o’ here. I want ye tae ken tha’,” she added, his mail clicking against her breastplate as she embraced him.

“I ken, Aunt, thank ye,” Reovalix assured her, returning the hug. Tall as he was, he still had to stretch to rest his chin on her shoulder.

Three sharp notes from a hunting horn blared from further down the mountain. It was a signal from the forward sentries for a friendly rider. Stepping back from their hug, Reovalix followed Aunt Lutaxa to the gates.

“D’ ye ken who they’re signaling?” Aunt asked one of the gate guards.

“Aye. Cousin Venixa is riding fast back from her supply run, but I dinnae see any o’ the others,” a sentry explained, pointing down the hillside at the distant horse and rider trotting through the mud and melting snow.

“What could ha’ happened?” Aunt Lutaxa frowned.

“Venixa, love, wha’ happened,” their aunt greeted as Venixa rode through the gates and dismounted minutes later. “Where are the others?”

“They’re coming, Aunt, dinnae worry,” Venixa assured them, laughing with a smug twinkle in her smile. Beaten by the early spring wind, her face was redder than her hair. “There’s big news from the south—big, important news—and I rode ahead tae tell ye!”

“What kind o’ big news?” Reovalix asked, crossing his arms.

“Aye, did the Litulli change their minds and send warriors?” Aunt Lutaxa added.

“Nae, further south than tha’!” Venixa laughed, tossing her hood back. “News from the Vestic Sea, in fact,” she declared as other warriors and family members gathered. “While we were in Congenetia trading for supplies, there was a ship o’ Tollesian traders wi’ goods and news from the south. Apparently, the Hegemony o’ Andivel has been usurped! Last spring, an upstart queen overthrew the tetrarchs and dissolved the council tae make herself hegemon.”

“The tetrarchs, were they exiled or executed?” Aunt Lutaxa asked.

“Executed, I think,” Venixa answered.

“Shame,” their aunt frowned, shaking her head a bit. “The tetrarchy needed tae be replaced, but Tetrarch Wayer deserved better than tha’,” she admitted. “Who was this queen, though? And why is this such big, important news?”

“Queen Viarraluca is her name,” Venixa told them, her smirk getting bigger and smugger. Another cousin gasped, and eyes went wide on everyone who recognized the name. “Viarraluca of Kel Fimmaril.”

“Viarraluca of Kel Fimmaril…” Aunt Lutaxa repeated reverently, a tear forming at the corner of her left eye.

“Queen Viarraluca…”

#my writing #my novel #First Empress #Queen Lutaxa #excerpts

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unsteadygalaxy · 4 years

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all is soft inside chapter 5

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064/chapters/64957384

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5. will i float or will i drown?

This city is much too loud, they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur.

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just.

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. I am alone here, they rationalize. No one will disturb me. They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. His performance has suffered greatly as of late, they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent.

Until today.

Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops.

It is Elliott.

Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around.

He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful thunk. A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more.

“Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must.

A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone.

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. Why do you care so deeply for him? they wonder to themself. Why now? What has changed? They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. So why Elliott?

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens.

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my god Elliott SHUT UP-”

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, vertu rólegur. It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. But why? He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to. They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. It is no use. “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them.

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. This all depends on him. Will he honor my request? The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. I must take a chance on him. Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur.

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them.

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left.

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. Keep things vague, they think. He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet.

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause.

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head.

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be leynilega manneskju.”

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so.

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, stupidly accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face.

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before him to regain his composure.

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my faðir and móðir taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling.

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. He has spoken to you much this evening, they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. You have no reason to miss it. But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.”

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear.

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to vinna,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back.

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof.

And Bloodhound laughs.

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist.

“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”.

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously.

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.”

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient.

“You owe me for this one, amigo,” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles.

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor. “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

#apex legends #miragehound #mirage apex #bloodhound apex #mirage apex legends #bloodhound apex legends #elliott witt #elliott witt apex #my writing #apex fanficiton #apex legends fanfiction

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fangirlshrewt97 · 4 years

Text

Geralt Whump Week Day 2 Submission

TITLE: Scars From A Lioness

SHIPS: Geralt of Rivia / Jaskier|Dandelion

PROMPT DAY: Potions

MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix

WARNINGS: NA

SUMMARY: Ciri was up with the sun, bouncing with excitement for the day. Finally, after weeks of begging, Geralt had said she could learn how to make a Witcher potion. A.K.A: Ciri learns how to make potions, there is family bonding, and Geralt gets hurt but its ok, he gets better. Ciri feels awful though.

WORD COUNT: 5737 words

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Additional tags include Prompt: Potions, Whump, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Family Bonding, Kaer Morhen, Cirilla is adopted by all the Witchers, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Soft, Soft Witchers, Established Relationship, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, I wanted to write a fic where we get to see Cirilla learning stuff from the witchers, This fic is really cute I promise, more fluff than whump, And so much softness

AUTHOR: Fangirlshrewt97

CHARACTERS: Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Rhiannon, Jaskier, Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir

LINK TO AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035172

/////

Ciri was up with the sun, bouncing with excitement for the day. Finally, after weeks of begging, Geralt had said she could learn how to make a Witcher potion. If Jaskier had been with them, Ciri was sure she could have gotten the Witcher to cave in sooner, but the bard had had a request to play at the Kaedwanian court, and having allies would only help them. Nilfgaard was still looking for her, which meant it had been nearing a year since she had arrived at Kaer Morhen and not left. She didn’t mind, she liked the castle, the ruins were a little scary but they also reminded her of Grandfather Eist’s bedtime stories of heroes and monsters. And if she behaved really well, Vesemir would tell her a story of one of his hunts that rivaled any of her grandfather’s stories.

Uncle Eskel and Lambert had also been helpful, teaching her all about fighting with a sword and hand-to-hand, though she thought they did that more as an excuse to tackle each other to the ground than to teach her anything. Ciri didn’t mind, it was fun to watch men the size of small mountains fling each other into walls like rag dolls and then get up and walk around as if that hadn’t just happened. They were never rough with her, but they also didn’t go easy, each day ended with more muscles aching than she knew she had. But the one thing that all four had been adamantly reluctant to budge on was Witcher potions. Or potions in general.

“It is too dangerous for you, Princess.” Uncle Eskel had explained.

“Those things could kill you Ciri, or give you a scar like knucklehead over there, and while his face might have been bad before the accident, yours is too pretty to risk damaging.” Lambert had advised before running out of the hall being chased by Eskel.

“Witcher potions are poisonous to humans Cirilla, and for many, the smoke alone is deadly. It is too great a risk.” Vesemir had stated with a finality to the discussion.

And of course, there was Geralt’s very eloquent “No.”

Ciri sighed. So many weeks of badgering, begging, and, even bartering for more chores had resulted in the reluctant agreement that all four Witchers would be in the room with her when she brewed the potion, Vesemir instructing and the other three as bodyguards to get her out of there is something started to go wrong. And that she would first start with human-friendly potions to understand the basics of brewing. Three Witchers seemed excessive for said job but they wouldn’t be dissuaded.

Ciri took off her clothes, using the nearby cloth to dip into the basin of water in her room and ran it across her body, wiping off the nightly sweat. All four had mentioned that potions were brewed beneath the keep, and it could get really hot in there, so it was better to soak in the hot springs after. Washing herself thoroughly, Ciri put on an old shirt of Uncle Lambert’s and the pants Uncle Eskel had sewn for her. She was plaiting her hair in a simple braid as she made her way down to the breakfast hall, finishing it right as she arrived.

The others were already there, Uncle Eskel and Grandfather Vesemir finishing with toasting the bread as Geralt and Lambert were eating. Skipping down to the area where they were sitting, she pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek before burrowing herself into Uncle Eskel’s side, an arm around his waist to steady herself.

“Morning cub, excited for the lesson are we?” Eskel said, amusement making his eyes twinkle. Ciri giggled and nodded her head.

“Well then Eskel, you better give the girl her food so we may all head down together. Don’t you think, cub?” Vesemir winked as he presented her a small bowl filled with dried fruits. Making a happy noise, Ciri took the offerings and gave her pseudo-grandfather a hug before going and settling next to Lambert. The youngest wolf just opened his arm so she could press herself into his side before starting to munch on her breakfast. All of them had learned early on the lion cub loved to cuddle, and while it had taken a bit to get used to so much physical affection, they had learned to treasure it.

Ciri was focused on her food and so completely missed the fond looks all four wolves sent her way.

Having spent decades being rejected and treated as beasts, here was this girl who through Destiny had found herself tied to a Witcher, and decided to embrace them all as her family. She had all of them wrapped around her little finger, ready to draw steel or silver at the slightest hint of sadness from the child. She had been afraid when she had arrived at the keep near the beginning of winter, escorted between Geralt and Jaskier. But it had only taken one extremely inappropriate joke from Lambert that all the others yelled at him for, for Ciri to giggle and relax. After that, it had been pathetically simple to see that these men were not the monsters everyone was convinced they were.

Eskel and Vesemir finished with the food and brought the rest of it to the table, Eskel sitting next to Geralt while Vesemir settled at the head of the table. The small family enjoyed the breakfast in silence, basking in the simple instance of each other’s company.

“Careful pup, you look ready to fall into your plate.” Geralt said as he gently nudged her leg with his. Ciri shook her head, a strand of hair coming loose.

“’M not.” Ciri said, punctuating it with a contradictory yawn.

Eskel and Vesemir smiled, whereas Lambert laughed.

“Sure about that menace?”

Ciri elbowed him in his side, turning her nose up in the perfect imitation of the obnoxious princess she had played so many times in court when dealing with insufferable nobles.

This got the other three to chuckle, and when Ciri peeked one eye open from where she had them closed, she saw even Geralt had a smile on his face, making her own grin grow.

“Vesemir she is abusing me.” Lambert complained, deadpan.

Eskel snorted. “That isn’t her abusing you. Her abusing you is her managing to throw a Witcher four times her age and size straight into the pile of hay for the horses. In one day.”

As they all laughed at Lambert’s indignation, Ciri settled contently into her food, joining in to the teasing. Uncle Lambert was so very easy to tease. And Ciri always had at least one person to back her up in case he turned on her.

Finishing up breakfast and cleaning up was a quick job between the five of them, and soon they were all headed to the potion making room. When they entered, they let Ciri go in first, giving her time to explore the space she hadn’t been allowed in before as they each settled into their seats.

The room was larger than she expected, twice the size of her bedroom, but with a low roof that Geralt and Eskel nearly brushed against. There were small windows running all along the walls, which when she looked closer realized functioned as vents to make sure the smoke did not fill the room. But since they had yet to start brewing, the room was cold, and she wrapped her arms around her self.

Moving from the windows, Ciri next went through the largest wall of the room, which had deep shelves carved into it, pulling out bottles of ingredients lining the walls. Some had fresh labels, the ones that were commonly used. For others, the labels were faded and the bottles covered in what seemed like a decade’s worth of dust. She was able to identify most of the herbs, remembered helping Vesemir sort them and place them into these very bottles. The last bottle she grabbed was murky, and when she rubbed at some of the grime, she nearly dropped it in shock when she saw an eyeball floating in there. The bottle escaped her grasp, her sharp gasp alerting the Witchers. Geralt was behind her in an instant, catching the bottle in his hand, his other a solid weight on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, they’re from deer.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved for that answer or horrified you thought I thought you were using human eyeballs.” Ciri said, injecting as much bravado into her words as possible.

Geralt replaced the bottle in its original place and led her to the benches. Eskel and Lambert were on the side benches, and Ciri saw that Vesemir had set out two stations in the center tables. Geralt guided her to her station and then sat next to her. At her questioning glance, he just shook his head. Shrugging, Ciri looked to Vesemir. The eldest Witcher smiled at her and set about explaining the different equipment in front of her, as well as the ingredients he had set out in front of her.

The day passed like that, Vesemir talking her through the compositions of some of the basic potions all Witchers always needed to have in stock, Lambert and Eskel piping in with practical observations from how they made potions on the road. Geralt took her through the potions of cutting up the ingredients and measuring them, and the five of them ended the day satisfied, a fresh batch of Swallow made between them.

The small group was happy with their day, and chatted as they made their way to the hot springs. Since Ciri, and sometimes Yennefer, had taken residence at Kaer Morhen, the wolves had put up a make shift cover of sorts to grant them some privacy.

Ciri personally loved the hot springs. She had never had anything like this in Cintra, and it still felt like magic to her. The warm waters felt like they unknotted muscles she didn’t realize she had knots in, and it was absolutely divine after a sword training session. She hummed happily as she sunk into the waters, leaning against the edge of the pool as she allowed her body to half float.

“Lion cub, wash up quickly, I don’t want to have to rescue a raisin from the spring.” Geralt called from the other side of the curtain. The other wolves were also being uncharacteristically quiet. But then again she could only recall one other instance when all of them had entered the spring at the same time.

“Ok Geralt!” Ciri replied before getting up and reaching for the soap, scrubbing herself down quickly. Another submersion and Ciri shook out her hair from her braid, washing it quickly. Picking up the towel someone had laid out for her, she wrapped it around herself and walked to the small box she had kept in here to store clothes for moments like this. Removing a pair of soft pants and an old shirt of Geralt’s they had modified for her size, Ciri dried herself and changed into the clothes.

The rest of the day passed quickly, a big lunch and a small break where Vesemir took her to the library and gave her lessons of maths and geography. Geralt came to collect her after two hours and the two made their way to the courtyard where Eskel and Lambert were waiting for her. The four of them practiced for an hour, then Ciri was allowed to just sit back and watch as the wolves sparred with each other, no holds barred. She always liked seeing them fight with their full abilities, it was a nice reminder of just who was guarding her. Dinner was a rambunctious affair as always, and all too soon it was time for bed. Ciri barely removed her pants and laid in bed before she was out like a light, satisfaction coursing through her.

///

The week passed in a similar manner, with a quick breakfast, a potions lesson with all the wolves, covering a mix of human and Witcher potions, training sessions with swords and hand to hand combat, and ending with a lovely dinner Geralt and Ciri prepared for the others.

That morning, Ciri woke up feeling jittery again, but she couldn’t remember why until she got to the dining hall and saw a familiar emerald-colored doublet.

“Jaskier!” she cried out, running towards the bard who stood up and caught her, swinging her around as she shrieked with glee.

“Ciri! Apple of my eye, lion cub of my heart, how are you doing?” Jaskier asked as he guided them both to sit at the bench.

“Jask, I’ve learned so much! Uncle Lambert showed me this cool trick where I kick off the wall and use that to kick at someone’s head with the other leg, and Uncle Eskel showed me a way to build a trap that will make sure that whatever gets stuck in it can only be released when I open it, and Grandfather Vesemir has been teaching me potions!”

Jaskier’s eye had been steadily twitching throughout the tirade, a mental laundry list of all the things he needed to scold the Witchers for considering appropriate to teach a child, but the potions thing gave him pause. Geralt had long refused to teach him the most basic Witcher potions, positing that it was too dangerous. Then again, there was no safer place to try out a potion than under the watchful eyes of four Witchers.

The lecture Jaskier was preparing was already lasting over half an hour in his mind though.

///

As promised, Ciri convinced the others to let Jaskier sit in on the potions lesson, with Jaskier sitting behind Eskel. The Wolves reluctantly agreed but then proceeded to unanimously boot him out of the room after one hour where his scent kept spiking with so much anxiety every time Ciri used her knife to cut an ingredient. It was setting all the Witchers on edge and so they collectively pushed Jaskier out of the room and slammed the door in his face claiming “You are more likely to cause an accident than she is.” Jaskier had huffed but let them be, retreating to his room, resigned to hearing about what his adopted daughter had learned from her daily recap.

///

Another week passed in a similar manner, and Ciri got used to the routine, the potions lessons becoming her favorite. But still, there was a war going on outside the mountains the Keep was hidden in, and Winter had been thankfully mild this year relatively speaking, so the pass down the mountain had reopened much earlier than usual. Lambert had also noticed a pair of griffins mating nearby, which could pose a problem if they decided to nest, so Vesemir had split them up.

He instructed Lambert to go deal with the griffins while he and Eskel ventured to the nearest town to restock their food stores. Jaskier had argued that Geralt should accompany Lambert on the hunt, but all four Witchers had been adamant of not leaving them alone in the keep.

The next day, the three Witchers departed early in the morning, hoping to return by night fall the next day, or the following day’s morning at the latest. Ciri, Jaskier, and Geralt bid them farewell, the two humans huddled in extra blankets and cloaks that nevertheless did nothing to stop the blast of cold wind that seemed to cut right through the fabric and settled in their bones. Geralt had herded them to bed, allowing them a few extra hours of rest, and a relaxing day to laze about the keep. After weeks of rigorous labour and lessons and chores, both Ciri and Jaskier had promptly returned to bed and slept until Geralt woke them up for lunch.

They passed the day in a similar manner, with Jaskier playing a new song he had been composing while Geralt taught Ciri how to play Gwent.

"Geralt can we have another potions lesson tomorrow?” Ciri asked as they packed the deck away.

“It will only take the others a day to get back cub, have patience.”

“But you all have been telling me I’ve been doing a really good job. Come on, a simple one. You will still be there with me. Please?” Ciri asked, deploying her puppy eyes.

“Oof, low blow Princess.” she heard Jaskier mutter from where he was sitting on the furs in front of the fire.

Geralt’s face was twisted the way it always was when he was conflicted, so Ciri gave it one last push. “Please Ger?” she whined. With a pout.

Hook, line, and sinker. The Witcher folded like a hut made of paper. “Fine, but a simple one. And you listen to me. Every word.”

Ciri nodded her head so hard Jaskier feared it would come rolling off. She grinned bright enough to rival the fire he was sitting in front of and leaped from her seat to hug Geralt tightly around his neck while singing a chorus of ‘Thank you’s. She merrily skipped out of the room. Jaskier was nice enough to wait for her to be out of earshot before he mentioned how pathetically easily it was for a thirteen year old girl to defeat the White Wolf.

Geralt gave him a look that conveyed all the curse words he wanted to say. Jaskier laughed.

///

Geralt was nervous, but he could never let it show. It was just a simple potion, what could go wrong?

///

The potions room felt larger with just Geralt and Ciri in it, the absence of the others obvious and heavy in the air. Shaking off the slight unease, Geralt prepped his and Ciri’s stations as he had seen Vesemir do so.

The lesson started and everything was going well.

And it continued to go well.

They successfully brewed the potion.

Ciri was not the only one who felt as if she had accomplished something after the lesson.

///

Geralt brought up the following day’s lesson on his own, to Ciri’s delight. Jaskier shook his head at the two of them, but let them be.

“Can we try a new potion today Geralt?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Ciri. I am still not sure if it is ok for us to be doing potions on our own anyways. Let’s stick with what you already know?”

“But we’ve been doing the same potions for weeks. Just one new potion? Please?” Ciri asked, employing her best pout and puppy eyes.

Geralt growled. One of these days he would build an immunity to them. Today was not that day.

“Fine. But you-”

“-listen to your every word and letter. I know, thank you Geralt, you are the best!” Ciri said as she cheered, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s cheek before skipping to her room.

“Fuck.”

“You are woefully defenseless against her.”

“Fuck off bard.”

Jaskier continued to laugh at his torment. What else was new.

///

It had been going well. Ciri had behaved just as she promised, she had diligently listened to his every instruction and done only that. He wasn’t sure if he had gone wrong in his teaching, or if he hadn’t checked the ingredients properly, but he heard a crackling sound. One that didn’t belong. His body reacted before his mind could think it through, and he pushed Ciri to the ground, covering her with his body as the potion started to fizzle and shoot boiling hot droplets all over the room. Having forgone his armor when he wasn’t doing sword training, his tunic was quickly destroyed by the potion, which burned itself into his skin.

Geralt clenched his teeth as more and more of the potion exploded from the table, landing on his skin and causing a sensation of being branded. Below him Ciri was distressed, trying to push him off, screaming his name, and when he didn’t budge, Jaskier’s.

Geralt couldn’t tell how much time had passed before the fizzling finally stopped, but he came to when multiple moments passed by with no new burned patches of skin appeared. The room was filled with the overwhelming scent of fear and burned skin, and underneath it, a faint smell of sulphur and charcoal clung heavy in the air. He stayed crouched over Ciri.

“lt! Geralt! Please, Geralt!” Ciri’s cries finally penetrated through his haze, and he looked down to meet tear-filled blue eyes, and a blotched face. Ciri’s voice was hoarse, as if she had been screaming for some time.

“Ci-ri?” Geralt grunted before collapsing onto his side so as to not crush her.

“Geralt? Geralt! Wake up, wake up, wake up, Geralt, please!” Ciri screamed, panic racing through her veins as a primal fear gripped her. She could feel her power swirling like a storm inside her, begging to be let out, the lump in her throat their only obstacle.

“lt? Ciri? Oh Melitele, what?” suddenly two strong arms came around her, lifting her. She screamed and clawed at the grip, but they held true.

She finally quietened when she saw Vesemir enter her field of vision, passing her to crouch by Geralt. “Cub, it’s me, stop fighting, it’s just me.” Ciri went limp once she realized she was being held in Uncle Eskel’s arms.

///

Geralt recalled collapsing, hearing Vesemir and Eskel and Jaskier come in, hearing Ciri screaming out for him. But the world was underwater, or maybe he was, but suddenly Vesemir was right there and he waved his hand in front of him, and all he knew was sleep.

///

“Damn it, Jaskier get it here!” Vesemir called out as Geralt succumbed to his Axii. The bard rushed in, a look of fear clearly painted on his face.

“Can you carry Ciri?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Eskel give him the pup, we need to get Geralt up to the infirmary.”

“Yes Vesemir” Eskel said, passing on the girl to Jaskier, who took her in a bridal carry, and stood aside to let Eskel and Vesemir lift Geralt and carried him out. He followed as far as the infirmary before Vesemir shot him a pointed glare. He nodded and took Ciri back to her room. Once she was in bed, he let some of the panic he felt come in.

Fuck, he had been in the dining area, working in a new song when Eskel and Vesemir had arrived. They had been discussing their purchases when both Witchers stiffened simultaneously and took off out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

He had only heard Ciri’s screams when he reached the floor where the potions room was. It made him want to vomit. Or tear off his skin.

And Geralt, fuck, Geralt had been steaming, literal tendrils of smoke rising from him. His Witcher had too much tolerance to ever express his pain, but his gaze had been unfocused, and in some ways that scared him the most. Geralt rarely succumbed to pain so easily.

///

Geralt woke up to even more burning. He jerked, trying to get away from it, only to realize he had been shackled to the slab he was lying on. A strong pair of arms landed on his shoulders, holding his down.

“-alt, relax, you are alright. It’s us, come on.” Eskel’s urgent voice broke through the fog.

The sound of his brother was enough to calm Geralt, and the man collapsed on the slab. Vesemir appeared in his field of vision when he opened his eyes. “We will discuss what has happened when you are more coherent. Right now I am going to place a burn salve, let me know if it helps our worsens the pain.”

Geralt nodded, clenching his jaw to brace for the pain.

Vesemir’s touch made him jerk, but the eldest Witcher had an iron grip on his thigh. The salve to the burn on his ankle was mercifully cooling, and Geralt hissed in relief. “Itsss niceeeeee.”

“Hmmm.” Vesemir said as he internally sighed in relief. He had Eskel shift to hold different parts of Geralt as he applied the salve.

The worst of the burns had been to Geralt’s back, his arms and ankles receiving some long but superficial burns, where the acid had hit the skin but slid off. They turned him on his back, wincing in sympathy as they saw burn marks all over his back starting from just below his neck to the edge of his pants’ waistband.

Geralt fell asleep at some point while they were rubbing the salve, so they left him sleeping, wrapping bandages across the worst of the burns. Most wouldn’t scar, although a couple in his back had been severe, the flesh wrinkling and black.

Vesemir hummed. “Scars from a lioness. These are scars he can be proud of.”

Time to get the bard.

///

Lambert had returned to a seemingly empty keep, and when he went searching, he heard humming from the cub’s room, so he followed Jaskier’s voice.

Inside, Jaskier was listlessly strumming his lute. Ciri was sleeping, which worried Lambert, it was the middle of the day, why was she asleep. When Jaskier turned to see him, the worry only increased ten fold at the sight of a hunted look in his eyes.

“What’s wrong Jaskier?”

///

When next Ciri woke up, she groaned as her head gave a painful throb.

“At last, the sleeping lioness wakes up.” Uncle Lambert declared as he peered over her, face looming.

“Uncle Lambert?”

“One and only pup. Can you sit up?”

Ciri nodded, so Lambert place this hands beneath her armpits and helped her up until she was sitting up against the headboard. Her headboard. She was in her room, in her bed.

“What happened?” and then as memories fluttered in, “Where’s Geralt?”

The panic was immediate and overpowering, making her scramble to get out of bed, stopped only by Lambert using all his power to keep her there. “Slow down, pup, Geralt will be fine. He is being taken care of. As for what happened, that’s what we are all wondering. Care to explain?”

“First tell me where Geralt is.”

“You’re not in a position to negotiate pup.”

Ciri slumped back. Unconsciously, she started to chew on her bottom lip. “I asked Geralt to teach me a new potion today.”

Lambert sighed, rubbing his face with one hand as the other came to weave into one of hers. “Pup, I can’t believe you’re making me be an adult right now. There is a reason we told you we’d only teach you potions when we were all together.”

Ciri started crying, first a few tears, and then the sobs, and then her whole body trembling like it was trying to shake itself apart.

Lambert freaked out for a minute before pulling Ciri to him, and holding her as she clutched him too tightly.

Her sobs had slowed down to hiccuping sniffles when the door to the bedroom opened again, letting in a weary Jaskier who seemed to wear every year of his life for once. He tried to put on a smile at the sight of Ciri awake, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Darling! You are awake.”

“Jask…” was as far as Ciri got before she started blubbering again. Jaskier indicated for Lambert to switch places with him, and smoothly brought Ciri into his embrace, soothing her with practiced ease. The youngest Witcher slipped out of the room when Jaskier started to hum an old Cintran lullaby.

///

Ciri was clutching Jaskier’s doublet, walking behind him, body a coil of anxiety so strong, even Jaskier could smell it.

They stopped before Geralt’s bedroom, with Jaskier turning and going to his knees so he could look Ciri in the eyes.

“Darling, I promise you Geralt is not angry with you alright. But if you keep being so scared you will scare him too. Now you don’t want that right?”

Ciri shook her head. Jaskier smiled, rubbing his thumb against her cheek until she giggled once. Chuckling, he pressed a kiss to her other cheek before standing up. Holding out his hand for her to take, Jaskier knocked on the door. Eskel opened the door, amusement coloring his face.

“My good Witcher, Princess Cirilla and I are here to visit our most beloved White Wolf, if you would so graciously grant us admission.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, the wolf is feeling hungry, and I’m afraid peacocks don’t agree with him.”

Jaskier squawked, making Ciri giggle at their antics. When Uncle Eskel shifted to play more into his role of ‘sentry’, Ciri saw Geralt laying on the bed, looking even more entertained by their actions.

He caught her looking though, and a playful smirk appeared on his otherwise tired appearance, and he beckoned her with one finger.

Smiling softly, Ciri slipped from Jaskier’s grasp and went to Geralt’s side. Lambert and Vesemir were sitting on either side of the Witcher, and Lambert helped her up to sit by Geralt’s side. As soon as she was within touching distance she flung herself at Geralt, hugging him tightly and burying her face into his neck. Geralt hummed, the vibrations alleviating any lingering anxiety Ciri had had.

“My pup, are you alright?”

Ciri sniffled. She pulled back and wiped her eyes as tears gathered there. When she spoke, there was a wobble in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt brushed a few strands of her hair back. “For what?”

“For hurting you.”

Geralt huffed. “Ciri, look at me, it is going to take more than a single errant potion to hurt me.”

“But you are covered in bandages!” And that was true, Geralt’s entire chest and back, and most of his arms were wrapped in white linen bandages.

“That is mostly due to Jaskier being an overprotective mother hen. I actually only need about half of these according to Eskel and Vesemir.”

“Hey! Not fair.” Jaskier said as he approached them, an utterly fake offended out on his face as he sat by Geralt’s unoccupied side.

Ignoring him, Geralt looked back at his daughter. “I promise I am all right.”

“I gave you new scars.”

“I’ll wear these ones with pride.”

When Ciri looked at him confused, Geralt gave her a wolfish grin. “I earned these protecting my child.”

Ciri blushed before nestling into Geralt’s side.

“Now little pup, I have something I want to say too.” Came Vesemir’s voice, making Ciri wince. Slowly, she pushed away from Geralt and sat straight, looked at her pseudo-grandfather from down turned eyes.

The old Witcher was standing next to Jaskier, one hand on his hip. “I hope you learned your lesson on why we didn’t want to teach you potions alone?”

Ciri nodded her head as hard as she could. “I am so so so sorry Vesemir. Please don’t blame Geralt, it was my fault. I only suggested we continue-” She stopped when Vesemir held up his hand.

“Child, while it was unwise of you both to continue to do these lessons alone, I fear I am also to blame for this incident.”

At that Ciri exchanged a bewildered look with Geralt before both looked at him.

“What are you talking about Vesemir?” Geralt asked.

Vesemir sighed. The potion, you grabbed the mountain ash for it right?”

Ciri nodded. “Yes! Geralt told me which one, and I found the bottle labelled mountain ash.”

Vesemir grimaced before schooling his features. “And I assume you did not to think to check the bottle Geralt?”

Geralt shook his head. “It was labeled with your handwriting. It was kind of faded, but it definitely said mountain ash.”

“And there in lies my mistake. I apologize to both of you. We actually ran out of mountain ash last season, and I kept meaning to get more to restock our supply. The particular bottle that Ciri grabbed did not contain ash at all, I simply made the error of putting it in the wrong bottle.”

“What was in it then?”

“Black-powder. It was used mainly by the School of the Crane. Apparently when used in the correct mix it can be used as an explosive.”

“I’ve never heard of such a powder before.” Jaskier spoke.

“It is not common in our lands, though I think you can find it in Zerrikania and further East.”

The group descended into a moment of quiet.

“I don’t want to do any more potions.”

Geralt sighed. He wasn’t surprised by her new fear.

Eskel tried to argue with her, “Ciri, you cannot let one accident turn you away from them completely. There are many potions we can teach that are usable to humans as well.”

But Ciri shook her head, her mind made up.

Geralt indicated for his brothers to quiet, and tugged at Ciri. “Cub look at me.” He waited until her gaze was focused on him, “I know you were scared when the accident happened, but as Vesemir just explained, it was only an accident that was entirely not your fault. I should have gone over your ingredients too, so I am to blame as well. What do you say once I recovered, we resume the lessons, this time with all five of us?”

Ciri chewed on her lip as she thought before giving a tentative nod.

Geralt smiled at her. “That’s my pup.”

Ciri grinned back and burrowed herself into his side, throwing her arm around Geralt’s waist.

��I am not leaving your side until you get better.”

“Impractical, but I will be alright by tomorrow, so I suppose I can allow such a concession.” Geralt teased her.

“How come Vesemir never gave me concessions when I got hurt?” Lambert wondered aloud.

“Because when you got yourself hurt, it was absolutely your own damn fault.” Vesemir replied.

Everyone laughed, the comment serving to break any remaining tension.

The small family settled comfortably around the room and spent the night talking. Lambert took great joy sharing an embellished story regarding his griffin hunt, with the other three Witchers mercilessly calling him out on his exaggerations. Jaskier added fuel to all their arguments, egging them on. And Ciri?

Well Ciri laughed until her stomach hurt, happy once again at her Geralt’s side. And as she listened to Lambert argue that the griffin truly had a head the size of Lambert’s whole body, she settled into a deep sleep at her father’s side, a wide smile colouring her face.

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delldarling · 4 years

Text

crossing the bridge | harper & peregrine pt. ii

looking for pt. i?

female faerie x gender/body neutral reader x male faerie 2k words sfw | more hand touching, Harper and Peregrine are ridiculous and sweet

“Do you mean the overpass?” You ask, knowing how ridiculous it sounds, even as you say it. She’s straddling the fence line, holding tightly to your hands like she’s expecting you to be blown away or torn from her fingers and… You don’t think she means the overpass. You don’t know what kind of bridge she’s referencing, but-

“Can you carry a tune?” She asks, rather than answer you.

“Well, uh-”

“Hum with me,” Harper insists, claws pricking gently at each of your wrists. She hums a single note, uncomplicated, and as soon as you do your best to match it, her pitch rises and then falls back down. As soon as you’ve memorized it to her liking she stops. “Three times is plenty good enough, but three times three is best. Can you keep pace with me?” Before you can even attempt to answer her, she starts tapping a gentle rhythm against your wrist to help keep the tempo.

You lick your lips, nervous and trying not to glance down at her moving fingers, but nod your head. The hum is probably as simple as they come, but as soon as the two of you finish the first pass, she starts again, her clawed fingers speeding up her tapping. You don’t try and keep track of how many times you hum through the notes. There’s too much happening already, with the cars still speeding past on the street and those yellow-green eyes of hers tracing your face. But… You start to feel different.

It takes you a moment to recognize the feeling as longing, a hollow ache spiraling around your heart that flits between hopeful and desolate with each breath. A huge part of you wants to falter, overwhelmed by the emotions, but Harper’s claws prick a little deeper, just before she ceases her humming.

“Now, step over the fence!” She urges, all but tugging you over the jagged tear in the wires. She has reason - you probably would have balked at stepping into the brambles with all your weight behind the step - but when both your feet come down, the brambles have vanished, and you’re standing on hard packed earth, littered over with fallen leaves.

The cool breeze from passing cars has grown warm as summer, but when you turn to glance over your shoulder - there’s nothing but dim woods, filled with flickering, misty lights.

“What just- We-” You start, but Harper tugs you along, barely letting you glance at your surroundings.

“Can’t stay here,” she says, leading you towards a well worn, twisting path. “Wisps in these woods might not be violent, but they still like to play with humans.”

“Wisps?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder. You catch sight of those misty lights again, shifting, swirling and then blink. A ghostly figure seems to manifest around one of the lights, leaning against one of the trees. Their chest and eyes glow, bright as flame for a split second, before they smile, and they’re gone, nothing more than a wisp of light on the breeze. “That was a wisp? Like- will o’ the wisp?”

“Lantern Men,” Harper says, rolling her eyes. “Oh, they’re right pretty, especially when they’ve a mind to dance, but they don’t make much friends outside of their fellow wisps. Not after the-” Harper hums, narrowing her eyes when she glances at you.

“Never mind them,” she finally continues, brushing idle sunshine curls out of her face like she’s flicking away a fly. “We’re to see Peregrine and take this geas off you.”

You have a thousand questions, but it’s all you can do to keep up without tripping over roots that seem to arch and catch your feet on purpose. Geas, you can’t help but repeat in your mind. The word seems to blend with the song, but that itch, that strange urge you’ve had in the back of your brain for years - it’s lessened. With every step forward, you feel more… Balanced.

Warm light starts to pepper the ground, like the sun shining through a forest canopy. You glance up then, and your breath leaves you in a rush. It’s still dark out, still sometime in the evening with faint stars just barely bright enough to see between branches, but the forest is filled with candles. Thin tapers or large pillars sit on branches caked with wax or rather- some of them look like they’re growing at the ends of the branches like odd fruit. There are small beings, pixies? Your mind tries to supply, staring at the small winged beings surrounding various puddles of wax on the forest floor. You can’t make out what they’re saying, their voices are high and quick, but you’re reminded vividly of movie witches, divining things with scattered stones or ripples in water. One of them dips their hands in the still warm wax, exclaiming in delight when it hardens into some shape that seems special.

Harper passes by all of them, heading for a cottage tucked so closely in between two trees that you’re fairly sure the cottage has been grown between them. Candle wax has dripped so thickly down the roof that it looks like carefully piped icing over spiraling tree trunks - but on the left hand corner, the wax is growing back into thin tapers again. You’re so distracted by the sights around you, by the structure of the house and the different colored candle flames in the trees, that you almost don’t notice him at all.

There’s an angular faced man standing on the front porch, reclining against one of the support beams. He acts as if he can’t see the two of you, staring out over the pixies and the candle trees, even as you come to a near breathless stop at the foot of the stairs.

He’s just as strangely enchanting as Harper, though he looks nothing like her.

His eyes are sloe dark, mouth pinched and frowning - though there are faint lines at the corners of his eyes that say he’s more fond of smiling. His ears are pointed, left exposed by his swept back hair, and heavy gleaming silver earrings dangle from his earlobes. He… Rather looks like he just rolled out of bed, wearing nothing but a gray robe, belted loosely at the waist that sets off the lovely, warm shade of his skin.

“Let me guess,” Harper says sharply, after the man makes no move to acknowledge the two of you. “You were Calling again this evening?”

“Isn’t that what you were doing, going out to the bridge?” He asks imperiously, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. For half a second, you think he passes over you completely, but curiosity spreads over his face when Harper rolls her eyes at you - a silent can you believe this guy? Hanging in the air.

“I don’t mourn when I come back empty handed,” Harper replies, crossing her arms over her chest.

Peregrine - for you can only assume that he is the one you’ve come to see - whirls, his robe flapping indecently around his thighs. You politely avert your eyes, though you have to clamp down on a smile when Harper snorts.

“And yet you haven’t come back empty handed!! You’ve found yourself a lovely changeling. One grown! You didn’t even have to replace them!” Peregrine clutches tightly to the railing around his small cottage, sharp brows raising when Harper simply smiles at him. “Have you come simply to be obstinate?” Peregrine asks, straightening his spine and robe both. “Because if you have-”

“Your Call was answered, Peregrine,” Harper says with a sigh, finally relenting. She gestures to his robe, and an item initially hidden from your sight. Threaded from the sash of the robe, bouncing against his hip, is a pan flute.

Peregrine looks down at the flute like it’s betrayed him, though fondness is in his gaze too. “Everyone knows my Calls are failures,” he whispers, though his eyes dart, cautiously, to your face. “Your Call?”

“Okay. I’m sor-” You start.

“No apologies!” Harper says, clapping her hands to her ears and frowning at you. Even Peregrine looks startled. “If they aren’t meant utterly, don’t speak the words.”

“Right,” you say gently, glancing back and forth between them. “I would like to ask some questions?” You try. Do questions have to be “meant utterly?” Neither of them say anything else though.

Peregrine looks absolutely delighted, and about two steps away from clapping in his glee. Harper nods her head, slowly lowering her hands.

“You’ve mentioned a Call and a geas several different times now. And called me a changeling? Isn’t that when-” You pause, half wanting to hunch your shoulders up around your ears. “Isn’t that when faeries steal human babies?”

“Not exactly,” Harper says, almost drowned out by the tea kettle noise that Peregrine makes.

“We Call changelings home!!” He says, leaving behind his railing and making a beeline for you at the bottom of his stairs.

“We do,” Harper corrects. “Not all those who Call changelings Call them for such kind reasons.”

“Spring is taught that if you wrest something unkindly by the roots, it will rarely thrive,” Peregrine mutters and then takes your face in both of his warm hands, turning your head this way and that. “Is it.. you?” He asks, leaning close enough that you have to cross your eyes to try and focus on him. Harper promptly yanks you out of his hands, stepping carefully in front of you to keep Peregrine away.

“We Called. Perhaps if you’d gone to the bridge, then yes, it would only have been you-” Harper scowls when Peregrine throws himself at her, picking her up by her middle and swinging her around in a circle. During the second twirl though, you’re fairly sure you see a smile on Harper’s face, her eyes closed as she lets Peregrine have his fun, her pale dress rippling in the twirling breeze.

They come to a complete and sudden stop as soon as you take a step backwards though. The sight of it is enough to have you breath catching, startled by the way they’ve frozen utterly. If Harper’s skirts weren’t still settling around her thighs, if Peregrine’s robe wasn’t still adjusting to the sudden stop, you might have done more than stumble back a few paces.

“...Can I interrupt?” You ask, uncertain, tasting your pulse on the back of your tongue. You don’t feel.. Frightened, but they are making some kind of claim to your person, you understand that much.

Both of them turn their heads to look at you, and their faces, the intensity of their stare, the strangeness of their features- maybe you have been flirting with danger, wandering the streets at night, looking for… For faerie music. You’re not sure whether the adrenaline coursing through your system is due to wonder or a mild panic.

“I’m guessing,” you start, tugging uncomfortably at your clothes, “that you’ve both somehow ‘Called’ me? Does this mean I have to stay here, or do I-”

“You will always get a choice,” they both say in tandem and then jump, glancing at one another and laughing.

“Though I cannot lie,” Peregrine says, finally letting Harper back onto her feet. He doesn’t let go of her hand though. “If you leave so quickly, I fear I’ll be heartbroken for eons.”

“And you haven’t been heartbroken for these past few decades?” Harper asks scathingly, though the smile revealing her needle like teeth is.. Strangely sweet.

“I’m- I can’t say that I’m planning on leaving yet,” you confess, crossing your arms over your chest. It’s more than nerve wracking, being put on the spot this way, trying to figure out your place when you’ve heard- “I still have more questions.”

Peregrine reaches out, snagging your hand. “Then come in, won’t you?” He urges, both suave and desperate in his tone. “I have questions as well.”

You glance over his shoulder, something in you easing when Harper gives a single, slow nod of her head.

(to be continued and finished! in part iii!)

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster girlfriend #faerie x reader #female faerie x reader #male faerie x reader #d.darling writes #harper #peregrine

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grimmseye · 4 years

Text

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Twelve

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: M

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual),

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Violence, The best kind of romantic relationships are when you fight big monsters together

— — —

Seeing this side of the world reminded Essek why they were envious of the Empire.

The Ashkeeper peaks, at their southernmost edge, were bright with life. Even in the nighttime, the lands buzzed with a steady drone of noise, small and mundane creatures that would bear them little harm so far from the wastes of Xhorhas.

They didn’t have these luxuries of rich growth and predators that thought you too big to be their next meal. The Dynasty’s lands were long blighted, and what stood today came from centuries of building from scrap.

Essek was not much of a patriot, but he still had some love for his home, and still wanted to see it flourish. Beholding the verdant jungles that spilled out far below, he could not tamp down the resentment for what they’d been denied.

One ear flicked back at the sound of approaching steps. Essek turned as Mollymauk caught up with him, his coat draped between his arms to carry several handfuls of small, round fruit. The smile on his face beamed joy and contentment as he shuffled up to Essek and held out his coat in offering. “Blueberry?”

“Another fruit named after its color,” Essek observed, but reached for a few.

“Make sure to take the firmer ones. A mushy berry will ruin your day,” Molly advised, and Essek rolled back a few that had been soft between his fingers.

They were little blooms of sweetness on his tongue, and he couldn’t help but let a smile spread across his face. Xhorhas struggled to maintain their farms, druids and bards and clerics filtering out to the fields to bless the lands and enrichen the soil. While it let them till the land, magic had a way of leeching the flavor from anything that grew there. It left much to be desired beyond the edible fungi that naturally grew in the wastes.

“Good?” Molly prompted, smiling. “Hey, hey, hand over your bag, will you? I can’t carry these forever.” He reached for Essek’s pack without waiting for real permission, tugging a small pocket open to start shoveling berries inside. “Just let me know when you want some more!”

When the berries were safely offloaded and the pocket closed, they fell into step back along the deer path they’d been following. An arc of one finger sent orbs of light bobbing through the air around him to illuminate their road once again.

They had only been traveling a few hours, his teleportation spell landing them further than he might have liked. Mollymauk took to the mountains with glee, his hooves allowing him to hop up steeper slopes with ease while Essek simply let graviturgy boost him up the hills. It made him feel warm to see Molly scamper up to the crest of another slope and then spin around, absolute delight on his face as he drank in the world below them.

“Mollymauk,” he called, and watched him twitch to attention. “More berries, please.”

“Get your ass up here first,” Molly shouted down. It was a blessing that he didn’t start his usual jeering.

Once Essek had joined him, Molly dutifully opened the pouch, delivering another handful of berries. Several steps down the path, he got a tug on his arm, and the tiefling’s mouth opened wide in expectation.

“You could have gotten your own,” Essek pointed out, but fed him a berry. Teeth closed around his pointer finger, scraping as Essek pulled away.

Molly waggled his eyebrows. Essek turned to walk away.

“Gods’ sake, Essek,” Molly groaned. He caught Essek around the shoulders to pull him down, lips meeting. The hand that didn’t cradle blueberries found Mollymauk’s arm instead, squeezing in expectation for the filthy sort of kisses Molly liked to spring on him these days. Instead he found himself smiling as Molly pressed one, two, three, small pecks to his lips, and then another to his nose, and again to his lips, this time to mumble, “You’re such a hardass.”

“You’ve done nothing to discourage me,” Essek pointed out, and Molly barked out a laugh.

It made travel impossibly slow, but Essek had never enjoyed himself more on this road. Earlier in his career, he had traveled with bands of Kryn soldiers, escorting him under the night, moving quick and quiet with the constant dread of being found out beyond their borders. As he developed his skills and reputation, he’d started coming alone, trusting his own resilience to make a quick escape if needed.

Neither had been enjoyable. Being alone had been an improvement, allowing him the peace to enjoy the change in scenery, but in recent months he’d recognized something that colored all memories of his past: a loneliness that ached to his core.

Now he had Mollymauk.

The Ashkeeper peaks were home to drakes. They weren’t true dragons, lacking their power and intelligence, but hunting one down would fetch a good price in any shaded market. Essek wasn’t here for poaching, though — all he needed were the shed scales that lined their nests.

They reached the peaks a few hours before dawn. The moons had slid out of view, leaving a bright field of stars overhead. He dismissed the lights around them, and they both took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the new darkness.

Mollymauk stuck close from that point forward. His visual range was significantly reduced compared to Essek’s, and he followed close behind. When Essek’s hands drifted to his component pouches, Molly’s swords hissed from their sheathes.

He had been to this drake’s lair a few dozen times already, and knew its patterns. A male, it always left the nest at night to hunt. It dwelled in a cave at the very peak of the Ashkeepers, where snow lined its crest well into summer.

Mollymauk’s steps were near-silent in the frost. Essek cast Message, whispering “Don’t stray from me,” before he set a hand on Molly’s shoulder and cast invisibility on them both.

His grip tightened as Mollymauk’s image slid away. He kept pace, Molly’s tail weighed against his side as the tiefling eased towards the mouth of the cavern. The temperature only dropped further as they passed under its roof. The inside of the cave nearly crystalline with ice. Even invisible, the fog of their path mingled with that which circulated inside.

Essek would give Mollymauk nudges to direct him through the tunnels, the two of them slipping around frozen bends, a veritable maze carved into the mountain. At its end was another cavern, this one with walls and burrows to form an uneven landscape. Essek knew that at the farthest point, the drake’s nest would be tucked away, filled with soft snow and plant matter and any shiny thing the creature could get off the ground.

A low, rumbling sound made both of them freeze. It rolled through the cavern, bouncing off the frozen walls. They held their breaths, counting the seconds of silence before it was chased by a hissing, sucking sound.

Snoring. That was the sound of snoring. The drake was still in its nest.

Molly’s hand replaced his tail, a weight at Essek’s side. He dragged it up, to his arm, his shoulder, skimming fingers along the length of his neck and over his jaw, until he’d found Essek’s ear and held it in place. Heat burned his cheeks as he leaned down and Molly pressed close.

The tiefling’s lips were practically on top of his ear as he whispered, “Still good to go?”

His hand dipped to cup Essek’s cheek, so Molly felt it when he nodded. There was a squeeze to his jaw, and a moment later, Molly slipped away.

The absence terrified him. Essek pulled a piece of iron from his pouch and clutched it in his hand. Even prepared, he was still too far away to cast. He watched Molly’s path through the mist, eyes fixated on every uneven swirl of fog until it grew too dense to parse.

Then his eyes were focused on the drake’s nest, which hovered at the very edge of his vision. He held his breath, blood pumping in his ears.

The edges of the nest were lined with glinting shapes — silver scales. It was the sudden loss of one’s light that alerted him to Molly’s position, watching as a shape lifted, and vanished. Then, seconds later, another. Then a third. All the while, the drake in the nest snored peacefully away.

One by one, Molly plucked the scales from the nest and tucked them safely away. Essek had almost let himself breathe again — and then a scraping sound came from above.

Essek froze. He prayed Molly had done the same, ears straining for the noise. It was the echo of scrabbling talons growing steadily louder, and closer. His eyes widened as he stared at the roof of the cavern, where one of those burrows tunneled up through the mountain to open air, where another silver snout was poking through.

The drake had apparently found itself a mate. Now the new one crawled onto the ceiling, something bloody clutched in its mouth. Its wings spread, bringing it gliding down to the cavern floor, Essek’s heart leaping in his chest as it landed on the edge of the nest. It was not, apparently, on top of Mollymauk, for the drake only siddled back onto the ice and began to scrape at it with its claws.

Mollymauk was invisible. He only needed to stay still and wait for the creature to settle down. Essek repeated this in his head as he watched the chunk of meat — a torn-off deer’s haunch, he was sure — get tucked down in the ice and then blasted with a stream of pure frost from the creature’s throat. It nudged the heap left over, muzzle coming away coated in snow, and for just an instant it looked like it was going to curl up peacefully in its next.

Then its nostrils flared. The pupils dilated, a snarl echoing through the cavern, this time the breath exhaled was more than just snow — it was a cone of jagged ice, to cut and freeze and kill. Essek felt the thread of his spell snap, Mollymauk flickering into view as a silhouette ducking away from the blizzard.

Essek’s feet hit the ground. He moved faster this way, darting forward across ragged ice. The other drake was waking now, as an arc of flaming orbs formed a halo above Essek’s head and then blared jets of fire into its mate.

Molly tried to retreat, scrabbling back. The awoken drake caught sight of him and then shrieked and lunged, the first snap of its jaws missing but talons catching his thigh. Molly snarled. His sword flashed down, Essek threw out a hand. The velocity of his swing doubled just before he struck, driving the blade deep into the meat of the creature’s back.

The second, the male drake, jumped from behind Mollymauk. Essek rushed forward, squeezing the chunk of iron tight enough that it cut into his palm and willing the beast to freeze in place. His magic curled around it for only a moment before it broke free of his grasp. It snapped at Mollymauk with a vengeance, clothes shredding around its teeth and jaws slicked with blood..

Molly couldn’t escape, barred in by two of the beasts. Essek snarled to himself, shifting to an angle where he could line up their thrashing bodies. “Mollymauk,” he called. The tiefling caught his gaze, saw the electricity as it pulled into Essek’s grip, and dove for the female’s tail.

He swung forward. The air pressure dropped, and dark purple lightning burst across the floor. It caught the female in the skull, its mate springing away with a hiss. Molly took the distraction, swinging viciously into the already bloodied drake as it staggered and wailed.

Essek hesitated for only a moment before getting even closer. He could get them out, he just needed to get to Mollymauk first.

And then the female turned, frost billowing between its teeth, and both of them were surrounded by pure cold. Essek shuddered, his legs giving way, knees hitting the ground. Snowflakes clung to his eyelashes, blurring his vision, skin stinging where needles of ice pricked through his flash.

He panted, gulping in a breath before he pushed himself upright. Mollymauk was still on his feet, defending himself against both of the beasts with blood dripping down his chin.

One step forward. Fresh blood drooled from Molly’s eyes, but the tail still caught him in the legs, made him stagger.

Another step. Molly dug one sword into the ice, the other glowing with radiant light. He lunged, dragging a crimson line into metallic scales.

Another step. The drakes both snarled, jaws parting in near unison, two mouths full of ice to expel.

Essek’s hand clamped onto Mollymauk’s shoulder, and he pulled.

They landed outside the cave, several hundred feet down the mountain. The shift in pressure made his ears pop as they collapsed in the grass.

For a moment, they both just caught their breath, adrenaline making his hands shake and his head swim. He listened as Mollymauk regained his bearings, shoving himself onto his knees.

“Can we run one gods- damned errand,” Mollymauk snarled, wrestling Essek’s pack away, “without something getting its teeth into me.”

There was the clink of glass. Essek rolled over, pushing himself to sit up. Mollymauk had pulled out a pair of potions, and was holding both of them out to him.

Essek frowned. “You take one,” he said, lifting a single bottle from his grip. He braced himself and downed it, the grimace from its taste giving way to relief as warmth flushed over his skin again.

Molly shrugged, pinched his nose, and did the same. Essek had to chuckle as Molly gagged and dove for the blueberry pouch.

He watched as Molly crammed a handful past his lips, then threw himself onto the ground. The grunt and groan that followed suggested the potion hadn’t patched everything up just yet.

He chuckled, and then settled his chin in one hand, elbow propped on a knee. “That was unfortunate,” Essek sighed. “I’ll have to go back to making this trip in a group if there’s a pair of them, now.” He was glad they hadn’t actually managed to kill one. If the drakes abandoned that nest, he’d be out of good components. “At least information means the trip wasn’t an utter waste.”

Molly, mouth stained with blueberry juice, suddenly perked up. He gave a wet, food-muffled noise that made Essek grimace before digging into the pockets of his coat. When he pulled his hands free, it was with a bundle of silver scales each.

Essek’s face lit up. He took the scales, even those streaked with blueberry juice, to examine them for a moment and slip them into his component pouch. Excitement thrummed in his chest. That would restore an entire batch of potions and leave him some leftover material for experimentation — he could kiss Mollymauk for that.

He could. That was the truth. Essek peeked back at Molly, to find the tiefling sitting up again with a squinty-eyed grin.

It took a moment to steel his courage before he cupped Molly’s face and pressed a kiss to his lips. The shock and then delight that shone in his eyes after had some odd pride flaring in Essek’s chest.

He’d almost grown comfortable with the arrangement. Mollymauk almost always initiated, pulling him down for kisses or burrowing into his space, clinging in bed when the night was cold. Sometimes he’d push Essek down in that bed and leave marks on his neck that the mantle would hide. Sometimes Essek came home carrying tension in every muscle and Molly would nudge him against the wall and sink to his knees, or lay out across the bed on his belly, tail curling, voice goading.

Turning the tables was fun. Seeing the warmth in Molly’s eyes made his heart do something strange but not quite unpleasant.

“Let’s get a little further out before resting,” Essek suggested, before pulling Molly another five hundred feet down the mountain.

He cast a spell, then, one that Molly had seemed delighted by when he first heard of it. Magnificent Mansion was a requirement for travel. The doorway shimmered into being, and the two of them vanished inside. There were a few plants Essek will need to gather under sunlight come morning, but for now, they could lay in a bed and rest.

And they did. They sank onto a mattress, injuries still too sore to do anything but curl around each other and bask in shared heat after being doused in the mountain’s chill. Meditation was easy to slip into, the deepening of Molly’s breaths becoming the metronome to carry him somewhere beyond conscious thought.

These were moments that made him feel like even in the worst of times, things could still be okay. The yawning pit of his future had given way to a flicker of light.

He was woken by the feeling of a spell shredding through the threads of his magic.

Essek’s heart skipped the moment before he was shunted into another space. He hit the ground in a heap, gasping in one breath before the air became flame.

A scream ripped from his throat. He thought for a moment it was echoing, until he realized Mollymauk was shrieking as well. In the span of seconds, every inch of his flesh was sent crawling with agony, blood pulsing heavy under his skin and leaving him stunned when the inferno fell away.

Arrows had embedded in his body almost without him noticing. He reached for his component pouch, grabbing hold of Mollymauk as they staggered upright. He’d burned too much magic to bring them home, but maybe he could put enough distance, could hide —

The spell crumbled to ash. Essek’s gaze focused on the caster, horror twisting in his gut. Mollymauk met his eyes, then shoved him, barking, “Just run!”

So he ran, dragging Mollymauk behind him. His hand lifted to try again, just one successful cast to save them.

A series of snaps pierced his ears before the bolts drove under his skin. He pitched forward, registering only pain the second before the world turned to black.

Elsewhere, it was raining.

They stood on a hillside, the clouds opened up to a frigid downpour. It wasn’t a storm, yet, but the force of the wind was a warning.

Two pairs of hands dug through slick mud, finding the earth below loose and pliant, the grave they had dug so long ago now revealing itself as empty.

#shadowmauk #mollymauk tealeaf #essek thelyss #mollymauk #essek #cr #cr fic #my writing #queue

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shame-cubed · 4 years

Text

the fantassy au pile

I started this forever ago but haven’t made any progress in a long time. I’m trying to focus on Invitations, so, I’m projectile vomiting all my other ideas up here in an attempt to get them out of my head. I don’t know if it’s working.

---

It's blacker than midnight in the thickness of forests, and comfortably silent, like footsteps on moss—until it's not.

"Once upon a time," Speaks a warbling voice, airy but grizzled with age, it boldly echoes from a loft unseen; then halts abruptly.

"Oh, you know how it goes... Let's just cut to chase, now, shall we? I’m not getting any younger." The words seem to ring, punctuated with a croaking laugh that fades with the dark, all but banished by the flick of a switch just as invisible.

Beaming spotlights glare from above and behind, settling upon weighty velvet curtains charmingly spring-like in colour. A cascading pair of blossoming pink and eggshell blue, upheld by tassels that shine, so similar, to the sparks of dust floating within the bright tracks dutifully illuminating those deep-seated wrinkles of fabric. They part like the seas of another tired tale, then ascend in a deliberately slow, undulating wave. This scalloping formation led by embroidered edges of taught, silver ropes; rises in a swell to unveil a stunning diorama of marbled brick, embellished with a labyrinth of vines, adorning a castle far too colossal to be merely a prop.

The mirage-like structure wavers and gleams, its pearly stonework reflecting the lights at a blinding intensity. Catching its sheen, the drifting filaments glitter akin to a powder snow; multiply, accumulate, and replace the fleeing shadows with a blizzard that stings the eyes. An avalanche of white soon packs every corner, amounting in heaps so infinitely immense and so overwhelmingly bleached, that it hurts.

---

“Get back here yah dirty lil’ miscreant!” An ireful yell bellows overhead, followed by the hurried thudding of mud-caked boots barely held together by faded strips of leather. Their unkempt owner dips beneath the cloth-draped counter of a flimsy marketplace stall, slides along the dusty cobblestones, rolls into a crawl, then breaks into a long-legged sprint as he shoves through the clamorous mob of meandering bourgeois claiming their daily bread.

“Someone stop that wretched lad!! The gangly imp! That swindling bastard!!” The fiery roar of expletives launched by his pursuer is gradually extinguished by the sheer distance between them. Keeping his pace as he rounds a corner, the boy glances over his shoulder for signs of the shopkeep, then, like whiplash, instantly jerks forward when his body makes sudden impact with a smaller one that he failed to notice ahead. Both parties fly backwards and hit the ground flat on their asses.

This obstacle of a girl, about his age, pushes her thick hair out of her eyes; a coal-black cut of jagged bangs, half-parted to the side, half-pinned back. Icy blue irises thin beneath their lids, not unlike the slight pout of her lips, revealing no emotion other than mild irritation.

“Watch where yer goin.” Her voice is monotonous, flat as her expression, and rough with a linguistic bite he'd never heard before. Adorned with ink-dyed leathers and angular iconography only recognizable from a tapestry he once saw—evidently, she wasn't of local blood.

He narrows his eyes back at her, frowns, but says nothing; choosing instead to break the stare-down by searching for the loot he'd dropped in their collision. Someone could still be after him, so he hasn't the time to waste on petty interactions with outsiders. The girl rights herself and peers into her pockets, then joins him in scanning the ground, appearing to have lost something of her own, too.

A small satchel of coin lies near, and as he picks it up, he palms the weight to be sure none of the meager sum within has left its confines. He stashes it back into his fraying trousers, clambering to his knees as he plucks two bruised apples from the cobblestone that were to be his lunch and dinner. His grimace deepens, as his prime acquisition eludes his vision.

“Ah, there ya are, Morpeko.”

Wary, the disheveled thief turns his head at the sound of an unfamiliar name spoken by this unfamiliar girl, and his violet eyes blow wide at the sight of a tri-coloured mouse clinging to the pilfered pastry he’d been searching for.

"This fancy goodie yers?" She says with a hint of disbelief, gingerly lifting both the snack and its vermin passenger from the ground.

“It is, now get your disgusting rat away from my breakfast.”

---

One after the other, the group of squires pass row upon row of marble pillars as they follow Oleana into their King’s immense throne room.

Bronze statues of elephants tower from each corner, splendidly engraved in a paisley motif, each gripping a gilded rose at the tip of their raised trunks. The metal behemoths point towards a convex roof, its dome intricately painted with the climax of an age-old fairy tale. Swirls of vibrant colour span the ceiling—red and blue brushstrokes establish the fluttering forms of twin princes in flamboyant outfits, sinking their swords deep into the hide of a dual-winged dragon. The villainous creature dwarfs the heroes in comparison; swathed in scales of white-gold, its prismatic eyes set with sizable gemstones that flicker in the candlelight, seeming to scrutinize the soon-to-be knights as they gather below.

---

His head hits stone as her full weight slams into him, eyes screwed shut in a pained wince. Slotted between his gorget and his chin, the cold metal of her blade grazes his throat with every shaky gasp and tentative swallow. She’s so close. There’s nothing between them but shells of armour; pulses racing beneath plates pressed together. Heaving against each other, breath short from their battle, he can feel her warmth bleeding into him.

Held tight against the wall, steel kissing his neck; Bede decides he’s perfectly fine with dying if it’s by her hand. He resolves to gaze into her eyes like it’s his last chance, his best attempt at a smoldering stare—like in the novels he’s read—completely thrown out the window when her leg wedges itself between his thighs.

Gloria still manages to crack a grin at him despite the situation. ”Giving yourself up to me so easily, now?” Her smile is confident, or it was until a blush takes over her face, seeming to only realize the sort of words she’s speaking several moments after they’ve left her lips. It’s almost charming.

“Just kill me, already.” Bede groans. Why did she have to resort to psychological torture? Was it not enough to defeat him? He’s pinned in place by her sword, subject to her whim... There's not much he can muster other than to let his eyes wander. He notes the sheen of sweat on her skin and knows quite factually that he isn’t in any better condition.

“You know I don’t want to do that.”

---

it ain’t much but it’s honest werk... maybe one of these days i’ll get my shit together aaaaa

#cubewrites #bederiafantasyAU #take this as penance for my sins

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solynacea · 5 years

Text

The First Tree

Merry Christmas, @babydonut01s-world! I was your Secret Santa this year; below is a story based on The Christmas Fairy of Strasburg by Francis Jenkins Olcott. I hope you like it!

As Lord Meliodas paced the halls of his keep, he found himself more irate than usual. He had only just come from another fruitless meeting with his advisors, who continued to press him to take a wife so that he might have a son to whom he can one day leave the reaches of his domain, yet all those presented to him for his consideration had failed to rouse the barest of his interest. They were too tall, or too short, or too round, or not round enough, a high-pitched nag or a simpering fool. No doubt the old fools who served him believed they had chosen the best for his perusal; if those wretches were the best his lands have to offer, then he would remain unwed for the rest of his days. Let His Majesty decide where the fertile forests and fields go upon Meliodas’ death. He would have no use of them then, anyway.

He decided, as he sometimes did when his mind was thunderous, to take his horse down the forest trails. It was the only time he found any solitude, or peace, and he returned to his quarters only briefly to bundle up against the winter cold before heading down to the stables. A boy there hastened to prepare his finest steed; with the cool leather reins in his fist, his heart began to lighten, and he guided the horse to and through the castle gates. Snow fell lightly through the air, the flakes slow and fat and lazy as they spiralled to cover roofs and shrubs, no doubt bringing joy to the children who lived in the village nearby. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and they would sing their cheer at how fitting it was that it should snow, only to curse it when they were forced to wait for their fields to thaw.

His breath puffed in clouds as he moved through the gnarled oaks that marked the boundaries of the forest. Meliodas had no particular destination in mind. He would ride until he was too cold to bear it anymore, then return to the warmth of his halls and drink mulled, spiced wine to shake the chill from his bones. He passed bushes of holly, their bright fruit obstinately cheery, and firs with coats of lush green needles, taking a meandering path as meaningless as the continued insistence upon his marriage. When he tilted his head back, the whirls of snow drew him in, landing with soft, cold kisses upon his brow and cheeks. Perhaps he would simply remain here for the rest of his days. Estarossa could have the lands, or Zeldris. They would run it well.

It was the abrupt halting of his horse that shook him from the near trance; they were in a part of the wood unfamiliar to him, and a frown marred his features as he carefully dismounted. A small clearing surrounded him, still and quiet, and in the center was a spring, the ground near the edges unfrozen and vibrant with soft, green grass. It was peaceful, and alluring, and he crossed to the water, kneeling next to it to peer within its depths, surprised to see it dark and deeper than he first thought. A soft light swirled within, seeming to call to him. Reach out, it said, warm yourself within my embrace. Aren’t you cold?

He realized quite suddenly that he was. His hands, which he had forgotten in his haste to cover with gloves, ached with it, the fingers pink and stiff and the rings like little blades biting against his flesh. But beneath the ridiculous urge to sink them into the inviting waters was the warning imparted to him by his mother, a woman of whom he only remembered her voice and the kindness of her smile. “The forest is no place for a boy,” she’d told him from beneath the blankets meant to break her fever. “There are fey creatures there who would love nothing more than to keep you forever. Estarossa did not heed me, and he is addled now. But you will be good, and listen to your mother, will you not?” And he, a mere child of seven, had solemnly promised that he would, and he had never set foot within the woods on his own until the hunt that sealed him as a man. Yet there was nothing dangerous here, not that he could see, and steam curled enticingly from the surface of the spring, as if pleading with him to rest and warm his hands. After another moment of hesitation, he listened to the call, dipping his fingers into it.

Joy, fierce and strong, sung through him as a golden heat climbed slowly through his veins. It was not just his hands that lost the cold, but the rest of him too, until he was sweating beneath his heavy cloak. Meliodas let out a quiet groan and submerged himself farther, so that the water lapped around his wrists, an unbidden smile creasing his cheeks. Here, he forgot his worries and his ire; all that mattered was the soothing embrace of the spring and the comfort that came from it. He even fancied that he could feel another hand, small and dainty and smooth, caressing his own like a lover, and he closed his eyes to dwell on that, because it was lovely. Then he leaned over to dunk his face, and when he was mere inches from doing so he paused, his breath catching in his throat. There was another set of hands, white and smooth, curling softly around his own, and as he drew away with a shout of alarm, they tightened just enough that the golden ring he wore slippes over his knuckle and into their palms.

He returned to his horse, goading it into a sprint back to his keep. The ring was no small matter, as it was given to his family by His Majesty and marked their place among his nobility, and he was of the mind to have the servants go and drain the spring. But it was night when he returned — the loss of an entire afternoon sending more unease settling over his heart — so instead he left the horse at the stables and returned to his room to draw up a written order for the next morning. When that was done, he retired to his bedchamber, falling into the couch and closing his eyes, attempting sleep. Yet that eluded his grasp, and he settled into a half-doze, until the baying of the watch-hounds in the yard pulled him harshly from that. Meliodas remained where he was as the sounds of feet on the stairs reached his ears, coming to a halt in the antechamber. Then there were voices, loud and jovial, and he sprung from the couch in a mixture of fury and fear, the starting of a strain of lovely music doing nothing to soothe his nerves.

In the antechamber, there were numerous beings, singing and dancing and chattering excitedly amongst themselves as they flitted about an enormous fir. Some of them were no bigger than the lantern bugs of summer, while some towered to the beams of the ceiling, and their skin is varied, yet all of them seemed full of cheer. He watched them for a moment, his voice locked in his throat, as they decorated the tree with strings of pearls and ruby bracelets, golden circlets and rich silk sashes, daggers with jewel-studded sheaths and rings glittering with sapphires. Meliodas could not move, entranced by the glittering tree, the lights that twinkled from its branches, and, as with the spring, his fear melted away to be replaced by a comforting warmth.

Then the folk fell silent, parting to make a path from the tree to him. Through it stepped a lady of dazzling beauty: her kind eyes seemed cut from the same sapphires that adorned the fir, her long, silver tresses were crowned with a diadem of gold and precious diamonds, her hair flowing around a silk gown of softest azure. She stretched out her hands, elegant and white, upon one which rested his lost ring, and said in soft, musical tones, “Lord Meliodas, I am Queen Elizabeth, of the fae. I have come to repay your Christmas visit, and to return something that was lost in the Fairy Well.”

Her voice was alluring, drawing him as it had at the spring. He took the ring from her small hand, sliding it over his knuckle; then, unable to resist, he pulled her to him, and she smiled as she folded her fingers over his own and lead him amidst the fairies. They danced until dawn, and Meliodas forgot his coldness towards maidens and his disdain of marriage; when the sun kissed the horizon with rosy hues, he fell to his knees and begged her to become his bride. Elizabeth joined him on the floor, lifting his face to hers with her fingers. “I will stay by your side,” she answered softly, “so long as you do not utter the word ‘death’ in my presence, as it is the most abhorrent thing to me.”

And Meliodas agreed.

They were married the next day, their wedding celebrated with much pomp and magnificence, and lived together happily for many years.

Yet men are full of folly, and arrogance, and often forget the promises they have made. So it was when one day, after the ground had thawed and the air was alive with birdsong, that Meliodas decided upon a hunt. The horses were saddled and bridled, stomping nervously against the ground, the men dressed in leathers and light armor, some with spears and others with bows, yet Queen Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen. Meliodas paced the hall, impatience and ire festering within him, until even his brothers watched him warily. As a youth, his temper had been fierce and dangerous and, though he had managed to tame it as he grew, it still flared to life on those occasions where he felt insulted. Finally, Elizabeth appeared in the hall, dressed elegantly in a green gown of silk, her diadem seated firmly against her locks, and he rounded on her in a fury.

“You have kept us waiting for so long,” he cried, “that you would make a good messenger to send for death!”

Scarcely had the word left his lips when the fairy let out a shrill, wild wail and disappeared from the hall. In vain, Lord Meliodas, overwhelmed by grief and remorse, searched the lands high and low for her, yet he could find no trace of her except for the imprint of her hand in the stone above the castle gate. Years passed, and Elizabeth did not return, and Meliodas continued to grieve. Every year, remembering the night they met, he set up a lighted fir in the antechamber where he first laid eyes on her, hoping that she would return. He never married, nor so much as entertained the maidens who came to court his favor, and the running of the castle fell to his brothers as he fell deeper into his sorrow. Time passed, and the young lord died not so young, and the castle eventually fell into ruin.

And that, some say, is how the first Christmas tree came to the kingdom of Liones.

#nntsecretsanta #nnt #nanatsu no taizai #nnt fanfic #nnt fanfiction #meliodas #elizabeth liones #melizabeth #writing #oneshot

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talesfromthegameff14 · 5 years

Text

Dominion

[ Uyagir headcannon incoming. Based loosely on the quotes found in game for one extremist branch of the tribe. Warnings for length, blood rituals, grey lore bits.] Anger smoldered in his veins as Ayanga ran from the Dawn Throne toward the Uyagir caves. He wore what the Uyagir typically wore, but dyed the color of the sky instead of the bleached out green the cave dwellers preferred. The loose skirt flowed easily with his movements as he ran into the wind that caused the spring grasses to undulate like waves on the ocean.

The sun was a thin sliver on the horizon when he arrived at the caves, breathing faster from the run but not heavily winded. The strangeness of running to what he had spent most of his life running from was lost on him in the moment. There was no doubt now, no hesitation. He was done with waiting and doubting. The promise that was broken? It was washed away by the blood on his hands. His only regret was that it took him this long to see it. Fortunately his sisters were wise and as A’sana pointed out, sometimes promises needed to be broken. By the time he strode into the main caves he was breathing more normally, the sweat from the run drying on his skin rapidly due to the desert air. The main cave was empty this early, most still with their families tucked away in the nooks and corners that gave an illusion of privacy as they tended to their morning tasks. The smell of cooking food was the only outward sign of that activity and Ayanga’s stomach growled in protest from the scent of even that plain fare. It’s another thing that goes unnoticed, his attention focused on a cluster of stalagmites in the back of the main cave. He’s a few fulms from his goal when the Elder stepped out from the shadows, blocking Ayanga’s way. The green haired man snaps at the Elder, <”Are you finally going to try to stop me?”> The younger man only stopped when he’s ilms from the Elder, tail cutting sharply through the air. The Elder can move, or be moved, it matters little to Ayanga. [Voodoo - Godsmack] For once, there was no humor in the old xaela’s eyes, no sense of the queerness that typically colored his words. <”Son of Ancients, what do you seek?”> Frozen in place, Ayanga stared at the Elder, for a moment everything was so sharp and fragile he didn’t dare to breathe. <”No one...”>, he cut himself off, shaking his head once to clear it before he answered. <”Wisdom, knowledge, the visions of our past that brought us to this place.”> The words were spoken with the cadence of ritual, but oddly cut off at the end. The Elder tilted his head slightly at the answer, seemingly waiting for more than what was said. The silence between the two men grows, Ayanga not backing down from the quiet challenge. He stayed as still as the air in the caves, not even his tail twitched while he waited. The Elder’s eyes moved to the necklace around the younger man’s neck, thoughtful. At that the silence was broken, a low sound of warning coming from Ayanga, <”It is mine. He gave it to me.”> That brought the white glazed eyes of the Elder abruptly up to Ayanga’s. <”Who gave it to you?”> <”Oktai”> <”You didn’t take it from-”> <”I took nothing of hers.”>, the snarled reply cutting the Elder off. <”When did he give it to you?”> <”Just before he died.”> The Elder’s rheumy eyes narrow, <”Where?”> <”Reflection”> A hiss follows that answer, <”Why there? How?”> <”He called me there.”> <”You were a b”> <”I know.”> Ayanga leans in, leaving less than an ilm between the two men, so that the elder could feel the heat of his words instead of only hearing it. <”He called me there in a dream. I woke up and followed the call down and through the labyrinth. I saw him reflected in the pool, surrounded by stars. I smelt death on his breath. It had the same scent as an herb Odtgerel traveled to Reunion to get. She told me to stay away from it, that it was dangerous, only for the trained. She killed him.”> <”You didn’t take it from her.”> <”No! It rots with her corpse in whatever forgotten place it lies.”> <”How do you know she’s-”> <”Dead? I buried her.”> <”Where?”> <”Why does it matter?”> <”I need to reclaim what she was given.”> <”Did you not listen? She was given nothing. She gave nothing to her family and was given nothing in return.”> <”But she-”> Wind blew through the cavern then, enough force behind it to travel past the entrance and into the main living space, rustling the clothing of those that were starting to gather for the day’s work. It was an oddity, enough of one to catch the attention of those present and give the Elder pause. Ayanga’s eyes turned distant, a horn tilted towards the cave entrance. As if in a trance he reached up and pressed the point of a claw into his thumb, just enough to draw up a bead of blood. <”You hear, but you do not listen. If you will not listen, you will see.”>, he whispered, pressing that drop of blood against the Elder’s forehead before he could react. The all but useless eyes of the old xaela glazed over and he fell to his knees, eyes darting back and forth focused things only he could see. Ayanga stepped around him and past the concealment of the stalagmites and into the tunnel that led to the labyrinth. He didn’t have to think, even with close to thirty years behind him Ayanga’s feet traveled the correct path through the tunnels, the passageway progressively narrowing until he had to belly crawl to get through the last turn. It was a near thing, a shudder passing through his entire frame when he accidentally scrapped a horn along a sharp bit of rock, popping off one of the ornaments he suffered through getting long ago. The tunnel opened up then, and he hauled himself up to his feet. <”Smaller than I remember.”>, he said to himself just before words echoed into the chamber from afar. <”Elder, are you alright?”> <”Where did Khe..Ayanga go?”> indistinct words <”Seer’s tunnel? We can’t follow, no one can.”> The last had Ayanga looking back to the hole he crawled out of, shock easy to read in his expression. No one at all? There were no more? How...? It clicked into place and sorrow replaced the shock. <”I’ll do as I must, regardless.”> The tunnel branched off into two, a strong scent of mineral and heat coming from one path and stillness from the other. Following the heat, Ayanga stripped as he went, arriving at the mineral pool clad in only the necklace Oktai gave him. The clothing was set to the side, neatly folded as always. The occasional bubble broke the surface of the pool, hidden by the shadows cast from the glowing crystals set into the walls. The air was quickly becoming stifling, the heat and humidity making it feel like lead in his lungs. The water was scalding, which was the point. Wash away what could be, burn away the rest, enter Reflection purified, the burdens of life sloughed away in a moment of pain. Knowing that didn’t make stepping into the pool any easier. Measured steps, down the ones carved into the stone just for this purpose. One step, wait, two steps, wait, three steps, wait. At the bottom step his shoulders were still above water and with a deep breath Ayanga bent his knees and burned. It was worse than the harae in Ishgard, he thought it wouldn’t be, but the minerals in the water burned as well as the heat. He needed to breathe, it was only seconds to stay, but the pain took his breath away. Even with the support of the water he swayed beneath the surface, spots blooming behind his eyelids as he counted out the seconds. It took all of his will power to slowly unbend his knees, it was mere seconds, but it felt like hours were spent under the water. The need to walk out tangled with the need to breathe and recover, slow was the only way he was going back up those steps. The tall man landed heavily on his hands and knees, bruising them on the rock and sand surface that bordered the pool. Instinct kept him moving, crawling out into the cooler air of the tunnel beyond. His skin was darker, flushed from the damage heat and minerals did while he was submersed. Ayanga’s mind was clear of the anger that brought him here, pain was good for that. In, out, in, out. All the Xaela could do was breathe in great gulps of air, staying where he fell as his body processed the shock of the cleansing. It was habit, refined in Doma, grounded in the time spent with his Grandfather. Burnt fingers pressed hard against the stone, seeking out the steady support of the earth. The wind spoke to him, but the ground was still under his feet and therefor a friend. When his breathing slowed and his heart stopped thundering in his chest, Ayanga stood up. His movements were deliberate and measured, both out of need and respect. This was not something to rush. Each step took him closer to Reflection, the tunnel here was smoothed over, the work of Seers past making the path upwards clear and easy. It was almost as he remembered. It was daytime, not night, his own choice instead of the traditional one. He was a child of Azim as well as the caves, the sun held no fear for him. The bright light of midday streamed through the broken roof of the cave, filtering down through the sphere of crystals suspended above the strangely still pool. That night it looked like liquid silver, now it looked just as odd, golden and rainbow hued as the sunlight reflected off of a surface that was iridescent, strange. Many runes were carved into the smooth, dark, rock floor. They were clustered around the perfectly circular pool, extending out a couple of fulms. Most of the space closest to the pool was decorated by the carvings, the ones closest to the pool were harder to read than those further out. One rune stood out from the rest, larger than the surrounding ones, stained and worn by age but still clear enough to read. Dominion. It was something he knew from the murals, the dominion of the Gods over the Xaela and why the Uyagir bowed. But, this was different. A different slant here, a curve there instead of a straight line. Ways of indicating Xaela instead of deity, familiar and very wrong all at the same time. A quick look around the smooth, upward curving walls of the cave pulled a detail from memory. This is where Oktai died, the stains? Only his blood, or more? Ayanga knelt in front of the rune,the burn of protest from the skin along his shins completely ignored in the moment. A finger traced the deep channels that were chiseled into the rock, ensuring that the rune would last the test of time. But maybe? Maybe it was for other reasons. The air was lifeless, immobile in the dome, but a whisper echoed in his horns regardless. Right claw was brought to the skin of his left wrist. The cut was swift and sure, the burn of the cut strangely intense due to the damage already done. He ignored it, holding his wrist so the blood from it dropped into the bottom corner of the carving. The floor of the cave slanted towards the pool, the slope allowing his aether charged blood to flow through the markings that made up the rune. Slowly, steadily, Ayanga’s world narrowed down to the path his blood took. Tracing it like that, he could see the duality of the rune, it wasn’t just Xaela. It was, Reflection within Dominion. The first rune revealed before the other was completed. Further the scarlet line flowed, steadily drawing his focus towards the pool. The blood was moving slowly then, the last of the rune completed. A narrow gouge, unnoticed until his blood touched it, allowed a few drops of blood to reach the pools edge. The water was lower than the rock, cohesion causing the scarlet liquid to tremble on the ledge. Time meant nothing as Ayanga’s heart pounded in his chest, everything hanging on that one, tremulous drop of blood. One more heartbeat, a bit more blood, and the bead to welled over to plop into the pool. [Change on the Rise - Avi Kaplan] A skeletal hand reached towards him, “It is time to see.” “Oktai, grandfather...”, Ayanga whispered, reaching for the hand only he could see through sightless eyes. The ray of sunlight shifted, illuminating the scarred hand that grasped nothing but air. Then Ayanga saw. Birth, life, death, the onward monotony of life within the caves droning backwards and backwards. Brief conflicts, rebellions, stained the caves red, but they were quickly settled, tumbling into a past rewritten by those that survived. Nothing must mar the perfection of their modesty, their pride would not allow it. The mural was tended to, shrinking in size as the years retreated within Ayanga’s mind. Seers guiding, and hiding, the truth from the tribe, teaching them to deny the violence of their nature. Dominion over self was revealed as the path of humility before the eyes of the Gods. From self reflection came control, the Uyagir over themselves and the Seers over the tribe. Reflection.

Then the walls were blank, a few battered Xaela taking shelter there from the chaos left in the wake of the Gods’ punishment. The failed defense of the Dawn Throne was crushing to all the tribes, it sent them scattering to the four winds, leaving the Uyagir to struggle against the God sent insects (machines?) all but alone. A sign the others said, a trial to show strength the Uyagir countered. If we cannot hold what is ours then we don’t deserve it. They could not hold against the wrath of the Gods. And still time marched backwards, revealing the decline of an Empire as sure as any in a more civilized place. Large to small, the peak to the beginnings, ambition and pride and a need to control that rivaled any other was steadily nurtured from the start of the tribe. That drive etched into stone when the first Khatun found the pool she saw in her dreams, that Ayanga knelt beside, and claimed it for her newly formed tribe. Dominion without Reflection.

The hand that held his vanished into the past, leaving him to crawl his way out of the memories that were not his and back to the present. It took time, more than he likely had, before Ayanga’s eyes cleared from the vision and he found himself in his own skin once more. The wound on his wrist had long scabbed over, the blood in the rune dried, the sun low enough that the sky was dark blue with the first hints of stars on the eastern horizon. The silence in the dome was complete except for the erratic beat of his heart and the rasp of his labored breath. Awareness of himself forced the tall man to double over and retch bile onto the stone, body and mind protesting what it was forced too see. It was too much that wasn’t his, the entire history of seer to seer to seer that shared the path the tribe took. The now dark pool of water called to him, promising peace within its depths, a place free from the memories that overwhelmed him. It would take little to tumble into it, but a small voice within reminded him that the trial was not yet complete. The sky was darker when he managed to gather the strength to resist the call and stand instead. Once, twice, he paced around the pool, the shakiness fading as he moved. One last thing, then he could leave. Settling on one of the last clear spots of stone near the edge of the pool, Ayanga knelt again to draw an end to his task. Reopening the cut on his wrist a bit, he dipped a claw into blood and carefully carved a new rune among the oldest made. Change.

#ffxiv rp #mateus rp #crystal data center rp #khenbish uyagir #also ayanga uyagir #OC Stories #just tribal stuff

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yzareenxiv · 6 years

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Vengeance

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*So I did what I had to do to not starve.*

This is not a place she’s spent much time. It is hot and dry and dusty and the taste on her tongue is of sand and sweat and desperation. The good thing about this place- the *only* good thing about this place… is that no one ever looks up.

It’s an easy matter to perch on sun-warm stones in the dark and listen to them speak. For the first few bells it had been mind-numbing. Talk of piestes. Talk of women. Talk of the east. Talk of trade. The amalj’aa. Cursing the Brass blades. She’d remained crouched, shifting in tiny increments to keep her muscles from cramping and hindering her if she needed to spring away.

Finally their talk turned and a name was spoken, one she recognized.

“Theobalt’s boy’s talkin’ o’ joinin’ the Blades. Y’ believe that shite?”

“Pshht. Gods-damned bastard gettin’ high n’ mighty now. Figgers he’d start fishing fer more n’ scraps. Hear tell he’s got himself a nice cozy lil’ spot in Eastern Thanalan now. Runnin’ some kind o’ scam outta Highbridge. Got a nice house n’ fluffy bed while we’re out here rotting under the god’s damned sun.”

“Ain’t a lick o’ justice in the world.”

“Best we c’n do is hope he gets the crotch-rot from some Ul’dahni whore, eh?”

The two men laughed. Zareen ducked away, a fierce smile of satisfaction curling across her lips.

=====

*I begged. And they laughed in my face.*

It hadn’t been as difficult as she’d expected to find the ‘cozy lil’ spot’. A shack, really. But far and away better than scraping in the dirt in a cavern. She settled down into a spot where she could watch it without being seen. Learn the patterns. This was not a matter of a knife in the dark. This would be so very much more. It deserved her time. Her care. Her patience.

Living in the shack was a man- Highlander, dark tan, long dark hair, middle-aged, well-made but simple clothing. He’d leave in the mornings, come back at midday, leave again, and return in the evening- rarely alone. A succession of women, usually Hyuran. Some miqo’te. All of them left before dawn. A younger man visited often- not yet twenty years, certainly. Same tan skin. Lighter hair, cut short. Built on a large frame as was his sire. Theobalt called him Jesson.

A hand-span of days she spent just observing. Splitting her time between Doma and Thanalan. Going from one to the other was exhausting but she fell into bed each night with a warm satisfaction filling her chest and the arms of one of her mates around her. Her dreams were not nightmares, not exactly, but dreams where she was chasing something.

Something she knew she was going to catch.

=======

*I’ve had to scrape and claw and fight for every little thing I’ve earned in life.*

Night was falling. Theobalt was sitting on his small porch, smoking a pipe. No woman tonight. Jesson was with him. They spoke pleasantly of the boy’s plans to join the Blades. Business matters. The Blood Sands. Theobalt’s ambitions to move to Ul’dah. More business- something about moving product. It filtered through Zareen’s mind like the buzzing of flies as she watched.

Waited.

An unfamiliar footstep crunching on the road made a thwarted fury rise in her chest until she saw the man that made it. Tall. Silvered dark hair. Dark skin. Somewhere in his fiftieth year. Theobalt and Jesson both reacted with pleased surprise and got up to embrace the man, invited him to sit. Three generations.

It was enough and would never be enough.

Gliding from her hiding place, the huntress crept on cat-like feet to the back of the house before pulling herself up onto the low roof silent as a shadow. There, she felt...something. Something in her head. Something that threatened to derail her plans- it hurt. She pressed her face into the sun-bleached boards of the roof and closed her eyes, panted silently, braced herself against the shooting pains. When it passed, she glanced up at the stars. She’d lost...perhaps a bell. Not so very much. Enough that the sounds of the men had moved from the porch into the house. The scents of richly spiced stew, some strong alcohol decanted, and fresh brown bread drifted on the breeze and spoke of ill-gotten luxuries hidden inside the unassuming little shack.

It made her smile- and the pain at her temples faded away to be replaced by something. Some...knowledge. Nothing so clear as an incantation or a design or really even a thought. But something. And this made her smile wider. Sharper. Hungrier. It gave her something to focus on as the men in the shack ate and drank. When their conversation became more boisterous, she rose to her feet and focused. Whispering through the cracks of the little hovel, a sleep spell drew each of the three men below her into deep, dreamless slumber.

====

Her feet were light when she landed on the deck. She could hear them breathing- if she focused hard she could almost feel their hearts beating (that wasn’t right, she shouldn’t be able to do this…). Calling her magic, it flowed through her in a whisper of air that blew her hair forward and caused the front door of the shack to explode inwards. Splinters shredded their way through the flesh of Jesson, bringing blood to stain the young man’s clothing before the miqo’te closed an outstretched fist and pulled- the aero reversed and the splinters were ripped out until she opened her hand and they fell to the floor of the shack.

Pulled from the sleeping magic by the pain, Jesson was too startled to speak as the miqo’te stepped through the shattered doorway in a smooth hunter’s glide that put one foot delicately in front of the other. His hands moved to his wounds and he looked down to find his palms candy-coated red. The scream was in his throat in the same moment she pressed a clawed fingertip to his lips.

“Shhhh.”

Wide blue eyes lifted to meet slit-pupiled gold.

“You have to help me. I’m hurt.”

“Don’t worreh. I’m heah to help.”

Her claws whispered down his tunic and he looked down to follow them. A visceral, fierce desire to *live* filled him in the same moment that her fingertips lifted. Blood flowed, hot and fast. He stared, he froze- an instinctive response in the presence of a predator. The Jaguar’s lips pressed gentle against his temple and she purred into his ear.

“If you tell me youah sins, boy, it will go easieh on you.”

He did. Every pettiness. Every lie. Every woman he pushed too far and every man he’d slandered. Everything he’d done to get ahead, to make his way as the son of a nobody in a city where one’s name carried near as much weight as gil. It was a pitiful accounting of crimes and the huntress could scarcely keep from sighing in disappointment. He cried. He wept as he bled. She kept him talking, kept his attention on her. Cradled his head to her breasts and purred soft sounds of comfort. When he grew too weak to speak, she released the air magic keeping him pinned to his chair and stood, lifting his chin as his eyes grew dim.

“The sins of the fathehs fall to theiah sons, boy. May you have betteh luck in the next life.”

Her claws ripped through his throat before he could react, offering him a swift and near-painless death. His body slumped to the floor in a pool of his lifeblood. The other two men, untouched, slumbered on.

====

The grandfather... She did not know his name. It didn’t matter. He woke face-down on a hard, lumpen bed. Nude. In the dark. Trying to push himself up he realized what had woken him. There was a weight on his back. The clatter of stone against stone when he shifted made it clear what the weight was in the same moment that he felt the weight increase. The bed creaked. The stones clattered. His ribs creaked and he let out a hoarse cry of pain.

Her voice cut through the darkness like a breath of sultry heat.

“The weight is tehhible, isn’t it?”

This man was made of sterner stuff and rather than fold as his grandson, he let out a low leonine roar and tried to shove himself up, to shake off the stones. The pressure lessened and his hand snapped out to the side in a vicious punch- only to withdraw with a scream of pain as it met something immovable that shredded skin and shattered bone. More stone. Shaken, he shouted.

“Who’re you?! What d’ye want?!”

“Vengeance.”

Even wounded, trapped, afraid, the old man laughed. “Ain’t no such thing, ye dumb bitch.” His unbroken hand moved, subtle, creeping to try and find one of the stones that had fallen from his back. Grasping it, he pulled it towards himself and taunted. “I got somethin’ better n’ that for ye. I got connections- Ul’dah, Ala Mhigo. I can get ye anything ye want.”

She sighed, soft and warm, her lips close to his ear. He struck out with the stone and felt the satisfying meaty feedback of striking something made of flesh and bone. There was no cry of pain yet in his rage he struck out again and again until there was a loud CRACK and he felt bones break beneath his assault.

She watched as he snarled, as he roared in triumph, as he tried to shove the stones off his back. She watched with impassive eyes as he dropped the rock in his hand and started to feel around to see what he’d hit. She watched as his fingertips found the boy’s face. As they traced their way down under his body. As he realized what the lumpen bed beneath him was. She watched as he screamed and screamed and screamed until the effort shredded his vocal chords and became nothing but whispered sounds of terror. Then, she lowered herself down into the sarcophagus of stone she’d called up around him and knelt next to his head. She purred softly, a soothing rise-and-fall of sound that filled the enclosed space until his frantic sounds ceased.

“Help me.”

“Tell me youah sins and I will set you free of this weight.”

They poured out of him in frothy bubbles of filth and blood. Secrets kept. Innocent children harmed. Men and women sold to the highest bidder if they couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the price. He babbled, choking on his own blood, and when he could not speak anymore he cried. He wept. And she brushed gentle fingertips along his cheek, leaned in to press her lips to his...

Then drove her claws into his eyes at the same moment she called upon her magic and the stone beneath him formed spikes. The weight of earth on his back him drove him down mercilessly. But not swiftly. The huntress jumped out of the grave, listening to the helpless, terrified sounds rise from within it until the silence was broken only by the clatter of rock against rock as they settled into place. Flicking gore from her fingertips, she turned to the final man.

=========

Theobalt.

He woke confused. There were lips moving down his chest. Fingertips trailing along his skin. Warmth. Panted breathing. A sharp feeling- a playful bite. He reached out to catch her, to pull her down to where he wanted her to be. Where his body felt such *need*. He was on fire. Every nerve, every instinct, every bit of his mind filled with heat.

His hands were bound.

Firelight bloomed in the dark, every candle he owned lighting up as fire and lightning rippled through the room in a ribbon that left him blind and confused. The curtain separating the kitchen and dining room was shut with some darkness behind it. He was seated. Hands and ankles tied to his chair. The dining table was gone- he sat in the center of a ring of candles.

And kneeling at his feet like a supplicant was her. Wide gold eyes gazing up at him, her skin adorned with red body paint in patterns he found himself longing to lick away, her breasts large, her waist small, her hips wide. Her hair streaked in red. Her lips candy-coated. As he watched, she rested her hands on his knees and rose between his spread thighs until her breasts pressed against his abs and her lips pressed to his skin just above his heart.

“Who’re you?”

“Youah rewahd.”

“Reward? Fer what?”

She was silent. Green-gold aether glowed along her fingertips. Something was wrong. Her lips, her tongue was moving across his chest and she was rising up. Something was wrong. Her breasts were pressed to his chest. Something was wrong. Her lips were pressed to his throat.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

The heat. It was the heat. He was on fire. He was burning. Fever flushed his skin. Made it hard to think. Made him see things in the flickering candle-light. Things in the shadows.

His voice shook.

“*What* are you?”

“Youah rewahd.”

“Fer what?”

Her lips pressed to the sensitive skin just below his ear. They were so cold. Why were her lips cold. Her breath whispered across his skin.

“Do you remembeh a boy, a son of two traitoahs? A boy you made suffeh? A man you laughed at?”

He couldn’t think. He was so hot. He was on fire. He was so cold. His teeth chattered so hard he bit his tongue and his blood felt like ice as it ran down his chin. She shifted on his lap, gold-green aether rising just in the corner of his eyes as she ran her fingertips along his shoulders. There was a sharp point of pain that moved across his collarbones then down the center of his chest. He felt as though the heat was escaping- it was such a comforting feeling. A relief. He tried to look down but she leaned in and kissed him and he forgot. Those moving shapes in the shadows seemed to be laughing at him and he closed his eyes. That sharp pain, that feeling of relief, it kept moving down his chest, down his stomach, down to his waist only to trail back and forth along the waist of his trousers.

She broke the kiss and he gazed up at her with half-blind eyes that were boiling in his head. Healing aether steadily raised his temperature- a gift somewhere like Coerthas but in the humid, oppressive heat of Thanalan it was a slow, torturous death. Cradling his jaw in one tender hand, the other continued it’s work- claws crafting a sunburst in his skin in lines of blood that her healing aether cauterized even as it left the skin sliced open. Leaning in, she gently pressed her lips to his ear and purred.

“Tell me youah sins, Theobalt. Tell me youah sins and I will stop the fiah.”

His sobs held no tears- the fever had burned them away. He spoke around a tongue that had grown thick in his parched mouth. His lips cracked and bled and the blood pattered down onto his chest as the Jaguar slowly opened his chest along that sunburst pattern, skinning him alive while her aether held him in a cocoon of healing magic that dulled his nerves and kept him from bleeding out faster than she wished.

The torrent that fell from his lips made her sick to her stomach; he spoke tales of refugees used as cattle, as fodder, as bargaining chips. Black market deals had poured gil into his coffers and blood into the Thanalanian dust. Children had been sacrificed to the worst kind of torments and bribes had been paid to keep mouths shut and eyes closed. By the time he was finished the huntress had flayed his chest open and his heart beat naked under the bones of his ribs. The fever had rendered him blind and trapped him in a darkness that was filled with hungry shadows. The effort of maintaining the healing spells she’d crafted was exhausting her and something was slithering in her mind, something hungry, something that whispered of madness. She pushed it away and focused on her prey.

Just a moment more.

“Theobalt.”

He lifted his head at the sound of her voice.

“I have heahd youah sins.”

His cracked lips split into a relieved smile at the gentleness of her voice. His expression openly pleading. She rose up with her hands pressed to his jawline, lifting his chin as she knelt on his thighs and kissed him deeply. Drawing a messy trail of kisses along his cheek, she rested her head against his before purring soft and sweet into his ear.

“You will have youah rewahd.”

In an instant she stepped back and when her skin ceased to press to his, her spell broke. The fever broke. The hallucinations from the heat ceased. And she stood back and watched as he screamed faster than he could draw breath as all the pain hit him in a rush. Her eyes fell half-lidded as the candles flickered while he threw himself side-to-side in the chair until he crashed over and hit the floor. She watched as his heart pounded frantically faster and faster. She watched, tears rolling down her cheeks to form the only clean lines on her bloodsoaked body. She watched until his heart ceased to beat and the flames of the candles found purchase in the curtains. Along the walls. Across the rugs. With the shack beginning to burn around her, the Jaguar knelt before her prey and reached delicately with clawed fingertips into his chest until she found what she was looking for. Something hard that glistened and shone. She could feel it in her hand. In her mind.

It was enough and would never be enough.

====

Standing in the road, the Jaguar’s jewelry gleamed in arcane symbols as she focused one more time. From the cloudy pre-dawn sky a lightning strike fell like a bolt of judgement upon the shack. Flames roared upwards and she vanished, teleporting away.

”I am a Sin Eateh, my love. Gods foahgive me, but that is what I am.”

#y'zareen serhan #tw: blood #tw: torture #tw: violence #tw: mention of abuse #arden tide #story #ic story #ffxiv rp #mateus #roleplay

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landscaperomaha402 · 3 years

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a1besthandymanremodelingomaha · 3 years

Link

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traditional-with-a-twist · 7 years

Text

The Weeping Princess

Next>>

series masterpost: The Beast with the Beautiful Face

Anime-verse, canon divergent: Instead of sending Shirayuki to Lyrias, Clarines goes to war. This scene takes place about six weeks after Izana’s forces triumph at a terrible cost. (For more context, check out the prologue.)

The funeral pavilion hovered like a ghost in the midst of the preparations. Men heaved sandbags onto groaning carts while women tied black ribbons on a procession of lances. The castle grounds were choked with people, but there was no sign of Shirayuki.

Obi withdrew behind a battlement, considering his options. Maybe she would be with her plants?

Footsteps rattled on the cobblestones. Like storm clouds on the horizon, two sentries rolled towards him, their black and silver uniforms stark against the pale stone. Their spear tips gleamed in the late afternoon light.

Obi concealed himself in the shadows of the wall, stilling his breath. As soon as they passed, he flipped to the other side, using his momentum to swing himself to a lower roof. He dashed across the tiles, hugging the roof line while he scanned the grounds for a telltale flash of red.

She was not in the gardens. She was not in the greenhouses. She was not in the pharmacy. At last, in the courtyard near the woods, Obi found her. Hidden in the shadow of an overpass, Shirayuki was curled up under a mound of veils.

Obi’s heart sank. He had only meant to look, to see with his own eyes that she was safe, but he found himself abandoning his hiding place as if someone else commanded his limbs. He plummeted through the air and dropped into a crouch at her side.

Shirayuki smothered her sobs against the colorless fabric, trembling with the effort of stifling the sound. Her hooded cloak, starkly elegant and unadorned, enveloped her as if she were the one wearing a shroud.

He cleared his throat. “Miss?”

She choked. Pushing back the hood, Shirayuki stared up at him. “Obi?”

Wincing inwardly at her expression of disbelief, he forced a laugh. “Surprised to see me, miss?”

Her lips moved soundlessly. “But I thought you... but you’re… you came back?”

He grabbed for his shoulder, his tongue tripping over itself in his haste to reply. “This is a good place to hide, miss, but I never expected to find you here! It can’t be comfortable. So tell me: Is there something that’s bothering you?”

Shirayuki’s hands dug into her skirts, crumpling the cambric beyond saving. “I didn’t mean--I just... I don’t want to embarrass the royal family, not today. Everyone is looking at me,” she went on, lowering her eyes. “Until I can do my best, I need a place...”

Obi spread his arms wide. “You can hide here, miss.” He was only half-joking.

The corner of Shirayuki’s mouth lifted. “Really?” she asked, quiet as a breath.

“Miss!” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do I ever lie?”

She tilted her head to one side, eyelids fluttering closed as she smiled. Then she gathered herself up and stepped towards him.

His muscles twitched, but he forced himself to stay still. Whatever it was she needed from him, he would give it to her.

Shirayuki reached out, closing the gap between them in two heartbeats, and buried her face in his shoulder. She wound her fingers in his shirt and relaxed into him, letting her tears flow again. She was tiny, curled up against him, dwarfed by mountains of white and the weight of her grief.

Beneath his steadily dampening shirtfront, Obi’s skin warmed. His hands came to rest against her shoulders. He began to move them in steady circles, stroking her back, murmuring nonsensical things in a soothing voice.

She hiccuped and pressed closer to him.

This is it, Obi, he thought. You’ve let her come too close.

As her sobs ebbed, Shirayuki gave him a watery smile. “Thank you, Obi.”

Everything in him hummed with her nearness. He couldn’t tear his eyes from hers. They were like a magnet, dragging him to her. Obi leaned forward.

Her smile held. She did not move away.

The longer she looked at him, the more his thoughts splintered and spun apart, preventing him from fleeing, from erecting the barrier of false bravado, from saying anything to remind him who she was and where they were. Instead of retreating, he tilted towards her.

His lips met her forehead.

Shirayuki started, breaking the thread of contact. The warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by confusion. “O-Obi?”

He jerked back, tearing his arms away and holding his hands in the air. He opened his fingers, showing his palms--harmless, see?--but it was too late. This time he couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened.

Her eyes were huge in her white face. “I don’t … what?”

Obi caught his breath, heart pounding. “Miss-- I--” His voice faltered and stopped.

Now that she knew…what could he say? She might send him away forever, with a word, or...she might...

She shook her head like she was trying to shake off an unexpected spray of water. “I don’t understand.”

His shoulders slumped. “No,” Obi forced a laugh. “Of course not, miss.” Who was he kidding? “You would only be thinking of the master, even now.”

She flinched, tears springing to her eyes. Shirayuki fell back a step, her face clouding as she crossed her arms over her front.

His stomach dropped. He had to get out of here before he made everything worse. Taking care not to meet her gaze, he muttered something apologetic. Then he turned and trudged away.

Notes: Since canon has a blend of eastern and western cultures, I borrowed customs from both (e.g. white as a mourning color, but only for royalty). Shirayuki is wearing widow’s veils because (some) historical customs dictate that engagements are nigh equivalent to marriage. She’s like...a stillborn princess.

#Akagami no Shirayukihime #obiyuki #major character death #you know there's a happy ending #thanks to the lovely epilogue series #but the road is not easy #we're just getting started #PurePassion #the beast with the beautiful face

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omgkatsudonplease · 7 years

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Congratulations for the followers on tumblr!! For the fic prompt: "Thinking out loud" or "perfect" by ed sheeran???

ok so i was like,,, i need something a lil gayer and I FOUND THIS COVER OF PERFECT and she kept the pronouns!!!! so have some saramila college au

The Theta Sigma sorority’s End of the Year mixer is one of the more low-key Fraternity Row events at Lidwina University. The Events Committee always reserves a portion of the year’s budget to making sure it’s a gorgeous and well-catered affair, especially as it’s one of the alumnae-invited events. Election results for the next year’s Committee Heads are announced, as well as the charities and causes that the sorority will support next year.

It’s also the event where the graduating siblings hand over their keys to the newbies they have chosen to replace them at the house, and Mila Babicheva is trying hard not to think about that as she puts on her eyeliner in her dorm room.

Sara Crispino is graduating.

It’s an inevitability, of course. Everyone has to graduate sometime. But Mila hadn’t anticipated it happening this soon, especially since they’d only known each other for a year. Mila had been a first semester pledge to Theta Sigma, and Sara had taken her under her wing as her big sibling. It’d been Sara who helped her study for her first college finals, Sara who sent her chocolates and flowers whenever she was feeling down, Sara who accompanied her on morning jogs around Schiedam Lake (which she claimed she did because she loved running into Yuuri Katsuki and Seung-gil Lee as they walked their dogs) with a stop off at Charlotte’s Corner after for a nice cup of coffee.

And, like the idiot she was, Mila had fallen for her somewhere along the way.

She knows objectively that Sara had a type, and it isn’t her -- she only has to remember the way Sara flirts with both Yuuri and Seung-gil to know that she’s not the other girl’s type at all. All lanky and red-haired and awkward, naive and barely out of secondary school -- how could she compare to a set of handsome, athletic Asian boys with dogs?

She’d tried to shrug it off by hooking up with one of the hockey players at WinterFest, but that didn’t nearly feel as good as the memory of Sara’s mittened hand brushing snowflakes off her shoulder. There’d also been the cute girl in her history seminar sometime during the spring, and sleeping with her had been nice but not nearly as nice as the curve of Sara’s smile around the rim of her latte. She’d given up after that, resigning herself to just a pathetic freshman crush, dissuading the butterflies in her stomach every time Sara talked to her.

Mila sighs, smoothing out her dress and throwing on a small shawl. She tosses her keycard, keys, and phone into a small clutch, wobbles into her sandals, and heads on out from Mapes Hall to Fraternity Row.

The Theta Sigma sorority house is lit golden in the slow spring sunset, the sky shaded with pastels and reflected off the calm waters of the lake. The sound of music greets Mila’s ears as she steps over the threshold; the foyer and living room are all packed with people hobnobbing and making small talk.

Sara is nowhere to be seen. It’s probably just a senior thing, though; Mila has heard rumours of secret senior rituals for the night of the End of the Year mixer. Stuff like streaking across the Hollow, or flashing the Dean of Students, or throwing leis and feather boas across the statue of Saint Lidwina in the middle of Founders Courtyard -- all of the stories get wilder and wilder every time Mila hears them. She tries not to think too hard about Sara Crispino streaking, though, and goes to find herself some hors d’oevures instead.

A cheer rises up as soon as she locates a platter of deviled eggs, and Mila looks up to see the seniors descending the staircase, each one of them bearing a flute of champagne with Yuuko Nishigori, the House Mom, bouncing shortly behind.

“A toast to the seniors!” she says, as servers hired for the night begin passing out flutes of champagne and sparking apple cider, and everyone raises their glasses in salute as well. Mila is quick to get a glass of champagne, spotting Sara on the stairs in her gorgeous purple gown, and tries to will away the flush in her cheeks as she downs her glass.

The dinner that proceeds after that is delicious, though the line to get to the food takes forever. Mila grabs a little of everything, gets her flute refilled, and heads out to the back deck of the house to get some fresh air. Sitting down on the steps from the strip of lawn before the banks of the lake, Mila sighs and watches the ducks swimming out on the water. She can hear other end-of-year parties in other houses, other parts of campus. Even the stoners that regularly inhabit the Hollow are rowdier than usual.

“Hey, this is the Theta Sigma mixer, right?” a voice asks. Mila looks up to see Yuuri Katsuki standing there, dressed up in a collared shirt and ridiculously tight jeans (they surely must’ve been painted onto his ass), looking adorably confused as he gazes up at the house. Just a step behind him is the Russian Department’s resident graduate student, Viktor Nikiforov. Mila had no idea the two of them even knew each other.

“Yeah,” she says. “You got an invite?”

Yuuri smiles. “Yeah, Sara invited me, said I could take Viktor, too.” He reaches back, and Viktor takes his hand without hesitation. “You’re Mila, right?”

“Who’s asking?” Mila wonders. Yuuri chuckles.

“Sorry, I’m really bad with names sometimes,” he explains. “You’re always running with Sara around the Dam, so it’s probably embarrassing that I don’t know you better, but you know. Sara doesn’t stop talking about you in class.”

“You had classes with her?” asks Mila, blinking.

“Yeah, we both took the women in film seminar for fun,” says Yuuri. His cheeks are flushed a cute shade of pink as he steps up onto the deck. “Well, um. We’ll probably be back with food. Come on, Viktor?”

Viktor beams at her on his way up the deck as well. “Sara really doesn’t stop talking about you,” he says sweetly, and follows Yuuri into the house.

Mila blinks. And then looks down at her plate of food, suddenly losing her appetite as her stomach flutters and churns in equal measure.

Sara talks about her a lot. What could that even mean?

“Mila?” Speak of the devil, apparently -- Sara is outside now with her own platter of food, her grey eyes scrutinising as she takes a seat on the stairs next to Mila. “Nice night to eat al fresco, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” agrees Mila, poking at her salad greens. Sara chuckles.

“Time flies, doesn’t it?” she asks. “I could swear it was just yesterday when I poured you your first mimosa as your big sib.”

“Lots of mimosas since then,” Mila quips, raising her glass. Sara clinks hers against it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. Her gaze flickers down briefly. “Nice dress,” she says.

“Same for you,” Mila points out, feeling her cheeks warm under Sara’s gaze.

Sara hums, and finishes her glass suddenly. “I have something to ask you,” she says, setting down her plate. “Dance with me.”

“Is that what you were going to ask?” wonders Mila, looking out at the people milling at the little tables on the deck and on the lawn. Music spills out of a set of speakers on the deck; as the sun veers inexorably towards the horizon, it lends a golden timelessness to the entire party.

Sara laughs, shakes her head. Mila takes her hand anyway.

They dance in small circles, then, mostly swaying together to the sweet crooning from the speakers. The small shrubs round the deck are lined with fairy lights; little paper lanterns hang from the boughs of the old oak tree planted near the water’s edge. Mila could have spent forever in this moment, caught in Sara’s arms and only leaving for little twirls and spins. There’s something contemplative in the other girl’s eyes, something quiet and melancholic. Like the calm before a storm, and Mila can’t look away.

At some point she kicks off her sandals; Sara giggles and follows suit. The grass is soft under their feet, little blades tickling against Mila’s toes as she leans in closer to Sara.

The other girl’s musky cologne tickles at her nose; the pearls at her neck gleam brightly. When the song ends, Mila pulls back, feeling guilt wash through her stomach, and tries to step away.

Sara’s hand tighten on Mila’s wrist. “I still haven’t asked you my question,” she says, her voice a little hoarse. Mila’s heart thrums in her chest; she swallows and nods.

“Okay,” she says.

Sara smiles, and reaches into the pocket of her dress (for a brief moment, Mila’s distracted by the fact that Sara’s dress has pockets at all) and pulls out a small, silver key.

Mila blinks. “You’re giving me your room,” she says.

“Yeah,” says Sara.

“Are you sure about that?” Mila wonders. Sara’s room is prime real estate at Theta Sigma. Everyone wants a single with a view, after all. And Sara’s also had roof access, which comes in handy when someone wants a smoke by the lake.

“Never been more sure of anything,” replies Sara. “Well, there’s one thing I’m more sure of, but...” she trails off, smiling brightly. “My room is yours, Mila.”

“Oh,” says Mila intelligently, as the piece of metal is tucked into her hand. Sara’s hands are so soft and warm; her nails are beautifully manicured as usual. Mila swallows just looking at them, her glance flitting up to Sara’s dark gaze. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Sara smiles, and then reaches out, tucks a stray strand of hair behind Mila’s ear. “Want to know what else I’m sure of?”

“Yuuri Katsuki said you talk a lot about me,” Mila blurts out, and then swallows again, as if that would swallow her sentence back down her throat. “I mean --”

Sara laughs, her hand now ghosting along Mila’s cheek, almost as if she’s a little terrified of what she’ll do next. Mila wants to lean into the hand, wants Sara to trace her thumb along her lip. But instead she smiles, her heart pounding loud and fierce in her throat, and nods.

Sara leans in then, and brushes her lips against Mila’s just briefly. It’s almost as soft as butterfly’s wings, and almost as ephemeral. Had it not been for the flush on the other girl’s cheeks, Mila would probably have missed it.

“There,” says Sara, and now her hand is on Mila’s cheek, her thumb running along Mila’s cheekbone. “I’ve been wanting to do that since at least WinterFest.”

Mila’s certain she’s died and gone to some alternate reality. This couldn’t be happening. Sara Crispino could not have just kissed her and confessed to having wanted to do it since December. The universe should not be playing such tricks on her poor little heart.

“You...” she swallows. What does she say? Thank you? I’ve wanted you since halfway through midterm season in the fall? You’d look better in that dress if it was on the floor of your room which is now my room?

Sara’s eyebrows quirk, and Mila sighs, looks around. Everyone else seems preoccupied with their food and conversations, and the speeches would probably not be happening for a while.

So she leans in, and returns Sara’s kiss. “Let’s talk somewhere more private,” she whispers, and Sara nods.

She presses the hand that still holds the key. “I know just the place,” she says, and Mila laughs.

#saramila #yoi #yuri on ice #milasara #lily's dabbles #viktuuri #college au #anonymous #ask

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