#YET still this is not a waking nightmare; it is my soul's fortress

[queenlucythevaliant]

Time to share another of my favorite Christian poems with you all. It’s a martyrdom poem by Varlam Shalamov, a victim of the Soviet gulags and also the writer of Kolyma Tales. A few favorite stanza are written out here; the entire poem is typed out below. It’s a little on the long end, but entirely worth it. 

“Avvakum in Pustozyorsk” by Varlam Shalamov

The walls of my church

  are the ribs of my heart;

it seems life and I

  are soon bound to part

 .

My cross now rises,

  traced with two fingers.

In Pustozyorsk it blazes;

  its blaze will linger.

 .

I’m glorified everywhere,

  vilified, branded;

I have already become

  the stuff of legend.  

 .

I was, people say,

  full of anger and spite;

I suffered, I died

  for the ancient rite.

 .

But this popular verdict

  is ugly nonsense;

I hear and reject

  the implied censure.

 .

The rite is nothing—

  neither wrong nor right;

a rite is a trifle

  in God’s sight.

 .

But they attacked our faith

  in the ways of the past,

in all we’d learned as children

  and taken to heart.

 .

In their holy garments,

  in their grand hats,

with a cold crucifix

  in their cold hands,

 .

in thrall to a terror

  clutching their souls,

they drag us to jails

  and herd us to scaffolds.

 .

We don’t mind about the doctrine

  books and their age;

we don’t debate virtues

  of fetters and chains.

 .

Our dispute is of freedom,

  and the right to breathe—

about the Lord’s will

  to bind as he please.

 .

The healers of souls

  chastised our bodies;

while they schemed and plotted,

  we ran to the forests.

 .

Despite their decrees,

   we hurled our words

out of the lion’s mouth

  and into the world.

 .

We called for just vengeance

  against their sins;

along with the Lord,

   we sang poems and hymns.

 .

The words of the Lord

  were claps of thunder.

The Church endures;

   it will never go under.

 .

And I, unyielding,

  reading the Psalter,

was brought to the gates

  of the Andronikov Monastery.

 .

I was young;

  I endured every pain:

hunger, beatings,

  interrogations.

 .

A winged angel

  shut the eyes of the guard,

brought me cabbage soup,

  and a hunk of bread.

 .

I crossed the threshold—

  and I walked free.

Embracing my Exile,

  I walked to the east.

 .

I held services

   by the Amur River,

where I barely survived

  the winds and blizzards.

 .

They branded my cheeks

  with brands of frost;

by a mountain stream

  they tore out my nostrils.

 .

But the path to the Lord

  goes from jail to jail;

the path to the Lord

  never changes.

 .

And all too few,

  since Jesus’s days,

have proved able to bear

  God’s all-seeing gaze.

 .

Nastasia, Nastasia,

  do not despair;

true joy often wears

  a garment of tears.

 .

Whatever temptations

  may beat in your heart,

whatever torments

  may rip you apart,

 .

walk on in peace,

  through a thousand troubles

and fear not the serpent

  that bites at your ankles—

 .

though not from Eden

  has this snake crawled;

it is an envoy of evil

  from Satan’s hand.

 .

Here, birdsong

  is unknown;

here one learns the patience

  and the wisdom of stone.

 .

I have seen no color

  except lingonberry

in fourteen years

  spent as a prisoner.

 .

But this is not madness,

  nor a waking nightmare;

it is my soul’s fortress,

  its will and freedom.

 .

And now they are leading me

  far away in fetters;

my yoke is easy

  and my burden grows lighter.

 .

My track is swept clean

  and dusted with silver;

I’m climbing to heaven

  on wings of fire.

 .

Through cold and hunger,

  through grief and fear

towards God, like a dove,

  I will rise from the pyre.

 .

O far-away Russia—

  I give you my vow

to return to the sky

  forgiving my foe.

 .

May I be reviled,

  and burned at the stake;

may my ashes be cast

  on the mountain wind.

 .

There is no fate sweeter,

  no better end,

than to knock, as ash,

  at the door of the human heart.

[infinite-orangepeel]

a whumpy af steve harrington excerpt from ch. 2 of my soft dom eddie fic

aka this boy has a lot of unresolved trauma & eddie munson is going to help him heal

(the rest of the chapter that contains the actual smut will be linked below, i’m scared of tumblr shadow banning me again for posting the full thing in here)

READ THE TW BEFORE YOU PROCEED PLEASE !! THIS ONE IS HEAVY !! : angst to the max, panic attacks, self-injurious behaviors, blood, suicidal ideation, vomiting/nausea (as symptom of panic attacks), head trauma/partial memory loss, disordered eating habits, ptsd, heavy themes, smut, lots of emotions & general sadness for stevie

★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★

Steve wakes up in clothes that don’t belong to him, struggling to the surface from the dark recesses of yet another nightmare. His linen sheets are drenched in a cold sweat that makes it seem like he was running away from a real physical threat instead of a discarnate mental one. He doesn’t remember the exact contents of the dream.

Only distantly aware that it must have been somehow related to The Upside Down, because his heart is racing, his blood feels thin beneath the layer of blue veins, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck are standing straight up–like that of a cartoon cat spooked by its owner. The need to throw up his knotted guts, to purge the diseased thoughts in his brain, arises before he can even release a proper yawn or check the clock on his bedside table.

He has no idea what time it is, no memory of crawling into bed, no recollection of how he ended up in a faded Judas Priest band tee and navy briefs.

Or, at least he doesn’t, until he’s shaking from the drying sweat on his chest and can’t handle the itchy overstimulation of the tag sewn along the back of the shirt. It scratches ruthlessly against his skin and that’s going to send him into a whole other level of crisis if he doesn’t get it off his body right this instant.

Crossing his arms over his front and pulling at the hem, he frees himself from the prison of thick cotton and inhales as deeply as his shallow lungs will allow him to. Oxygen is apparently in limited supply today–not a total surprise post-nightmare, but still frustrating to confront depletion on a constant basis. Everything about his existence feels watered down, barren, and sapped of purpose–it’s been that way for a while. Never can the glass be half-full, there’s always a leak somewhere or a chip in the side–draining the liquid no matter how many times Steve bends over backwards to patch up the problem.

It’s unfixable.

He’s unfixable.

At that thought, acid burns in the basin of his esophagus and Steve recognizes that it’s only a matter of moments before the ugliness living inside him paints a putrid surrealist scene across his duvet and becomes tangible. Maybe it will be olive or yellow or translucent; that part’s invariably up to chance. Luck of the draw. Anyone’s game.

The act itself is the constant. Eyes flutter open–mechanized by his fucked up circadian rhythm–and then one, two, three pitiful almost breaths are taken as he reenters reality.

On most mornings, Steve’s throat is still swollen and scratchy from his nightly routine. As a boy, he was never scared of the dark–ran past the tree-line in his backyard until the moon was his sole source of light, unbothered by what may lurk in the shadows. As a man, he dreads the fall of the sun, mourns its disappearance like a devoted follower would grieve a lost prophet.

Night is black. Night is void. Night is terror. Night is fear. Night is shame.

The creatures that disturb and haunt his withered soul draw their strength beneath the cover of dusk. The darker it gets the more powerful they become. Naturally, Steve vomits from the torture they inflict. His body attempts to defend from the attack by luring the invaders out from the fortresses they have built between his organs.

It’s no use. Their poison lingers and eats him alive no matter how many times he kneels in front of the porcelain bowl and unearths the truth–that he is useless, loveless, worthless, and so, so very alone.

Through the hangover of fear and loathing–and a generous helping of unresolved blunt trauma to the head–Steve forgets about Eddie’s visit from the night prior. He forgets the whispered confessions and breathless kisses shared on the couch downstairs. He forgets moaning into each other’s wanton mouths and Eddie’s strong hands coaxing him out of his head.

He forgets and forgets and forgets and then–suddenly, dizzily, all at once–Steve remembers.

It’s an out of body experience–automatic by nature of careful practice–pressing his nose to the borrowed t-shirt and breathing in the distinct, musky scent of cigarette smoke and caution thrown to the wind. It’s the sweet, filtered fragrance of risk and flame and ringed fingers gripping his hips. Rolling them down with control onto firm, grounding hardness and delectably licking each whine out from behind Steve’s teeth. Waves of passion and pleasure and belonging and Eddie’s broad chest providing a safe place to land when all was said and done.

Steve remembers and he wants.

There’s a blip in time–like the thin pause of a lucid dream–in which the corners of Steve’s smart mouth twitch up in memory. Beaming golden light from cheek to blushing cheek; like the bliss of the setting sun warming the remains of the day with one final pink hued glow. A last hurrah, a gentle kiss, a bid farewell as childhood horror ensues in the form of shadowless creatures.

Feelings of euphoria and desire are torched by the sudden realization that Eddie is gone. The left side of the bed appears untouched–pillows fluffed, sheets tucked in and—

Oh, there it is again. Hello, old friend.

Acidic vulnerability merges with confusion and tears sting his aching flesh. Every nerve is ablaze with pain and hurt and the abandonment that Eddie promised wouldn’t happen. He’d sworn it up and down, palm practically pressed to the exoskeleton of a Bible with the way he’d taken Steve’s heart in his hands.

I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?

Never, Stevie. Never leaving you again.

He’s out of his mind with the hyperfixated belief that this is to be his permanent script–the character written out of the story the moment act two begins.

Why give lines to the actor who can never seem to speak them correctly? Why write them for the anxious wreck of a man who stumbles on every word and can’t follow a single stage cue without fucking up miserably?

Morning arrives as a stab in the back. A knife that goes from spine to heart, severing connection.

Eddie left. Eddie promised to stay and promised to care and promised to protect and still, he left.

Eddie showed up on his doorstep with the offers of comfort and presence and certainty and still, he left.

Eddie left.

Like Tommy.

Like Nancy.

Like Robin.

Like the kids.

Like Mom.

Like Dad.

It didn’t take long for Eddie to peer behind the curtain and see what everyone else always has–that Steve Harrington’s a fucking mess and cleaning him up is pointless work, because he’ll just ruin the effort and puke all over himself again the second the job is finished.

Thankless and tireless, just like what he’s doing right now. Except, he’s the maid in this version of the tale.

Capillaries break from the force of the raw hurt, as Steve retches into his own lap and coats Eddie’s forlorn t-shirt with the ideation of his betrayal. Vitriol burns and burns and he’s sick to the core.

It’s gross. God, Steve knows it’s gross.

It’s rare that he doesn’t covertly and politely participate in his worst habit these days. Sneaking off to the bathroom when he’s in a public setting and the anxiety strikes. Pulling over on the side of the road to hurl into the bushes when he gets triggered driving by the bones of Starcourt. Rationing the few shreds of dignity he still holds claim to by using the toilet or trash-bin when he’s home alone.

This particular scenario has only happened once before and it was much more excusable back then, because he’d been partially drunk and thus, able to blame the foul mistake on the alcohol. Though, he knew it had far more to do with Nancy calling him “bullshit” earlier in the evening than it did with the cheap beer rolling around in his stomach. Trust issues and self-hatred won out in the end, covering his mattress in vile colors that dripped from the edges of his own mouth.

Why should Nancy have ever wanted to give her love to someone so incapable of normalcy? Someone so incapable of loving himself?

Steve really should get up at this point–to clean, to shower, to toss the filth into the laundry. Washing away his sins is just part of the process. He knows this, he’s accustomed to it. He’s built a new life around it–walls of thick, dirty concrete and bulletproof cinder blocks.

But, as much as he knows he should get on with the day and toughen up—like the man his father raised him to be—Steve can’t. He simply can’t. His body is weak, his heart is empty, and there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide from the cruel voices in his head and the poison in his veins.

It follows him, it always follows him. Knows all his tricks.

Steve’s heaving non-breaths and chewing on the guilt he has for merely existing and there’s not enough space between his stupid blood and his stupid skin. He needs to rip open the flesh and crawl out of the body and bury it under the floorboards.

Maybe then he’d be able to greet the pretty sun and her rays without crying, instead of choking himself on the idea that he’ll never be capable of creating such warmth with his own form.

Blinded by an ocean of salty tears, he crashes into the shore of his mattress. Curling into himself on his side and pinching the insides of his thighs as hard as he can. His nails are long enough to tear into the skin and he relishes this fact.

He wants it to hurt, he wants to punish himself for all the things he can’t be– functional, stable, happy.

White hot pain sears his skin, which should be reason enough to stop, but it only serves to egg Steve on. Just another fucked up thing about him. Pain shouldn’t be enticing, but it is to his defiled brain.

Sharp edges pushing deeper and tearing at the seams–only slightly satisfied when drops of red finally trickle down and mix with the rest of the mess. Stains that will take so much bleach and soap and exertion–energy he doesn’t have anymore.

It’s a new low, but he tepidly thinks that maybe he’ll sleep like this tonight–maybe he’ll stay in this rotten bed of expiration all day long. Maybe he’ll lose track of time and melt into the springs and let them slice him limb from limb.

There has to be peace at the end of the tunnel? Right? Follow the light and bleed your last and then you’re free? Isn’t that how it works? Isn’t it?

Blood pools between his legs–gory and without miracle–in a slow, steady stream. His mouth is dry, the bed smells like death, and no one is coming to save him.

He’ll die here–in this house, in this room, in this bed–and no one will be there to kiss him goodbye. No one will jot down his last words for future reference in his eulogy.

Not a bang, but a whimper–that’s how Steve will go out. A tree falling in the forest and no one around to confirm or deny if it made a sound. Blood will color him and his bed the darkest red and that will be how he leaves this Earth.

He just needs to push a little deeper. Maybe a kitchen knife or the edge of one of the nails in his bat. That might work. He’ll go grab one or the other or both once his own hands reach their limit.

Will they even wonder? Will they even care?

No one is coming to save him. No one is coming to save–

Except, well, except apparently, Eddie Fucking Munson.

“Morning!” He sings into the festering room, as if he’s blind to the crime scene and thinks this is the set of some early bird talk show, “I got us coffee and bagels–toasted of course. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some caffeine in you too, after last night. Uh–don’t know what you like, so I got two of my favorites. Not to brag, but I’ve been told I have impeccable taste in the–”

Eddie trails off and gasps sharply as he approaches the bed. Steve can’t look up at him, can’t begin to process what’s happening–he’s trapped by his ceaseless pain. His eyes stay shut, refusing to let Eddie in for fear of what he’ll find.

A monster, a beast, an unsightly creature with nothing to live for.

“Fuck,” he murmurs and places a hand on Steve’s trembling shoulder–shuffling around to place the coffee and bagels on the desk, “Are you– Steve –are you okay? What can I do? How can I help you? I want to help. Let me help. Please.”

Steve can’t talk, he can’t find the words to explain what he needs. His tongue feels like a ten ton brick in his mouth–it’s impossible to unhinge his tensing jaw and his teeth feel like overgrown fangs. He doesn’t want to disappoint Eddie. He wants to be good for him, wants to behave, wants to earn his praise and kindness, but he’s as good for nothing as a walkman without batteries.

A bicycle without wheels.

A car without an engine.

Useless. Useless. Useless.

Instead, he groans and rolls towards Eddie–bloody thighs cloaked beneath the sheets. A hideous surprise that would make just about anyone pass out or join him in puking on sight. It’s a lethal picture of a grisly love affair–Steve and the bed he plans to turn into a grave. Forever intertwined.

Honestly, he’s shocked Eddie hasn’t run straight out the door with the bagels and coffee in tow. How could anyone want to share a meal with him in this state?

“Stevie,” Eddie cards a hand through his greasy hair–so gentle and soft, using careful fingers, “If this is like last night–if it's bad again and you can’t talk–can you try another way for me, when you’re ready? We’ll make it simple, something you can do without using any words. You can tap my hand once if you want me to get closer, twice if you’re not sure yet, three times if you don’t want that at all and you’d prefer I leave.”

Hesitation prevents an immediate choice; but only because the slate of options is something that usually intimidates him. Fearful in all instances–mundane and complex–that he’ll choose wrong. But, Eddie’s hand is so warm and kind and safe–cradling him and keeping him present.

And he left, yes that’s true, but it seems he left for good reason. Not for lack of care, but because of it. To nourish Steve and himself. To give instead of take. Maybe it’s okay to trust Eddie. To tourniquet the quiet bleeding and reach for the reprieve of a bandaid in the form of another.

“I swear I’ll shut the fuck up soon, but Stevie-”

Steve loves that nickname. His heart swoons and skips beats at the sound of it in Eddie’s gravelly rasp. Loves the way Eddie brings his name to life like the last line of a love letter or the beginning of a delicate melody.

“Stevie, I’m–I just need you to know that I’m here, okay? I’m here and I don’t want you to be scared. I don’t know if you’re scared actually–but you sure look it–I just, I just really want to make it better. Can I do that for you, sweetheart?” Eddie coos low in his ear and the shackles loosen from Steve’s wrists–allowing him to pry his violent hands away from where they bite into his thighs.

He blinks his swollen lids open, knows this next part is gonna hurt, but Eddie’s so beautiful that the panic dissipates–numbs. The man stands beside his bed–bathed in divine light, like a God of some old world–and pets Steve’s hair in sweet repetition. Coiled electricity lives beneath his skin, bringing color to his pale cheeks and caging angelic concern behind his doe eyes.

Painfully present in the moment with Steve, painfully there to share in his pain and shield him from all that he can.

Decidedly, Steve reaches up to tap Eddie’s hand with one definitive motion. Singular and communicating what can’t be spoken aloud.

Eddie’s face lights up–like Joyce Byers’ living room four years ago–bright and verging on chaotic. Hard to contain in such a limited space.

“Yes! Okay, that’s a yes, right? You want me closer–like to hold you?” Eddie confirms and Steve nods, appreciating how thorough he is–how much he wants to maintain a safe boundary at all times.

“P-please,” Steve mutters and taps Eddie’s hand to reiterate his point, even though it’s somewhat unnecessary now.

He likes the ease of it, the simplicity. Taps seem far less likely to be misinterpreted than words–which Steve tends to jumble by using improper tone or speaking too fast. It’s a more foolproof system than the English language and there’s a large appeal in that. It makes his brain feel fuzzy and coddled, as if there are big earmuffs surrounding the pink matter and nothing bad can get inside. Impermeable.

“Okay. I can do that, absolutely. Just wanna take the covers off and throw them in the laundry real quick,” Eddie says calmly, like the vomit really isn’t all that unappealing, “I’ll be right back.”

He starts peeling back the duvet to clean and Steve whimpers without meaning to. Fresh tears spill down his face and dampen his exposed chest hair. There’s no way this is the same guy that won the superlative for “biggest heartthrob” his senior year. Something must have been chemically or genetically altered since then. Crying, bleeding, covered in his own puke, prepared to die before Eddie provided a welcome distraction—no way.

Eddie notices the sobbing, because of course he does. Pausing in the midst of his cleaning mission, he balls up the duvet and kneels onto the carpet to level himself with Steve. Letting them view each other eye to eye.

“Hey, hey, honey,” Eddie says with compassion, “What’s wrong? Did I do something? Do you want me to put the covers back on? I should have asked you first, before ripping them off the bed. Shit I’m such an idiot.”

Steve sniffles pathetically and snot joins the growing mix of bodily fluids coating his sticky skin. Eddie uses the sleeve of his leather jacket to dab at his nose and cheeks, gentle pressure that brings him strength.

How he’s not disgusted, Steve isn’t sure, but he knows for certain—in this moment—that Eddie Munson is a good man.

A good friend, a good—well, Steve’s not exactly sure what to call him after the way they kissed last night on the couch. Hot and heavy and full of need.

Friends don’t kiss and friends definitely don’t kiss like that.

“Not the covers,” Steve cries and chokes out a breath, “Don’t want you to leave, Eddie.”

A crease forms between the man’s dark brows, hidden in part by his tiered fringe. Steve recalls how it felt to take those tendrils in his hands and pull in desperation. To cling onto the soft curls as pleasure coursed through his body. Eddie’s lap so solid and safe.

“I’ll be right back. I promise. Just don’t want you to lay in this anymore. It’s not good for you and you deserve a nice, clean place to rest. I’ll bring you fresh sheets and then I’ll cuddle you for as long as you like. No rush,” Eddie reassures him, but doesn’t move away from the bed—clearly waiting for a response.

Probably lingering to see how much Steve will break at the suggestion of their temporary separation.

How weak he is, how fragile.

“No,” Steve says firmly and tears punctuate his small demand.

“No, what?” Eddie prompts lightly and sits on the edge of the unkempt bed to further their conversation–somehow he still hasn’t noticed the blood, “No I can’t do your laundry or no I can’t cuddle you?”

“Laundry,” Steve winces as he readjusts his position, the blood is drying thickly between his legs, “Don’t want you to do the laundry, because—because I don’t think you’ll come back.”

There’s no point in scaring him away by explaining that Steve’s little meltdown had quite a bit to do with Eddie’s well intentioned coffee run this morning. That he’d believed Eddie had left him—full stop–without hope of return. That it was a terminal decision that hammered in the final nail in Steve’s coffin.

“Oh,” understanding develops in slow motion over Eddie’s concerned face, “Like my deadbeat dad going to the grocery store for milk? You’re scared that it’s just an excuse, that I don’t actually mean it? Like I’ll say I’m just going to do some laundry, but I’ll run out the door instead without telling you? Is that it?”

Steve laughs a little at the ridiculousness and truth in Eddie’s analogy. He’d known Eddie hadn’t grown up with an overtly present father figure until Wayne, but he hadn’t realized just how similar their childhoods were in that sense until now. Steve’s dad may have been on endless business trips—which was code for having a multitude of affairs—but the absence held a dagger to his heart at the same angle. Aimed at the same vein.

“It’s stupid,” Steve hears himself say in a voice that sounds much closer to the one he typically associates with his public persona, “I’m being immature and you’re just trying to do something nice for me. You shouldn’t have to clean up my mess in the first place. I’m more than capable of doing it.”

No I’m not and I was planning on laying in it for the rest of the time to punish myself, he thinks, but Eddie doesn’t need to know that.

“It’s not stupid, Steve,” Eddie scoots closer to lean against the headboard and gently places Steve’s head in his lap, “You’ve been through a lot in your life, especially these past few years with all the monster shit. Reacting to that—dealing with your trauma—however that may look to other people shouldn’t matter. You’re doing your best to fucking survive and that’s a success in itself. You should be proud of yourself for continuing to push through every day. I’m proud of you, Steve. It’s okay. You don’t have to hide from me and if you don’t want me to leave your room yet, if you’re not ready, then I’ll stay. All you have to do is ask.”

It hurts too much to say it out loud, so Steve taps Eddie’s denim clad leg once and Eddie pulls him closer. Rubbing a hand up and down Steve’s back, like he’s weaving a fairytale to lull him to sleep.

“You can rest, now,” Eddie murmurs and Steve wonders how they got here—to this place of reversed roles, “Let go. Whatever that looks like, I don’t care, okay? You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

[tomsquitieri]

“You Know The Conflagration That Will Come”

The Press Club bar closes early now, to the regret of many of the dwindling number of old timers. The younger members were full of energy as they dashed out to begin a weekend of holiday parties. The bar emptied as quickly as if it were 40 years ago and a hot story just broke.

I thought I would sneak out and go down the hall and maybe pretend to find the once-hidden 24/7 poker room. No such luck. The efficient staff was already cleaning up and making sure all were leaving; they also had parties to burst forth later.

So I did what comes naturally on a dark windy evening in downtown DC. Walking though the streets of our beautiful Capitol, remembering the history made — shivering from both the Potomac River wind and the visions of what I sensed was coming.

As often the case, I rambled toward the monuments and wound up near my namesake, Thomas, at his memorial near the river. My hope was he may offer up wisdom to my tiring eyes and my shaking soul.

Across the river the Pentagon stood in subdued light, looking like a fortress from the outside. Yet I knew better. Even there, the system was crumbling and false words tried to make everyone sound brave and smart. No doubt they were patting themselves on the backs for their new promotions and laughing smugly about how they evade reporters’ questions.

“You wrote something before, Mr. Jefferson. Several things actually to pull together an unruly bunch into one voice. Please do it again,” I said to his stoic statue. He merely looked forward, out at the Tidal Basin.

“He is not going to answer you,” said a faint voice from behind me. “Even they are unsure what to say.”

I turned to see the Old Geezer, moving slowly, his eyes sunken and his breathing halting as he slowly walked up, paused, and sat on the marble steps.

“That is my fear also, Old Geezer. That the wolves that sit outside the house of democracy finally have the key and they have determined how to guide the sheep to dinner,” I said.

The Old Geezer finally made it to the top of the steps. I had not seen him for a few years, years that had taken a toll on the country and on most of us. He seemed shorter this year, more bent over but his smile reappeared as he pulled an old flask from his pocket.

“Isn’t fun to still break national park regulations,” he said as he took a taste, then handed me the metal container. I took a sip and recognized what I thought was a long lost elixir — moonshine from the hills of western Pennsylvania.

It warmed my body and at least for the moment my spirits.

“That taste reminds of days when politicians were not a threat to democracy, when reporters were not targets all over the world, where challenges always eventually met with teamwork,” I said.

The Old Geezer sniffed and wiped my mouth with a handkerchief. “Those days are in a hibernation that extends long past the natural winter, Tomaso,” he said.

“Everyone hoped — and that is the word hoped — that 2023 would be ‘normal’ again,” I said. “Well, it is, but not the normal they expected or wanted. It’s the normal where the bad guys wear the badges and the dwindling number of good guys have no idea what to do.”

He took another sip and looked again at the water. So I continued.

“I thought the nightmares of the past were aberrations. That ethnic cleansing and war rapes were not to happen again, that the last elections were to correct the course, that the words of those honored here would ring loud and true again, and rouse the slumbering to see the nightmare that is unfolding. But I feel this is a planet of the apes scenario, where I am going to wake up soon and see things that once meant greatness are graveyards.”

“The wrong things have been emancipated,” I said. “We are living in country now where the information we need to govern ourselves has been replaced by political spin and propaganda, hate and vile bravado.”

“What are your dreams telling you, Tomaso,” the Old Geezer said, “Have you learned to listen to them yet?”

I nodded yes. “Very much so and yet unclear. They show turmoil and voices from the past trying to help. Reporter friends reappearing, offering smiles, and even phone numbers, and reassurance but then leaving with no pathways. Lots of trips to places that seem to be on earth but on no maps.

“And there was even a call on a land line, with man’s voice — not computer calls — saying my name, as if pleading for help, or warnings.”

The Old Geezer took another sip and said, “And I bet you did not respond.”

He knew. “No I did not,” I said. “I was hoping that what you told me once — that the quieter you become, the more you are able to hear — would work.”

He spoke his head no and looked at Jefferson. “Those once wise guidelines are perforated,” he said. He turned to me. “You have to work harder than ever before, and strip it all away to think clearly and wisely now, Tomaso.“

My turn again to take a sip. “You know, Old Geezer, when I was a little boy, I used to run as fast I could from the darkened basement, afraid of the monsters that I knew where there, only to be laughed at by my father. ‘There is nothing there to be afraid of,’ he would say.

“Well, I am no longer afraid of the dark. In fact, sometimes I long for it for I see much better in it. And those monsters are still there.”

The Old Geezer nodded. “They were always there,” he said. “You just knew how to get out of their grasp before.

“Don’t them catch you now,” he said. “Many are obvious… but many remain hidden just around the corner as you walk you dog.”

We were quiet for a moment, and the Old Geezer looked back at Jefferson. “You know the conflagration that will come,” he said.

Then I had an idea.

“Old Geezer, we cannot save the world tonight but we can save a few old trees. A friend sent me a note saying how the police department in her city told her that the left-over trees from their annual tree sale would be free, lying on the ground at a street corner. That seems to be the perfect conclusion for how the year transpired — good things tossed aside. So let’s go grab them and decorate them all and keep some bright lights glowing.”

The Old Geezer nodded. “A good idea from you, Tomaso. I guess miracles can still happen. You go get the Jeep and I will wait here.”

I walked slowly down the slick steps, as I listened to the Old Geezer part some more wisdom with Jefferson. Soon, though, his voice faded and as I walked by the other monuments I heard Dr. King praying for a new dream and FDR voicing about a new fear as they struggled to find words and a way to heal a plummeting, broken nation.

And I heard Lincoln crying.

[astaroth1357]

The Obey Me Cast on a Camping Trip (Part One: Brothers)

Hey guys, thank you sooo much for getting me to 2,000 followers!! I honestly don’t know what to say... I never dreamed that this little hobby of mine would reach so many eyes, and I can’t be more grateful. At a time in my life where things feel so chaotic and uncertain, being a part of this community and sharing my weird ideas has been what’s kept me going. It’s been such a rewarding experience all around, so thank you. From the bottom of my heart. 😊

I pulled out all the stops for this post. I even brought out one of my favorite songs of all time: Ao to Natsu by Mrs. GREEN APPLE to get the feel juuust right. I hope you all enjoy it!

This post is split in two due to length (I had too much fun again...) For the Undateables, please click HERE!

Intro:

Another day, another team building activity between the demons and the exchange students. It was Diavolo’s idea to go on a camping trip to the human world (because of course it was), and there were very… mixed responses. That sentiment wasn’t helped when he refused Lucifer’s insistent pleas to just purchase cabins for everyone to stay in. Oh no, the Demon Lord wanted to rough it out in the wilderness, and now everyone else was getting dragged along with him…

Wonder how that turned out?

Lucifer

Really, really, really tried to push Diavolo to just rent out cabins in but noooo, he wasn’t having it... So he ended up driving a van crammed with his brothers, the MC, and a butt-ton of camping equipment into the Alaskan wilderness… 

The car ride itself was insufferable… We’re talking, “I SWEAR I WILL TURN THIS CAR AROUND!!” level of antics every 10 miles or so (mostly from Mammon)…

Setting up camp was even more of a nightmare because about half of his brothers were utterly useless. The other half (save Satan) were completely clueless… Had it not been for Barbatos and Satan he probably would have just resigned himself to the mercy of the river’s currents and let it take him away…

He couldn’t even wear his usual clothes because of the situation… For the first time in who knows how many centuries, he was stuck wearing jeans… Diavolo even bought him several plaid shirts... (which he was not happy with btw because his brother wouldn’t stop making fun of the “new” him)

He had his own tent of decent-size, enough to move around in but nothing to write home about. The very fact he didn’t have to share was a luxury in itself, so he took it for what it was worth...

He spent a good portion of the trip focused on two things: keeping Diavolo happy and everybody else alive. He rarely left camp unless forced to; he just wanted to get it all over with as soon as possible…

If he did leave, it was because Diavolo would drag him along to fish or hike. He was... less than pleased to be called out of his tent at the crack of dawn or well past dusk to sit on a little rented fishing boat with Diavolo… but he didn’t exactly pick his friends so...

He rates the trip Too Much Trouble/10. Let’s never do it again.

Mammon

Wasn’t a massive fan of being stuck out in the wild, but Satan told him some made-up bullshit about buried treasure out in the forest and got him HOOKED. He even borrowed stole a whole bunch of mining/digging equipment just for the occasion!

He spent most of the car ride asking, “Are we there yet??” like a child. The MC had to step in to keep Lucifer from leaving him on the side of the road at multiple points during the journey... 

He was one of the utterly useless ones when it came to setting up camp. Someone charged him with putting up the twin’s tent, and he spent thirty minutes reading (then re-reading) the instructions while shouting expletives. Poor Simeon had to shield Luke from the vulgarity…

He has to share a tent with Levi, which neither of them liked. Mammon mainly because of Levi’s “old fish stink” and Levi because he feared catching “Mammon’s stupid.”

He was all jazzed up to go digging from Day One, though. He’d have breakfast, grab his shovel, then wander out into the middle of nowhere to go dig holes in the ground…

He also got completely lost on Day One, and it took the MC summoning him with their pact to return him to the group... By that time, he was filthy and somehow looked like he had been castaway for days (even though he was gone for like, three hours?)

When he stubbornly refused to stop digging, Lucifer resorted to just tying a rope around his ankle and letting him loose. It was up to Mammon to get back to camp before dinner, or else Lucifer would yank him back like he was on a leash.

Satan waited until the last day to finally tell Mammon the treasure was bullshit, and he was PISSED. He even threw Satan into the river, which resulted in the rest of the brothers joining in for a swim while the two tried to “playfully” drown each other.

He’d rate this trip 0/10 because he didn’t get any buried treasure. What a ripoff…

Leviathan

Hated the idea with a burning, seething passion. There’s no internet, cable, electricity, or phone signal out in the middle of nowhere! How the heck is an otaku supposed to survive?!

He clung to his electronics during the car ride until either they ran out of signal or their battery died, then he didn’t know what to do with himself… He resorted to reading several volumes of the manga he stuffed into his bag and clung to the MC for emotional support…

Yet another useless soul trying to put the camp together. He was in charge of his and Mammon’s tent but ended up almost crying in frustration… How the hell do humans do this all on their own?? Wasn’t he supposed to be the third strongest?! Why is he so pathetic?!? 😫

Hates sharing a tent with Mammon because he always wakes up to the second born encroaching on his space somehow… Poor baby is pretty much directly against the tent wall and STILL has to deal with legs and elbows in his side... 😰

Spends the majority of the trip moping in the tent... If he goes out there, he has to deal with the sun, bugs, and people… No thanks. He only leaves for meals and occasionally to go swimming. 

When he found out part of the way through that Barbs brought portable solar panels and a battery pack for Diavolo and Lucifer’s phones, he was livid. He demanded access to the power source, which Lucifer refused because “It would defeat the purpose of this trip.”

He’d have summoned Lotan right then and there, deadass in the middle of the forest, if the MC hadn’t intervened. He then went back to moping, but now at the bottom of the lake and it took a lot of coaxing to get him back out…

On the final day, he was packing up the camp before anyone else even woke up. He wanted OUT and back to civilization ASAP. Bedroom here he comes!

Satan

You wouldn’t think of Satan as an outdoorsy guy. Still, he has shades of a survivalist in him (mostly because he’s read a lot of guides and was looking for an excuse to use them for a loooong time).

He read for the majority of the ride. He was squished between Asmo and Levi, which was reasonably peaceful. But he did end up shouting at Mammon quite a bit towards the end because “NO, we’re not there yet, peabrain!!”

He actually wasn’t a waste of space when setting up the camp, and between him, Barbs, and Lucifer, they were able to get a lot of stuff set up before sundown. He did have to bark a few orders to the others here and there, but overall competency won out in the end.

He shared a tent with Asmo, and the two made it work well enough… Except when Asmo did things like spraying his perfumes and dry shampoos, making it practically impossible to breathe in for a few minutes…

Spent a lot of the first few days reinforcing the camp to a ridiculous degree.

Did he have to collect large branches to build an exterior fence around the campsite? No. But he did.

Did he have to set up a water distillation system using some of the materials Barbs had lying around the “kitchen?” No. But he did.

Did he have to weave a series of fishing nets to catch them lunch from the lake and river? I think you get the point by now.

Only once he built pretty much every contraption or improvement he could think of, did he go back to just reading and relaxing by the fire.

By the time the group was ready to leave, Satan had somehow managed to craft them a veritable, self-sustaining fortress in the middle of the Alaskan wilds…

Overall he would rate the trip as… meh. Next time give him a challenge like a deserted island or an actual desert, and then he’ll really see what he can do.

Asmodeus

Was about as unhappy with the idea as Levi was… It wasn’t that he disliked the outdoors per se, it was just that no one, NO ONE, pulls off looking flawless after several days stuck in a tent!

He chatted the entire car ride from start to finish. He never stopped talking. It made for decent background noise at least…

Was one of the more clueless ones when trying to set up camp and pretty just did what he was ordered. The second he was left to try and figure something out on his own, he went to Lucifer or Satan for help because NOPE. Human equipment is needlessly complicated sometimes…

He had to share a tent with Satan, which in theory shouldn’t have been that bad, but Satan was out basically all day in the sun doing who knows what and would always come back sweaty and gross! At some points, he had to chase his brother out of the tent until he dunked himself in the river or something. No way was Asmo sleeping next to that. 😤

Asmo took the second-longest to get up and get ready in the morning. Sometimes he wouldn’t even leave the tent until well past breakfast just in an attempt to salvage his hair and skin… He only got grouchier about it as the trip went on… 😥

A more… earthy looking Asmo is kind of a bizarre sight. He’s still attractive, no doubt, but it’s less like polished glamour and more like Hollywood humble. He spent the majority of the trip looking like a somewhat dirtied movie-star (which he still insisted was the worst he’s ever looked in ages).

Aside from salvaging his looks, he actually enjoyed taking pictures of their surroundings or of the group (but not himself). He sometimes forgot how genuinely breathtaking the human world could be…

….but his patience for the place wore out quickly once he started noticing his hair getting greasy. He was right next to Levi, packing up the site once it was finally time to leave. At least those two finally found something they could agree on, let’s get the fuck out already! 

Beelzebub

He was really curious about trying camping food and pretty excited that Barbatos was coming, too (because that meant great food in general).

Unfortunately, Lucifer had to stop the van at basically every gas station they passed for Beel could refill on snacks… Belphie ended up getting buried in wrappers pretty often, but he was asleep, so it didn’t matter much.

Beel did a lot of the heavy lifting when setting the camp up, but the finer details were left up to everybody else. He had his hands full getting stuff off the cars as is…

Of course, he shared a tent with Belphie, and there wasn’t much complaint between them. Honestly, there would have been more drama if they were split, so this was the better option.

After the MC told Beel about fishing and how it could net him more food, if he did it right, he knew exactly what he wanted to do during the trip.

… But no one told him how long and slow the process would be. There were points he’d get so hungry he’d consider eating the bait himself…

That was until about Day Three of the trip when they passed by a river full of grizzly bears… He was about to ask the MC why the bears were all standing in the water, but then he saw a fish practically leap directly into one’s mouth…

Beel had discovered his true calling.

Of course, the grizzlies didn’t take too kindly to a demon suddenly sprinting into the water with them. They tried to fight him off, but Beel just tossed most of them downstream without any issue until they realized who the apex predator really was…

After forming a shaky truce with the bears, Beel would stand in the water for hours then come back with whole baskets full of salmon… There were far more fish than Barbatos knew what to do with, so he’d just confiscate a few then let Beel eat the rest...

The MC shuddered to think about what Beel had done to the local salmon population… But he was full and happy for most of the trip, so he had a great time!

Belphegor

Sleep for him isn’t too contingent on location, so the idea of camping wasn’t terrible. It did sound like a lot of hassle for no good reason, though…

He spent the entire car ride asleep, head and cow pillow pressed up against the window and everything. It wasn’t the most comfortable experience, but he’d dealt with worse.

He was utterly useless when putting up the camp by choice, thank you. He had more than enough sense to get things put together; he just didn’t want to. If he wasn’t asked to do something by Beel or the MC, he’d just lay back in the grass and smugly watch everybody else struggle…

Again, he and Beel are in the same tent, and you wouldn’t hear any complaints out of him. He did start to have some second thoughts when Beel began getting a fishy smell, though, so he tried to bunk with the MC in their tent for a while.

Like Levi, Belphie didn’t leave the tent much during the daylight hours, but that was because he was still asleep… There was no good way to wake him with no alarms available, so he’d sleep in past lunch easily.

When he was awake, he didn’t leave camp very much except to walk with the MC or watch Beel fishing grizzly-style.

Eventually, Asmo and Diavolo got sick of him dodging their photos, so they’d started posing him Weekend at Bernie’s style around the camp (always conveniently propped up by something and with sunglasses on)

Something Belphie did like, however, was the nighttime. Since there were no lights around, he could practically see everything the sky had to offer. He could spend hours laying on his back long after everyone else had gone to bed just admiring the stars.

All in all, not a terrible trip. Anything that could give him that view like that was well worth it. 6/10, would sleep again.

Click HERE for Part Two. Check out my Masterlist for more!

[very-unskilled-hunter]

Chronicles of Agrewannar, “The inner demons” Chapter II

       The weight of the day was untenable. The air filled with characteristic coolness, and the Grey Fortress was surrounded by thick fog. Thick grey clouds swept through the sky abpve the castle. However, they were not alone in their journey. That day they were accompanied by ravens, who circling over the castle, made some narration noises. The stone walls were filled with silence. Everything seemed dead.

      Surrounded by the walls of her own chamber, Eugenia von Holstein sat on the Edge of a fur-covered bed. Looking towards the fire slamming in the hearth, she felt nothing but pain and grief. Clenching her jaw, she recalled the fateful day she lost her friend. All the while, she ha dan approaching cotton watt in front of her eyes which fell on them like an avalanche killing everything. In her ears, the sound of screaming and tearing flesh sounded. She still felt a strong jaw clenched on her leg and stabbing pain. The worst, however, was the image of thane Ulfric Gerhardt whose neck was clenched wolf’s muzzle. An empty look, leaking blood and paind that couldn’d been described have accompanied her for almost a week. It manifested itself when only it could, in the course of sleep, food, rest… always. Exhausted, she tied her face in her hands, trying to take a break from the images that haunted her for a while. It didn’t even help. Grief squeezed her throat. Clenching her teeth, she walked up to the mirror in the room. Tall, skinny with red hair and a remorse-induch pythoned face. Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and hurried to the door. As she walked out into the hallway, she felt the cold of raging draught. As she walked in front of her, she felt more and more bitterness. Heading towards the courtyard, she looked straight ahead. She couldn’t let herself be distracted. Through the open door she was able to see the funeral pyre. Sorrow squeezed her throat once more. Gritting her teeth, she parried directly at the group of people gathered around the pyre.

       When she got close enough, the people parted allowing her to pass. She looked at her dead friend’s face and turned away from him. She looked at the gathered crowd and couldn’t imagine that they could feel the same pain. They did not know what she knew, nor did they witness what she had the opportunity to see. They knew nothing, and yet they were here. The mourning sheep lined up one by one to say their final goodbyes. Looking at them she felt nothing but anger. She didn’t wat them here. But could she blame them? Could she have hated them for saying goodbye to a dead friend the way she was saying goodbye to a thane? She looked at his face once more and, turning towards them, began her speech.

-Resident of the Gray Fortress domain – she began. – Recent events have brought us together here to say goodbye to thane Ulfric Gerhardt. He was a man of honor, brave and valorous, fearless, but also full of kindness and warmth toward all who ever inhabited these lands. With his help, the area surrounding the Grey Fortress has opened up to change. It is because of him that we are where we would only get in many years by ourselves. He let us take from his wisdom as much as we needed, he brought the place, its people and even the castle he lived in to life. Unfortunately – she continued – we will never be able to listen to his advice, enjoy his company or fight by his side again. Let’s let him go and hope that each of us can meet him in Valhalla. Because by dying a hero’s death, he showed that heroism is not just a fairy tale invention. He showed that a true hero does not wear shining armour. He showed what fidelity and nobility are, and we should all strive to let the spark that guided him through life glow in us as well.

       At this point she paused. She was unable to speak further. She turned away from the crowd and placed her hand on his, clasped on his sword.

- Farwell my friend – she whispered.

Holding back tears she walked over to the hearth, in whose basket was a torch. She took it and put the fire under the pile.

       Hours passed and she stood in one place the whole time. Every moment fewer and fewer people were in the courtyard. Finally, she was left all alone. Looking at the catching ashes, she tried to keep herself in check. She couldn’t stop the tears though. She clenched her eyelids and, turning away from the pile, moved toward the Fortress.

       As she walked through the empty hallways, she paid no attention to the sculptures and paintings she passed. All she wanted was to be in her bed again. She reached her chamber and, being behind a closed door, sat down on her bed and gave herself fully to mourning. Tears flooded her face, and she didn’t even try to stop them. She sat back against the table and slowly calmed herself as she stare dat the sword lying on the table. The weapon absorbes all her attention. Looking at the double – edged blade, she tried to chase the horrifying memory away from her. However, she felt herself losing control over her body. Her muscles refused to obey and herm ind slipped into unconsciousness. She didn’t want to fall asleep. She longed to remain conscious, but the moment her head settled on a table, darkness fell before her eyes and she lost consciousness. When she woke up she felt the same pain she had felt before falling asleep. She couldn’t stand up to it. The next few days passed in a melancholy she could not cope with. Every sleep ended in the same nightmare. Months passed, and the thought of her friend’s death kept her awake.

       „Wolves! Be careful… They’re chasing us… Wolves… No! Kill them! Ulfric… No! No! No!”

- No! – she shouted waking up violently. Horrified, she pulled her head away from the pillow only to find that nothing was happening. To her surprise, the fatigue and pain substiyuded. It had been months since she’d felt rested. She lazily rose from the bed and walked over to the mirror. She looked into her own eyes. „Would he want that?” she thought. „To see me like this? Get a hold of yourself. Remember him, but don’t nurse your grief. You have responsibilities to live up to damn it! You can’t break down now.” She felt determination fill her. She knew she had to get back to normal wether she wanted to or not.

       While in the courtyard, Eugenia stormed into the stables. As she walked toward her horse’s stall she kept thinking about her promise. Determination ensured her confident gait. Reaching the mount, she quickly saddled it and left the Grey Fortress. Rushing towards the Wolf Forest, she couldn’t wait to talk to her dead friend, whose soul would make one last appearance in the world of the living. She knew that this would be her last Chance and she would not be able to let herself and most of all Ulfric down.

       However, running up the path didn’t feel right. Excitement gave way to anxiety. Even the horse didn’t want to go any further. She left him in a clearing near the enterance to the forest. She went on alone. She felt something was wrong. She walked Ahead with her sword drawn. Usually calm regions, now seemed downright, distrustful and unpredictable. Like there’s something there that shouldn’t be. Every muscle in her body was tensed and ready to attack. As she entered the Ancestral Glade, she noticed what was causing the thick atmoshpere. This was the same pack that was responsible for killing Ulfric. Suddenly rage bubbled up in her. The beasts whose only desire was to inflict pain were now vulnerable and didn’t expect her. As she prepared to attack, she noticed that they were surrounding the Spirit Tree. „I will not allow these beasts to destroy anything else. Summoning up her unnatural courage, she rushed at the wolves with a roar. She cut blindly, and each of their attacks seemed to be slower than usual. Filled with raw kind of strength and determination, she attacked with increasing ferocity. In the heat of the battle, however, she noticed something else. It was a ghost. The ghost of her friend. He was the one directing her sword. She realized that this was their last fight. It was their last destined meeting. She didn’t feel regret for meeting him like that. She didn’t feel the need to talk. She knew and was proud that he was now with her and helping her avenge his death. However, she noticed that with each wolf killed, the spirit faded.

       When the last of the beasts fell, the ghost was gone. She stood alone in the middle of the clearing, surrounded only by trees and the sounds of the forest. Even though the threat had passed, she continued to listen in anticipation of other dangers. When the tension subsided, she walked over to the Spirit Tree and knelt by it. She felt exhausted. Age was making its presence known. Trying to chase away the feeling of fatigue, she removed the glove from her right hand and, touching the bark, thanked her frien for his help. After a moment, she raised the head pressed to her chest and laughed sincerely for the first time in months.

- Friends even after death, huh?

Silence.

- I know you’re listening. You always listened. Even when I was coming off as the worst kind of bitch. – The thought made Eugenia laugh again. – You,re finally at peace. That’s good. You deserve it. You know what?

She waited a few moments, as if waiting for an answer, but met no response. Silence all the time.

- Thank. Take care of yourself. See you, Ulfric.

Saying these words, she pressed her forehead against the Tree and, clenching her eyelids tightly, restrained herself from crying.

       After the while she rose from her knees and spent a few more hours sitting and chatting with Ulfric, who could not be heard, but she could feel that he was listening. She discussed all sorts of topics and only when dusk came did she realize how much time had passed. Lighting the torch, she took one last look at the Tree. It stood large and unmoved by human emotion. Letting out the air in her lungs, she slowly turned and started down the trail towards the clearing where her horse was waiting. Only silence and the thud of hooves accompanied her on her way to the Grey Fortress. After a few hours, she reached the castle, led her horse to the stables, and set off toward the chamber. Once again she felt a piercing fatigue, so as soon as she opened the heavy oak door her eyes wandered to the bed. As she lay there, she kept thinking about the events she had witnessed. She felt proud. Again a sort of forlorn joy accompanied her, and she gave herself up to the embrace of sleep without trying to fight for consciousness.

       After a few hours she woke up, but when she got up she felt too light. Something wasn’t right. Turning toward her resting place, she noticed that her body was still immersed in sleep. Gazing at herself, she couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed. Suddenly she heard a strange sound, as if calling out. Momentarily forgetting her conditio she left the chamber to search for the source of the voice. Trying to locate it seemed an almost impossible taks, as it seemed to be coming simultaneously from everywhere and from nowhere. Circling the stone corridors, she was able to hear the mysterious noise more and more accurately.

      Eventually, hearing led her to the entrance of the crypt where her ancestors rested. „Why here?”. Walking down the Winding stone staircase, she felt no fear or even anxiety. She felt that there was something waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs that could change her life. The way down seemed to be longer than usual. Eugenia had the gray stone in front of her eyes the whole time. When she finally reached her destination, a shimmering figure standing at the end of the room appeared to her eyes. Getting closer and closer, her eyes recognized new details of the spectrum. When she was close enough, she reached out in hopes of touching the Phantom. To her surprise, her fingers didn’t go all the way through, but stopped at the thick fur coat, which was warm and soft to the touch despite its ethereality.

- Ulfric? – She asked.

Hearing these words, the Phantom turned, and to her eyes appeared the familiar image of tall, powerful man witha a short, elegantly trimmed beard and a laughing eyes.

- Hello friend – he said spreading his arms, which gave a clear sign of willingness for physical contact. Without thinkinng much, Eugenia threw herself into her friend’s embrace

- It’s really you! But how? How come you’re there? You’re dead.

- Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not there – he laughed. – Besides we didn’t get a Chance to talk at the Tree, we’ll do it here.

- Cozy…

- I know it’s not the best place, but seeing two ghosts talking in the middle of the hallway is probably not pleasant.

- You’ve got the point – she replied smiling.

Suddenly the ghost’s face clouded. The smile dissappeard from Ulfric’s lips, and there was concern in his eyes.

- I was worried about you. You weren’t yourself.

- I know, but I had plenty time to think. It got me who I am and what my responsibilities are. Besides, I knew it wasn’t something you wanted to see. – Saying these words, a faint smile crept onto her lips.

- Never mind – his eyes took of their characteristic expression again. – I’m glad you’re okay. After all, someone has to be here and in chargé hasn’t she?

- You’re right. Tell me, are you always here?

- As long as you are. I decided I’d still be useful here. And someone has to watch over you.

- What about Valhalla?

- Feasting and fighting without you is no entertainment – he said. – I’ll wait for you.

- I’m guessingnyou won’t change your mind?

- No – he replied and smiled widely. A familiar spark ignited in his eyes. – I have to ask you something though

- I’m listening. What is it?

- Your Reign has been a golden age for the Grey Fortress domain. All I ask is that it stays that way.

- I’ll do my best – she replied, smiling. – I promise.

Suddenly Ulfric’s figure began to flicker. The ghost itself seemed to be getting paler by the second.

- Ulfric? You disappear. What’s going on with you?

- Dawn is coming. Don’t worry. Every night we can get together. Besides, I’ll still be with you during the day, you just won’t see me.

- It was nice to see you again. – she said smiling.

- You too.

Eugenia noticed that her frien wasn’t the only one who was starting to disappear. She herself was also slowly dissolving into thin air. She felt herself waking up. She looked at him once more, and the last sight he gave her was his teethe bared in wide grin.

- See you around.

She rolled off the bed and, catching her breath, couldn’t believe her luck. She knew she hadn’t dreamed it. It was too real. Sitting among the furs, she began to laugh. „He is here.” She assured herself in spirit. Looking around the room, her gaze fell on a table near the bed where they had spent many an evening. „Next time, I’m not going down to the crypt. Chairs are better.” Laughing in her spirit she jumped out of the bed and dressed in light armor, with her sword by her side and her cloak over her shoulders she moved towards the largest hall where she was accustomed to sit. She knew that nothing would be the same from that day forward. Taking her place on the central throne, jarl Eugenia von Holstein was bubbling with pride and energy that had not been in her body for a long time.

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

All That's Best of Dark and Bright

Eventually, I will find a good photo of Sihtric and Eahlswith to use for this, but for now, have one of my favorite Sihtric gifs instead!

Summary: Ever since Kjartan killed his mother nearly seven years ago, Sihtric has longed for revenge. He's been waiting, biding his time, growing stronger. He can sneak and spy and fight, and when he thinks about his name, it is not Kjartansson. 

Eahlswith has been with the army of Uhtred and Ragnar Ragnarsson since they found her, soot-stained and tear-streaked, blood in her hair and on her hands and staining her teeth red. Sven the One-Eye haunts her dreams, and she promises herself that one day, she will kill him with her own hands. 

When Eahlswith and Sihtric meet by chance in the forest, they only continue the friendship because it suits their own ends: Uhtred and Ragnar need information on Dunholm, and Sihtric will maybe give it, if she earns his trust. Sihtric just needs an escape from the living nightmare that is Dunholm, and if that escape is a Saxon girl with dark hair and defiant eyes, he will only appreciate what the gods have sent his way. 

Then Sihtric discovers Kjartan's key to power, his most closely guarded secret. Defeating him will take love, and maybe an army. Good thing he has both, in the form of a Saxon girl with dark hair and defiant eyes

AO3, if you prefer

chapter one: silver beads and sunlight

Eahlswith hates traveling with this rowdy, ragtag company of Danes a little less each day. None have bothered her, there is plenty to keep her hands busy, and even the sounds of them snoring and farting in their sleep is beginning to sound more reassuring than annoying. Besides, smelly as fighting men on a march can be, most of them make it a point to wash once a week, or sometimes more if the weather is hot and the day’s work is particularly strenuous.

She sometimes says her prayers and sometimes not, and she is still not sure if she forgives God. She doesn’t think he much cares for her opinion of him, anyway, and if a few missed prayers are enough to send her soul to hell, maybe heaven isn’t a place worth striving for.

They have been camping on the edge of Kjartan the Cruel’s lands for a few days now, and Eahlswith dreads the day they will pick up and begin to move closer. Kjartan must know they’re nearby--Eahlswith was a child when he took Dunholm, she knows he is a fearful, paranoid man, obsessed only with his own power and the threats to it. Even the thought of moving closer to the fortress, and closer to the burnt plot of land her family’s farm once stood upon, is enough to turn her stomach.

Instead, she seeks out Brida every day after breakfast, determined to put her restless hands to good use. Eventually there will be a battle, and Eahlswith spends her days learning as much as she can about healing. Brida knows which herbs will stem bleeding and which will slow the march of putrification, she knows the broths to make to calm a fever and which gods may be swayed to ease the suffering of men.

Eahlswith is skeptical of the gods, but she holds the knowledge as close as any Brida tells her, listens to her tales with rapt attention as they grind herbs to powder or hang them upside down to dry. Every day, she feels more and more at home among this company of fur-clad men with merry eyes and silver rings glittering on their arms, and every day, she tries not to turn her attention to the dark smudge of Dunholm low on the horizon.

She has settled into a some semblance of a life here, even if it is a life like nothing she ever imagined. There is a comfort to the rhythm of her days, a familiarity growing between her and the men of the army, a tentative friendship blossoming between her and Brida. Eahlswith finds, that for all the priests and the wives in the market whispered of the ferocity of the pagan Danes, that they are a merry folk. These men are nothing like Kjartan’s, and for that, she is grateful.

“Eahlswith,” Brida calls, her voice calm and warm one early morning. Eahlswith straightens and offers Brida a bowl of the porridge she’d been preparing for a large group of grateful men nearby, but Brida waves it away. “Some of Ragar’s men are complaining of fever. What should we use to calm it?”

The men nearby shuffle uneasily, glancing among themselves with shifting gazes. It is no secret that illness can rip through an army in days. Several of them nervously touch the hammers hanging around their necks, the way her father would grab his cross. The way Eahlswith would grab hers, had she not thrown it into the woods the day everything changed. The answer comes to Eahlswith’s lips effortlessly. “Coriander. I know where some grows nearby.”

“Can you gather it? I’ll use up almost all of my supply this morning. And some mint, too, if you can find it.” Brida tilts her head thoughtfully, considering the clouds in the sky. “And comfrey.”

Eahlswith nods, hauling the large iron pot off the hook over the fire and setting it among the circle of men. Full bellies will keep them from thinking about the fever, at least for a moment. “I’ll go now. Are Uhtred and Ragnar going to move the army today?”

Brida shakes her head, the silver in her hair catching the sunlight. Eahlswith pauses to admire how lovely it looks against her dark hair, and wishes she had a bead or two to braid into her own. How plain she must look among these Danes, with their arm-rings and their hair-beads and their elaborate braids. She has only the simple green dress she was wearing when she fled the ruins of her family’s farm, and a red one Uhtred found for her among their piles of plunder.

She pulls her dark hair into a hurried braid over her shoulder as she rises from her knees before the fire. “Becoming more Dane than Saxon now, Eahlswith!” Audun calls good-naturedly, jerking his chin toward her braid. “We’ll have you in a shield-wall yet!”

“And if I’m in a shield-wall, who’s going to stitch your hand back to your arm?” She taunts, to a chorus of laughs from the rest of the men.

Even Audun smiles, his blue eyes glimmering, and tilts his head to acknowledge her point. “Off with you, then!” He pauses, face going serious, as he squints into the distance toward Dunholm. “Should be far enough away that you’ll be safe. He’ll know we’re here, his men will be cowering behind their walls.”

Eahlswith nods, trying to ignore the clenching of her stomach as she fetches a basket and heads toward the woods. Coriander likes a bit of shade, and there’s a meadow only about an hour’s brisk walk that’s sunny in the morning and shaded in the afternoon. Her mother used to send her to gather coriander from there, before Eahlswith got tired of the chore and brought some back to plant in their garden.

As Eahlswith steps into the shade, she realizes this is the first time she’s been alone since the army found her, soot-stained and tear-streaked, blood in her hair and on her hands and staining her teeth red. She pushes these thoughts to the side and tries not to imagine Kjartan’s men hiding in the shadows behind every tree. Audun is right. Kjartan will know they’re nearby, and will be terrified. He always lets his enemies come to him, to break their armies on his high walls. Eahlswith has never known him to leave the fortress, although his son, Sven the One-Eye, sometimes does. He always leaves burned homes and ruined lives in his wake, and Eahlswith hopes his fearful father is keeping him home.

Eahlswith tries to pay attention to anything but thoughts of Sven, his leering, ugly face and matted blond hair, the horrible sound of his mocking laughter. Instead she listens to the birds and the wind in the leaves and watches the play of sunlight on the ground. By the time she reaches the clearing, she has almost forgotten why she should be wary.

The meadow was a farm, once, she thinks, long before the Danes came. A crumbling well stands near a few rotten, blackened beams that must be the remnants of the house, and the abundance of herbs growing wild here hints that there was once a garden. Eahlswith does not let herself imagine what became of the inhabitants of this place.

She rounds a tree and the meadow comes into view, and Eahlswith’s belly drops when she spies a half-dozen cattle scattered throughout the meadow, grazing contendly in the midmorning light. They look like they belong here, like they’ve always been here, and if Eahlswith hadn’t been here countless times before and always found it empty, she would be soothed by the sight of them.

She creeps slowly toward the clearing, keeping to the shadows as best she can, thankful she is not a Dane and does not have silver in her hair to catch the sunlight and give her away. She is nearly to the clearing when a hand lands on her shoulder.

Eahlswith screams, startling the cows into lifting their heads, and scrambles away. The hand releases its hold on her instantly, and she spins to ward off her attacker.

He stands just a foot away from her, hands raised, palms out, and he looks as surprised as Eahlswith feels. The sunlight and shadows dapple his pale skin and the sharp planes of his cheeks and jaw. There is no spark of silver on his arms or in his black hair, no sword at his hip or shield on his back, but there is no mistaking him for anything but a Dane.

[ellipsesarefun]

DAMIRAE DAY 5: Soulbond

A/N: SO THIS CAME OUT OF NOWHERE I SWEAR HAHHAHAAH. It’s probs the coffee talking but damn. Finished this baby todaaayyy after reviewing for a subject (and damn is this a weird day because writing and studying feels like two different worlds) so this will be queued to post on the 14th or 15th? Maybe I’m too excited but it’s been awhile since I’ve been excited to write something.. Been awhile since I’ve used 1st POV. This is probs a bit messy :( But I’ll edit some stuff out someday..

May not be participating anymore but I hope to come back to DamiRae <3 It’s been a comfort to me during my study breaks.

------

There are some things about my magic that I cannot fully comprehend nor explain. 

Ever since I’ve healed the young Robin, I’ve been receiving vivid dreams. I can’t fully grasp the images but the emotions that wake me to reality are always filled with heartaches, pining, and desperation. I never bothered to clue anyone in on what they are. Kory knows I have dreams but I can never tell her what happens in them because I don’t know how to describe them.. Damian has his ways of knowing. The little bird never lets me forget that. But he never asked, just implied. And I never said anything, merely let him draw his own conclusions.

I’ve been harboring feelings for him for a long time but I never acted on them for a number of reasons... Sometimes, we were romantically and sexually involved with other people. Other times, there never seemed to be a time and place to voice it out on the open. The moments we spent alone meditating, reading together, flying during my nightly rituals are the moments I cherish too much to let him feel my burden.

But out of all the reasons I've expounded, My father is the center. Even when I have created an enchanted fortress created out of his and my own demonic magic (with the help of Constantine and Zatanna), I still fear that he may one day break through those chains and destroy Earth... and kill Damian. Trigon senses the bond between us and it disgusts him.

His insults hit right through my own insecurities. I mean technically, he is trapped in crystal that’s stored in a small box that I carry around but damnit there are times when his thoughts crowd over to mine and... it terrifies me.

The mechanics of the bond isn’t the “if he dies, then I die too” but more of “I feel his presence more than I let on”. I still have no idea if it also might be the former, but the latter is one that I experience often. I don't always know what he is feeling (I may be an Empath but I have my mental barriers to maintain). It's only when he's in danger do my senses burn right through my barriers. It probably comes with this strong sense of protectiveness within me, a desperate need to keep him safe... and it’s becoming a little too obvious.

Throughout the six years as Titans, training with Damian has gradually become a torture... Every urge to shot turns into every urge to shield him from the pain... Every scar he receives fuels my anger against those who dare to hurt him, especially the enemies we’ve faced during missions and/or patrol. 

The last one was worse. I arrived at the scene with him on the floor, body tainted with bruises and then..

I saw him on the floor.. suddenly burnt into ashes.. face barely recognizable... I heard my screams of agony, despair, and heartbreak as I watched my other self enveloping him in what seems a spell..

I love you...

And it wasn’t a dream but a memory... It all felt so real, like I was in Apokolips (what the hell is Apokolips?) once more and the Earth has crumbled to its fucked up state and he was gone and I needed to save him (from what?)...

I didn’t even stop to comprehend what it was and I lost my control. 

AZARATH. METRION. ZINTHOS!

...

I blacked out, I think, and now I find myself back in the infirmary of the Titans Tower. Not a single glimpse of a sunlight reached the room and nothing stands out from the dark except a figure sitting beaide me.

"Hi." Is the only greeting I offered. Damian stands and turns the lights back on. He sits back down, burning holes into my skull. I squint at the brightness and immediately force myself to focus at some place that isn't him.. I couldn't bare to look at him.

I hear a sigh but I let my gaze linger at the clock far longer than I liked, matching my breaths with the ticks and tocks of the arrows of the clock. His agitation prickles at my senses like a thorn to my side. The damned urge to come and wrap him in my arms gradually resurfaces once more. 

He clears his throat just in time, like he already knew what I was thinking and I look down, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat pooling my cheeks. 

“Look,” he says and I pause my train of thought, “You and I both know there’s more to this that letting your demon lose and almost killing Dr. Light, so let’s not beat around the bush.” I couldn’t look at him, I just can’t bear to.. But I nodded, just so he knows that I’m taking his words seriously (and I always do)..

I might as well tell him..

“I’ve been having nightmares ever since the first time I healed you.” There’s movement from my periphery but I ignore it, “Of you.. dying...” Silence is his only answer so I continued.

“It wasn’t that bad at first but through years it’s been difficult to fight this desire to protect you all the time.” I haven’t reached the most important part yet and I’m already feeling the rising tension in the air. He holds up a hand, and I wait for him to speak as I try to calm my heartbeat. 

“Raven, I was trained by the League of the Assassins. I know how to handle myself-” 

“I know you do, Damian.” I cut him off, hearing my voice rise a bit,

(And I realize later that he didn't need to say this because damnit the smart ass saw right through me. He only did so to bait me into confessing.)

“But these aren’t nightmares.. not really. They’re from another timeline.” I let out a sigh. This conversation is beginning to exhaust me but he needs to know. I turn to him this time and he’s not holding back his own concern etched on his face. He gets up from his chair and sits at the edge of my bed. My gaze drifts to his hand. I remember a lingering feeling, probably from another memory of that timeline, that he’d reach out and hold my hand in his. 

“There was a war.. We were around at this age..” I continue, “We were trying to stop someone and... you died in the process. I revived you.. brought you back from the dead.” I watch him watch me. Not a single gasp was uttered nor any ounce of surprised was showed on his face. I didn’t sense any of that. There was so much I can pick from that unreadable frown. 

Longing, concern, understanding.. and it’s only occurred to me that he knows. He’s known this whole time. I was too engrossed to what he felt and what Trigon may do that I didn’t stop to read through his actions. But does he...

No.. I shouldn't ask... not when I haven't laid all the cards out..

"We have a bond.. sort of." I say, and he nods, confirming of his own assumptions, "But I'm not sure if this will get us killed. So far the pain inflicted on you does not mean I receive the same kind of pain. It just fuels my drive to protect you."

"And you think that this was a result from our previous affections to one another in that timeline." He concludes.

"We never really spent time together as... together." I say. It feels out of the blue but something about what I said needed to be heard, "You left for the League of Assassins. You offered me a place there because you had feelings for me. I would have went with you if Trigon hadn't threatened me to kill you if I stayed..."

I face him, feeling this odd confidence swelling within me. "I do still have feelings for you. And Trigon still wants to kill you so.. that hasn't changed.." 

There is a slight elation and giddiness within me as I catch a mixture of bewilderment and amusement on his features. But my heart begins to soar as I watch a tiny, tender smile drawn by his lips.

I've seen that smile before.. a couple of times. There were only glimpses of that smile during our many glances throughout the years, hidden beneath the layers of his mask.

And now the last of his mask has finally come off.

"Raven," he says and I feel the tingle in my ears at the sound of my name, "You should know by now that my perseverance exceeds the fear of being devoured by demonic conquerer of worlds."

I frown at him. "You sound so sure of yourself..."

"You've defeated him twice, Raven." He reasons, "In this timeline and probably in other timelines. You were lucky, you say, but now.. you're--no, we're, more than four times as lucky."

"Damian.. where is this all coming from?" I ask, because he makes it sound so simple. Like he's up against merely a strict father who wouldn't let his daughter marry the person she loves in those cheesy romcoms. But this isn't a romcom. This is Trigon, for Azar's sake..

"He isn't called a Conquerer of Worlds for no reason!"

"And that doesn't stop you for creating a tiny fortress that entraps and gradually diminishes his demonic magic instead of trapping him in a crystal and sticking it to your forehead from your other timeline. Look Raven,” he continues, “You and I both know that there’s something between us? Why wait for the inevitable?” Why wait till I leave for the League of Assassins? Why wait till the possibility of Apokolips comes around again? He leans in and his bright green eyes search my own.

I keep my frown on my face, not wanting to give in to his charms. He throws back a smirk because he's fucking...

"Insufferable. That’s what you are." I spit the words at him, only halfheartedly at best. He laughs. The cheeky fucker is laughing me.

"But I'm a kind and generous soul." He teases with a grin on his face. And shit, I can't fight my own my smile any longer. He reaches out and I meet him halfway, entwining our fingers together. I haven't affirmed anything but the gesture already is the answer. Our answer. We’ve been dancing around this for a long time. Might as well take the chance before it’s too late.

Something magical, his aura perhaps, loops with my own. I close my eyes let the magic guide me.. and him. A meadow materializes itself and I find him in the distance, his smile warm and inviting. I extend my hand to him and he mirrors my actions. A raven flies out of my hand and another one out of his. At the same time we open our eyes and-

The magic suddenly bursts forth into a kaleidoscope of colors, a plethora of shapes of any kind. They all coalesce into a giant raven. A white raven. It soars above us, circling around the room with a happy tune. It eventually disappears into a sparkle of fireworks. We laugh and turn our gazes to one another. 

With foreheads pressed against each other, we guide our silent conversation with twinkles in our eyes and smiles forming on our lips. It's like those typical chessy lovebird montage things people see in romantic subplots. It might be the calmness of the air or the sleep edging its way through my train of thought but I can sense our heartbeats in sync. A lullaby to my woes, perhaps, but someone like me can hope that this bond is knitting our souls into a comfortable blanket, however mysterious and unpredictable it may be.

Trigon's box rattles on the table. I almost forgot that it was there in the first place. I feel his presence, cursing disgusting words at the edge of my aura but I pay no heed. 

After all, I'm a billion times luckier now.

[dongiovannaswife]

I'd request a DMC and GW crossover one, s/o (gn) saves Giorno's life by sacrificing their own in order for them to escape underground, ill note that Giorno is badly injured from the demons, and is with survivors as well please and thank you.

CROSSOVER: DMCxVA. 

CW: major character death, blood, body horror, violence, weapons mentioned and used, grief. Stay safe.

August 31. 11: 02 PM. 

“Mista!” Fugo screams from outside the office as his footsteps rapidly follow behind another pair Mista doesn’t recognize. “Stop him!”

Knocking his chair on the way, the gunslinger Guido Mista stands, gun pointing at the door, ready to pull the trigger in the second the stranger steps inside. 

“Boss!” a voice calls, getting closer. Panic and agitation present. “Please don’t kill me! I beg your mercy, Don Giovanna!” 

Standing from his chair now, Don Giovanna frowns gesturing at Mista to keep his guard up, but not shoot yet. 

When the door opens and the man stumbles over the carpet, Giorno’s eyes furrow when he recognizes the man as one of the most recent soldatos. His name is not something he remembers at the moment, but he knows he was under the supervision of a capo from Rome.

“What kind of interruption do you thin—”

“Please!” the man cries out before falling to his knees before the Don, face covered in blood —multiple wounds making Guido raise an eyebrow. “It’s a massacre, Don! Those things —those things! Oh my god, those things… They’re coming for me! For you!” The man’s hands are clapped together, almost as if praying, but as his words leave his mouth his expression turns to one of hysteria as he looks around. 

“What are you talking about?” asks Giorno, trying to figure out what’s happening with him and why he is saying such things. 

The man stumbles to his feet, grabbing onto his shirt and staining the fabric: he desperately tries to shake him, but to no use. Giorno grips at his hands, pulling him away with a glare. “First, don’t touch me. Second, explain this. Now.” 

The man, whom Giorno recognizes now as Paolo, shakes on the floor, curling and murmuring to himself. 

“Hey! He gave you an order.” Demands Mista, squatting to the man's eye level. 

“Boss…” he says, between sobs, his wounds starting to make him nauseous. “Those things aren’t human. They killed every single one of us… Cold blooded. Horrible. Inhuman.” 

Mista shakes his head, looking up to Giorno with pursed lips. “He’s gone, Giogio.” 

Giorno nods, taking his jacket from his chair. When Fugo stops by the door with an apology ready, Giorno gestures at him to wait as he heads to the door, jacket over his arm. “We need to check the cameras of Rome. Call the capo and ask for his report of this team.” 

August 31. 11: 26 PM.

“What are those things?” Asks Mista perplexed from his seat as the three men watch the images sent by the capo at Rome. The images display a group of creatures with anthropomorphic characteristics that don’t really look like a human being. No legend or myth could explain what they are seeing —Not even Giorno could find an explanation. At least not one that was logical or based on his knowledge. Those creatures were out of his imagination. 

“I don’t know.” Replies Giorno, looking at Mista through the corner of his eye. “But we’ve lost men to them tonight, and I won’t let that happen again.” 

September 3, 9:17 AM.

“Giorno, look at this!” Fugo rushes to his office, making the Don look up from the photographs he’s been trying to analyze with the help of the Speedwagon Foundation —in fact, Jotaro Kujo. 

“What is it?” he asks, following him. 

In the screen, seemingly the cameras of a restaurant, the images show a group of the same creatures being killed by someone. 

“He’s doing what no one could.” Mista murmurs, watching with a certain sense of wonder how the man with white hair and red clothes attacks the creatures without an ounce of fear, shooting or using the sword tied to his back to rip them in half.

When the last creature hits the floor the man stands calmly in the middle of the mess, flipping his M1911 pistols before shoving them into their cases.

“Find him,” says Giorno, taking his phone out to call the restaurant the cameras belong to. “He must know what those are if he knows how to kill them.” 

September 4, 4: 40 PM. 

“Dante, it seems like you have work. A very interesting client, if I must say.” Morrison says as he gets into the temporal place they’re staying at. “Perhaps they could help us with all this universe thing.” 

Dante doesn’t respond, head hanging as he leans against the couch back. A magazine covering his face. 

“Dante?” 

“He’s asleep.” Nero interrupts, taking off his headphones. “Dumbass here doesn’t care which universe we’re in, all he cares is his stupid nap.” 

“I heard that.” Dante mumbles, starting to wake up, throwing the magazine to the side. “So? What do we have? Is the president of this Italy calling?” 

“He, in fact, has more power than the president —could hire a stadium for himself if he wanted.” 

The statement picks the men’s attention. “Who is it, then?” Asks Nero.

“The boss of the biggest mafia in Italy.” 

Dante snorts, “working with the mafia? I thought those guys were only in the business for their own benefit.” 

“Apparently,” answers Morrison, lighting a cigarette in the process. “He’s not the typical Don. He didn’t send anyone to meet, dare I say interrogate, me. He came in person. In fact, he’s waiting outside with a gunslinger.” 

“Well,” Dante says, straightening his position. “Don’t make Marlon Brando wait.” 

September 4, 4: 45 PM.

“So,” Giorno says, watching how Dante smirks for no apparent reason. “You were sent here when a portal between the demon world and our dimensions collapsed?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you never tried to go back.” 

“See, none of the weapons I own can open portals.” 

“And,” says Giorno. “I suppose you could benefit from this.” 

Dante shrugs, “only if we find the person who did all this mess.” 

“Turns out,” Says GIorno. “My interest is in solving this fast. Besides, maybe I can make that portal close.”

“How?” asks Nero, exasperated at that point. While Giorno seems like an interesting person, he’s not interested in messing with the universe, that specific one. 

“You’ve told me about demons —now, this universe has its things. They are called stands. Reflections of the souls with powers. I know of someone who can write down a command, and all this will end.” 

September 5, 7:01 AM. 

“Pronto.” 

“Giovanna, Kishibe is up to working with you.” Jotaro Kujo talks through the phone, tone serious. “He’ll be there this afternoon. His payment will be announced to you by him, he said.” 

“Perfect. Thank you, Jotaro.”

He hums and the call ends. 

September 8, 10: 08 AM.

“NAPLES UNDER ATTACK.” 

“NAPLES HAS FALLEN.” 

Mista turns off the TV, throwing the remote aside as the bus with the survivors —forty eight persons plus the other seven buses behind them— drives through the isolated streets. “Well, fuck. That magaka did agree, but now the city is collapsing and you are telling me the only way to save these people is to hide in the catacombs?” 

“Do you have a better pan, Mista?” Fugo questions, looking through the mirror. 

The radio at Giorno’s lap cracks as Dante’s voice comes through it. “Giovanna! Your significant other is here! Didn't I tell you to take your people out? Besides, what a cool ability they have but man, you should have guessed this.” 

“Where are you at? And what are you talking about?” 

“Close to your destination —their power does not come from their soul, but they invoke creatures from the underworld of your universe. When the universes combined, they started to bring the demons here themselves.” 

The news leave him with a bad taste, almost as if he could feel something about to happen. Still, he clears his throat. “I’ll be there.”

September 8, 12: 42 PM. 

Gold Experience lands a last blow before another demon comes from behind him, sinking its scythe into his shoulder —a growl of pain leaving his chest as he kneels, taking the sharp object remaining out of his body and forcing the creature to fall before him. Another demon, one (Y/n) controls, tears the smaller one apart, shielding him. When the last enemy falls, (Y/n) rushes to Giorno, kneeling before him as they watch him try to get his stand out to no use, his eyelids too heavy for a reason they can't quite tell. 

“Done.” announces Kishibe Rohan as the catacombs start to build a fortress to protect the survivors. 

“Giorno!” (Y/n) screams suddenly, standing in front of him with their arms extended. 

Giorno’s consciousness comes back. He can’t believe his eyes. 

The image is clearly horrendous, his worst nightmare becoming reality. With him not being able to stop it —not even aware of what was about to happen. 

The demon’s claws move as its arm tears through their torso. Giorno can’t move even if he tries to. 

Nero rushes to them, cutting the demon in half with his sword as the buses start to get people inside the catacombs in a rush of cries and scared kids asking their relatives what’s going on. 

But he can’t do more than hold them in his arms, watch their eyes start to lose their light —see the strange calmness they offer to him even in their last moments. 

Giorno reaches a hand out, palm pressed carefully against their wound before they stop him. “Don’t add more guilt to your heart, Giogio.” They say, barely a whisper. “Escape. This city needs you.” 

“They need me as much as I need you” he replies in another whisper, trembling. Even if he wants to cry, the tears won’t come out. 

“Love,” they insist. “You know you can’t die here. This is no place to die.” 

“And is it yours?” he replies —with no response. Seeing this, Giorno cradles their head against his shoulder, shaking uncontrollably now. Rage, sadness and every possible negative emotion mixed with the sound of the aftermath of the events. 

“The portal… For your world is ready.” Rohan says again, breaking the silence. Giorno doesn’t respond, still holding them tightly. 

Dante purses his lips together, nodding to Fugo as if saying give him my condolences as he walks to the portal, followed by Nero and Morrison. The last giving Giorno a few reassuring words that are dismissed by the don with a low hum. 

The portal has started to close by now, with Dante, Nero and Morrison having crossed it and with the people safe and sound. Although there are still demons roaming, Passione is around the city to take care of the matter. 

No one moves, however, as Giorno remains kneeling with their body in his arms. 

September 9, 9:05 PM. 

“Giogio, I’m sorry about (Y/n).” Mista says, bowing as they check the reports regarding the situation. Apparently, there has not been more movement regarding the underworld invasion.

Giorno purses his lips together, letting the report down and looking over at Mista with a sad expression he doesn’t mask. “Thank you —I’d rather not hear their name, at least not when I’m present and you talk about them.” 

Mista nods, exciting the office with a mumbled apology. 

[prettywordsyouleft]

Aftermath // AIRFORCE7

Summary: The war was over, yet Youngjae couldn’t quite find his way forward in life even with you at his side.

Pairing: Choi Youngjae x reader (ft. GOT7 in AIRFORCE7)

Genre: pilot au / late 1940s – early 1950s era / angst / fluff

Warnings: Due to the era it’s set in, this will contain minor war conflict in some of the stories. I will not be making the war-zone my main focus in this series however. 

A/N: This story has a focus on recovery after trauma. It is dark, and may be triggering to some survivors. I tried to contain the feelings as best as I could despite the time period. Since Youngjae is known as our sunshine, I really felt this idea fitted him the best to play around with his character. Despite the high level of angst, I hope you’ll give it a go!

Once again, I’ve just edited this, so if there’s any errors, I will fix over the next couple of days.

Word count: 4132

This series will continue every Thursday until completed at 10am NZST. 

Because of the war, Youngjae had missed out on so much.

He had lost the remaining years of his teenage youth by training to be a pilot, and subsequently spent the time he had planned on studying in the air force. Those weren’t bad times, and nor did he regret them. Ultimately though, the war had travelled his way and he had spent many more years losing. Friends, time, health; when it was all done for, he was as broken as a warplane with holes in it. Sure, the plane had been repaired with sheets of new metal, more rivets punched in to hold it in place.  But the wound still sat open under the surface. Youngjae had dealt with some of the holes he received whilst flying but he was far from healed. 

He wondered if he would ever be able to forget the things he saw.

It was when he was grounded in the midst of all the chaos that he had met you and fallen in love. He had never been much of a believer in love, yet it was the first thing he could think of when he saw you for the first time. Your smile breathed new life into his tired soul, patching up those internal wounds of losing friends and his own sense of compassion. The arduous way of killing enemies and throwing damage at foreign places was placated with your gentle caresses and uplifting nature. Youngjae hadn’t laughed in years nearly as much as he did with you during those short six weeks. And so, before the next orders were sent his way, he married you in secret, the only witness to your love being the pastor in a small town church and the skies above.

It was you who made Youngjae keep fighting. To win the war and bring back peace and prosperity. He had a new future building, and he didn’t want to waste any more time in securing his dreams with you.

Yet, he still continued to miss things. When away from you for weeks at a time, he was colder than he had been before meeting you. Your arms were nowhere in sight, and he was left to cuddle himself at nights, shivering with a loneliness that he couldn’t quite describe to his comrades. He knew some of them felt the same though, watching his Lieutenant and friend Jaebum stare at the photo he carried around everywhere he went. Youngjae had asked you for a photo soon after your first letter arrived, finding solace in staring at your captured smile until he was dreaming of it.

And through a new photo he received a couple of months later; he discovered he was missing out on something else. “You-you’re pregnant?”

You laughed down the phone line happily. “Are you pleased to know you’ll be a father?”

“Well, how soon will I be?”

“I have just under five months to go. I didn’t know whether to tell you or not, with the way things are right now. But I wanted you to know, Youngjae.”

He wiped back his tears, unsure if he was elated or crushed. He wanted a family with you, yet Youngjae had envisioned you being pregnant after the war.

Not during the midst of the hardest fight.

“Baby, you’re carrying a baby!” he said with a laugh, coughing back his tears. “This is amazing news!”

“You’re not upset that I fell pregnant so soon?”

“No, no,” he assured, his mind racing. “I just wish I was there to watch you grow.”

“You’ll be here for the next one,” you replied easily and Youngjae envisioned you standing there with a hand pressed to your protruding belly. The tears continued to fall, despite his efforts to close his eyes and entrap them with his eyelids. Without even being with him, you seemed to know. That was just how you were. “Youngjae, it’s going to be okay. You’ll get to be a part of our child’s life soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“We’ll be the first people you see when you come back home, hm?”

“I sure hope so.”

He was air-raiding enemy fortresses when his daughter Younghee was born. You had suffered greatly, so your sister had told him in a phone call. The labour had been difficult and knowing he hadn’t been there to hold your hand tore open another wound inside of him. He started to resent this endless war, unable to not blame it for taking precious moments away from him.

You were right, however. When the nation had won the war, you were the first person he saw waiting for him at the airbase. And when he first held Younghee in his arms, Youngjae had cried as he soaked in all her little details. He had lost out on holding her as a tiny baby, though she was still the smallest life in his world. And thankfully, he had made it back before her first birthday too. For a brief moment in time, everything seemed settled. The nation now focused on recovery from the war efforts, and Youngjae spent every waking moment with his family.

But even with the war over, he couldn’t escape it all.

He woke with a start, snapping his upper body upright as he gasped for air, the endless firing sounds slowly fading into the background of his bedroom now that his eyes were wide with fright. Your hands were swift in enveloping him, holding him tightly as the tears stained through your silk nightgown from yet another nightmare. You soothed him with humming sometimes or rubbing his back in slow circles. And yet, you both knew sleep would now be over for the night.

“Daddy, look!” Youngjae glanced up from the newspaper he read and smiled at Younghee drawing happily on the floor. She held up her artwork proudly. “It’s you!”

His smile faltered at her attempt of drawing the plane in the photo over the fireplace. He chuckled all the same. “Now why would you draw Daddy driving a plane when he does a better job at playing the piano?”

Youngjae gestured to the grand instrument in the front of the family room, the one that was now his bread and butter. He had finally finished with his schooling, and now held a doctorate in music. Being a piano teacher seemed a far cry from his previous life, yet music had been a way of healing some of his wounds, making new sounds that he could play over and over to drown out the ones he had heard every day and night as a fighter pilot.

Younghee shook her head adamantly. “The sky looks better with Daddy in it.”

“Maybe one day we’ll get to see it too,” you mentioned, entering the room with a tray of assorted snacks. You smiled warmly as you placed them down on the table. “Daddy always did look rather dashing in his uniform.”

“Is that what made you fall in love with me?” he teased, and you nodded honestly. Youngjae grinned. “You sly thing!”

“Now, they had driven it well into the minds of the nation, pilots were there to serve, protect and look handsome whilst doing so. Why wouldn’t a thing like me fall in love with the suit that you wore?”

Younghee giggled. “I want to see!”

“Daddy doesn’t wear it anymore,” Youngjae mentioned softly, thinking back to the pledge he had made with his fellow comrades of his team AIRFORCE7. Jaebum had promised they would all continue on with their teamwork even after the war. Youngjae hadn’t returned though, no matter how often Jinyoung or Mark reached out to him. Now that he had his life set up with you, he hadn’t been back near a plane since.

Four years had passed, and yet the sounds, the crimes, the horrors, Youngjae wondered when they would leave him.

He had always loved planes, and flying had been his dream ever since he first sat in a cockpit of his Dad’s biplane. Now, he held another empty hole within him, unfulfilled from avoiding what he loved doing the most.

You seemed to notice his brooding and reached forward for his face. “Maybe Daddy should think about wearing his uniform again.”

“I’m happy with teaching music,” he stated, his voice unwavering unlike his gaze did. He stared up at the only image in his home that showed his previous career. Every other aspect of being in the war had been packed away from sight, in attempts to get it out of his mind. He clasped a hand over yours and smiled. “I’m happy with how we are.”

He found you sitting out in the grass by the outside toilet, the washing unattended in the basket beside you. Tears streamed from your eyes and you were as white as the sheets waiting to be hung out in the morning sun. Rushing to your side, Youngjae scooped you into his arms, wondering why you would be crying so much this early in the morning. Unlike him, you had always been bright, wonderful and optimistic. Whenever you cried, it was normally from laughter or jubilant experiences with your family.

There was no smile in sight today.

“What’s wrong?”

“Youngjae, I think, I think I was pregnant.”

“...Was?” he repeated and you nodded, your gaze moving towards the door to the lavatory. He stood back to his full height, slowly walking towards the door. On the inside, you had left something folded up on the floor of the toilet, and he opened it, finding why you were crying so hard. He clamped his eyes shut, trying to stem his immediate flow of emotions. He needed to be strong for you for once.

It took him some minutes before he returned, dropping back to his knees and holding you to his chest tightly. Hearing you unravel in his arms was enough to break him into a thousand pieces. He had already suffered enough in life, he thought, but now you had to carry pain as well. It was his wish to be the only one who was burdened with such a cruel twist in fate.

“We’ll try again when the time is right,” he murmured into the side of your head and you just wailed harder. “I’m sorry we’ve lost again.”

The miscarriage haunted you both. He often thought back to the time where you were telling him you were pregnant with Younghee. How he wouldn’t miss the birth of the next child. Yet, no child was coming your way. You had both wanted a large family, and he wondered if his scars from the war made him unsuitable in fathering another child with you. Before, when you had first fallen pregnant, you were both happier, laughter healing all his wounds.

He wondered why he couldn’t laugh as well these days.

“I think we need help,” you mentioned a month later in bed, placing down the book you had been reading. Youngjae glanced at you and you smiled weakly. “Maybe we are both carrying too much around to wait until we simply get over it.”

“We can though, and we will.”

“Youngjae, it’s been almost five years and you still have nightmares often. I know it’s not my place to pry or ask you what happens in them. I know I’ll never understand and maybe my sympathy will be lost on you. What about seeing your old friends again? They might help, you know.”

He stilled with his heavy thoughts, the laughter of Jackson and BamBam infiltrating his mind for a moment. He swore he even felt the friendly slap on his back from Jaebum and blinked back the tears before they had a chance to fall.

“I want to make you happy, but I feel I never will. You’re holding back with all the pain you face. Can you truly tell me you’re happy how we are?”

“I’m happy with you, I always have been,” he breathed, his voice unstable. “Y/N, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. And with our daughter, we are complete.”

“Are we? I wanted a big family, yet I worry I’m not a good enough wife since I can’t seem to fall pregnant or stay that way.” You blinked rapidly. “I worry I can’t keep you happy. Maybe I’m not enough.”

He watched you for an immeasurable time, your face falling with his lack of words. Youngjae didn’t know how to express them. He could force being bright and happy when he needed to. And he was good at covering most of his scars with newfound interests and the change in career. More importantly, he knew not to be ungrateful. What he had, his family, home, career; some of his fellow comrades would never achieve in this lifetime. He felt selfish every time he couldn’t smile, couldn’t laugh properly. When he looked at you, he still believed he was happy. You were a wonderful, beautiful wife and mother. You provided so much for this family, and he was proud of who you had become over the years. He knew his wounds somewhere along the line had become yours at times too. You had nursed him through the hard times and Youngjae knew without you, he’d be nothing.

How long had you soldiered on in silence though? Had you always viewed yourself as not enough or was that more recent? He was a doting husband and father, and you and Younghee were everything to him. Did you not feel his love enough?

“If you’re not happy, then I’m not happy,” he finally told you, long after the lights were turned out. You rolled over to face him and Youngjae kissed you softly. “I love you, Y/N and I know it’s hard right now. Maybe you’re right. That we need some help. I just want to see you smiling again and I’ll do anything to see it.”

It was easier than he imagined. The whole trip had been driven in an anxious state; you even taking over in driving from fear Youngjae would crash the car before arriving at the township he had spent his youth in. You had only been here once to collect him after the war, and yet every corner and every face seemed to serve him a memory, a story that he was eager to share with you and Younghee. He had taken over driving again; going along the lane he knew all too well that was just outside of the airbase.

Although it felt welcoming to be back where he was stationed for years, Youngjae struggled to look over at the grounds he had once called home.

Turning into the driveway that had last been overgrown and disorderly, he grinned at the grand home that stood before him, small children playing happily in the front yard. He chuckled as he got out of the car and helped you out soon after. You frowned. “Didn’t you say this place was old? It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“Why thank you,” a voice appreciated and Youngjae grinned when he saw the owner standing there. Mark shook his head at him before pulling him into a hug. “You have been missing for too long, Choi.”

What was only meant to be a few days at Mark’s home turned into two weeks of reminiscing, catching up, and learning all that was new in the lives of his six other teammates. He was surprised to hear the team force had been grounded since the day he left.

“What, you thought we could continue on without you?” Jackson mentioned with a shake of his head. “We’re a team and we were without you.”

“I distinctly remember us flying without you for some time,” Jinyoung quipped and the former grumbled.

“That was different, Park. Stop being a cocky asshole.”

Yugyeom laughed and pointed at BamBam. “Even this one who wasn’t ever the happiest in flying has missed having you up in the skies at his side. He claims he won’t fly without you.”

“And that’s not to say I can’t,” BamBam assured the men in the room, everyone laughing in response. “What?! I can fly, you bastards!”

“I’ve missed this,” Youngjae admitted and Jaebum nodded at him. “I was stupid for staying away.”

He had been so certain that what he needed in the aftermath of the war was to move away from it all, start anew in life with you. Now, Youngjae realised he needed those who mattered to him from his pilot days as well.

“You’re back now,” Mark mentioned with a smile, looking around his group of friends. “Why not make it for good?”

Youngjae took Mark’s advice. The move wasn’t too hard to achieve, with your previous home being sold for more than market value. You easily picked up work in the bakery Mark’s wife now owned, and Younghee was ready to start school for the first time in the fall.

Your new home was always full of laughter and music, Youngjae swinging you around the living room before being tackled by Younghee and dancing with her instead, much to your delight. Sure, he still had his nightmares, but facing it head-on by being back where his journey had started was actually more beneficial than hiding away in the town you had first lived as a married couple. His heart began to heal and he even met up with Jaebum’s wife and his old Captain on the airfield a few times a week to help train the cadets. It wasn’t something he had imagined returning to, but he enjoyed watching the excitement on their faces when they got their plane up into the skies.

“Will you ever climb aboard again?” Jaebum asked as he worked with Youngjae on a plane in the hangar. She was older than the new aircrafts and talk of animosity brewing overseas again seemed to have given a need to order more planes in. It was odd seeing the base so full of fresh war-birds when the last time he was here, they looked beaten, tired. Jaebum nudged Youngjae. “You know you miss them.”

“I don’t miss what being in one of these planes means.”

“I know, and I know you won’t go back to that. Intelligence reports are saying that the world isn’t at ease after all, and some of us might have to fight again. You know you don’t have to, right?”

Youngjae nodded softly. “I can’t, my life is different. Maybe I’m just meant to love planes from the ground now.”

“Before the war, didn’t we fly planes for a different reason?” Jaebum asked and Youngjae frowned. His friend scoffed. “You don’t remember sneaking into your Dad’s plane and flying it over these fields? Wasn’t it then that the Corporal went to your family and asked if you planned on joining the force when you were of age?”

“You remember me telling you that?”

“I remember a lot of things, some good.” Jaebum quickly shrugged. “Some not so. But I know for a fact, flying is in your veins. You love the whistle when there’s too my wind on those wings too. Don’t fly because you’re ordered to. Do it because you enjoy it. After all, don’t those kids out there call us veterans now? I thought I was bloody young, but they all see us as the last fights’ heroes. Shall we leave it up to them now?”

It was tempting. Youngjae stared at the plane he was working on, mindlessly rubbing circles with the work rag he had been mopping grease away with. He thought of how easy it would be to climb up into the cockpit right now and take her for a spin. The clouds always seemed so far away from him now.

Yet he didn’t take up Jaebum’s offer, returning home for supper instead. You watched him curiously all night long. “What are you thinking of, my love?”

“Huh?”

You smirked. “You’ve been out of it all night long. Did something happen today?”

“Oh, no,” he started and then smiled. “Well, almost.”

“Almost?”

“I thought about getting up in a plane.”

You clapped your hands together. “Really?!”

“You’re excited about that?” he questioned, surprised. “Why?”

“Because you love flying, Youngjae.”

“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that today,” he murmured, and then turned to face you entirely. “Would it bother you if I did?”

“No, why would it bother me?”

“Well, planes are dangerous.”

“So are you when you’re moody, you know that?” you teased and Youngjae laughed. You cupped his cheeks in your hands and smiled. “I think if your heart craves it, you should do it. After all, your heart craved me and you didn’t waste any time in making me yours.”

“I could have married you the very next day after meeting you. I thought my wait to have you as my bride was modest,” he told you and you giggled, wrapping your arms around his waist instead. “I love you, you know that right?”

“And I love you even more. Just do it at least once before you claim you can’t, Youngjae. You said you couldn’t ever return here and now look at how happy we all are. Younghee has made friends at school and I’ve met some lovely ladies linked to your brothers. This township has done wonders for us all and I know there’s more to come. You’re genuinely happy here, you know that? I’ve never seen you this bright before. It’s rather intoxicating.”

“You’re drunk on me?” he wondered and you blushed, nodding softly. “Is that so?”

“I’ve always been attracted to you Youngjae, but now I’m seeing my husband glow, how could I not be overwhelmed?”

“Hold onto that thought,” he instructed, hoisting you up into his arms and you shot him a look, tapping him on the arm as he carried you into your bedroom. “I want to make sure I take full advantage of this amazing mood you’re experiencing.”

“Is it ready yet, Daddy?”

He glanced down at Younghee standing beside the plane and nodded, leaping down off the wing he stood upon. “We’re almost ready for takeoff.”

“It’s not quite time yet,” you called from nearby, holding onto the lead of the little white dog yapping in excitement. You pointed to the sky. “The sun isn’t yet ready to set.”

“When will it?” Younghee demanded, stomping her foot in annoyance. Youngjae chuckled as he fastened the jacket she was wearing and then reached for her helmet and goggles. “Is this all necessary?”

“Do you want to fly safely with me or stay grounded here with Mummy whilst I go alone?”

“I’m coming! You promised!”

Youngjae nodded, smiling brightly. “Well then safety first.”

He helped Younghee up onto the wing before setting her up in the second seat in the cockpit of his plane, triple checking the belt was secured before he leapt back down to you. He reached for your neck with his hand to pull you closer to kiss you, smiling when he shifted back. Youngjae then bent down to repeat the action to your protruding stomach, and then even kissed Coco the dog as well. He finally stood back up with a grin on his face.

“You keep her safe,” you warned, though you were smiling far too much. “She looks so happy sitting up there.”

“Younghee is a Daddy’s girl after all,” he reminded coyly and you laughed.

“Well then this child here will be mine,” you decided, stretching up to kiss him again. “I wish I could come with you.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“I am,” you agreed, rubbing at your stomach proudly. “And you better not be out for too long. It’s just a short flight tonight, you hear?”

“I’ll be back in time for supper.”

“I’ll never believe you, Choi Youngjae. You love flying too much.”

“I love you more,” he promised, waving you off as he jogged back to the plane and climbed into his own seat. The sun was starting to send out its last rays for the day and he flicked at the gears expertly, asking if Younghee was ready one more time before making his way down the grassy runway, soon pulling the plane up into the clouds.

You were right, he loved to fly. And ever since he started again, he didn’t want to stop. Youngjae didn’t need to be up in the clouds to soar, though it was always exciting when he could be, especially now that Younghee was an avid young pilot herself.

Even when he was on the ground though, Youngjae felt like he was flying. You were pregnant and life was finally how he had imagined it would be all those years ago.

He finally had his wings back.

_________________

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[theriversarebroken]

Mountains (Drowning their Sorrows)

Fifth square for @badthingshappenbingo​! Bringing back Juno for another piece. 

This piece features Juno Edwards, a character from my original story The Covenant that Fell. 

Juno considers herself to be an iron fortress. Her emotions are kept in check and very rarely does she let those emotions be seen. But when Juno sees a defeat, loses an entire town, she struggles to hold the iron gates shut. 

Rae belong to @snakesonawave​

Juno had seen it, even from this far. She’d seen the decimation of an entire town as Revenant rolled over it like a black sea. She’d seen their approach and, for some reason, she believed she’d be able to get there on horseback first. She thought she’d be faster and somehow stop a horde of monsters from slaughtering innocents all on her own. She thought.

She was still far enough away that she could see the entire town, the roads connecting to it, and a lake a few miles from it when the Revenant swept through. She apologetically pulled hard on the reigns and skidded to a halt. She climbed off her horse, her eyes focused on the destruction the entire time. Even from this hill, from this far, she could hear the cries and screams. She could hear the clanging of metal and the breaking of wood. She heard it all and the echoes circled around her head like snakes. With each loop it tightened, until it was all she could hear. 

She’d felt the tears on her cheeks before she even knew they’d fallen. She fell to her knees before she’d felt her knees shake. The only time she pulled her eyes from the town, now aflame, was to bury them into her palms. 

~

Juno had made it back to the Homestead, but she didn’t let anyone know. She needed… a moment. A moment just to herself and herself alone. She found that was done best at the tavern, where she could be surrounded by people yet left completely alone. She didn’t go to taverns, she didn’t drink, she didn’t do… this. But today she would. Today she felt like she needed to. And she knew no one would come looking for her here.

When she found an empty spot at the bar, she took a seat and glanced around her. Not too many people looked the way she expected patrons in a bar to look. They seemed… just as down as she was. Perhaps it was due to it being an hour past noon and not the late hours Rei normally went to taverns. Without worry of judgement or being recognized, she ordered a drink, and chugged it down, despite the shaking of her hands.

Her eyes watered from the burning in her throat. Or maybe her eyes watered because of the things she’d seen today. She didn’t know. She didn’t really know if she cared at this point.

Ignoring the look on the bartender’s face, she ordered another and wiped the tears away. She downed that, too. And another. And another. She drank until her head could no longer hear the cries of that village, until it was a dull roar in the back of her skull. 

But that wasn’t enough. She could still smell the smoke and feel the throbbing pain in her chest, so she continued to drink. She drank until there were no smells and no feeling. She drank until every inch of her body was numb and the pain was now replaced with laughter. She entered into a heavily drunken conversation with the individual next to her. The two of them mumbled and ended in laughter when they realized it was completely incoherent.

She didn’t know how long she was in the bar, but she didn’t think the drinks would’ve stopped coming.

When her hands reached for another and ultimately spilled it, the bartender’s hand caught her own. Juno struggled to make eye contact with them, but understood what the look meant. Juno uttered a drunken apology and pulled her hand away.

“You need rest, my lady.” the bartender frowned.

“Yeah…” Juno mumbled and gave a half smile. At least she was kind. She thought of saying more, but the words were not coherent enough to say aloud. When she left the tavern and was greeted with the utter darkness of the night, she felt the wave of emotions return. The sounds circled around her head, the pain struck her chest and made her breathless, and tears began to fall. 

This darkness, this empty and vast darkness, gave her too much space to think. She needed to be back inside, in her room and have a drink in her hand. It would help, just as it did before. Though it felt like the night was reaching out to her, like it was asking for her to enter and find herself lost come morning, she made the trek back to the main house.

It should’ve been easy, she knew the paths well enough, but with each step the screams of sheer terror grew ever louder. The fright she knew those villagers felt plagued her mind, and chilled her to the bone. She found her arms wrapping around herself and stumbling over simple grass and stone pathways. If her drunkenness didn’t obscure her vision already, than it was the constant tears in her eyes. 

Eventually she focused her sight on the glow of the main house. Torches were lit, as they were every night in front of every house, to make it easier for everyone to find their way home. She stopped in front of the house, breathless, and shaking, and near deaf from the constant rush of sound. She was sure she looked like a mess, snot nosed and sobbing, but she made her way inside anyways. She was hoping no one was awake, so that she could take what supplies she needed and have no questions asked.

She carefully walked into the kitchen and searched for what she needed. Just a bottle of liquor, that was all. When she found it, someone else found her. She nearly leapt out of her skin. At least everything else grew silent when they spoke. 

“Juno?” it was Lavinia, she knew her voice well enough. “Goddess, Juno.” she approached, though stopped when her friend wouldn’t turn around. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Rae went out searching when you didn’t return this afternoon.” Lavinia shifted her weight, uneasy with how her good friend was acting.

“Sorry…” Juno slurred, sucking in a deep breath. “I-I had-- I didn’t keep time.” she kept her head ducked low and only turned to half face Lavinia. “I um…”

“Juno…” Lavinia already knew. If she couldn’t hear it in Juno’s voice, she could smell it on her. “Do you want to--”

“Please… don’t.” Juno clenched her hands into fists and felt new tears begin to fall. “I can’t…” she sniffled and grabbed the bottle of liquor. Lavinia said nothing as Juno walked past her. She only caught her when she stumbled. 

“Let me help you to your room.” she kept her arm around Juno, silencing any potential protests before they happened. Lavinia took Juno upstairs, took her to her room, and opened the door for her. “What happened, Juno?” when Lavinia finally saw Juno’s expression, broken beyond anything she’d seen, she didn’t need any answers. The only one she got was a shut door. 

Juno was alone once more, this time without strangers surrounding her. She was truly and completely alone now. When the door shut, she put the bottle to her mouth. She was already numb enough to deal with the burn. After a few long gulps, Juno felt at peace again. The world fell silent.

Eventually she found a chair and sat in it. She stared at the lit fireplace for sometime until she felt the tears poke at her eyes once again. Though she quickly tried to wipe the tears away, more replaced what she tried to rid.

Her eyes were pressed into the palms of her hands for the second time that day. Images of the town laid behind her eyelids and it only made her cry harder. It felt as if her soul was being pushed from her body and it left her gasping. She rocked back and forth, praying, practically begging, to whatever Goddesses could hear her that they would somehow save that town, or allow her to go back on her choices. She prayed for this weight to grow lighter.

Hands were placed on Juno’s shoulders and she was given a hard shake. It was enough to pull her from her waking nightmare. She sat up and found herself looking into concerned orange eyes. Those eyes searched hers as she pulled in heavy breaths.

“Rae?” Juno simply stared and said nothing more. She tried to hold a stoic expression for as long as she could, but it fell the moment Rae’s hands cupped her cheeks. She felt it crack and ultimately shatter, replaced with one of sorrow. She leaned her head against Rae’s chest and was wrapped up in her arms. She sobbed, loudly and uncontrollably, into Rae’s clothing while the woman shushed her.

Rae ran her fingers through her hair and kissed the top of her head, and tried anything she could to calm the storm Juno was sailing in. Juno was always emotional, that was given, but she always had a handle on them.

She slid off the chair and onto the floor, Rae going with to make sure she didn’t land hard. She continued to hold her until Juno calmed some and then she cupped her cheeks once more. She pulled her head from her chest and looked in her eyes.

“Juno…” she wiped away her tears and removed hair from her face. “What happened? Wh-where did you go? I looked for you for… for hours, I thought you were… I heard…” Rae was going to mention the village, that she thought Juno had made it there and gotten injured, or worse, but stopped when she saw the tears begin anew.

“I failed.” Juno whispered. “I failed the people of Bredon, with my talks and…” her voice cracked. “And they died. They died because I took too long.”

“Juno, no.” Rae stroked her cheek, unsure of what to say other than, “It’s not your fault. You have to see that. The Revenant came early, they attacked early. No one could’ve--.”

“They would have been able to evacuate if…” Juno felt the hole in her chest begin to grow again. “I failed and they died.” she began to cry again. “And I couldn’t face you, or Lavinia, or anyone.” she began to sob hard. Her entire body shook. She clung to Rae as if she were her only anchor to this world. “Because I had to talk…” her entire body shuddered as she began to sink lower. “Because I had to discuss the best way to help people.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“There shouldn’t have been a discussion. I should’ve--”

“Juno, listen.” Rae held her shoulders tightly, her tone firm. “We received the news too late. Bredon was… it’s fate was sealed before you even saddled your horse. And… if it wasn’t and you’d gotten there, you might have been killed, too.”

“I should not be more important than the lives of civilians.”

“You aren’t. But you are still important. You are helping the helpless, even if that… fails sometimes. And it does. As a soldier I know....” Her hands moved to Juno’s own. She absentmindedly stroked them for a moment, as if remembering those times, before speaking again. “Those people you helped had something most haven’t had in a long time because of the Queen. They had hope, they knew who to contact for help. There are countless towns unlike Bredon, who have no idea we exist, or where to go for protection. We need to help them, to prevent massacres like this one.” Rae watched Juno’s expression slowly come to terms with what was being said. Broken, but slowly being pieced back together.

She wasn’t used to work like this. When she was the Queen’s spymaster, it was one person she was worried about and that one person knew the risks of their job. It wasn’t hundreds of soldiers or hundreds of civilians. This… sacrifice was hard for her. It struck her hard and it held her low. 

She didn’t speak for the rest of the night. Her mind was plagued with the mountains that were before her, this one she could barely conquer. She wasn’t sure she wanted what else awaited her.

[swilmarillion]

Ars Moriendi

For Terrifying Tolkien Week 2019  |  Prompt: to reek; to fester in the dark Big ups to @admirable-mairon for the inspiration!  |  read on ao3

               It is noontime, and the hasty midday meal has hardly begun when a murmur ripples through the normally silent ranks.  She ignores it, at first.  If nothing else, she has learned that it does not do to get involved. She keeps her head down and focuses on the rhythm of her own movements—the scoop of a spoon into her mash, the lift of her hand to her mouth, the methodical chewing of tasteless mush she forces herself to swallow.  It is not a particularly appetizing meal, but it is nourishing, and for that, she is grateful.  The days are long in Angband, and she knows better than to let her strength diminish. Weakness here is tantamount to death.

               A shadow falls over her, and she looks up at last.  An orc she does not recognize stands over her, and she flinches, averting her gaze to the ground.  They are nasty, fickle things, these orcs, quick to anger, slow to forgive.  “Are you the one called Indil?” the orc asks, and Indil nods her head without looking up.  “Come with me,” the orc says, and Indil’s blood runs cold.

               Her mind races, but she calmly sets down her bowl and stands.  She keeps her face neutral—another trick she has learned—and she follows the orc as he turns and leads her away.  She tries to think of what she has done, tries to suss out what she possibly could have done wrong.  The fact that her mind is blank is no comfort at all.

               Still, nothing here is ever helped by panic, so she does her best to calm her mind and follows the orc that leads her.  To her surprise, they are headed for the fortress.  A fresh wave of fear engulfs her.  She is a field slave.  She lives with the others of her kind in the barracks near the fields.  She hasn’t set foot in the fortress since—

               —the stink of blood in her nostrils, the drip of it down her face, the sweat that plasters her ragged, matted hair to her bruised and mottled skin—

               She swallows the gasp that rises in her throat and pushes the memory away.  All prisoners begin their tenure here in the dungeons, but not all make it out.  She was one of the unlucky souls who did, and she has put forth every effort not to give them reason to send her back.  Her mind races anew, desperately searching for the thing she has done wrong and quietly, uselessly looking for a way to escape. There is none, of course.  This is Angband.

               The orc who leads her is silent, utterly indifferent. She longs to ask him where she is going and why, but she does not dare.  Prisoners do not enjoy the luxury of questions.  So instead she worries, and she follows.  

               They pass into the fortress, and a shudder runs through her.  It is cold and dark and damp here, and she cannot bear the feel of the stones under her feet. They are too much like the ones she slept and cried and bled on all those years before.  They pass slaves that do not look at her; these have learned their lessons, same as she.  The orcs and fiends and maiar have no such qualms, and she shivers under their hungry gaze.  Still, the orc that leads her must have some level of protection, for no one stops or hassles them on their way.

               On they go through twisting, labyrinthine corridors and down narrow, spiraling stairs.  They are headed down toward the dungeons, to the underground heart of the fortress. Indil’s terror is a palpable thing, shaking her limbs and raising the hair on the back of her neck.  She grits her teeth against it and balls her hands into fists, determined not to break.  She walks on, forcing her feet to carry her close in the orc’s wake.  They are close to the breaking pits now.  She can smell them—the sweat, the blood, the piss and the fear made all the worse for their familiarity.  Her heart is hammering in her chest, so loud she is sure the orc can hear it.  Not again, her mind is screaming.  Not again, not again, not again.

               They turn down a corridor, and the stink and the clamor of the pits die away.  A cold wave of relief rolls over her, and she scolds herself for it.  She is on the dungeon level.  She is anything but safe.    

               They come to a door that is closed, but not pulled tight.  The orc knocks three times in quick succession and enters, and Indil follows behind. The room she enters could have been any ordinary study.  Bookshelves line one wall, overflowing with tomes and manuscripts and scrolls.  There is a neat stack of freshly cut parchment on one shelf, a handful of expertly sharpened quills, and several squat jars of ink in various colors.  Most striking is the desk, a beautiful, gleaming thing of dark lacquered wood.  The legs are intricately carved to look like scales, and the feet are long, sharp talons.  

Sitting at the desk is a creature she has seen fleetingly handful of times, most recently in her nightmares.  She stares at the back of his head, eyes tracing the plait of the fiery red hair. He is writing, head bent over the parchment before him, and he does not stop when they enter.  He continues to write, acting for all the world as though he has not heard them come in.  

After a moment, the orc clears his throat.  “My lord,” he says.

The quill scratches steadily across the parchment.  The orc knows better than to speak again.  Finally, the quill is laid aside, and he begins to shuffle the papers into order.  “This is the one?” he asks, neatening the stack and setting it aside.

“Yes, my lord,” the orc says.

The creature at the desk stands up and turns, and she shudders involuntarily. She is never prepared for the lieutenant’s beauty, and she is startled by it again now, standing before him. The translucent cream of his skin, the spray of freckles across the chiseled angles of his face.  He dresses well and moves with easy, assured grace, crossing the distance between them.  “You may go,” the lieutenant says, dismissing the orc with a nod.  The soldier turns to go, and Indil is alone.

Mairon looks her over.  She keeps her eyes carefully on the ground, her head bowed.  There is a moment of silence between them that makes her skin crawl, though she tries not to let him see her unease.  After a while, he says, “You are the one called Indil.”          

“Yes,” she says.

He nods.  “You know who I am,” he says, and she nods.  “You may call me ‘my lord’.”  The gentleness of his tone belies the command in his words.  

“Yes, my lord,” she says.

“Look at me, Indil.”          

She raises her head and meets his gaze.  There is no malice in it that she can see, and yet it fills her with fear.  His eyes feel as though they see through her, to the depths of her soul, and though his expression is neutral, ostensibly friendly, she knows better than to be at ease.  She knows the horrors this pretty face belies.

“You studied under Estë,” he says, and she is momentarily nonplussed.

               “Yes, my lord,” she says.  He is silent, watching her, and she gets the feeling he is waiting for something more.  “And Yavanna,” she adds, hoping this is right.

               “You studied herbalism,” he says, “and the healing arts.”

               “I did, my lord.”

               “And were you a good practitioner?”

               She is not entirely sure how to answer.  “I did my best, my lord,” she says.

               “Tell me,” he says, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side.  “What would you recommend for a headache?”

               She considers the question for a moment, turning it this way and that in her mind, looking for the trap.  Time is working against her; the lieutenant is not known for his patience.  “Willow bark,” she says at last, clasping her trembling hands before her.

               He nods.  “And say I had no willow tree at my disposal?”

               She blinks.  “Feverfew,” she says.

               “And if I have none of that?”

               She thinks for a moment, toggling through the various pain remedies she knows, and then, before she can stop herself, she hears herself say, “For a headache, my lord, I would recommend you let it take its course.”

               He tilts his head, and for a moment, she is afraid she has been too hasty.  “Why?” he asks.

               “Because the other remedies I know have risks that outweigh the benefits,” she says, “and a headache is hardly life-threatening.”

               He smiles, then, and it is not as reassuring as it ought to be.  A shiver creeps over her skin, and she fights to keep herself still.  He turns, rummages in a drawer of the desk, and turns back to her.  “What are these?” he asks, holding out his hand.

               There is a collection of plant matter in his hands. She studies the flowers and leaves and roots, comparing them to a mental catalogue that has grown weaker with years of disuse.  “Yarrow,” she says, pointing to a flower with a yellow center and delicate white flowers. “Aloe,” she says, pointing next to the spiky green tissue.  “Burdock,” she says eyeing the purple flowers haloed by spikes.  “Valerian,” she says of the pale purple sprig of tiny of flowers. “The rest,” she says, “I do not know.”

               “Well, then,” he says, turning and replacing the detritus in the desk drawer.  “It’s a start.”  He turns back to her.  “Are you squeamish, Indil?”

               “Not particularly,” she says, forgetting herself.

               “You will not faint at the sight of blood?”

               “I haven’t in the past, my lord.”

               “And now?”

               She feels as though they’re having two different conversations, and the uncertainty is gnawing at her, making her head spin.  “I don’t think so, my lord.”

               “What I need,” the lieutenant says, “is an assistant. Someone with knowledge of herbs and the medicinal arts who can assist me in my research.  Someone who will not flinch at the sight of blood or of broken bones.  I need someone who can follow directions and learn the skills I require you to master. Do you think you can do that, Indil?” She is silent, frozen, torn between the dangers of answering and staying silent, of lying and of telling the truth. “I will not force you,” he says, his voice soft and honeyed, like the trap of a carnivorous plant.  “If you do not think you are up to the task, then say the word.  I will have you returned to your post.”

               She is tempted, then.  Every fiber of her being screams that this is dangerous ground, that there is a trap here, that nothing he says can be trusted.  She wants desperately to get away, to never look at his beautiful, terrible face again.  She longs to refuse him, to flee back to the toil of the fields, but she is afraid.  There is danger in refusal, in displeasure; she has learned this lesson well and does not want to learn it again.  

               “I will do it,” she says, hoping fervently she will not come to regret the choice, hollow though it may have been.

               He nods, and she knows that now, for better or for worse, her fate is sealed.

               “Very good,” he says, and pushes past her toward the door.  “Come with me.”    

[akaluan]

When All Is Known (Nothing Is) Pt2

Prequel | Prequel | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

((Uh, so I did a thing? Yeah, it’s an AU now.))

Uryuu watched Urahara as Ichigo recited their story, skipping over far more than he revealed in the process. Urahara likely /knew/ it, too, judging by the man’s sharp gaze.

It didn’t matter, Uryuu reassured himself. They’d get what they needed out of Urahara or they wouldn’t. It would be worse if they /didn’t/, but at this point… well, the information they wanted was more for peace of mind than anything.

Yhwach remained asleep within the depths of the hidden fortress, in the last stage of regaining his abilities. He was defenseless, and the Wandenreich would never — could never — expect Ichigo and Uryuu. Not even Haschwalth with his temporary gain of Yhwach’s Almighty.

Uryuu was still Yhwach’s Antithesis, and he’d learned to /use/ that in the years they’d been at war. He was an emptiness in the future, a black hole that could not be divined, and he’d learned to stretch that to cover those he loved. There were ways around it, of course, ways to look /sideways/ that the Haschwalth they’d left behind had become proficient in.

But this Haschwalth?

This one didn’t even know what he was searching for.

(Uryuu would make sure it stayed that way.)

Uryuu combed his fingers through the soft fur at Ichigo’s wrist and tried not to listen to Ichigo’s words. To the story that, even cut down as it was, laid out the devolution of their world. Laid out the way everything just fell apart.

The way Ichigo fell.

(Ichigo’s berserker rage. The searing pain of being stabbed.)

(Ichigo’s /shriek/ of fury, as he tore at the mask obscuring his face, leaving Uryuu to slump to the ground, still impaled. Ichigo’s agonized screams as his body /remade itself/ all over again.)

(The sounds and images still clung to Uryuu’s nightmares, years and horrors later.)

Ichigo’s fingers flexed, his claws pressing into Uryuu’s side, the pinpricks of pain snapping Uryuu back to the present.

Urahara’s sharp gaze was focused on /Uryuu/, his fan out and covering the lower half of his face. Uryuu clenched his jaw and looked away, disgusted with himself.

(Nothing like revealing weakness to a potential enemy.)

“We’ll survive,” Ichigo murmured in his ear, confident and focused and /grounded/.

Uryuu nodded once, drawing strength from Ichigo’s reassurance. Part of him was certain it was a lie, but… it was what they’d done for years, wasn’t it? Survive. Even as the world fell in around their ears and their companions died one by one, they kept surviving, kept pushing on. Kept destroying Yhwach’s forces and struggling against the insane conquerer.

Until Aizen, that damn /bastard/, had caught up with them, all madcap grin and razor-edged darkness. Had declared that they were both /fools/ for continuing to struggle against Yhwach. That the Three Worlds were ruined, and nothing could ever be undone.

And then he’d grabbed both of them, and the hogyokou had shone brighter than a star, and suddenly…

Suddenly they were back in the Living World. Out from under the crushing weight of three worlds’ worth of reishi combined into one.

Back to a time before everything was destroyed. Before everyone died.

Urahara made a startled noise when Ichigo said Aizen’s name, then narrowed his eyes at both of them. “So /Aizen/ sent you back? With the hogyokou.”

Ichigo shrugged. “Well, we think so.”

“You think so.” Urahara gave them a flat look. “So that would be why you wanted information on the hogyokou. You realize that informing me that /Aizen/ sent you back does not paint you in a trustworthy light.”

“And lying would have been worse,” Uryuu piped up, finally looking back at Urahara and meeting the man’s gaze. “We didn’t get along, but the enemy of my enemy is, at the very least, an ally. /You’re/ the one who initially convinced him to keep working with us.”

Urahara narrowed his eyes, snapped his fan closed, and crossed his arms over his chest. “And now the situation he was recruited to help you with has been unmade. It’s unlikely you returned alone, if he was the cause of this, and the chances of him stabbing you in the back—”

“We’ll deal with him later, if he did come back and decides to try fighting us again,” Ichigo interrupted with a dismissive shrug. “It’s the Quincy that need to be dealt with, and he knows that too.”

Urahara’s knuckles went white around the handle of his fan, before he controlled himself and relaxed his grip. “On your head be it. Remember that you will have no third chance at this.”

“/Our/ Aizen just wants an equal,” Ichigo responded coldly. “Someone to stand in front of him and /survive/. He /has/ that in the two of us.”

Uryuu grimaced but nodded in agreement. He wouldn’t call Aizen a friend, or even an /acquaintance/, but the man /was/ a constant. “Besides. After seeing the Soul King, and witnessing the downfall of the Three Worlds, even /he’s/ no longer interested in becoming /that/.”

Urahara scoffed. “Aizen is a consummate liar and conman. The idea that he would not take up his goal once more, now that the danger is passed—”

“His goal was to /not be lonely anymore/,” Ichigo grumbled, burying his face in the crook of Uryuu’s neck. His arms tightened around Uryuu’s waist and he took a deep breath, clearly calming himself down. “We’re done here,” he announced, lifting his head to look at Urahara again. “You won’t share your research, that’s fine. It was a long shot anyway. Kurotsuchi should have most of what we need on Quincy anyway.”

“Kurotsuchi,” Urahara repeated slowly, almost as if he didn’t quite trust his hearing. “And what, pray tell, would he have to do with the Quincy?”

“He’s fascinated by them,” Uryuu said, trying to keep the loathing from his voice. The idea of trying to read through Kurotsuchi’s ‘research’ was /sickening/, but Ichigo was right. There might be an answer somewhere within the pages. More of an answer than simply having Ichigo shove as much Hollow reiatsu into Yhwach’s sleeping body as possible.

Ichigo moved Uryuu from his lap, then stood from the stool and nodded at Urahara. “We apologize for breaking in.”

“Wait,” Urahara said before the two of them could take more than a step towards the door. “Stay the night.” At their puzzled, wary looks, Urahara sighed and flicked open his fan once more and played with it absently. “You’re exhausted and clearly intend on charging headfirst into danger. Stay the night. Rest. Consider your options.”

“I thought you didn’t trust us,” Uryuu said.

Urahara smiled sheepishly and tugged at the brim of his hat. “Maa, you two seem like earnest young men. And if what you told me is true, then I at least owe it to your younger selves to help you out.”

Meaning Urahara wanted to keep an eye on them, Uryuu realized. Not entirely surprising, given what Ichigo had revealed and whatever conclusions Urahara had drawn from the tale and their reactions.

(A place to rest…)

Ichigo stood at Uryuu’s back, body tense and unnaturally still in that /way/ of his, but he remained silent.

(Could they trust this Urahara enough to accept?)

“You’ll be better off for the sleep, and some food in the morning,” Urahara cajoled. “Whatever your plan currently is, surely it can wait a few hours?”

Uryuu swallowed and twisted around to look at Ichigo, tilting his head in question and darting a glance towards Urahara. Ichigo’s face was shadowed by his hood, but Uryuu could still read his friend; Ichigo /wanted/ to trust Urahara, wanted to accept this offer so they could /finally/ rest in safety.

(It had been too long on the run. Too long since /their/ Urahara had the time or resources to craft a ward-set as comprehensive as this.)

(In this time before Yhwach woke and destroyed the barriers between the worlds, all that could threaten them /here/ were the ex-Shinigami who called the shoten home.)

“/He/ won’t wake for years yet. He can’t,” Uryuu murmured, resting a hand reassuringly on Ichigo’s shoulder. “A night won’t matter.” Unless Urahara decided to turn on them, but in all honesty the only place they could likely escape beyond his reach was Soul Society, and neither of them was interested in returning /there/ to sleep.

Ichigo’s shoulder relaxed under Uryuu’s hand, his hand coming up to grip Uryuu’s wrist. “You sure?” he asked, scanning Uryuu’s face. When Uryuu nodded, Ichigo hesitated a moment longer then looked past him and back to Urahara. “Fine. We accept for tonight.”

“I’m glad!” Urahara said cheerfully, then gestured for them to follow. “I’ll show you to your room, and the bathroom, and we’ll get everything set up for you!”

Uryuu exchanged a look with Ichigo, then sighed and turned to follow after Urahara, Ichigo immediately on his heels.

They were going to sleep within the dragon’s den, but at least the dragon had invited them in. And Uryuu didn’t /think/ Urahara had any current plans to end them, so… they were probably safe. For a night, at least.

(Aizen would never let them live it down if they survived everything only to die at /this/ Urahara’s hand.)

(He probably had the right, honestly.)

[cha0ticmimzy]

Here Lies the Abyss, II

Author’s Notes: The Battle is well underway when Sylthana arrives, but just what happens when she enters the fray? Word Count: 1930 Characters: Sylthana Lavellan, Cullen Rutherford, Garrett Hawke, Alistair Theirin Warnings: I don’t know what actually needs to be warned here so lets just  there be some blood?

The battle was already well underway by the time she arrived on the field, The Iron Bull, Solas, and Cassandra behind her. Hawke and Alistair had arrived well before she did.

And what a battle it was.

Her gaze swept across the fortress, taking note of how the Inquisition seemed to be winning thus far. But she knew far too well how quickly the tides could change. Cullen was easy to spot, with that blond hair and fur cloak. She made her way through the battle, paying no mind to the carnage that covered the ground, ignoring the blood that soaked the souls the of her boots.

So many souls, lost.

“Pull back, they’re through!” The panicked shout echoed through the night. A grim, gleeful smile curled her lips before another voice made her pause.

“Alright, Inquisitor. You have your way in. Best make use of it!” Cullen called out, voice rough from yelling commands. “We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.” Grim determination.

“There’s a worrying lack of specificity there, Commander,” she teased, smirking despite the worry that coursed through her. Seeing Cullen here- it made her fears come through. She couldn’t bare to think on if she l o s t him.

“There are more of them than I was hoping, Inquisitor.” A breath of a laugh left him.

“You don’t say?”

An amused smirk curled his lips as he shook his head. “Warden Alistair will guard your back. Hawke is with the soldiers on the battlements; he’s assisting them until you arrive.” He paused, gaze directing upwards. She turned, following his gaze. A demon appeared, snarling and hissing into the night. “There’s too much resistance on the walls. Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold. If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements, we’ll cover your advance!”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Rutherford. I happen to like that face of yours!” Sylthana called over her shoulder as she took off in a sprint, dodging arrows and blades alike. At one point, she’d used a mound- a literal mound- of dead bodies as a platform, leaping from it onto a staircase. By the time she reached the battlements, she was covered in blood that was not her own.

The sight that greeted her was grim. 

The Wardens were fighting tooth and nail with the Inquisition. But it seemed that Hawke had managed to get them to stand down- at least, sort of. Enough that they could talk before swinging their blades.

“We could save you!” Alistair exclaimed, brows furrowing as the Warden backed away, fearful.

“Why should I trust you, Alistair? You’re a traitor to the wardens!” Sylthana was surprised at the amount of fear in his voice, causing his words to tremble. “Clarell called for your death!” Ouch.

“The Inquisition is here to stop Clarell, not to kill Wardens!” She yelled back, nose scrunching up in anger and annoyance. “If you f a l l back, you won’t be h a r m e d!”

Clarity seemed to break through. “Alright,” the warden agreed. “My men will stay back. We don’t want no part in this. Deal with Clarell as you must.”

“Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!” Clarell called out across the battlefield, rallying her men once more.

“The Inquisition is inside, Clarell!” Erimond exclaimed, scowling. “We’ve no time to stand upon ceremony!”

Clarell’s eyes narrowed at the Tevinter mage, lip curling. “These men and women are giving their lives, Magister! That might mean little in Tevinter,” she took pride in the way he flinched back, “but in the Wardens, it is a sacred duty.” She didn’t back down, raising her chin to meet his gaze. Finally, he looked away, causing a smirk to curl her lips. Turning, she faced an old, familiar face. “It has been many long years, my friend.”

“Too many, Clarell,” he replied, dropping down to take a knee. “If my sword arm can no longer serve the Wardens, then my blood will have to do.” He rose, slowly, drawing his last few breaths. Battle raged on around him, the night filled with the shrieks and screams of human and demon alike. And yet- he found himself at peace, even as Clarell came behind him, arms wrapping around him, holding him tight against her body.

“It will,” Clarell reassured, voice a mixture of sorrow and promise. She wasted no time, knife slicing across his throat, spilling life’s essence upon the platform. His body fell limp, sliding to the ground.

Sylthana felt bile rise in her throat at the display she witnessed.

“Stop them! We must complete the ritual!” Erimond commanded, having taken notice of Sylthana and her merry band.

She held up a hand, causing her companions to fall still. Slowly, she walked forward, gaze tracking over each face in the courtyard. So young, so scared. “It’s done, Clarell!” She yelled, anger ripping through her words. “There’ll be no ritual and no demon army!”

“Then the Blight rises with no Wardens left to stop it, and the world dies! Is that what you want?!” Erimond called out. “And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice. Hate me for that if you must! But do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

“We make the sacrifices no one else will!” Clarell spoke up, and Sylthana found herself nor angry- no, she felt pity. They had no idea they were all just toy soldiers. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them!”

“And then he binds your mages to Corypheus!” Alistair counters, eyes narrowing.

Clarell felt a horrible, sinking feeling settle in her gut as her blood turned to ice in her veins. “Corypheus?” She asked softly, shock settling in. “But he’s dead…?”

“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarell!” Erimond attempted.

Clarell ran a hand over her face, rubbing at her eyes. Sylthana watched grimly as the Warden Commander had this new realization dumped upon her like ice water. She almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

Erimond watched her closely, panic clutching at the edges of his mind. Would she not go through with it?

“Bring it through!” Clarell finally ordered, causing Erimond to smile smugly. He watched, full of pride, as the mages all began to work the Fade, attempting to draw through the Nightmare demon.

Sylthana scowled, marching forward, Hawke keeping step with her. Alistair hesitated before joining, a few steps behind. The Wardens shifted nervously, taking hesitant steps forward. No doubt a few had seen the carnage she’d left in her wake.

“Please, I’ve seen more than my share of blood magic. It is never worth the cost.” Hawke pleaded.

“I have fought against the archdemon in Fereldan. Could you at least consider listening to me?” Alistair tried, resorting to pleading and begging.

They won’t listen, Sylthana thought to herself. None of them will. The horrid sound of the demon screeching filled the air.

“Be ready with the ritual, Clarell,” Erimond warned, glancing to the woman beside him. “This demon is truly worthy of your strength!”

“Listen to me!” She tried once more, throat straining with the force of her voice. “I have no quarrel with the Wardens! I have spared those I could! I don’t want to kill you, but you’re being used!” Pleading, begging; anything to end the bloodshed. “Some of you know it, don’t you?”

“The mages who’ve done the ritual! They’re not right,” one Warden spoke up, fear written across his face. “They were my friends, but now they’re like puppets on a string!”

“You cannot let fear sway your mind, Warden Chernoff!” Clarell cut in, shaking her head.

“He’s not afraid- you are!” Hawke yelled. “You’re afraid that you ordered all these brave men and women to die for nothing!”

“If this were a fight against a future Blight, I would be at your side! But it’s a lie!” Alistair scowled. The Wardens all turned, slowly, to Clarell for guidance.

Clarell stood still, the words Alistair spoke echoing in her mind. He would be… He would be here, at their side. He had been beside the Hero of Fereldan. He was THE Warden.

“Clarell, we have come so far! You’re the only one who could do this!” Erimond hissed, pleading.

“Perhaps we could… Test the truth of these charges? To prevent more bloodshed?” Clarell attempted in vain.

“Or perhaps,” Erimond all but growled, “I should bring in a more reliable ally!” Turning to face the Inquisitor, he scowled. “My Master thought you would come here, Inquisitor!” He called out as he banged his staff upon the stone beneath him. “He sent me this to welcome you!” The sound of a familiar screeching growl echoed through the night.

Sylthana felt her blood turn to ice in her veins. “No,” she whispered, taking a half step back. “No.” But the sound of wings beating in the wind sounded, and then came the scream of the dragon.

“Run!” She screamed, just before jumping for cover as the dragon swept low, a blast of that lyrium-tainted fire coming from it’s gaping maw. It circled around the fortress, ready to attack.

Clarell stumbled back a few steps, staring at Erimond in horror. That beast- he’d called forth such a terror. The truth of the situation began to settle into her bones. She had been used. She had been played a fool. Anger, disgust, both filled her system as she let loose a bolt of lightning, zapping Erimond in the back, causing him to fall to the ground with a surprised yelp. She stared down at the Magister, nose scrunching up in disgust at this… This snake of a man.

“Clarell,” Erimond tried, voice nervous as he watched her raise her staff, lighting zapping about it, “wait-” but it was too late, for she’d already let loose a bolt towards the dragon.

Sylthana felt panic rise in her.

The dragon let out a bellow before releasing a stream of lyrium-tianted fire.

Sylthana wanted to run as she watched it fly overhead.

“Help the Inquisitor!” Clarell ordered, making the elf turn in surprise. She didn’t stick around, taking off in a sprint with her companions falling in behind her, albeit they were slower than she was. Chaos had ensued around her- demons, chasing. Men and women crying out for help, releasing a final yell before their death. She nearly found herself in the midst of dragon fire had she not stopped in time.

She managed to make it to a platform, only to skid to a stop at the sight of Erimond, lying upon the ground. Clarell stood above his body, anger practically radiating off of her. The dragon came back, grabbing Clarell and taking flight for a moment, before flinging her down upon the stone. Sylthana felt herself trembling in fear as the beast surged forward.

“In war, victory,” Clarell murmured as she crawled forward, “in peace, vigilance.” She let loose a bolt of lightning, shocking the dragon, causing the dragon to fly upwards, only to not quite land upon the edge of the ledge. It fell, causing the stone pathway to begin to crumble with it. Try as she might, Sylthana couldn’t get her footing, wobbling about. And yet, she managed to dive, grabbing hold of Alistair’s hand and pulling him up to safety.

But that safety didn’t last- no, for the pathway beneath her crumbled, and then she was falling.

[aworryingdarkness]

Clerk.

As the final, feeble rays of November daylight rasped their last against the window of my study, I resolved to close my ledger and take step of the surrounding town, for air which would at least be cooler, if not necessarily any more fresh. These are streets I feel I have always known, yet while I cannot remember the first time I walked them, I swear I only took residence here relatively recently. My regular route took me along lesser-used lanes and alleyways, and on the disused railway line under a rarely used footbridge, I came across what I came to term as The Old Man. Although I call him this, his actual age was indistinct. Lines did not mar his face, and yet such a toll of living had been collected as to evidently strip bare his very soul. The Old Man's attire, timeless yet undeniably old fashioned, was as worn as his aspect as he raised his head sharply, to make instant eye-contact. He asked if I was enjoying my day. Or my time. I am unsure which as, while his meaning was clear, I find it impossible to recall verbatim the words he used. His manner was direct, short of being abrupt, and with none of the aggression any bystander may have predicted. While I bumbled around a response which would pass as polite whilst hoping to avoid further conversation, my eye was nonetheless drawn to what appeared to be a medal of some sort, pinned to the heavy, flowing rag he had fashioned around himself against the seeping cold of the damp trackway, hanging perfectly straight on a threadbare ribbon of dark, stained red. This sigil showed a face, clearly a face, though of what species I could not say. Lacertian? Piscine? Satanic? Perhaps all or none of these? A cackling grimace, surrounded by hair, flame or even tentacles leered out at me, the dark recesses of its eye sockets seeming to yawn back as the evening now stretched away from me. Cast in yellow metal with a greenish tinge in the dim light, this could have been brass, bronze or even gold, the time-addled weathering of these filthy streets hiding its value in plain sight. Although the artefact's striking attraction to me was more than the financial potential of its material. I must confess to having lost track of the discourse I initially wanted no part of, for midway through his rambling reply the man stopped dead, slack mouth turning up in a wide, knowing grin. He asked if I liked what I saw, if I recognised it, noting that even though he had distracted my attention, still my gaze was fixed upon this terrible, leering trophy. Quite lost for words, I could barely draw my eyes back to him, only flapping like a landed fish whose terminal gasps are punctuated by the overwhelming knowledge that it had been hauled from the waves by King Neptune himself. But why again, that automatic aquatic association? The Old Man went on to tell me his last possession was token for his part in 'the battle of The Wall'. No such recent conflict leapt to my mind, although the name seemed draped in a faint familiarity, like the memory of a nightmare brought to the surface hours or even days after waking by some unconnected occurrence. He spoke vaguely of this confrontation as if it were some historical campaign, yet clearly with first-hand knowledge. Shapes, shadows and screams were conjured as he held my gaze, my own breath hanging on his every word. When struggling to decide whether I should document this interaction once I had returned to my chambers, it was at this point I realised The Old Man was not in fact speaking in my language, although nor could I specifically identify his tongue. Most odd. I understood the story perfectly, yet my mind also seemed to be performing some instantaneous subconscious translation upon it. His words seemed to flow through some manner of base human communication, almost as if buoyed by empathy or telepathy. And with this realisation his intent became clear. A flash-flood of memory ensued. The Wall; an attempt to turn an entire kingdom into a fortress; an ancient emperor bearing terrible power from The Old Ones; his crafting of an invincible legion; a siege, a slaughter, invaders driven back; armies rewarded; an amulet to remind them of their victory over a life beyond imagining; not quite immortality, but far, far more time than any man can know what do with, as long as at least a single brick of that Wall remains in place; freedom, hope, grief, confusion, boredom, despair, resolve, and now opportunity. Finally, opportunity. The wan smile of a man no longer speaking but preparing now to sleep, slumping contentedly back against the night's damp brickwork as if it were the long-missed embrace of a parent. And the residual feeling of hideous metal pressed, burning into my hand. Mine, now. Mine, always. And all the time that goes with it. All of my time. For I served at The Wall, too. Of course I did. The accountant. The clerk. The quartermaster. It is not that I could not remember, only that I had forgotten I forgot. In my chambers, I wrap the emblem in its ribbon and place it in the chest, under the boards. With the others. All will be accounted for. In the end.

[seljepw]

Practical Animism

A/N: IT'S DONE!  My entry for @butiaintgonnaloveem's Happy Big 50 Baby Challenge!!  This one was so difficult fun to write.  When I saw the song "All You Need is Love" by the Beatles on her list, I knew what I had to do.  It just took a bit of a convoluted road from my brain to my fingers.  Any-hoo, hope you enjoy!!

The gist: What made Baby into... Baby?  What shaped her?  Herein lies the story of Baby, from birth to Swan Song. Told in vignettes and gifs.

Warnings: I think there's like, two curse words in there?  Canon violence, a little more angst than originally planed (oops), but we know it's all ok at the end!

Word Count: 2,600ish

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."    -The Velveteen Rabbit

Everything has a consciousness.  An idea of where it belongs in the whole of the Universe.  Of what it Is and what it’s For.  How much of an idea- how conscious- depends on love.  The love you’re fed creates you.  It’s as true with humans as it is for other animals, or rivers, or guns, or potted geraniums, or... me.

I remember the molten heat of my steel being forged.  The delicious s t r e t c h of forming my steel into things.  A chassis, an axle, my skin curved over the bones.  But these aren’t really memories, per se, more like impressions of sensation.  See, I hadn’t been Loved, yet.

Sal Moriarty- my first human- loved me, in his way.  In the way that humans love things that make them feel good about themselves.  He loved me like a mirror.  I reflected him back to himself; taller, stronger, more righteous, with more hair and a bigger cock.  But it wasn’t really Love (capital L).  Poor Sal.  He never really got the difference.  

The first time I remember Love was in 1973.  I was sitting in the lot at Rainbow Motors in Lawrence, Kansas, and my skin was getting just-this-side-of-too-warm in the sun, when someone touched me.  Reverently.  In a way that was NEW.  A hand slid over me, and something in me reacted- a sleepy upward curling like a cat being scratched.  A weight rested on my hood and, just like that, the part of me that was a Me began to stir.  

“That’s not the one you want,” a voice rumbled.  And I could hear miles of dirt and gravel and blacktop under my wheels.  He pounded twice on my hood and said, “This is the one you want,” and I felt a thing that was like a smile.  

The owner of the voice lifted my hood by way of a greeting, and I tried to creak one back.

"327 four barrel, 275 horses. A little TLC and this thing is cherry."  It wasn’t a listing of my parts, it was a recited prayer.  Said with veneration, even though it was memorized.  “Trust me, this thing’s still gonna be badass when it’s 40."

You promise? ‘Cause I’d like that.  It was my first coherent thought.  

Mary didn’t quite know what to make of me at first.  She was expecting something different, after all.  But when she and John settled into my front seat and took off on that first drive, I could tell she liked me.  There was a warmth, maybe.  Or hope?  She loved me because I was her escape route.  Her way out of a life she wasn’t happy with, anymore.  She was the one who decided I was a “girl”, by the way.  I don’t know why.  But she was right.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she’d say to me, early in the morning, before her brain was awake enough to think that talking to a car was strange, “where are we gonna go, today, huh?” 

There were days she woke up in my backseat, John’s head on her shoulder and a cramp in her back.  Before he woke up, it was just her and me.  She’d run her fingers across the stitching in my vinyl, or reach up to crank down the back window- slowly, so it wouldn’t wake her mate.  I tried to breathe in some fresh air for her.  I could tell she was something special.  After one of those mornings, I noticed she started getting heavier.  Not just in weight, but in something else, too.  The way I carried people, she carried… promise?  That promise of adventure.  That warm voice reciting me like a prayer.  It was on it’s way.   

I remember the first time Dean moved.  We were leaving the grocery store with Mary’s most recent cravings (cheese crackers, a snickers bar, and hot sauce), and John had just fired up my engine.  I began my rumbling, saying Hello, when there was a lazy sort of turning over, somewhere.  And I remembered the reverent hand on my hood at Rainbow Motors.  And the sound of miles of road.  Mary didn’t say anything, but I felt her… shift.  Not physically.  But like when my seats are adjusted.  Or a gear shifts in my transmission.  Mary had changed configuration.  I felt her grip my doorframe, over the open window.  Her other hand was on her round middle. Hello! we both said to the little soul as John backed me out of the parking space.

"What are you smiling at?” he asked.  My gears shifted to Drive, and we were moving forward.  

"Nothing… I… I really love this song!” Mary turned my volume knob and my speakers sang louder.

"All you need is love… Da da da da da!..."

“Okaaay,” John said slowly.  I think he knew something was up, but it was Mary, so he let it slide. “You know, I’ll never get your whole Beatles obsession."

“It’s not an obsession!  I just… I like the sentiment.” And she began to sing “Love, love, love is all you need…"

John smiled at Mary and did that thing where they mixed their fingers together.

I think Mary taught me how to be a mother.

I carried Mary as she carried both of her boys- Our Boys,really- until they were ready to be people.  And then I carried them to the hospital so they could start being people.  And we all went on adventures to the grocery store and the movies and the park.  And Mary and Dean would sometimes sing to the tiny, wiggling thing that was Sam in his car seat (usually when the Beatles were on my radio).  And I was something like happy.  But I knew something else was coming.  I could still feel those miles of road coming at me- just over the horizon.  A weight in my trunk that wasn’t there, yet.

And then came a night of rain and fire .  And the Winchester males sat on my hood, and poured their sadness into me.  And I began to change, again.  I became something more than a vessel.  John’s military training kicked in and I became a fortress.  A base of operations.  A place from which to wage his war.  He would drop the boys off and ride me into battle.  I got a little of my bloodthirstiness from him, I think.  That phantom weight solidified- settled into my trunk as he piled in weaponry and talismans- the tools of his new trade.  I learned to carry myself differently- put more power into my back wheels.  I learned to carry myself like the warrior he needed me to be.

Those miles of road. They had found me at last.  The dust of dirt, the grind of gravel, the baking heat or freezing cold of asphalt.  They worked their way into my tires, and became part of me.  Dean and Sam grew up while we drove those miles.  Dean would always ride in the back, early on.  He always slept with one hand on his brother’s car seat.  Just in case.  Sometimes Sam would wake up crying, and Dean needed to comfort him right away.  He always hated to see Sam wake up scared.

Dean knows about nightmares.  I don’t know if he ever told anyone how many times he started awake sweating, dreaming of fire.  But I knew.  I would try and rumble a little deeper, then.  To comfort him.  

As we drove the distance and fought John’s war, Dean and Sam built new parts of me.  There are little plastic tickles in my vents, sometimes.  The boys put them there.  And the tiny green toy wedged in my ashtray.  (I think that’s what it must feel like to have something stuck in your teeth.)  The scars that they carved into me- their initials under my skin like a tattoo.  My gifts from my boys.  I carried them, and their gifts, and their daddy, until I became a Home.

When Dean learned to drive, I helped.  Well, I tried to throw my weight around a little to make it easier for him to move me.  I don’t know how well it worked, but I tried. I always try.  When something breaks in me, or needs adjustment, I try to let Dean know.  He’ll lift my hood, in that creaking Hello like his first greeting, and I try to talk back.  

"It hurts when I move this.  I need some oil, here.  This belt is too wobbly, can we fix that?"  He always understands.  He Loves me.  

John officially gave Dean my keys on his 18th birthday, but I think I had always belonged to Dean.  Since that day in the sun at Rainbow Motors.  He is Mine.

I don’t know when I really finished becoming Real.  It’s such a gradual thing, like falling in love, and you don’t really notice that it’s happened until you act on it without thinking.  There were so many years.  So many miles.  So much blood and joy and fear and singing.  

When Sam left for college, Dean drove me to a dark stretch of road, and we pulled over, and he cried.  I tried to find a radio station that was playing the Beatles.

A little later, when we hadn’t heard from John in a while, we went to get Sam, again.  I like to think it was that plastic rattle in my vents that helped Dean make the decision to drive to California, but I don’t know for sure.

Then it was old times, once more.  Me and my boys, off on our adventure.  Clarity of purpose.  I was smashed and Dean rebuilt me.  Dean left for a little while, and Sam took care of me.  It wasn’t the same, but we made it.  Then Dean came back to me, and the adventures started again.  And more years passed.  More fights and more blood. The sound of them laughing.  The weight of them on my hood, as we all silently watched the stars.

I carried angels and demons.  I listened to the boys fight and talk and dream.  I soaked it all up.  All that Love.  And then I was ready.

When the apocalypse came- the first one, I mean- that was the day I realized I was awake.  Real.  Whatever you want to call it.  

Sam had run off somewhere.  Only it wasn’t Sam anymore.  It was Lucifer.  And when Dean ran after him, I was there to carry my boy to what we all thought would be the last war.

We drove all night to get there.  Back to Kansas, of course.  It all had to end where it began, I suppose.  As we drove, Dean poured his fear into me.  It was like he had woken up from another nightmare, and found that this one was real.  I tried as best I could to help.  I threw myself forward so we could get there faster.  I rumbled deep and low to let Dean know I was there.  That he wasn’t alone.  We got to the battlefield just as the sun was rising.

We sat on the top of a hill at the Stull Cemetery entrance while Dean took a few deep breaths.  There was Sam.  I could see him waiting in the overgrown field below us.  And the other one… Adam?  Well, Michael wearing Adam’s face.  This was really happening.  They took a step toward each other and it was time.  Dean squeezed my wheel and turned the key and I roared as loud as I could across that brown grass and still air.  Dean slid in the cassette he had picked (always the music fan-  from the womb, in fact), and when he turned up the volume, I hollered through the music.  And we rode into action.

That last fight.  What can I say about it?  It was… it was the single worst thing I’ve ever seen.  Because it wasn’t really a fight.  My baby never threw a single punch.  

When Lucifer threw Dean, I caught him.  Broke my windshield, but I did it.  It got bad, after that.  Lucifer used Sam’s fists to break Dean.  I think he did it so bloody and hands-on just so Sam could feel it.  Every punch shook me, too.  I felt the vibrations as the bones in Dean’s face shattered.  I think I even heard Sam screaming, from somewhere far off.  Like a train whistle in a thunderstorm.  I tried to scream, too.

“Sammy, it's ok. It’s ok. I’m here. I’m here.  I’m not going to leave you!” Dean spit through his own blood and broken mouth.  How many times had I heard that whispered in my backseat?  Dean peering over the edge of his brother’s car seat, patting his head, lulling him back to sleep?

That was it.  That’s what did it.

You pour enough love into something, and it Becomes.

I had a Name.  And a Purpose.  And a Soul.  And my babies needed me now more than ever.  I was their mother, their fortress, their home, and now they needed a beacon.  So I did it.  I moved.

By myself.  

I strained against the rigid steel of my skin, and against the laws of physics.  With shrieking, wrenching effort, I stretched my roof up a fraction of an inch, into a shaft of sunlight.  Angled it towards Sam’s train whistle scream.  Made sure he could see that little army man.  A smile around something stuck in my teeth.

And there was Sam, again.

“It’s ok, Dean.  It’s gonna be ok.  I’ve got him,”  Sam wheezed against the strain of holding onto his own body.  He threw that magic key they had made, and punched a hole in the world.  The pit caved open, and across the deafening, howling wind, my boys looked at each other one last time.

I held Dean upright against my door, so he could say goodbye.  So we both could.  In that moment, I think we all spoke the same language.  We Loved each other.

And then Sam threw his body and Adam/Michael’s into that hole, and it was over.

It felt like everything was over, actually.

After the cage door closed, I think Dean and I both broke, a little.  I held on as long as I could, rumbling a lullaby while we dragged our way to a new life.  I had to get him to that Lisa woman he had talked about.  She sounded safe and kind.  Just what my baby needed to heal.  But when Dean parked me in that strange garage and went off to love the woman called Lisa, I couldn’t stay awake anymore.  The strain of moving- of Becoming- had taken a lot out of me.  I needed a good, long sleep.

And besides, Dean had Lisa to look after him for a little while.  She could care for him while I slept.  And when he was ready, I would be, too.  Those miles of road weren’t done, yet.  Probably never would be.  But I did know that when they came, I’d be there.  Mother, fortress, home.  And to the man who had Loved me alive, I would always be Baby.

I guess Mary was onto something.  In the end, all you need is Love.

Tagging: @butiaintgonnaloveem, thank you for this amazing challenge.  @icecream-and-gadreel- here's the fic I was complaining about. @mamaredd123, my lone forever-tag.  Thank you for your patience.

[anotherlifefic]

Chapter 45: The Man in the Mirror

When I awoke, it was still dark outside, and for a moment I was confused. Why was I awake? I looked over to Link who also raised his head, obviously still half-asleep and just as confused as I was. But then someone gently touch my shoulder.

It was Zelda, standing next to the bed, fully dressed again. „I‘m sorry, but I have to leave. My chambermaid will come to my chambers to wake me in an hour, and the whole castle will be in a panic if I‘m not there then.“

„Oh. Okay. Goodbye, Zelda“, I mumbled gently.

„Goodbye, Zelda“, Link said with a soft yawn.

Zelda smiled, and in the light of the moon through the window her eyes seemed to be a bit teary. „I hope I will see you again soon, my loves.“

I fell asleep again after Zelda left and awoke a few hours later. It took a moment for me to realize that I was alone in the bed. But from the door leading out to the roof terrace I heart horses whinny and Link talking, though I couldn‘t quite understand what he was saying.

I put on a dressing gown and a pair of fur-lined slippers and stepped outside onto the terrace, looking down to the pasture, where Link had just let the horses outside for the day. And in his arms, he carried Gareth, talking to him about Epona and Glory and how he could have a horse of his very own when he was older. I leaned against the balustrade and watched the exchange with a smile. Then Gareth looked up and spotted me, stretching out his tiny arms squealing:„Mommy! Mommy!“

Link turned and used his free hand to wave at me. „Good morning, sweetheart! Care to come down and join us? We‘ll have breakfast on the pasture!“

„Coming!“, I called down to them and then returned inside to get dressed and gather up some food for breakfast.

A little while later, Link and I were sitting on a blanket in the middle of the pasture, keeping an eye on Gareth, who was crawling around in the grass hunting bugs.

The perfect time of the year for picnics was long over, but Link and Gareth were bundled up in their warmest clothes and I… well, I didn‘t feel the cold anymore. So I could watch them and enjoy the warmth that spread in my chest when I had them around me. My perfect little family.

„Mommy! Mommy!“ Gareth came crawling up to me, trying but failing to stand up and walk a bit of the way, and excitedly showed me the remains of an unfortunately crushed bug in his hand.

„That‘s… nice, sweety“, I said, taking out a hankerchief and wiping the dead insect from my son‘s hand. „Why don‘t you try to catch a living one?“

He giggled and scampered off again.

„He‘s growing so fast“, Link commented. „It feels like it was just yesterday that he was born.“

„Indeed.“ I watched as Gareth was again trying and failing to stand up and walk.

Link took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles. „So… about what happened last night...“

„What about it? We all wanted it, didn‘t we?“, I asked.

„That‘s true, but still I can‘t help but feel like it was… wrong, somehow.“ He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. „When we got married, I vowed to be faithful to you. And even with your consent and participation, I broke that vow last night. I desired another woman.“

„Not any woman“, I reminded him. „You desired Zelda. Our friend and Queen and lover. You desired her, and so did I. I for one regret nothing.“

He placed his arm around me and planted gentle kisses onto my jaw. „I just want you to know that it doesn‘t change anything between us. You are still my wife, the one I vowed to love until the day I die.“

„I know that. And I will also love you until the day the Goddesses reclaim my soul.“

He did not answer for a moment, but we continued exchanging short, sweet kisses while still keeping an eye on Gareth.

A few minutes later, a messenger from the castle approached us. „Master Link, Mistress Rebecca, Her Majesty requests your presence in the council room. Immediately.“

Link and I looked at each other, somewhat horrified. What was going on?

We snatched Gareth, who began wailing because his playtime had been interrupted, and made our way to the castle while trying to calm him down.

The council room was a huge hall with a table that occupied the majority of it, as it had to accommodate all of Hyrule‘s dignitaries at times, though that was rare. Right now, the only people in the room were Zelda, the Sages, Link, Gareth and I.

Ruto‘s eyes widened for a moment when she saw me with Gareth in my arms, but then she turned her head in a dismissive gesture.

„There you are“, Zelda said calmly. „My apologies for interrupting your morning, but I fear that I have troubling news. Have a seat.“

We sat down next to Naboru, who nodded at us with a smile before returning her attention to the Queen.

„As you may remember, Link and Rebecca killed Ganondorf not too long ago, and I felt it prudent to swiftly return to the city to make sure Link gets the medical attention he needed at the moment. However, shortly after that, I sent a troup of soldiers to retrieve Ganondorf‘s body. Both to properly bury him, and to make sure he was truly dead.“ She let her eyes wander from person to person. „And it pains me to say this but… he was gone. There was no body.“

Shocked silence. Then, whispers.

„Gone? What does she mean by gone? Does that mean he is still alive and out there?“, Saria asked thinly, clearly terrified and thinking about what happened to Kokiri Forest in that other future.

„This can‘t be“, Ruto whispered. Her usually vibrant scales seemed to lose all colour from the shock, and she seemed to be close to a panic attack. „It has to be some kind of mistake.“

„This guy is as persistent as a cockroach, and twice as pesky. I have no trouble believing that he defeated death yet again just so he could continue making life difficult for us“, Naboru mumbled. „Try to stay calm“, Zelda said with a slightly raised voice. „We have no exact proof that Ganondorf is still alive. There were animals living around the fortress, no? That could be another possible explanation. I called you here to make sure you know what is going on, and to make sure you could prepare for the worst case scenario.“

„And we appreciate that, Your Majesty“, Darunia replied. „Whatever may happen, the Gorons will be ready!“

„All of Hyrule will be“, Impa added. „There aren‘t a lot of warriors in Kakariko, but I will mobilize whatever forces I can.“

While everyone was busy planning their defenses, Link and I looked at each other with wide eyes and pale faces. We had spent the past months in the blissful illusion that the nightmare was over.

But suddenly, I remembered what Lana had told me.

„There are powers at work that far exceed the greed of a single man.“

I had a terrible feeling that her words would prove woefully true…

„You may leave now and prepare your people“, Zelda finally said and got up from her seat. „All of you… except for Link and Rebecca.“

Ruto looked at me for a split second, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. But then she followed the rest of the sages out of the room.

Once it was just us, Zelda stepped closer, smiling at Gareth and stroking his cheek while talking to us.

„I‘m sorry that this has to happen now. Just when we thought things could finally settle down a bit.“

„It‘s not your fault.“ I took her hand into both of mine and gave it an encouraging squeeze. „Let‘s just hope that his body was just dragged off by wild animals or collected by some of his goons to be buried.“

„I‘m sure that‘s the case“, Link said, trying really hard to sound confident. „Don‘t worry too much, okay?“

„I‘m the Queen. Making hard decisions and worrying is what I‘m here for“, Zelda joked, but she sounded too nervous for the joke to really land. „However, now I‘m happier than ever to have you closer to me. Having quick access to the Hero of Time will be a huge advantage should the worst come to pass.“ She kissed both of us on the mouth and Gareth on the forehead. „You may return home now, my loves. I will send someone to you if there are any new developments.“

Link and I returned home, and Link took Gareth inside to prepare dinner while I mucked out the stable. It was good, familiar work, hard as it was now that I was so out of practice. Once I was done, I returned inside to find Link already setting the table. A delicious scent of beef stew hung in the air, and Gareth was happily playing with his favourite toy, a wooden figure of a horse, while sitting in the playpen.

Link looked up once the last bit of dinnerware was at its place. „Ah! There you are. The stew needs a few more minutes.“

„That‘s fine“, I replied and walked over to him for a hug and kiss. After the brief contact, his lips hovered over mine for a second, and he smiled. „You smell so good, love.“

„I highly doubt that“, I replied with a chuckle. I was sweaty and dirty from mucking out the stable. „Let me wash up before we eat, okay?“

There wasn‘t enough time for a bath, so I just filled the basin in the bathroom with water and cleaned myself up with a washrag and a bit of soap. I bent over the basin to wash my face, and when I looked up into the mirror again, there was a huge man with burning red eyes behind me. He had long red hair that seemed to dance around like flames, and a glowing, x-shaped scar on his forehead.

I whirled around, letting out a short, ear-piercing shriek and blasting the spot where the man would have been with a spell, but there was nobody there.

The door was thrust open violently, and Link came rushing in. „Rebecca?! I heard you scream! What‘s going on?!“

I looked at him, but needed a moment to get my vocal cords back under control before replying. „I… I saw something in the mirror. But there was nothing. I must have imagined it.“

Link looked at the spot on the floor that was now covered in thin icicles. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. „Thank the Goddesses. I thought Ganondorf might be here and trying to hurt you.“

„He‘s dead, Link“, I said, as if to try and convince both of us. „He won‘t come back.“

Link ran up to me and threw his arms around me, kissing me wildly. „I‘m just glad you aren‘t hurt or in danger. I have put you in danger far too many times already, and I would never forgive myself if something actually happened to you.“

I kissed him back at first, but then stopped him. „Come on… our dinner is getting cold and I don‘t want to leave Gareth alone for too long.“

Gareth looked up at us when we returned to the dining area. He still had the small wooden horse in his hand and let it walk along the edge of the playpen.

His dark blue eyes followed our movement as we filled the stew into our bowls and sat down at the table.

He really has his father‘s eyes, I thought to myself and returned my attention to Link, who took my hand over the table.

„Link, I won‘t be able to eat like that“, I protested, but the chuckle that came along with it made it clear that I actually didn‘t mind too much.

We ate, and while we did so, my mind wandered back to the man in the mirror. He had looked a lot like Ganondorf, but not the same. Ganondorf, huge and intimidating as he was, was still undeniably human. But the vision I had seen had looked more like pure darkness given humanoid form. And those piercing, red eyes… eyes like flames, much like the man‘s hair. Fire…

„We should tell Zelda about what just happened“, Link said while scooping the last bit of stew out of his bowl.

„What? No. She has enough on her plate already. We don‘t have to bother her with this… hallucination.“

„But what if it isn‘t a hallucination?“, Link asked. „What if what you saw is connected to Ganondorf somehow?“

I stared at my now empty bowl. „...They do look similar…“

„See? This has to mean something. And the consequences of ignoring it if it does far outweigh any inconvenience it might cause if it doesn‘t!“

I sighed. „Yes, you‘re right.“