#and everything he knew and thought about his father was false and a ploy to use his body

[quibbs126]

I want to talk about/draw angst to do with the All Ancients Disappear AU, specifically with the Dark Cacao family (other characters have angst, but they’re the ones I’m fixated on), but I can’t because I don’t have designs for them yet

I’ve at least solidified stuff for Dark Choco’s kid in this AU. He has a son named Dark Syrup Cookie, who’s made of both chocolate and strawberry syrup. He’s 8-10 years old and he listens to and trusts his father (even though he shouldn’t). He does not yet know that his reason for existence is to be a vessel for the sword (but he will eventually)

[snackleggg]

It wasn't hard, in that moment

~~~

Angsty one shot without a happy ending. Sometimes hate can blind you to the simplest things.

~~~

This couldn't be happening.

There was no way this was happening.

But the screen didn't change as Maddie and Jack Fenton stared at the news on their TV.

" -and with all this in mind the government has not only decided to revoke the Anti-ecto act but to also give ghosts and other ectoplasmic entities that fall under that category basic civil rights. The GIW and several other unethical ghost hunting organisations are being shut down as a result and the government will soon be moving onto the inspection of smaller groups and individuals that have shown excessive malice towards these beings-" The news reporter continued on but Maddie couldn't really listen to anything else they were saying.

She didn't think it would ever get this out of hand. At first it had been small things, the impressionable and naive children of Casper high supporting that menace Phantom. Then when word of ghosts being real spread to the rest of the world other groups supporting them and their rights as people started popping up.

Now the Anti-ecto laws were not only taken down but new laws protecting the scum were put up. How did this happen?

A growl escaped Maddie "Phantom".

Of course that evil menace had to be up to this. He and his ghost pals must have mind controlled government officials. Now Fenton works would undoubtedly be inspected and shut down considering the new Ectoplasmic Protection Act.

They had to work fast Maddie decided.

If they could destroy Phantom then whatever ghostly hold he had over the government would disappear and they would all come to their senses.

Maddie stood up and started stomping her way down the stairs. She didn't even notice Jack continuing to watch the news as they interviewed some ghosts on what they thought about the situation. She didn't even notice how Jazz was standing proudly at the top of the stairs or the suspicious look Jazz threw her way when she had left.

With her new urgency it wasn't hard for her to finish a project they had in the works for a while. Her and Jack had kept it top secret so that the scum couldn't somehow find out and destroy it like they did with some of their other brilliant inventions.

The Fenton Ghost Filter was about to get a test run on the local menace.

Unlike something like the Ghost Grabber or a Ghost Shield, the Ghost Filter didn't filter ghosts from an object or just force them away. It filtered them from existence. Separating all their ectoplasm down to the molecular bond, they would become nothing but air.

It wasn't hard to find the menace. He had just finished sucking another ghost into a Fenton Thermos, Maddie still couldn't figure out where he had got his hands on one. It wasn't hard to get his attention and expertly lie about her intentions, about seeing the news and understanding how wrong she had been, about how she wanted to speak to him and make a truce.

The words were bitter on her tongue and it took everything in her to keep her expression of friendliness up and not let any venom or disgust leak into her voice.

He was obviously still cautious when he approached her. He carried himself with the air of someone ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. Of course Maddie would never give him that chance.

The moment he was in close enough where she knew she wouldn't miss she pulled out her newest invention. She saw the moment he realised what she was about to do, the moment he realised she had lied and the moment he realised that even with his speed he wouldn't be able to dodge in time.

Maddie saw the fear in Phantom's acid green eyes.

She smiled.

She was proud to be the cause of that fear.

She pulled the trigger.

Time seemed to slow down after Phantom collapsed. Not in the good way either.

It wasn't the same kind of slow as when she was about to shoot him, when she was savouring that moment, that victory.

At first it was caused by confusion.

Why hadn't he been torn apart instantly? Maybe she had gotten something wrong in her rush to finish it? Maybe a calculation had been off?

Then white rings appeared around Phantom's waist and travelled up his body.

She was tense. Was this a new power? A new attack? Thanks to those damn new laws it would be seen as self defense if he attacked her now.

Then when the rings of white light disappeared her son was left there on the ground. He was screaming.

Over the years Maddie had learned to ignore the screams of ghosts, they were all just ploys to gain her sympathy of the emotionless creatures. The screams of ghosts had become white noise to her, nothing more than a passing irritation.

But infront of her right now was not a ghost but her son. Her baby boy. He was screaming. He was in pain.

The mother in her wanted to run over to her boy right then and try and make him feel better, comfort him and make his pain stop.

The ghost hunter in her, the part of her that had been driving her every action up until that point, whispered in her ear how this was a trap. Phantom was trying to trick her like always, trying to gain her sympathy by making himself look like her son.

The two sides were at war, and so Maddie was frozen.

Then time seemed to snap back into gear, moving fast now like a rushing river.

Someone ran past her, towards Danny (Phantomphantomphantom). It took her a moment to realise it was Jazz. She was quickly followed by Danny's two friends, Sam and Tucker.

They were all panicking. All calling out to Danny, asking what was wrong, asking what happened and what they should do. Reassuring him that everything was going to be okay, though it sounded like they were trying to convince themselves just as much as they were trying to convince him.

The entire time Maddie could barely hear them over the screams, over her son's (Phantom's) screams.

Then it all stopped.

The screams cut off abruptly, like the plug being pulled from a TV.

Danny (Phantom that's Phantom it's Phantom) fell limp.

Sam was crying, Maddie had never seen her cry before. She was always such a strong girl.

Tucker seemed to be franctically looking for a plus, both on Danny's wrist and neck.

Jazz was-

Maddie felt like she had been slapped when she looked at Jazz.

Jazz was staring at her- no, glaring.

There was so much in that glare.

Jazz had always expressed a lot of emotion through her eyes, she could never really hide what she was feeling if you looked her in the eyes.

There was rage, and sadness and- what Maddie didn't want to admit looked like hatred. Unshed tears sat in the corners of her eyes as she glared at Maddie like she had just taken everything from her.

Then her eyes trailed back to Danny's (Phantom's) limp form.

He wasn't breathing. He was still, too still.

His eyes closed from when they had been screwed shut in pain.

Tucker was now also crying, he had stopping looking for a pulse.

Maddie felt bile rise to the back of her throat as she replayed the events in her head.

Maddie saw the fear in Phantom's acid green eyes. (She didn't need to try hard to imagine those same eyes as blue- sky blue like the day the baby in her arms opened his eyes and she swore to always protect him)

She smiled. (That's the last thing he saw, her smiling. Smiling because she was about to kill hurt him)

She was proud to be the cause of that fear. (She caused that fear. Her own baby was afraid of her, and she had been proud of that)

She pulled the trigger. (She pulled the trigger, she shot him, she hurt him, she killed him)

"Tragedy struck today as Amity park's local ghostly hero Phantom, whose identity was revealed to be Damiel Fenton, was killed by none other than Madeline Fenton. It has been a common fact in the town of Amity for many years that the adult Fentons have harboured a, at times, unreasonable hatred to ghostly entities. While not all the details are yet known, the broader strokes of the story are that after the government's public declaration of the Ectoplasmic Protection Act yesterday Madeline Fenton decided to act out to destroy Phantom who she and her husband had claimed to be a menace multiple times. Taking a, as of yet unidentified, weapon and lulling Phantom into a false sense of security around her before she shot him and subsequently killed him. When he died his identity was revealed to be that of her own son who, we are told, after an accident involving their prized invention, the ghost portal, became part ghost and took personal responsibility for making sure that Amity park was safe from those who wished to harm it. Madeline Fenton is being charged with first degree murder and there is currently much debate on whether Jasmine Fenton should be removed from Jack Fenton's custody-" The news reporter went on.

Jack couldn't focuse on the TV anymore. His sobs having grown too loud to be able to hear what was being said.

His wife was going to be sent to prison.

His daughter hated them both.

His son was dead.

His son had died nearly two years ago and they hadn't noticed. They hadn't questioned his strange behaviour, the falling grades, the breaking curfew. They hadn't seen their son when they looked at Phantom, hadn't recognised him.

Then his son died again, by their invention again.

He was a terrible father.

He was a terrible person.

[maisiestyle]

Jon’s Love for Arya and Sansa are not the same

@sweetlingsansa

​ Your recent Jon x Love post gave me a chuckle. You appear quite confused in how Jon feels about the two Stark sisters. I’m going to address the way you chose to highlight this point: I sense you’re obviously projecting the feelings he has for one sister that George goes to great lengths to show his readers. In fact, George was specifically asked that question and his answer couldn’t be more clear:

On Jon/Arya:

Granny: Are you trying to say something to the reader by drilling into us how much Arya and Jon love each other?

George_RR_Martin: “Say something to the reader?” I’m just reporting how the characters feel. Of course, everything in the book says something to the reader. 

Yet @sweetlingsansa reduces Jon’s feelings for Arya as simple family affection. Sigh. What books did you read? Very suspect. Then you falsely claim Jon apparently feels PURE, PERFECT, UNCONDITIONAL love (where?! lol) for the sister he barely spares a second, third or forth thought on? The sister he can go without seeing again if it meant he could have the other more important people back in his life. The sister that only thought about him when he was the last family she had left. 

The sister Jon didn’t spare a thought for over her plight in King’s Landing surrounded by enemies. YET multiple times, he wonders how Arya is… even though deep down he knows she must be dead. Only one sister was worth breaking his vows for. It was only one sister that occupied his last thought before he died. His dearest wishes involved her. When Jon wakes from this “death” like Beric described and Lady Stoneheart is demonstrating, the last things that were most important to the undead person at the end of their life will be their fixation when they rise again. Lady Stoneheart’s search for Arya and killing Freys & Lannisters. Revenge. With Jon, he died with a mission he pledged himself to in riding south to Winterfell to face Ramsay Bolton and get Arya back. 

“… I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …” was the last thing Jon considers before he decides to break his vows.

“I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard.”

Jon’s death scene in ADWD was significant. His last word was Ghost, his last feeling was pain, and his last thoughts were about a girl he loved more than anything:

Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger’s hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. “Ghost,” he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold. - Jon, ADWD

“Jon will want me, even if no one else does.” (Unconditional) - Arya

George is just reporting how the characters feel remember:

The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north. 

~*~

And Arya  …   he missed her even more than Robb, so fierce and willful. she could always make Jon smile. He would give anything to be with her now...

~*~

He remembered the day he had left Winterfell, all the bittersweet farewells; Bran lying broken, Robb with snow in his hair, Arya raining kisses on him after he’d given her Needle. 

~*~

That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont’s permission. It would be good to see Arya’s grin again and to talk with his father. 

(These two last quotes above are striking in their exclusion of one sister. Yikes.)

~*~

He remembered suddenly how he used to muss Arya’s hair. His little stick of a sister. He wondered how she was faring. It made him a little sad to think that he might never muss her hair again. 

This is from Book 2. He thinks she is still alive? When everyone else thinks she’s dead. 

~*~

Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? 

This is just so major, the implications. Wow.

~*~

“He’s to marry Arya Stark. My little sister.” Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton’s bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she’ll fight him. 

~*~

By now she’d be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. “I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you.” Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton’s throat as easily. 

~*~

His thoughts kept returning to Arya. There is no way I can help her. I put all kin aside when I said my words. If one of my men told me his sister was in peril, I would tell him that was no concern of his. Once a man had said the words his blood was black. Black as a bastard’s heart. He’d had Mikken make a sword for Arya once, a bravo’s blade, made small to fit her hand. Needle. He wondered if she still had it. Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her, but if she tried to stick the Bastard, it could mean her life. 

~*~

“I have no sister.” The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister?

I love winning.

~*~

Melisandre seemed amused. “What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?” 

“Arya.” His voice was hoarse. “My half-sister, truly …” 

~*~

Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.

~*~

He glanced at the letter again. I will save your sister if I can. A surprisingly tender sentiment from Stannis, though undercut by that final, brutal if I can and the addendum and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. But what if Arya was not there to be saved? What if Lady Melisandre’s flames had told it true? Could his sister truly have escaped such captors? How would she do that? Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she’s just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth.

He keeps hitting that right spot. Jon the president of the Arya Stark stanclub from day mf 1. 

~*~

What if Bolton never had his sister? This wedding could well be just some ruse to lure Stannis into a trap. A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them. All to save my sister. But the men of the Night’s Watch have no sisters. 

~*~

And keep him away from the red woman. She knows who he is. She sees things in her fires.”

Arya, he thought, hoping it was so. 

~*~

“That’s good.” Jon felt fifteen years old again. Little sister. He rose and donned his cloak. 

~*~

He wanted to believe it would be Arya. He wanted to see her face again, to smile at her and muss her hair, to tell her she was safe. 

~*~

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. 

~*~

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. “Let him be scared of me.” The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled.

“Winter’s lady.” Jon squeezed her hand.

~*~

He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free?

~*~

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Would she still have that little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he’d told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. 

Sill worrying about Arya’s wedding night. Wow.

~*~

Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl. 

~*~

You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … 

These aren’t even ALL the Jon/Arya quotes from the books, no conjecture, tortured symbolism, imaginary themes/loose connections/extrapolations or weak nonsense explanations, just direct quotes.

Direct. quotes.said.by/about.two.people. Something most Jonsas have very little experience with I know. The Arya quotes would fill pages. 

This wasn’t done by accident. George didn’t do this for fun. 

These two matter to eachother on a level you don’t seem to understand or want to acknowledge.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 7- Mineral Mage

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )

The hermits are home on their hidden island of Eremita, welcomed by a friendly face...and a not so friendly friend. TFC is desperate to discover what the crystal is, even at the expense of his own wellbeing. But does he take it too far?

--------------------------------

At the tallest rise of the island, a glimmer is visible. Light shining off metal, and a small red tassel flowing free of the knight’s helmet. As stoic as he looks, standing heroically at the crest of the island, his face shows a childish glee. Jevin squeals, jumping from the sky turtle and rolling across the grass. “Wels! Long time no see, my man!” 

Wels lets out a raucous laugh, features lighting up with joy to see his friends, his family. After what he’s been through in Alphasgard, he was afraid he’d never see them again. See the ragtag team of idiots he calls family. “Hear you guys got a big contract- and you didn’t invite me?” 

“You stopped answering our letters, we thought you were too busy.” Stress giggles. 

“Phoebe was so sad every time she returned with the letter unopened.” Zedaph pouts, patting the head of the massive turtle, fingers gently preening the green feathers of the beast, the whorls like clouds in the sky. 

“What even happened?” Doc questions, sliding down the massive turtle shell with a lot less of his usual suave attitude. He may be a puppeteer mage, but animals are Zed’s thing. “We came as fast as we could.” 

“Let’s just say some people were less than happy to find me snooping around their sewer lair.” Wels shrugs off his tunic’s sleeve, showing the scar running over his shoulder. Mumbo winces alongside Stress, but False steps up.

“Wicked scar, man.” She high fives him. “I’m sure you left me with a whole pile of things to fix, huh?” 

“You bet. But first… what’s been going on with TFC? What is that crystal that he’s practically sleeping with?” The guild turns, looking down the hill, across the small forest and pond, over the training grounds to the inhabited side of the island. Among the odd collection of homes, he can see the crystal cave that TFC calls his own. 

“Lets grab TFC, and we can go over everything at once. Including what he missed.” Xisuma nods the rest of the guild to their open hall, while he follows the footpath to the cave. Exactly as Wels warned him, TFC is hunched over his desk, picking and scraping at the crystal in his hand. “TFC?”

“What?” TFC looks up, blinking away the fatigue in his eyes. Dark rings and bags accentuate the sharp gaze he shoots at Xisuma. X steps back, before entering into the cave. 

“We’re back, all of us are gathering in the guild hall to go over everything that happened. Haven’t you filled in Wels yet?” TFC isn’t acting like himself, he isn’t acting like the leader Xisuma knows he is. The father he is to every hermit. Strong and a good leader, calm and thoughtful. His words are short, cutting into Xisuma’s skin and lashing him with the tone in his voice. 

“I’m busy, can’t you see?” TFC raises the piece of the crystal, light consumed by the darkness. Xisuma retreats from the magical item, feeling the evil magic within. He looks up, noticing the hungry, weak stare that TFC holds with the crystal. He’s obsessed with it, he doesn’t even notice his hunger or fatigue. 

“TFC, please. Take a break, we have...a lot happened in Milliara. You’re our guildmaster, you need to be there.” Xisuma reaches out, but as soon as his fingers brush the draining crystal, TFC’s hand wraps around his wrist. It’s a firm grip, fingers constricting tighter and tighter until Xisuma’s knees buckle from the pain. Xisuma gasps, shaking. Sure, he’s been in duels with TFC more times than he can count, but TFC never intended to hurt him before. He never intends to hurt any of them. “T-TFC.” 

TFC notices the fear crossing Xisuma’s eyes, the way he’s collapsing under the tight grip around his wrist. Fear...of him. Of his own guildmaster. TFC retracts his hand, cradling the crystal close to his chest. Why did he do that? Why did he hurt Xisuma? He just didn’t want him to touch the crystal. “Fine, I’ll go.” 

The rest of the guild is listening to Wels regale them with his mission, pointing to aging wounds. “-and that’s when they captured me. They thought they had me beat? Ha! I took that sleep potion on purpose. I knew they’d take me right into their lair.” 

“But you were tortured! Wounded!” Keralis whimpers. 

“A little bit of pain wasn’t going to stop me from finishing my mission. These rogues were murdering people in cold blood- lucky for them mine was hot.” Wels’s lion tail flicks to the side, passing from one shoulder to the next like the tongue of a clock. Content to be with his friends- and very content to have some of Cleo’s amazing hard cider in his stomach. 

Everyone looks up, seeing the last two members of the guild arriving. Wels turns, resting his arm on the black pants. He doesn’t feel like wearing his armor, not on a day off like this. “So… tell me, what took all of you guys off the island?” 

“We got a huge contract. For all of us.” Grian grins, before remembering how that contract ended for them. They didn’t even get the gold, just a slap on the wrist. For what? Doing exactly what Magistrate Dolios wanted. 

“We were asked by the magistrate himself to investigate a disturbance in a town. But when we arrived, everything was dead.” Xisuma adds, tucking himself in the shade of the tree. He pulls off his mask, safe from the blinding light of the sun, his eyes weak after years of stargazing. 

“Okay… that’s not all that weird. Was it a plague? Or some banshee?” Wels shrugs, pulling his curly blonde hair away from his neck. He did not miss the warmth that the Ashioll sea brings, compared to Alphasgard’s cool mountain breeze. 

“No, not dead like that. Not just a corpse on the ground.” Cleo mutters. “There was nothing. Not even a soul left for me to find. And not just people or animals. Crops withered to ash, wood rotted to charcoal, and water dried up. It wasn’t just the people- the entire land was dead. A black scar on the map.” 

Wels’s face darkens, his eyes falling to the floor as he considers this news. “So what did you find?” 

“We found a crystal within the well system. Large, imposing. Floating over the spring. Taking its power.” Zedaph leans over Tango and Impulse. 

“And then it attacked us.” Tango hisses, playing with the tattered sash of Impulse’s. Pulling on the yellow threads and adding it to Zedaph’s golden locks. He’ll have an extra head of hair, if Impulse doesn’t notice. “These two creepy husk townsfolk came in, one attacked us, and then the crystal started spewing creepy mist stuff and nearly spiked us with it.” 

“The same crystal that TFC has?” Wels looks at the black gem in his hand. It’s so small, how was it able to overcome them all? 

“No, that’s just a mega tiny chunk.” Iskall responds, before pausing and squinting as he recounts his words. “No matter what we did, almost nothing could break it. Only my iskallium was strong enough to put it back into dormancy.”

“We narrowly escaped, but that’s when we rushed to Milliara. To tell the magistrate what we saw.” Xisuma leans against the massive oak tree at the center of the open guild hall. 

“Wait...the magistrate, Magistrate Dolios- leader of the Council of Guilds, creator of that ridiculous law about licensing guilds? He asked us?” Wels looks around, waving at the island hidden among the mysterious, danger ridden sea. “He does know we aren’t a legal guild, right?”

“That was his whole point. His whole ploy.” Doc growled, his lips curling back. He wishes he could give that jackass a taste of his own medicine. Play with him like he did to them. “He tricked us into doing his dirty work, then made a fool of us all in Milliara.” 

Now it’s TFC’s turn to be confused as well. “Wha- what do you mean? He tricked us?” 

“Oh yeah, that’s the best part.” Etho growls. “He burned the contract, and kicked us out like we were idiots asking to be licensed. He played us.” 

Anger flares hot in TFC’s veins, itching from his wrist where he holds onto the crystal. Like it’s feeding off his emotions. “So we did all this...for nothing!” 

“No, not nothing.” Xisuma tries to calm TFC down. Try to get him to think like he normally does. Rational and calm. “This crystal, the one you have. I think there’s more going on. Joe, could I root around in your library, see what I can research? See what this magic could be from?” 

Joe nods, and opens his mouth to welcome X to even search through his restricted books. But TFC cuts him off. “No! I’ve got this, I’m close to figuring it out. Learning the trick behind the crystal. You don’t need to get yourself tangled up in my work.” 

“TFC...we always work together. That’s why we have a guild.” Mumbo whispers, standing up. “Listen mate… a lot of us are worried about you. I think that crystal is affecting you, dude. You’re- you’re scaring some of us.” 

Mumbo opens his hand, quietly asking for the crystal. Not forever- he can’t do the magic that TFC can. If they hope to learn anything, they need his work. But it’s obviously affecting him. He’s changed. 

But TFC recoils, gripping the crystal tight. “No! This is my work- I just have to test the gem and see it’s properties, and we’ll know exactly how to handle this. I don’t need you guys interfering!” 

Xisuma’s eyes widen, realizing what TFC is saying. “T no!” 

He reaches out, but he’s a second too slow. TFC’s magic circle has already been cast, surrounding the gem and sapping it’s powers. The blue arcane light stains black, circles and lines falling apart and struggling against the dark magic. Taking it over. 

TFC falls to his knees, gripping his head. Black veins crawl up his skin, from the hand still holding the crystal. Unable to let it go. Like worms crawling through his bloodstream, infecting his body, sapping his strength. His skin turns pale, almost an ashen grey tone. The corrupted magic circle fades away, black mist replacing where magic hung desperate in the air, trying to stay activated. The mist retreats back to the crystal. 

The hermits rush to TFC’s side. Grian’s hands are already glowing, trying to find a way to heal TFC from the pain, but none of it is external, or even wounded. He’s sick, not hurt. He’s in pain, not broken. Xisuma holds the guildmaster up, ignoring the painful glare of sun in his delicate eyes to focus on TFC. “The crystal! He must’ve activated it’s magic! It’s draining him like it did Gildara!” 

“We have to get it out of his hand.” Iskall tries to pry the gloves open, but the older hermit won’t let go. It’s a vice grip, and when Iskall pulls his own fingers away, black mist trails behind. Trying to attach to even more power, the power surrounding it in two dozen different faces. 

Wels draws up his magic circle. “Stress! You’re the strongest of us! Get it out of his hand!” 

The azure circle is released, wrapping around the ice sorceress. Imbuing her with a strength buff. Iskall steps back, knowing not to get in her way. She digs her fingers between TFC’s. “Sorry, luv, but this really isn’t good fer yer health.” 

Stress’s fingers pull apart the guildmaster’s, prying free his metal gloved hand and wincing through the mist that catches on her. Crawling on her like a cobweb, searching for magic to steal. She finally gets all the fingers to release, grinding her teeth as the crystal is exposed. 

Jevin reaches out, encapsulating the dark gem in a mold of blue slime, hardening it into a thick casing. TFC collapses into the hermit’s warm embrace as soon as the crystal is punted away. “That thing needs to be destroyed now!” 

“But what about TFC? We need to get him to the infirmary.” Grian needs to take care of him, or at least try to help. He’s the healer- he needs to heal their resident grandpa and guildmaster. Stress, still imbued with the strength buff, picks up the larger man bridal style, aided by Ren and Scar in giving her a gentle slope to the bottom of the hill. The hermits race off, leaving behind only a few to deal with the crystal. 

Namely, Mumbo and Impulse. The two both watch the guild run to the infirmary room, but they know they will only add more bodies to the chaos. Impulse’s magic won’t do anything to help with that- but he is a master of destruction. And Mumbo, he knows he can’t help, and the last thing he needs to do is cause more issues. 

The two look at each other. “Guess we’ve set ourselves up to deal with the crystal.”

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Wicked, part 6 (DT royal AU)

Summary: While Dracovia says goodbye to their past king, the new ruler steps up as it burns their life to the ground.

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, death, indicating SMUT

Word count: 4456

WICKED - SERIES MASTERLIST

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~                          ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“This is a peaceful gathering!” Y/N shouted, hoping the soldiers would see reason. She had begged her father to let the people gather on the border and protest the possibility of war between Dracovia and Astros as well as the signing of a peace treaty their king required. Y/N agreed, wanting to avoid bloodshed, to protect her people but also the people of Astros. If the kingdoms started a war, those most innocent would surely suffer and she couldn’t just ignore that. So, aware this was likely a ploy to see the princess of Dracovia to report her beauty back to their king, Y/N and her best friend arrived at the meeting point, the people following to show their support for the future dragon queen.

But it was anything but peaceful for as soon Y/N and Andrea joined the soldiers to sign the treaty, Andrea was forcefully taken right before her eyes. She felt her best friend’s hand slip from her grasp as they dragged her toward the block, Y/N’s pleading going unanswered.

She felt utterly helpless as she watched them force Andrea onto her knees and her head onto the block, the sword coming down on her so quickly Y/N had barely had time to exhale before the blood pooled and her friend’s head was no longer attached to her neck.

She swore she’ll never be so stupid, so naïve, so helpless ever again. But he found herself in the very same position.

She began to cry. She didn’t want to, she didn’t want the men to see her weakness, She couldn’t help it, though. She felt utterly alone and helpless.

Her screams echoed long into the night, filled with raging despair and the sorrowful betrayal she had been a victim of. She didn't break quietly, it was like every atom of her being screamed in unison, traumatized by all the things that were done to her since she was a child. She thought she was safe with Grayson, that she could entrust her heart and soul to him. When the wracking sobs passed, she cried in such a desolate way that no-one could bear to listen for long.

She finally understood her mother's words:

"Never trust any man and never love anyone but your children."

Y/N wished she stayed true to her initial reasoning, for her heart had clearly lied to her mind who had warned her of it all on numerous occasions.

She sunk to her knees, her entire body trembling, inconsolable. He had robbed her of her freedom, of her family's legacy, of her ability to love and trust. That was something much more sinister than a simple betrayal - she would have taken a dagger to the heart much kinder than what he had done to her.

So, there she sat, her face red and wet from tears she's spilled over her unfortunate fate - she was a queen with neither a crown nor a kingdom, the most powerful piece on the board with no moves left.

There was no room in her heart for love she had for Grayson anymore. All she had was hate, unparalleled hate. She wanted what was her and she planned on taking it – with fire and blood if necessary. She’s too proud to surrender, too proud to bend, too proud to lose. If war is what Grayson wants, she’d give it to him.

“My Queen?”

Y/N recognized the voice of her lady immediately, the door opening right after. Standing up, she quickly wiped her tears away and straightened her back. No one can see her emotions anymore. She had put despair and fear aside as if they were garments she simply did not wish to wear. She’s a dragon and she’s not afraid to burn heaven down if it meant protecting her kingdom.

“We need to go to Dracovia.” That’s all Y/N said before walking past her lady, certain she was free even if it’s been at least five or six hours since her husband locked her up in the tower.

“Who will we call? The kingdom fell without a single shot fired!” Mareen shouted, effectively stopping her queen in her spot, the aftershock of her lady’s words just registering with her.

“What do you mean? I thought Dracovia was burning.” Y/N tried to keep her voice leveled and her mind open, but she started to shake, visibly trembling in a fit of rage. Why would her people ever surrender to a foreign invader? Why would they give up everything without a fight?

“Apparently your late father did the burning,” Mareen responded a little quieter for she could sense the danger in her Queen’s posture and even more in the tone of voice she used whenever she tried to conceal how close to madness she truly is.

“So…he is dead.” Y/N sighed, closing her eyes as she pressed her lips together. She felt horrible about not feeling horrible about his death at all. In a way, she always knew he wasn’t a good man, but he was always good to her...as good as he could be considering the way he had brought her up - a woman with no trust, no love, no remorse in her heart...a woman who was taught to use her body and mind in the most wicked ways possible. 

“I’m afraid so,” Mareen responded, waiting for an order from her queen. But Y/N needed a moment to breathe. She had just gotten confirmation she no longer had any parents in this world, that she has a whole kingdom on her shoulders now. It’s one thing to think about what kind of a queen she wanted to be, but to actually have to be one at such a young age was different.

“Contact Sir Pembelton. He’ll be much more loyal to me than Sir Mance ever was.” Y/N ordered, heading for the shores where she expected to find her knight, the one spy she had recruited herself a little after Andrea died. She knew he’d be there before her for Sir Pembelton was always on time even when a time frame wasn’t set. She believed him to be more knowledgable of the situation than herself.

Her heart breaks with every step she takes through the halls, walking out into the rose garden she had grown accustomed to. This place, the castle…it felt like home. She wanted to remember it as such, not allowing her husband’s betrayal to taint the memories.

All she could do was to bow her head until her chin touched her chest and keep walking. Finding her place on the beach, the crashing waves licking at her bare feet, she drew in a deep breath to stop herself from losing her nerve.

“Enjoying quiet walks on the beach?”

She didn’t need to turn around to know it was the gallant knight she handpicked that stood behind her. Truth be told, there was a time she wanted to name him her king, but that was over once her father allowed her to be traded like cattle for a peace no one truly kept.

“Not as much as sitting on my throne.” Y/N quipped, smirking once he stepped before her only to fall on one knee in respect.

“Your majesty.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, allowing him to stand proudly once more. He still looked as dark and as brooding as the first time she laid her eyes on him when she was barely fourteen. He was her friend, perhaps the only man who has yet to fail her. His light blue eyes are stark different in comparison, filled with an undeniable melancholy she only ever saw on the day they parted – when he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand and gave her a note…a note where he admitted to the great love he bears her, the love he assumed was hopeless.

There had been many nights when she wondered what would have happened if she didn’t send him off to Astros, but she knew she’d never trust any soldier as much as she trusted him to be loyal. He was a descent of the dragon himself, one of the rare ones, and the dragons stick together.

“Brooks, you never have to bow to me when we’re alone.” She told him, her hand resting on his shoulder still. He offered her a lopsided smile, his eyes drowning her in memories she shouldn’t cling to. It felt as if she was committing a great sin, as if this small act of gentle conversation was one of cheating on her spouse…the one who had taken her kingdom from her without a warning, without any sign of betraying her. But she felt guilty nonetheless, taking a step back for her own sanity and morality.

“I need to go home and I believe you know why.” Brooks has never been a man of many words, his response being a simple nod.

“And I need my army with me when we get there. Can you arrange that?” She cocked her head to the side when he nodded once more before speaking into his earpiece and she heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter.

“Your majesty, the king is asking for you.” Mareen whispered, holding a hand over the phone as she tried to push it into Y/N’s hand. She takes it, looking at it, pondering, but not for long. In a fit, she curled her hand around it and pulled her arm back before sending the phone flying into the ocean.

“Whatever it is, I do not care. I’ll see him in less than an hour.”

**

However, when Y/N arrived to her beloved kingdom, she found herself in quite a shock. Not only did the people come out to greet her, free as they seem, the army was there as well, not one of the soldiers fighting for their kingdom. What’s worse, neither were Astrovian soldiers.

Dracovia seemed too peaceful considering there was a change in power. Their king had been killed, yet they disregarded it as dirt under their fingernails. But the oddest part was that they regarded her as their Queen, as if nothing had changed at all.

“Have they all assumed he came for the throne in my name?” Y/N wondered out loud as she passed the crowds from above, heading to the castle. If Grayson came under false pretense to claim the throne for her - the rightful heir, it wouldn’t be so shocking to see the people have caved so quickly.

“That’s because he did. King Grayson didn’t claim the throne in his name, but your name, Majesty.” Brooks spoke up and Y/N nearly choked on her own saliva. How could she believe that after the way he treated her like a criminal and had her locked up in a room he clearly prepared months before…ever since he knew of her plan to dethrone him and take Astros for herself. He knew all along and she gave him so many chances to admit to it but he only ever gave her one. Had he told her what he knew, too many of their disputes would have never happened and she would have…she would have told him the full truth. They could have been happy.

How could she trust him now when he had fooled her so many times before?

“I miss when you called me honey.” Y/N whispered solemnly, pushing the thought out of her mind. She would see her husband any minute now, there was no need to dwell on what if’s. After all, no one calls you honey when you’re sitting on a throne.

The first one to meet her at the landing tower was the sworn sword who had betrayed her. The man she thought would die if she ordered so, but he was quick to bow to a man he didn’t even know.

“My princess, I beg your forgiveness.” He kneeled, his sword placed in his hands as he offered her to do what she wished with him – spare him or kill him with his own sword.

“I am not your little princess!” She spat, disgusted with the man who swore an oath to be loyal only to her. “I am a queen and it will do you well to remember that Sir Mance for I can have your head for treason.” She threatened but she didn’t touch the sword offered to her. Instead, she left the old knight on his knees without a pardon either.

Once at the castle, Y/N headed toward the throne room. If she would find Grayson anywhere, it would be there, surrounded by the council and ready to be crowned.

“THE QUEEN!” A chorus of shouting had begun as she entered, everyone dropping to their knees moments after. Everyone, but Grayson.

“You’ve arrived just in time. You’re to be crowned queen in the wake of your father’s death.” Grayson explained, watching her for a reaction. There is a rawness about her that many don’t see nor understand. She is chaos in the wind and fire across the sky and not everyone appreciates the beauty of a storm for most cower in fear and hide. He knew she wasn’t happy about any of it, especially with the way he handled things, but he had to act fast and there were far too many things he couldn’t tell her.

She swallowed her pride and feigned her marriage is as perfect as everyone believes. She couldn’t tell the kingdom how her husband had went behind her back and now she was to be a mother to a man who would never trust her and she didn’t think she could trust him either. Not ever after the stunt he pulled.

Crowned in glory, the pair took their seats at the throne before the room cleared out and gave them much needed peace as a celebration began outside.

“Why?” It’s all he asked as she pulled her crown off as it felt too heavy for the first time in her life. She had always carried the crown with grace and class, but she couldn’t bear the heaviness of the crown her mother once bore. The same woman who told her never to love anyone, to have only suspicion and hate in her heart. The woman who had died before Y/N could understand her words fully.

“Your father was sending men to attack his own people. Besides, it was never his throne to sit on. You don’t have to believe me, but the things he had done to your mother…I believe he killed her. I think he’d kill our child as well if he had a chance.” Grayson glanced at her, eyeing the stony expression on her face as she stared into a wall passively. Grayson expected her to shout, to scream, to set the whole castle alight, anything but the silence she gave him.

“This marriage wasn’t of convenience for me,” Grayson spoke silently, placing his hand over hers gingerly in fear of scaring her…or worse, in fear of being pushed away. He meant to tell her no convenience would force him to marry but the love he had already felt for her for a long time.

“Yeah, if anything it was of inconvenience.” She responded coldly, no longer prepared to wage a war. A part of her understood for that part of her remembered the horrors of her childhood. That part of her knew that her upbringing wasn’t exactly normal either. She was aware her father had been a monster, but he was all she had. He never put a hand on her, despite all his shortcomings.

Unable to bear a conversation with Grayson right now, Y/N stood and walked away. She rushed through the halls that held so many haunting memories, going to her bedroom, the one place she could hide from the world. But Grayson couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not right now. Not when he knew that sooner rather than later, he’d have to leave her in Dracovia.

“What are you thinking?” He asked, watching her with a pensive look on his face. It took all his effort to stand, to face her now. He longed for her, but most of all, he wanted her to show him emotion. Any emotion.

“What I’m thinking is that the only man I ever trusted, my husband has deceived me!” And emotion is what he got. He wanted anger, but he got pain – so much pain and distrust and he knew then the only way he could reconcile is to use their physical bond instead of the vastly damaged emotional one.

Sitting on the bed, Grayson pulled his armor off.

"Come here," he said quietly, each word difficult.

She did so immediately. "Yes, my king."

He frowned slightly and held his arm out for her but she did not seem to see it. He looked up to see his love standing at the foot of the bed, unmoving. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I am waiting for your command, my king." She kept her words plain, her head still held high despite her attitude.

"My command?" he frowned, for all the movement added onto the headache he’s had from the moment he left her in bed earlier. "Then undress yourself for bed." He was puzzled by her words. Why didn't she rage at him? He could have handled her anger. He could have handled anything but this plastic Barbie act.

"Yes, my king," Y/N answered. Her voice was a monotone.

When he was undressed, Grayson went slowly to the bed. Y/N was already there, the covers to her neck, her eyes staring up at the canopy. He climbed under the covers and moved closer to her. Her skin against his was soothing. He ran his hand down her arm but she did not react like she used to. He leaned over, began to kiss her but her eyes did not close and her lips were unresponsive. She refused to give into him and his desire, but most of all, she would not be trapped into forgiving him for a little pleasure.

"What’s wrong with you?" Grayson demanded an answer, worried she had gotten hurt somehow or that she was distressed.

"Wrong with me, my king?" she said evenly, looking steadily into his eyes. "I don't know what you mean. I am yours to command for I am just a woman and you the great king that clearly knows best. Tell me your wish and I will obey. Do you wish to mate with me? Then I will obey." She moved her thigh against his and it took Grayson a few minutes to realize that she had spread her legs for him.

He stared at her, aghast. He knew crudity was not natural to her. "Y/N," he began, "I wanted to explain it all—"

"Explain, my king? What must you explain to me? Do you explain your actions to the servants? I am yours no less than they are. If that weren’t true, you wouldn’t have lied to me every time I asked if there was something you wanted to tell me – anything and I would have told you everything. If that wasn’t the case, you’d have told me before invading my country and killing my father, the last of my family. Had it been untrue, you would tell me what else you’re hiding from me because I refuse to believe you got the throne for me just for the sake of it. You knew it would push me away from you for I regard my throne as my soul, my people as my heart. You don’t want a wife or a queen, you want a brainless doll that goes along with all you want. Just tell me how I may obey you and I will."

Grayson began to move away from her. He did not like the way Y/N looked at him. At least, when she hated him, there had been life in her eyes. Now there was none. He left the bed. Before he knew what he did, he pulled on the classy doublet he was given to wear for the coronation and his boots, his other clothes thrown over his arm, and left the cold chamber.

Neither of them would sleep that night, chambers set apart by a wall thin enough for him to hear her heartbreaking sobs, but too thick for him to hold her through it. How could he ever change what he did, especially when he did it for her? He didn’t regret it still, because no matter what, he knew her better than she thought. He knew this would be the only way to make sure the plan works.

Come next morning, he was in her chambers before she called anyone to wait on her. She sat at her bay window, one alike the improvised one Grayson had built for her back in Astros. It was the kindest thing he had done for her in the early days of their marriage. He bought her the most beautiful jewels, fed her incredible food, but that couch he had set for her was her favorite thing about that room.

“What can I do to fix this and bridge the distance between us?” Grayson asked, playing the part he had to in order for her to believe him that he was repentant. He needed their separation to be her idea for only then would she be too proud, too stubborn to follow him home.

Turning to face him, she hugged her robe closer to her body, hiding herself from him as if he could see through the cotton.

“I need you to leave. I need you to leave and not come back.” She spoke with tears glistening in her eyes - from hurt, from anger? Grayson couldn’t tell.

“What about us? Our marriage? Our baby?” Grayson questioned, knowing he’s gotten exactly what he wanted but he hoped it wouldn’t be so hard to do for him and so easy for her. He hoped she’d still fight for him to stay, to know why he’s done it behind all the excuses he’s provided. His plan worked a little too well and he felt the cracks in his heart deepen.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, turning her back on him to hide the pained expression that his words instilled on her face. “Even after all this, you still choose to lie to me. You still hold secrets and I’m done with those. For whatever reason, you’ve decided to ruin us, so I’ll give you what you want. Go.”

She wanted him to say something – anything. She wanted him to fight for her, to say he couldn’t imagine life without her and to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness which she’d give…even after everything, she’d give him the forgiveness and love he seeks.

But there was no grand apology made nor was there any apology made at all. He had nodded to himself, trying to stop himself from breaking apart.

“One more thing. Andrea didn’t die by our hand. Your father organized the peace treaty without ever telling us. He had her killed in order to weaponize you. He’s got it written in his diaries which are left in the safe behind his bed.” Grayson informed her before he remembered what she asked of him. She asked him to leave.

And he did. With a heavy heart he’s left behind in her hands, Grayson walked away from the woman of his dreams, the one love he never thought he’d have to sacrifice.

He collected Ethan and his soldiers, ready to return to Astros to a bed much colder, a kingdom much emptier without her. What’s a crown when your heart suffers?

“He’s still there. In case you want to see him one last time.” Lady Mareen told her, peering out the balcony onto the courtyard where Grayson stood, looking back with a desire to see his dragon bride as if she was the cure for all that ails him.

She had no idea why she allowed him to do it to her over and over again. Each time was a new start, a fresh him, a chance to leave the disappointments behind. Her heart sank and her anger flared.

'Never again', she vowed under her breath. But how many times had she said that before? Too many times. Did she mean it this time? She hoped so. It was time to move on. Before summoning her dressers she recast her face into one of superiority, erasing the crestfallen face that belonged to a girl her age but not to a queen.

“We have other business to attend to. I need to see what daddy most vile did in his reign.”

So as Grayson hoped to catch her image one last time, Y/N had numbed herself into indifference.

In his eyes swam ghosts of regrets and self-loathing, for he could have done a lot of things much better, made his life much easier. But he had already messed everything up and it is easier to have her see him as the bad guy. She’d let him go easier.

“She’s never going to forgive you for this.” Ethan leaned on the car next to his brother, telling him what he already knows.

“It’s the only way I know she’ll be safe. Until we find who is working against us in our own midst, the fucking spy.” Grayson paused, gritting his teeth to calm his anger, the real reason why he had to do what he did.

“If she stayed with me, they would have killed her, especially if they knew she was pregnant with my heir. This way, I know she’s safe. I am just one man, I can’t save her. Without her tyrannical father, she has a whole kingdom to protect her.” Grayson smiled softly to himself, reminded why he had done this in the first place.

While his enemies work to kill him, he had made a safe haven for his wife. He couldn’t trust her father to protect her, not when he had her throne because he had killed her mother. Grayson didn’t believe his wife or his kid would survive him if he sent her home to hide her from this conspiracy. He also didn’t believe she’d leave if he told her what is at stake. She’s far too stubborn for her own good.

Grayson had set fire to his entire world, not allowing a single flame to touch her.

“Maybe so, but you know I’d have died to save her too.” Ethan quipped, trying to forgive his brother for pulling him into this mess in the first place.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~           ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  

Tags: @graysavant​​​ @yaren-ates​​​ @beinscorpio​​​ @dolandolll​​​ @godlydolans​​​ @dolanstwintuesday​​​ @accalialionheart​​​ @peacedolantwins​​​ @heyits-claire​​​ @graydolan12​​​ @gia-kerks​​​ @justordinaryjen​​​  @dopedoodes​​​ @sunshinedolantwins​​​ @pitreshawn @melodiesforari​

[mysticmelove]

Could i request the rfa reacting to an mc who's the heiress to a huge luxury car company? (Bonus if they put out a new model of car thats named for their love interest. Like a cat based name for jumin, or a rpg based name for yoosung, for ideas) Thank you!

*I feel like I really fell short on some of these, please be patient with me x

Heiress

(RFA x MC)

.

Yoosung:

- He didn’t really know what she did for a job but he knew well enough that, whatever it was, she was earning enough money to keep herself comfortable. He often thought that MC resembled a much friendlier and down to earth Jumin when it came to her money; she had lots of it but rarely mentioned it to anyone.

- Every time he thought to ask about what it was exactly that she did he’d get distracted or too intimidated to ask; she could look quite daunting in her uniform. Though it wasn’t a uniform as such, more formal dresses and high heels. He never mentioned it but she very much looked like Jaehee at work in his opinion.

- Yoosung’s eyes were wide in an instant as MC entered the kitchen, he tried his best to hide where his eyes were immediately drawn to. She was wearing a dress he’d never seen, it was low cut- to say the least- and looked like something she’d wear to one of the RFA parties but the file in her hand suggested otherwise.

- “That’s a new dress,” he mumbled lowly as he sipped at his coffee, trying his best to ignore the warmth growing in his face.

- “Do you like it?” MC humoured slightly, placing down the paperwork on the table before him. The bags under his eyes did nothing to hide the growing shades of pink and red on his cheeks. “I have important meetings today. I thought I should be looking my best,” she explained as she began to make her own morning coffee.

- Swallowing thickly, Yoosung averted his eyes and mumbled once more: “You look beautiful... as always.” His gaze ended up falling to the paper she had placed down: documents of a proposal titled ‘The League One model’.

- He skimmed through the first few lines, too interested in the contents to pay attention to his girlfriend who was watching him silently. MC crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled at Yoosung’s furrowing brows- his forehead scrunched more and more as he continued to read the file.

- His jaw finally dropped and she had to laugh at his facial expression. Yoosung looked to her, silent as he looked almost horrified.

- MC giggled quietly at his expression, having guessed what he probably saw. “What did you read?”

- He fumbled over his words: “A starting price of 33,000 dollars?! What are you selling?”

- “Cars.” She replied bluntly, taking the papers from the table and scanning over them herself. “I know we don’t talk about my job much but surely you knew the basics.” Yoosung shook his head pitifully under her scrutinising gaze, only causing MC to sigh. “My father is CEO...?” She teased, trying to prompt his memory, “I’m in charge of overseeing new launches...?”

- He stayed quiet, his face only seeming to redden once again. “I guess I didn’t think about it too much...”

- “Well, that’s what I do when I go to work everyday day. Sometimes they let me choose the model names, like this time.”

- “League One?” Yoosung thought back to the paperwork, questioning the name she had given it.

- She hummed in response, still watching the confusion in his face. “I was thinking of you when I decided the name.”

- “Why?” His eyebrows scrunched as he picked up his coffee mug again.

- “Because you’re always playing LOLOL.” His face dropped at the comment, expecting much more from her explanation. She smiled at his pouting lips, “And you’re better at it than anyone else. My number one.”

- Yoosung’s displeasure disappeared within an instant, instead replaced with his bright smile and rosy cheeks. It seemed like a long ploy to get him flustered but he appreciated it either way.

.

Zen:

- Zen didn’t know who is girlfriend was in the beginning, nor did he know what she did for a living, but you can be assured it only filled his ego when he found out who she was.

- MC had attended the opening night of his first musical since they had started dating and, of course, photos started circling of the two together. The photos looked amazing in Zen’s opinion: he was on top form and no one looked more gorgeous than MC. Still, it was the articles that followed which really grabbed his attention.

- Thankfully, Zen had been given the chance to relax for a few hours the morning after the show. He wasn’t needed in any immediate rehearsal and there were no matinees so he took relaxing in bed very much in his stride.

- He was scrolling through his feed silently, being cautious as to not wake MC up with some random video, when he saw the first article.

- ‘Musical Actor Zen dating heiress to a multimillion dollar company.’

- Zen’s face contorted at once, his eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the screen in disbelief. It was definitely an article about him- that was his name and those were definitely pictures of himself and MC- but it must have been false information. The story itself was mainly limited to its title; there were few facts and was mainly based on his opening night, with little information about this so-called ‘heiress’. Yet, as he kept scrolling, there were only more and more articles- this time with more details of this company and photos of MC he’d never seen before.

- ‘Heiress MC spotted at musical opening’

- ‘Multimillion company, small scale investments?’

- ‘Heiress MC partaking in unprofessional relations?’

- His mouth was completely agape and he could only question if his tired eyes were allowing him to see things. He forced himself to stop reading for a moment, his gaze drifting to the woman beside him that he apparently knew so little about.

- Trying his best to ignore what he’d read, he changed sites, only to be greeted with another in-your-face story about his girlfriend. His phone was face down in an instant and, with a sigh, he shook her gently.

- “Jagi...” MC stirred at the sound of his voice but her eyes remained firmly shut. “Jagiya...” Zen continued to whine, causing her to giggle slightly at the sound of his innocence.

- Reluctantly, MC opened her eyes, being greeted by the bright red rubies of his irises, though he didn’t look too pleased. Her voice was hoarse as she spoke quietly: “Good morning...”

- “Is it true?” Zen questioned her before she had even gotten the chance to really wake up. Her eyebrows knitted at his words, her brain not able to process what he meant. He continued, despite her obvious confusion, “Heiress of a multimillion dollar company?”

- “Oh,” MC groaned, tempted by the thought of falling back to sleep. “I should have known this was going to happen...”

- “So it’s true?!”

- “I was going to tell you,” she mumbled with a soft smile, sitting up to be level with him. “I don’t know how much you’ve read but—”

- “A lot.” Zen interjected, his eyes still wide.

- She could only laugh at his sudden outburst, “Ok then.” She placed a gentle hand on top of his, trying to reassure his shock and confusion. “My father owns the company and I work for him full time, though I’ve been taking a break. What with the party, and finding you,” she teased him with a smile, “I took a step back for a couple months.”

- “But you weren’t going to tell me?” He kept his straight look until he, himself, was also smiling. “So my girlfriend is the most attractive woman and a phenomenal businesswoman?”

- “Maybe,” she smirked, leaning in closer to him.

- He kissed her supple lips, a smirk dressing his own lips. He pulled away with a dark gaze, though a small laugh was still present. “And can I ask how much you make?”

- “A lot.”

.

Jaehee:

- “I know you gave up office work, but do you want to be my new assistant?” MC tried to laugh off her comment but in reality her words were nothing but honest. She sighed heavily as she combed a hand through her hair, tapping her pen on the table simultaneously.

- Jaehee was nothing but supportive when it came to MC’s work. She knew how hard it was to sit in an office all day and then have to bring home even more work, yet not even MC could convince her to go back to it. She loved her immensely but she wasn’t willing to read another report of any quarter.

- “No, but I can offer you more than an assistant can,” her voice graced MC’s ears and she hummed in response. Her eyes moved from the paperwork to the mug of coffee Jaehee had placed down carefully, her eyes softening at the sight. “I’m allowed to give the emotional support, and I know assistants are useless at that.”

- She sat down next to her at the table, placing a reassuring hand on her back. She couldn’t help but glance at the paperwork having had it cause MC so much stress, though that wasn’t too unusual. Many nights the two of them had sat at the table together while her girlfriend strained herself over some words on a piece of paper.

- MC leaned into her touch, gazing to her lovingly. “How did you put up with it?”

- “With what?”

- “People like me,” she sighed as she sat back up, placing her pen flat on the table.

- “You mean Jumin?”

- “Not him in particular... Just people telling you what to do constantly. Sometimes I wonder if I should just give this up, let my father handle everything.”

- Jaehee moved to hold her chin, guiding MC’s face to her own. “MC, are you good at what you do?” She didn’t get a response initially, but her hardening glared prompted an uneasy nod. “And do you, for the most part, enjoy your job?”

- “Yes...”

- “Then I don’t ever want you to stop doing something you enjoy.” Jaehee cupped her cheek with care, smiling brightly at the tired features before her. “You are so incredibly talented, don’t let some stress tell you otherwise.”

- MC smiled to herself, her eyes downcast before she managed to look up to Jaehee, “Thank you.”

.

Jumin:

- Of course Jumin knew who she was before she had even been introduced to the RFA. They had no business together whatsoever but it was important to be knowledgeable about those around him- not mentioning he would openly admit she was very attractive. That being said, he looked forward to meeting her in person when the time came.

- The party was relatively relaxed that time around- mainly due to the fact it had been so rushed- but that’s not to say he didn’t enjoy it. It was quieter and more refined than the previous parties, and he had had the pleasure of finally meeting MC.

- She caught his eye immediately from the other side of the room as he entered the main hall. The photos he had seen did not do her justice in the slightest, he could tell that from the distance between them without a doubt in his mind.

- Jumin greeted her with nothing but confidence, extending a hand and shaking it assertively. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, MC.”

- Her face was ever so slightly flushed, the glass in her hand evident that she had already had a bit to drink. “Jumin. I feel like we should have met long before this.” She gave him a genuine smile, “I really admire your work.”

- “Our lines of work aren’t too far from each other,” he chuckled lowly, revealing his first smile of the night, “I would argue your work is more admirable.”

- “What? That’s ridiculous,” MC paused to sip at her wine, furrowing her eyebrows to Jumin’s amusement, “I’m limited to one brand of car; your company is huge.” Her hands exaggerated her words, mimicking how big she beloved it to be.

- Had he have known he would have found talking to MC such an enjoyable pass time he would have done it much sooner. She was nothing but relaxed around him and they could talk on subjects that the others weren’t too informed on; he didn’t feel that usual unease to make a good first impression.

- Most of the evening had flown by before Jumin had even realised he’d allowed himself to be so caught up in conversation the heiress. Anyone who had wanted to talk to him must have been disappointed because they wouldn’t have stood a chance against MC.

- Between low laughs and catching glances of her bright smile, he glanced at his watch. “You’ve kept me very distracted, MC,” he smirked at her as his gaze shifted to her eyes.

- “Forgive me, that wasn’t my intention,” she giggled, nursing her fresh glass of alcohol. Maybe she was drunk enough to be openly flirting with him now, she wasn’t too sure.

- He cocked an eyebrow at her expression, she knew exactly how to entice him. “I wouldn’t mind if it was.” She didn’t respond, instead drinking her wine as her face flushed. He swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from her reddened cheeks. “Perhaps we could arrange to meet again? I’d love to talk business with you... or otherwise.”

- MC’s eyes widened and she smiled nervously. “I’d like that.”

- Needless to say, there were lots of talks between their companies in future. MC even went so far as to have a limited model of car released named after Elizabeth- in white of course- for Jumin after they’d gotten married.

.

Seven

- Most of Seven’s babies came from MC’s company, so you can imagine his excitement when he started his background research. It took him less than a minute to pull up her name and then the subsequent details about her position at work.

- He was calling her almost immediately, completely interrupting the messenger and essentially stealing MC for himself.

- The phone call was unexpected but she didn’t hesitate to answer it. “Hello?”

- “MC?” Seven’s voice was full of excitement, the sound audible like a child trying to hold in their joy.

- “Speaking.”

- “Oh. My. God!” His voice boomed through the phone, causing MC to wince slightly on the other end. “Can I just say, your company’s cars are one of the most amazing things in the world.”

- Awestruck, she didn’t really know how to respond to a statement like that. It wasn’t often that she would receive random phone calls, but never were they something so sudden and confusing as this. She hesitated slightly: “Thank you... I’m sorry but... who is this?”

- “Oh,” Seven caught himself from the thoughts that were so quickly escaping him and leaving his mouth, he in fact hadn’t even introduced himself. “I’m Seven. 707. I was in the messenger.”

- “The hacker?”

- “Yes!” He seemed far too hyper for what she imagined to be a somewhat mundane job.

- “Well, I’m glad you like the cars... How many do you own?”

- “Four,” his words were blunt, not telling of how much he’d really spent on them, “I have another one I want to order but my maid is telling me not to.”

- “Right...” MC fell quite, unsure of how to approach this man and his extremely sporadic thought process.

- Just as Seven was about to reply, his eyes caught the monitor and his grin was quick to fade. His voice calmed and he had this almost unnerving sense of peace as he said her name.

- “Seven?”

- “Promis me you’ll make a nice one one day. One that I can take someone special far away from here, okay?”

- “...Okay.”

[lailannajacobs]

A Gentleman’s Agreement and a Devil’s Bargain (Handmade Thieves pt. II)

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Summary:  Reader unwittingly finds her way onto Asgard and has to deal with all the attention that follows being a mortal in the extravagant realm. To his surprise, Loki finds himself having just as much trouble if not more than reader in dealing with it. 

Warnings: None! 

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Hi guys!! So I reworked parts of this chapter about a hundred times but I think I finally got it right! Despite that, I honestly had a blast writing this chapter and I hope you guys like it! Let me know what you think, I always love to hear it! <3 

At least they had given you a bed. The sight of it had confirmed your suspicions that you’d be here longer than any ambassador should be, but you had no way of knowing how long you would be a prisoner and how long you had already been one for. They had taken your watch and three daggers before shoving you into the clean, beige cell, barren of any furniture except for the bed, toilet and sink in the far corner. Not only would you be physically trapped in this cell but, without anything else to do, you were trapped with your thoughts, going over and over every decision that had led you to this prison.

There wasn’t much for distraction. Three out of the four walls were solid, the same beige as everything else in the damn cell, but the fourth - the one that faced the hall and the other cells - was some unearthly material that functioned like bulletproof glass yet acted like mesh. You would have admired the technology if it hadn’t let the putrid smell of the rest of the dungeon seep through into your own cell. You had gagged when they had first brought you in and the wall had shimmered shut. But without anything in the opposite cell to look at, you had quickly gotten over the novelty of the glass, and the fourth wall was just about as exciting as the three others.

You didn’t know if the smell or the boredom would get to you first. Picking at the grime under your nails, you figured it might possibly be the boredom. Maybe you would die of it before someone actually came to let you out. It almost seemed better than having to endure the smell for however long they would leave you here for.

Without anything better to do, your mind once again drifted to the past events, wondering what you could have done differently to have gotten out of this damn mess. Although you wanted to blame the prince for having caught you and brought you to Odin, you knew, deep down, that you should have been more careful when you bought that spare piece. And even if you hadn’t, you should have been more careful in the market. You should have waited until there were fewer people around - where the shadows could have hidden your presence. You should have been more patient. You should have pushed down the panic. You should have, you should have, you should have…

But no matter which scenario ran through your mind, the only people you blamed were the unreasonable king and his arrogant son. Because in your line of work, you were used to getting caught up in terrible messes; you just weren’t accustomed to the ones with so little hope. And they were the reason there was so little hope.

But despite that little fact, it was too easy to keeping deluding yourself into thinking that you were only in the dungeon long enough for them to prove how much power they held over you and your life. It seemed you kept relying on false hope to hold onto your sanity, and it scared you to think how easy it was to fall into the habit of believing you weren’t really a prisoner here.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall echoed outside of your cell, but you didn’t look up from your nails. You had seen six shift changes and were given four meals of stale bread and water since they had put you in here and you had forced yourself to stop looking up at them as if they could let you out. If they weren’t going to help out, you had to keep some sort of dignity alive.

“You seem to have made yourself comfortable.” That cool, bored voice drawled.

Your gaze slid up to take in the Prince of Mischief, leaning up against the wall of the empty cell across from yours, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t worth more than the side glance you gave him; he had done nothing to stop you from being trapped here. And you refused to admit that all of it was your fault, knowing it was so much easier to be angry at the smug and spoiled prince in front of you than yourself. It might not have been fair to him but he had tossed fair out the window the moment he used his magic to bring you in.

“You’re not very chatty are you?” He mentioned after the long pause when you didn’t say anything.

You narrowed your eyes at him in response, wondering why in the world he would even bother to come down here. Had he come to gloat? Did he have a message for you from the king? A small voice in the back of your mind piped up, wondering if he was here to let you out.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you the least bit curious as to why I’m here?”

“No.”  

He raised a brow. “You must be. I’ve never seen anyone look so terribly bored in my life.”

You glared at him some more for good measure.

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps and when he faced you again, any sort of emotion you might have seen on his face had disappeared. His face was an emotionless mask as the guard walked by, nodded his greeting to the prince and continued on his way. It was only when the guard was out of earshot did the prince look like he was about to say something but shut his mouth. He shifted his weight, recrossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he observed you with that unnerving gaze.

You finally gave him your full attention, unable to take that look anymore, “Whatever you’re going to say, just get on with it. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than anything your father has said to me.”

“He’s not my father.” The prince snarled, his nostrils flaring in a slip of composure.

“No need to raise your hackles wolf,” You leaned back on your palms, enjoying the comforting feel of the bravado that had gotten you out of multiple situations before. “Getting you all ruffled up wasn’t the point. Only an interesting side bonus.”

His lips spread into a vicious grin, canines flashing. Wolf indeed, you thought. “How brave will you be, little Midgardian, if I take you out of your cage? Will your actions reflect your words?”

You shot him a dangerous grin of your own. “Let me out and I’ll show you.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Scared?” You taunted, itching for freedom or at least a fight.

He suddenly appeared before you and the only reason you didn’t flinch back in surprised was because you were already leaning far enough away. He was crouched so that he was at eye level, elbows on his knees and his hands forming a steeple under his chin. Looking into those flashing eyes, you knew that even if he appeared relaxed, he was a predator ready to spring at any moment.

He was nothing short of intimidating when he whispered. “Not in the slightest. But the real question is: are you?”

Despite holding that gaze in defiance, his closeness made it hard to think and you hesitated for a moment, trying to remember what you had asked him and what he was now asking you.

“Not even a little bit.” You finally said, punctuating your statement with a shove to his shoulder to throw him off balance.

The illusion shattered before it hit the ground and you let out a sigh, disappointed that he hadn’t actually taken the bait, yet thankful that you hadn’t actually been trapped in your cell with him. With him at a distance, you could now think clearly again and you took in another steadying breath.

“I’m not afraid of you or your little tricks.” You affirmed, reminding him of that fact almost as much as were yourself.

“You should be.” He murmured so low you almost missed it.

You lied back down, crossing your hands over your chest. “I’ve seen real monsters, wolf, I know when to be afraid.”

The prince didn’t say anything and stayed silent for so long you had to turn to see if he was still there. You began to wonder if you had been talking to an illusion the whole time when he said, “I have the power to let you out Midgardian.”

You kept as still as possible, trying to mask your giddy excitement, “King’s orders?”

“No.” his voice hit a low note, almost as if he was frustrated was trying to hide it. “Mine.”

You groaned, hope shattering with the words. The king’s word was worth something, no matter how much you hated the man. The prince however, you could only trust to betray you if given the chance.

You voiced your worries. “How do I know this isn’t some ploy to get me in trouble with the almighty Odin, simply for your own amusement? I’m sure you’re well aware that my life is on the line here.”

“I haven’t killed you yet Midgardian.” He pointed out in what was probably meant to be a reassuring way.

“That would have been a great point,” You scoffed, “If you hadn’t just added the probability of killing me at some other point in the future.”

He let out that huff in response you figured had to be amusement. However, he hadn't denied that killing you was a possibility, which worried you all the more.

You wove your hands behind your head, still trying for nonchalance. “And what’s in it for you anyways?”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to ask. And it shouldn’t matter… unless you’d rather stay in this cell? I suppose I was mistaken when I thought you were smarter than the average earthling.”

“Prince of Mischief,” you sat up and looked in him the eyes so he would know just how much you enjoyed being insulted. “If there’s anything I’ve heard about you, it’s that you don’t do anything other than for personal gain. You may not think it’s a smart choice to remain in this cell but it sure as hell is smarter than owing you an unknown favour. I don’t make deals with the devil. Now tell me what is it you want?”

This time, when you were met with that emotionless mask and stone cold silence, you knew it would remain that way. It seemed he didn’t appreciate being called the devil anymore than you appreciated being called stupid. But you weren’t about to let hurt feelings get in the way of your survival, even if it broke your heart to watch what might have been your only chance at freedom walk away.

You had heard too many deadly yet brilliant rumours concerning the legendary prince to trust the man everyone was so wary of. It didn’t matter that, if you really thought about, he had done nothing to earn your distrust, because you knew that anyone basing their decisions off of rumours would be right not to trust you either. And if they were right not to trust you, you had to believe you were right not to trust him.

But sitting alone in your cell with nothing to do once again, it became too easy to start doubting your decision. The only way you could know for sure that you had made the wrong decision was if you ended up dying in the cell and by then, there wouldn’t be much you could do about it anyways. The thought in no way comforted you but only succeeded in making your prison feel even smaller.

To ease the pressure from your chest, you told yourself that your situation could have been worse. Your cell was clean, dry and safe and although you were stuck and it reeked, you weren’t in any immediate danger. However, you couldn’t say the same for your ship, but you’d get to her soon. You had to keep believing that.

***

“Do all Midgardians drool that much when they sleep?” The female voice sounded horrified and disgusted, and too close for comfort.

Despite the fact that her voice had woken you, you kept your eyes shut and your breathing even. You hadn’t gotten many visitors since the prince had come by - you guessed somewhere around a week ago - but you had learned that ignoring the gawking guards and random nobles that happened to stroll by was the best way to keep your sanity in check.

“I don’t think it would appreciate you mentioning that fact.” A male voice mentioned.

“Does it really matter?” She sneered. “I heard they only live, like, a day.”

He laughed, “I don’t think Odin would keep it here if they did.”

You reminded yourself not to let your anger get the best of you and to keep your breathing even - not that you believed they were smart enough to notice something as small as your breathing. All they wanted was entertainment. And if you were as boring as a corpse, then they’d walk away. You could only hope they would do it before you snapped and did something stupid that would have them gawking at you for even longer.

If this was all you had to look forward to for the next year, you’d have no choice to find a faster way out. You’d go crazy before then if not and you were starting to think that it might not actually be the boredom that would kill you.

“I’d suggest you find entertainment elsewhere.” A familiar voice drawled, the warning in his voice clear. “The average Midgardian sleeps over twenty hours a day. You’ll find better use of your time elsewhere.”

“Pathetic.” The male voice spat after a beat of silence, almost causing you to break your act if only to roll your eyes. “Why waste our time here?”

The sound of footsteps receding let you know they had left but you didn’t move. It was as if you were acutely aware of the prince’s presence and somehow, you knew he hadn’t left with the others. Even if you doubted he actually believed you slept for twenty hours a day, you hoped he would believe you were asleep anyways and leave.

“You know Midgardian, I think all of Asgard will soon think you can barely get through a day without falling asleep, but I think it was an acceptable price to pay to get rid of those ignorant fools.”

You didn’t move.  

“You’d be surprised by what the clueless will believe. It can truly be amazing sometimes. You know Thor…” He let out a little huff of breath, stopping his sentence short. “Interesting that you’re much easier to talk to when you’re pretending to be asleep.”

When you still didn’t move he let out a loud, annoyed sigh, “You’ll have to try harder  than that to fool someone like me, Midgardian.”

You groaned and pushed yourself up to a seat so that you were facing him, legs hanging off the edge of your bed. Like the last time he was here, he leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest with a bored look on his face. You wanted to get up, bang your fists against the glass and demand he let you out, but you remained seated. You wouldn’t let him see how much you were itching to move - to be free - just yet.

“If I’m not fooling you, then why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me something. When does Odin plan on letting me out?”

He shrugged, “I don’t get told these things. I’m not Thor.”

You pretended to ignore the venom lacing his last words, storing the bit of information away for later use. “Okay then. Why are you here wolf?”

“Why not? Court life isn’t all that entertaining I’ll have you know.” He looked so insouciant it was hard to believe he wasn’t actually here for a social call.

“And you came to me for entertainment.”  You rolled your eyes. “That seems plausible.”

With a stretch, you got up and walked over to the edge of your cell so that you could see him better. How he had known you weren’t asleep, even from that distance, surprised and, you hated to even begrudgingly admit it, impressed you. You decide it had to be because Asgardian vision was better than the human one, and had you been on equal playing ground, you wouldn’t have been fooled either.

Watching, you waited for him to say something. He cocked his head and when you didn’t move or say anything else, he approached to a stand in the middle of the hallway, his stance wide and his hands clasped behind his back.

You could now see the humour lacing those narrowed, cunning eyes. “I don’t think you realize how unique someone like you is on Asgard.”

“Aw, so you came because I’m special?” You put a hand over your chest in mock flattery. “Oh right. But only on this planet though. Seems no one’s ever taught you how to compliment a woman before.”

The corner of his lips twitched upward, in a slight, crooked smirk. “At least you’re special somewhere Midgardian. However, if you must know, I do know, among other things, how to compliment a woman,” he paused for a moment in fake thought, “And you must be looking for entertainment, same as I am. Trapped here all by yourself. You must be getting so…lonely.”

You jutted up your chin, knowing it was the next best thing to actually being able to give him the right hook he deserved. “If you’re asking if I want company, I don’t.”

He chuckled, “I wouldn’t dare suggest that sort of thing.”

“That’s true.” You spat, crossing your arms to hide your clenched fists. “You don’t ask. You just do whatever it is you want, whenever you want.”

The memory of him crouched before you flashed through your mind and you had to wonder if he would try anything of the sort again. It also made you question if you were actually talking to the real prince.

“Don’t be angry little Midgardian because you cannot do the same.” He pointed out, the corner of his mouth lifting sightly higher into that wolfish grin. “It’s simply not fair.”

“It’s not fair that I’m locked in here for not having committed a single crime against your people.” You growled. “And I’m at the mercy of someone I don’t particularly trust so excuse me if I’m a bit rude and snappy.”

His eyes flashed and the smile dropped to a look you couldn’t quite identify, “That is the first smart thing you’ve said since we met.”

“That I’m snappy or that I don’t trust you?”

His eyes darkened and he took a step forward, hands still behind his back despite the deadly move, “That you don’t trust me.”

You cocked your head, intrigued by the look in his eyes, your anger mutating to curiosity. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, I don’t trust anyone in this realm.”

His jaw twitched and the darkness in his eyes receded at the slight movement, “Another smart comment. You might just make it out of this alive Midgardian.”

You hated the sound of that. ‘Might’ had to be a ‘would’. You couldn’t settle for anything else if you wanted to see your ship again and the freedom it gave you. The thought of your ship reminded you that you had already been here almost two weeks and the closest you had ever gotten at a chance for freedom had walked away from you before.

“Is the only way I get out of this if you free me?” You finally raised the question that had been running through your mind since you had turned him down.

“All business now, I see. And the answer to your question is yes.”

You didn’t know if he was telling you the truth or not but you had no choice to believe him, because if you didn’t, you doubted another opportunity would take its place.

“You wanted to know what was in it for me?” He continued.

Surprised, you nodded, not trusting to yourself to say anything that might make him change his mind.

“I don’t know yet what I would like from our little deal. All I know is that I will later, sometime during your year here.”

You let out a sigh, shaking your head. “I told you I don’t make those kinds of deals.”

“Think of it as a gentleman’s agreement.” He suggest with a light flourish of his hands.

“I don’t quite know if that works seeing as you don’t seem like a gentleman and I’m no lady.” You pointed out. “And even so, changing the name doesn’t make it any better.”

“Midgardian.” The entirety of that intense gaze was now focused on you, making you shiver. “For whatever reason I cannot fathom, you’re still alive. That isn’t normal for someone of your kind. You seem to have a knack for survival and that’s something I’m very much interested in.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “So eventually you’re going to do something incredibly stupid and for some reason you actually think I can do something about it?”

He shrugged. “Call it instinct.”

“And that’s it?” You asked, sure you were missing the fine print. “There’s nothing else you’d want from me? My most cherished memory? My first born? Nothing?”

He raised an extremely unimpressed eyebrow, “I’m not Rumplestitlskin. There’s nothing else I’d require from you.”

“I’m surprised you know that story.” You said, that sly grin forming on his lips as the words came out of your mouth.

“Who says it was only a story?” He hinted and quickly changed the subject before you could even think to process what that comment meant, “Do you agree to the terms of our deal? I set you free and you help me stay alive when I need it most, within the year, of course.”

You didn’t answer right away, taking the time to seriously consider what it could mean for you. If he was serious and that was truly all he wanted, then that would also mean he would be looking out for you to make sure you didn’t die before he needed you. It might make it harder to sneak away to get the piece you needed before he could even call in his favour but at least you would have the opportunity to do so, which you wouldn’t have locked in this place.

You brought your gaze back to his and stared into those piercing green depths, hoping to see the truth in them, “And if I can’t do anything about your situation and you die?”

“Then I’m dead and you have nothing to worry about.” He replied as if his life weren’t the exact thing he was bargaining for.

“I kind of like the sound of that.” He narrowed his eyes and you laughed. “My, my wolf, so touchy. But here’s the thing. As much as I want to be let out, I’m having trouble believing that you’d let me out on the off chance you might have a close encounter with death within the year.”

He sighed, “I know it seems ridiculous to make a Midgardian such as yourself and ally, but I’ve made my choice and I’m running out of patience. Do we have a deal?”

You sucked in a breath, telling yourself you’d regret turning him down more than you’d regret agreeing. It was the only way you managed to say, “Fine. Deal.”

“Deal.” His lips spread into a wide, cunning grin that left you cold, before his image shimmered away.

It was too late to back out now. And if the prince was right about you, there was a way to get out alive and hopefully, unscathed. All you had to do now, was figure it out.

[hotheadhero]

Jouska: A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head.

@thefetchingfletcher asked this also!

It’s been a long time since I reblogged the source ask (misread it from the very beginning too) and I’ve been thinking about Azure Moon recently, so I’m going to be lazy(?) and answer this as if I’m writing a drabble for just Caspar. Spoilers for Azure Moon Chapter 14, major (albeit offscreen) character death, and sheer length. Hints of monachopsis, rubatosis, nodus tollens, and lachesism scattered throughout (arguably also mauerbauertraurigkeit, albeit indirectly). There are also hints of suicide here and there if you know where to look (disclaimer: I have encountered very little of it myself and am making it up as I go).

Whatif I had stopped him?

Whatif I had intervened then and there?

Theywere weeks out from the event, yet Caspar couldn’t stop replaying his uncleRandolph’s final moments in his head. How he’d begged for mercy, tried in vainto appeal to Dimitri’s sense of reason and his heart. How Dimitri merely shuthim down, dug the nail in deeper, until Randolph’s very voice bled with tormentand he cried out for the mad king to stop. No doubt his uncle had imagined all of the men he’d fought with, dyingbefore his eyes even as he lay helpless to stop them. Imagined Fleche there onthe guillotine with them, eyes wide and panicked and accusing in their finalmoments. Why didn’t you save me, brother? those cyan eyes demanded. Whydidn’t you try harder to save your people?

Perhapshe was merely imagining those things, for Fleche was not here now; and byvirtue of not being here, she could not be dead. Perhaps he was merelyprojecting his own thoughts onto another, in some… futile attempt to come togrips of exactly what it was that he was enabling.

Itwas no secret to any of them that Caspar hailed from the Empire. He was the only one of them hereif one excluded the runaways who’d fled Emperor Edelgard’s iron grip on the southern Adrestian lands. Everyday he expected one of the Lions of Faerghus to come for his head, to lop it off as theyhad Fleche’s in his vivid nightmares, laughing scornfully, maniacally, justas Dimitri had done before Byleth intervened and killed Randolph with one blow. Byleth was no better, either—the Ashen Demon come back to life, murdering Caspar’s blood relative as coldly and emotionlessly as Caspar might take out the trash. Itdidn’t matter what they’d said to Dimitri after that. How they missed theDimitri they once knew. It was all a ploy. A feigned attempt at emotionality, at humanity.At least Dimitri had been obvious about how he’d felt, and confirmed outright thesuspicions Caspar had had of him since coming back to the monastery and theLions last year.

Andyet… Had anything Dimitri said truly been wrong?

Justbecause the one who’d delivered the message was clearly unsettled did not meanCaspar could dismiss it out of hand. The mad king had a point. Even if this waswar, with every life they took, all of their hands turned redder and redder,the poll of blood widening at their fingertips, soaking into their skin, so that noteven the most vigorous of scrubbings could clear the taint away. And Caspar hadbeen so eager to prove his worth on the battlefield, so ready to kill anybodywho stood in his way, allegiance be damned. Was it truly justice if he had tokill and murder friend and foe in order to achieve it? He’d deserted his house to be here; hisfamily, his country, the princess. He’d slain countless citizens of theEmpire as Dimitri’s and Byleth’s willing pawn, even enjoyed it—did that makehim any better than his friends in Faerghus, who at least had the ties of (separate) country binding them? What must they think of a deserter who readily killed those hailing from a country he once called home?

Werethey too waiting for him to snap? To take his revenge upon Dimitri, as nephew tothe slain?

Hecouldn’t deny the hatred he felt burning in his bones, threatening to overwhelm him in afever pitch if he just closed his eyes and gave in. And yet Caspar couldnot so easily shake his memories of the Faerghus prince from five years ago,the first of his house to extend a welcoming hand to the new transfer, one with whom he’d laughedand cried and joked and sparred countless times in the past. The memories feltso far away now; but they were as much a part of him as his very name. Could hereally leave all that behind, even for the sake of justifiable revenge? It washis duty as a Bergliez to avenge the death of his uncle; yet impossible hope against hopestayed his hand. He had to believe the Dimitri of old would come back one day,or else everything he had fought for up to this point would be for naught. Hewould be nothing but a traitor, a fool who mindlessly killed for his homeland’s enemy, a monster smiling but not the less grotesque, carrying out the dyingwishes of a mad king, a walking corpse.

Hecouldn’t bear the idea of facing Linhardt now, even as he wished his old friend could be here right now to comfort him and tell him that he was doing something right.

(Yethe knew Warp magic did not work that way; they’d tried plenty hard five years before—)

Therewas so much he wanted to ask Dimitri. What happened, what insult had the Empiredealt him so long ago that he would chase after them so single-mindedly now, whatif anything he could do to make it better. But Caspar had no doubt in his mindthat if he were to approach Dimitri now, he would simply order his head cut off,or maybe simply his tongue so that Caspar could neither protest nor questionhis orders. If he persisted, Dimitri would do worse—just as he would have doneRandolph, had Byleth not intervened.

(Worse yet, he did not know that even his death would cheer the prince of Faerghus up. He’d heard in Dimitri’s voice that some part of him was still horrified by all the death he invited and caused, even if the greater part of him thrilled in it and wanted more. In other words, if he confronted Dimitri now, his life too would be in vain, just as his uncle Randolph’s had been before him.)

AndByleth was no better either—willingly letting Dimitri use them “evenshould the flesh fall from their bones” even though their blood ties were nomore tightly-hewn than his. Caspar had almost forgotten just how it was that Bylethhad earned the nickname they’d held before leading the Blue Lions. Now hewould never forget.

Norcould he confide in any of the other Lions who followed Dimitri; not Mercedes or Annette, not even Sylvain or Felix. Caspar had no way of knowing how many of themapproved of Dimitri’s mad tirade, how many of them had their ears peeled foreven the slightest hint that he was cracking under the pressure of being alone. And so Caspar had no choice butto bear it alone, even as it wounded him, bent his back and shoulders and tore athis guts until he was little more than a throbbing mass of pain andconfusion and regret. What must Linhardt think of me now? Caspar thoughtmiserably. He knew before anyone else that I wanted to switch houses. Doeshe still think of me when he hears news from the battlefront? Or does myface morph into Dimitri’s now, laughing maniacally while mowing hundreds of enemy soldiers down?

Goddess,he was even starting to think of the Empire as his enemy now. Were the ties ofblood and old friendships really so tenuous?

Caspardidn’t remember sitting down or dropping his head into his hands; but helifted his head now with a shuddering, despairing laugh. Maybe he shouldgo confront Dimitri, he thought to himself; put an end to this stupid farce once andfor all. It was as clear as day that he did not belong here. A lone Adrestian amongFaerghans, a red wolf lost amid the blue. At least death would be better thanthis uncertainty; and even if Dimitri made his end neither swift nor merciful,there would be no more of this unbearable tension. Just one clean stroke, andhis life would be over, especially if Byleth intervened again to spare him thetorture.

Itwasn’t as if he’d made much use of his life anyways.

Aturncoat hiding amongst the wolves. His pulse quickened in his chest; Casparimagined it was trying to burst clear out from the bones that caged it in. Anaccurate analogy for one such as he, chained by the corpses piled at his feetto a false ideal, far from everything he had once held dear. He didn’t have tosee the bodies to be certain that his older brother and his family lay deadnow, as did his father, the indomitable Minister of Military Affairs. They wouldhave gone after him first; Count Bergliez was too dangerous a target to letwander free. Perhaps some part of him yet wanted him to stay alive for the sakeof the fallen, to procure revenge if at all possible and flee with his life ifhe could not. And yet, when had Caspar ever behaved like a proper heir? Howfitting it would be if he died as he lived, a rebel to the very end, spittingon the face of his lost inheritance as surely as he’d spit upon his country andhis family. For even if he hadn’t killed Uncle Randolph himself, his inactionhad killed him as surely as if he and not Byleth had wielded the blade. Casparwould never forget the look on his face as he died, as surely as he wouldn’tforget the smile on Dimitri’s face as he spoke so callously of gouging Randolph’s eyesout and dragging him down to his level—

Casparhadn’t even realized he’d started laughing again in earnest. Quiet though thesound was, it was inhuman, not even his own. The cackling of a monster. Howcould he ever have thought he’d make it through this war whilst keeping his idealspure, wings white, hands clean?

Perhapshe would go seek Dimitri out after all. Caspar never had been one forinaction; none of the Bergliezes were. No doubt his aunt Fleche would do thesame in his shoes, if she learned of the fate with which Uncle Randolph had met.

Hecouldn’t let her throw her life away like that; for if she lived, she was theonly living relative he had left. He couldn’t lose another relative when somany of them had already fallen. All of the tragedy that had befallen theirfamily was his fault—and it was his responsibility to end it.

The laughter continued, brokenand despairing. If it would silence these coward voices, then by the Goddess,he would act.

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 47)

Book Three: Trial of the Black King

Sabellian begins to doubt Azeroth’s promises, and newcomers prove to be more useful than everyone thought.

---

Sabellian stood on the cliff outside the private cave and stretched his back. It pop-pop-popped.

The sun was high, a disk of unpolished gold hiding beyond the smoke of Blackrock - a false sunset smoke, red and orange. The landscape was the same dark heat-glow; such bright colors did not fall easily on the cracked plates of earth and lava, and looking at it now it felt like the world had been split into a light-touched kingdom above and this deep blackness below, where only the haziest of light suffused.

“Father, forgive me,” Vaxian had said. Over, and over, and over again. His words rang in Sabellian’s mind as he stood there, looking at this once-kingdom, his wings tucked tight to his body and his claws laid flat and splayed along the rock.

It had taken some time to calm the usually stoic dragon, and, in silence, Sabellian had ushered into into one of the caves far from the others’: one of the lonlier ones, a quieter one so far it was almost on the other side of the Mountain.

“What do you remember, boy?” he asked, making his son sit. Vaxian’s eyes were round with fright, red-rimmed with sickness. He shuddered with every other breath.

“I remember everything,” he said. His voice quaked; the words pitched and buzzed like electricity, and he was eerily reminded of the nether. “They took us to the Vale and healed my wing. Then -” He closed his eyes. Shuddered. “Like suffocating.”

He studied Vaxian, watched his son take deep breaths.

“After the Vale… Serinar suggested we come here. I was unconscious for most of it. But I remember feeling like I was being watched. I knew Samia had been taken. I knew the others were worming into me.  I could feel them, Father. I could feel them crawling up my ankles and up into my legs. It grew worse when Seldarria pumped me full of the nether. Samia held me down. Then I could hardly wake up at all. But I could still… feel them…” Vaxian lifted a claw and held his chest. “When the Spiritwalker visited… it took all of my power to tell him to try to save him and the others. To save you. I heard what They were planning. What They whispered to me. I knew They were lies.”

“What did They tell you?”

Vaxian looked at him, and a flicker of electricity coursed through his eyes, a spark like a heartbeat. “They told me how They would rebuild our family… how They would protect us. But I knew better.”

The grimness coiled into his belly was a terrible thing to know: a terrible thing to realize N’Zoth had said the same to him, only what felt like hours ago, whispering promises of protection and deals and trades.

“And now you have woken up.”

“Hard to explain,” he murmured. “I was with the others, and they were speaking - and it felt wrong. Some of the things they were saying…” He creased his eyebrows. “When just a moment ago it was fine.” His gaze grew distant. “Then I knew.”

It was familiar. Sabellian nodded. “Like after we settled on Outland.”

“Yes… Like that…”

“And how do I know this isn’t some ploy?”

Vaxian shook his head. The skin weighed heavy under his eyes.

“I don’t know how I could convince you otherwise, Father. I just know how I feel. I understand this is hard to trust;  I would not trust it, myself.”

It was true: there wasn’t much Vaxian could say or do.

One, I will free.

He’d left Vaxian to calm down, and the boy had fallen asleep. His heavy breathing carried from the cave out to this lonely cliffside.

This must be a trick. The thought curled around his head, spinning around and around, a whirlpool. A ploy to get me pliable and trusting.

But of course it was. N’Zoth had said as much. This was a show of “good faith,” of the Old Gods’ promises coming true.

He looked back at the cave. It was dark, a black sheet of shadow.

It could be possible for Vaxian to be free. If it was N’Zoth’s curse in their veins; N’Zoth could lift it.

And had They? Had They really?

Vaxian could have killed him three times over by now. Sabellian’s back had been turned for a solid hour; the dragon could have bit him in the jugular as he’d ushered him to the cave; he’d been close enough to grab and choke.

None had happened, even though Sabellian had been waiting for them to happen. Even though he’d left such openings, just to see if Vaxian would take them.

But such things were too… simple. N’Zoth was the Corruptor. To have Vaxian try to kill him was too easy, and, if N’Zoth was telling the truth, not what They wanted.

What They wanted was to show how They were telling the truth.

What They wanted was what They couldn’t have: Wrathion and Ebonhorn.

Yet how stupid could he be, to believe this? How stupid could he be to have a dark measure of hope that Vaxian, sleeping peacefully behind him, was free because an evil thing had willed it? How stupid could he be to think N’Zoth would really let the others go, just for two?

How stupid could he be to wonder how N’Zoth could free Vaxian, and Azeroth remained silent?

It was overwhelming.

Azeroth hadn’t come back.

A trick. This is wrong.

He clawed at the ground.

A fool indeed, to think salvation lies in the enemy!

But there Vaxian was, sleeping behind him, proclaiming his purity.

If only they still had the Titan relic! The one which had made Wrathion, took Nasandria’s arm, had had ticked down Sabellian’s remaining sanity. They needed the latter. Otherwise, there was no way to know.

N’Zoth was watching him. Waiting.

Wrathion and Ebyssian in exchange for your family’s freedom.

Deep down, deep in his heart of hearts, the idea was a tantalizing one. One he might have made before without hesitation.

But now -

He flexed his paws and a rush of power swam into his body. The earth beneath his feet gave a shudder, the shudder of an animal when woken.

Sabellian held onto it, eyes closed and, with a rough sigh, let it go.

He felt caught between two chasms, unable to jump to one or another.

But one thing was certain - if he had no other choice, he might have to make this one.

“Baron.”

Sabellian looked down at the ridge. Leokk came bounding up, Rexxar on his back.

“Wrathion woke up. He needs to talk to you.”

The boy. I’d forgotten all about that.

He shuffled his wings and rose to his feet.

“Any reasons why?”

“No,” Rexxar said. “Left was of little words.”

Sabellian nodded. “Lead on.”

He waited for Rexxar to turn away and head down to the Mountain before he glanced back at the cave. He’d told Vaxian to stay put, and he hoped he would.

He knew at once he could tell no one about this. Just as he had told no one about N’Zoth.

Wrathion would want to interrogate him, or send him away, back into the jaws of the enemy. And if there was the slim chance Vaxian was free - Sabellian would not take such a risk to his son’s life. If the others found out he was no longer on their side…

Sabellian took flight and followed Rexxar’s retreating form.

As he descended, he noticed a pair of yellow eyes following him from one of the caves: Ruby.

He ignored it and headed into the Lair.

A host of Blacktalons awaited him, their eyes watching from the shadows. Some he saw clearly; others he had to squint and focus. There must have been a dozen, all guarding the entrance to Blackwing, a grim and deadly retinue.

Sabellian shifted into his human guise and moved through them, unhindered. Only in times like these did he remember Wrathion's far-reaching power: the very one N’Zoth so desperately wanted.

He walked past the mass of guards and into the deeper rooms. In the smaller, circular room - the one where Nefarian had locked away Chromaggus,  the two-headed, chimeric monstrosity - Wrathion and the others were waiting.

The prince paced around the back of the room, face scrunched in thought, one hand holding his chin. Ebonhorn stood frowning, and nearby, Left stood guard and Rexxar wiped down sweat from Leokk’s side.

“This is… ill news indeed,” Ebonhorn said.

“What is it this time?”

Ebonhorn and Wrathion looked toward him. Wathion stopped pacing.

“Where were you?”

“Watching,” Sabellian said dismissively. “What news, then?”

Wathion frowned. “I’m doing fine, thank you for asking.”

Sabellian stared at him.

The prince sighed. “Your brother is right. Very ill news.” His expression grew distant and thoughtful. “Azeroth. It was Azeroth who made me a bit… well. You saw.” He began to pace. “She was a bit frantic. She showed me some visions… told me to look…” He shook his head.

Azeroth? It should have been hope which coursed through him.

Instead, it was a deep and stiff dread.

“What visions? What did she show you?”

“Enough. Though I really don’t understand why she can’t talk to me like she talked to you! It’d make it all the more easier.” He waved his hand as if waving off the train of thought. “The visions. I’m afraid, the, ah, long and short of it, as they say, is that Azeroth has been blocked to us.”

The dread grew heavier. “I see.”

“It seems that the gathering of the cursed has made a sort of blockade. The more we invited, the harder it became for her to push through. Which is… unfortunate…”

Yes , he thought. And opened the way for N’Zoth and the others. N’Zoth Themself had told him as much in his own vision.

How had he not realized such a thing before? N’Zoth had twisted it to the belief Azeroth had abandoned them - but the truth was Azeroth was barred to them in the same way N’Zoth was upon them. At once he thought of the images of vines in a dense jungle, intertwined and tangled in one another to block the path. Azeroth had flashed the image to him multiple times, signaling how she could not reach him or his children - let alone anyone pursued by the corruption - because of the curse of the Old Gods: the vines blocking the way.

It had been one thing, to understand Azeroth’s plan had invited the Old Gods.

It was another thing entirely to know she had done so and also uninvited herself from the situation.

Willingly.

Betrayal.

Without thinking, his hand moved to hold his crane pendant.

“I just don’t understand,” Ebonhorn rumbled. “Did she not know such a thing would happen? She and the Old Gods have been at odds for ages upon ages. She must’ve known this would happen…”

“She told us the cursed will open the way, but they closed it,” Wrathion said, tapping his lips.

“Boy,” Sabellian said with a sigh. “They have opened the way: for the Old Gods.”

The room went cold and silent. All eyes turned to him.

“How do you mean?” Ebonhorn asked. “It’s true we have invited corruption into our midst, but that does not mean the Old Gods have more power here than they have before.”

“The Old Gods feed Themselves on that corruption, brother,” Sabellian said stiffly. “It’s why They seek to corrupt everything and everyone. Why cults are formed. What use is one corrupt mortal? Nothing. That’s why They urge a single soul to preach about Their teachings: so it can spread. So They can grow stronger.” He waved a hand around them, a large sweep. “This Mountain is cursed already, and inviting the others here has set this place to a more darker tone. What I said is true: the way is open not for Azeroth, but for our very enemies.”

N’Zoth’s insinuation came writhing back: Azeroth, unaware what she spoke was the words of her dark captors, unaware her plans were the will of the evils in her heart…

“Are you suggesting this was part of her plan?” Wrathion said, staring at him in disbelief.

“I suggest nothing, only tell you what I know. Of the three of us, I’m the only one who knows how the Old Gods work.”

Wrathion studied him. His face began to fall into a thoughtful, albeit troubled, frown. “I had worried as much when we invited these dragons here,” he said, “ if you remember my alarm about the whole affair.”

Yes, he remembered Wrathion clucking around and wringing his hands. Sabellian crossed his arms, shook his head.

“I hadn’t thought it would be enough for Them to -” He caught himself. To slip through my pendant. For Them to be so present They can talk to me. “For Them to block the way for her. As none of us did.”

Wrathion eyed him. “You're the one she spoke to. Are you certain Azeroth said nothing else?”

“No. Only how the group of dragons here will help save us.” He dropped the pendant, and it flopped back down to his chest.

Titans , he thought. Have we really just been taken for fools? Was this N’Zoth’s plan all along? The dread began to fuel into a deep anger, an ancient, lifelong anger which sparked in his knuckles.

“I knew it was foolish to put my faith in a god who’d already abandoned us,” Sabellian growled. “All of this for nothing. We invite vipers and have nothing to feed them.”

“ You were the one who insisted we go through with this,” Wrathion snapped at him. “ You were the one who actually and wholeheartedly believed her!”

“Because I had nothing else to believe!” Sabellian snarled. “Hope can blind!”

“What do you have to believe in now ?” Wrathion spat back at him. “We have a setback, nothing more! None of us thought this would be easy!”

“She purposefully blocked herself from us. She’s out of the equation! Does that not seem suspect ?”

Wrathion scowled, the fangs of his canines flashing in the dim light. “What? Do you honestly believe she’s in league with the Old Gods? Are you so pessimistic?”

Before he had a chance to reply, the boy continued. “She hasn’t left us entirely, anyway . Why else would she try to talk to me? Or give me help about where to look?

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. The visions.  He’d forgotten the boy had mentioned those. “And what help did she give you?”

“She couldn’t do much,” he said. “I did have to go catatonic before she could reach me, but she was able to show me glimpses. Hints of -”

“Hints?” Sabellian spat. “More games and puzzles? More things to waste our time on which the others plan and plot?”

“She couldn’t do much!” Wrathion repeated, scowling. “You weren’t there! You didn’t feel her!” “Why would she talk to you, then, if not Ebonhorn or me? She might have been able to speak, then! But she chose you! To waste more time!”

“You’re not implying you think Azeroth is trying to lead us to danger,” Ebonhorn said.

“I’m saying we only have three days before we are done here - whether that means death or desertion.” He uncrossed his arms over his chest and almost crossed them again, he was so pent up with energy. “And rather than telling us what to do next, she gives us more warnings and little hints for us to solve, scrambling as darkness closes in around us.”

“She gave you all that power,” Wrathion said. “She wouldn’t have done that if she was being controlled , as you’re suggesting.”

“Then tell me, boy, her little hints. How illuminating they must have been.”

Wrathion ground his teeth.

“Snow. Blue scales. Blood.” He paused. “And to remember… I think it’s something she showed us before.”

Disbelief flooded through him. “That’s all?”

“If I could just go over it a little longer -”

“So now our only hope is something you think she’s already show you? Nevermind Azeroth herself using her massive power to help! But what a pity, now that she can’t be here! ”

“She can’t just pop up from the ground -”

“Yes. Because the cursed closed the way for her. Something she neglected to share.”

Silence inched around them. Finally, Wrathion, his face a little flush, spoke.

“I didn’t speak to an Old God,” he said stiffly.

“No, maybe not,” Sabellian said. “But you can’t deny this is all They would have wanted.”

A flash of anger cracked over the boy’s face. “You’re the one who insisted we do this in the first place!” he said again, and his voice echoed and bounded along the walls. “Or are you choosing to forget how I was the one unsure about inviting an entire host of rogue dragons without plan?” He crossed the room, closed the distance between them, face fixed in an accusatory glare. “And if you’re going to be the pessimist, then I suppose I’ll have to be the optimist! You can do the worrying for the both of us. I know what I felt, and it wasn’t corruption. Go grump up there, go scare the others, go corral them, waste time, and I’ll try to figure this out. Get things done.”

She cannot save you.

Sabellian took a breath.

Shame filled his lungs like polluted air. He was not sure if it had been Wrathion reminding him, or perhaps the derision that it was to be the boy who would “get things done,” but something did stall his anger, and his mind grew calm and bleak.

N’Zoth was getting to him.

“My worries outrun my patience,” Sabellian said. “Forgive my… paranoia.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows. Some of the anger left his face.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Ebonhorn said. “It’s dark news. Frustrating news… we’re on our own, and darkness grows closer.”

“I’ve always been on my own,” Wrathion said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I only wish she could have explained more,” Ebonhorn said quietly, his eyes creased in concern. “About just why she allowed this to happen. It’s impossible for her not to have realized it would have…”

The look on Wrathion’s face mirrored those thoughts.

Ebonhorn was right: she had to know this would happen.

So why?

Why bring them, when she would be blocked?

Azeroth had power beyond comprehension; he’d felt it, even in a vision.

Unless, of course, her thoughts were infected. Unless, of course, she was being controlled. All without her realizing anything was wrong.

Her heart is a crater, and we have filled it.

Titans! He’d just had those thoughts. Over and over they came, over and over like Vaxian’s sobbed apologies. He felt more trapped then ever.

Hope. Hope. He pushed the dread side, but felt it claw and stick to the edge of his mind, a flotsam.

Too many pieces - not enough to know for sure.

And Vaxian…

N’Zoth may have really freed him. And with Azeroth barred away, what could she do?

It came down, in the end, to Azeroth’s sanity.

“We must have some hope,” Ebonhorn rumbled.. “And there is no need to be alone, Wrathion. Can your Blacktalons infiltrate the others, and perhaps see what they might know?”

The prince shook his head. “No. Whatever charm or hex Seldarria had set in the Mountain before has been reestablished in the caves they’ve chosen. They can’t get past without being too confused and disoriented.” He looked at Sabellian. “But pretend all is well, uncle,” he said. “You continue bullying the guests, and meanwhile… I’ll sort his out. Clearly she wanted me to.”

Or it’s something to distract you with -

Enough.

He felt like he was chiding one of his children - and he might as well have! The back of his mind quaked like a frightened child, looking at every moving shadow and word like another new monster. N’Zoth had brought it to the forefront, yanked it forward.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Sabellian said.

“Oh, and, uncle,” Wrathion said, “you really should have warned us about your plan to kill the others.”

“I didn’t plan it,” he said dismissively. “But it had to be said.”

Wrathion made a sour face. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t stirred the pot any worse. Though I know it has.” He waved his hand toward the entrance. “Go ahead, go on. I have work to do.”

  ---

  After some time, Wrathion was alone. He’d sent Ebonhorn off to check on the other dragons, and though it was an actual request, he wanted to be alone.

Wrathion narrowed his eyes.

“My uncle is hiding something.”

Left looked at him.

“What?”

Wrathion shook his head.

“Something seemed off about him,” he said. “Jumpy. Nervous.”

“Mm.”

“Yes, Left, I agree.” He hummed and rubbed his goatee. “Something has him doubting all of a sudden. And it’s more than just what Azeroth had to say. Something shook his belief. His hope.”

And to think he believes Azeroth is in league with the Old Gods! The timing was unfortunate, and the points he’d made logical enough, but Wrathion wasn’t about to throw all his hope into the chasms of the mountain. Azeroth was too powerful to be swayed that easily.

“Trail him for me,” he said. “See what has him second-guessing.”

  ---

Sabellian dug his claws into the dirt and closed his eyes.

Silence. Stillness. The earth lay as sturdy and truthful as his own feet. The longer he stood there, the more the earth was like an extension of his palms. Out and out they stretched, spanning cracks and lava and boulders. With his eyes closed he felt like the earth itself, the great span of it laying still beyond him.

He bent his head and forced his thoughts further.

The cave. Think of the cave. The control. The rush of motive. Intent. The clear joining of his thoughts with the earth, as for one moment he became it and it became him.

If he moved on of his paws, would the earth shake a mile away, or lift with it? It felt as if it might, connected so.

Did Father feel this in every step?

The thought was a thunderclap, startling his concentration. His paws were only his paws again, and the dirt just dirt. He growled softly and flexed a claw.

This self-doubt would doom them all.

And so much of it!

I suppose that comes from speaking with N’Zoth and a World Soul!

He shook himself out and took a couple steps back. The dirt lay raked with streaks of disturbed tracks: other places where he’d paced. After checking on Vaxian - still sleeping - he’d come down here to try centering himself.

With the earth.

Laughable. A month ago, he would have balked at the idea - this stupid idea, laughable idea, what a fool -

Enough. Again and again his mind returned to the same circle. Did Father do this? Is Azeroth corrupt? Is N’Zoth pulling all the strings? Am I being played for a fool? I am a fool, to turn to the earth -

And on and on and on…

He was so used to being in control, and now all this, all these conflicting pieces…

He stopped at an undisturbed area and closed his eyes again. He sent his focused inching forward.

Clear. Clear. Only him. Nothing else. No Azeroth. No N’Zoth. Just him, alone, focusing along the heat and dirt.

His thoughts began to quiet.

Just him.

He breathed. Felt. The awareness of the earth began to curl back.

Breathe.

No thoughts of warring gods. No thoughts of trickery. No thoughts of being lost at sea, torn back and forth by two waves.

It had been hard, on Outland, but not as hard as this. He had known sureties on Outland: he had known the threat of the Gruul, the hatred of mortals, the fuel of revenge. He had known their sanctuary would one day be destroyed, and them along with it. He had known his children, which he had once seen as war dogs, were now his one reason for living. He had known his whole life had been a lie. He had known that they were alone.

And such things he had been able to plan around. Such things, he had been able to prepare for.

But this - this great and awesome thing he had stepped in, this clashing of powers - this was something else.

Too many moving pieces. Too many half-truths, half-lies, and promises - promises that should have been empty but were kept by the greatest enemy of his life.

I am not their puppet.

He pulled his focus inward, felt the thrum of the earth beneath his feet.

A puppet. Yes, that’s what he felt like. N’Zoth was using him to try to get to Wrathion and Ebonhorn, for the grand prize. Azeroth was using him to alleviate her guilt for failing his Father and all the others.

I am not a puppet.

Sabellian opened his eyes, and the surface of the world grew taut around him. It was like looking through a lens, one tinted with a golden glow, the surface vaguely fuzzy, heavenly.

He was not a piece for N’Zoth to set. Or even for Azeroth, for her to fuel the guilt in her heart.

I am myself.

I am here for what matters.

He thought of his children at home. He thought of the children he’d lost. He thought of the children here, the ones under the thrall and the others who were questionable.

Family was all he’d had when he’d regained sanity, there in that broken world, thirty years ago. Family was his sole purpose.

He was here for them.

Not for Azeroth. And certainly not for N’Zoth.

This power was for them.

This world would be theirs.

The ground hummed. He breathed out, felt the smoke curl from his nose.

Maybe there was something to this.

He closed his eyes and chuckled.

Meditating! His children would giggle at him for doing something like this, their wound-up Father digging into the earth and breathing and thinking.

But he felt better. There lay a lightness in his chest, a sureness, which he hadn’t felt in - too long to say, and even realizing that was a sudden understanding. Maybe not since they’d left Pandaria. Maybe not since speaking with the White Tiger.

I am not a puppet.

“You’re glowing!” The dream crashed around him. Sabellian jumped. The world fell dull and smokey, the crisp edges snapped back. He whirled his head around, nostrils flared, to find Jacob frozen in place near the lava pool. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes wide like saucers. The drake dug his talons into the earth, but it was the only movement he saw: the boy was even stiller than the lava, which bubbled and churned in slow, easy movements. “I was only walking with Ruby and we saw you and I thought something was a little off -”

“Ruby?” Sabellian shifted his weight, pulled his claws close to stand high and straight. He glanced toward Jacob’s right, and there she came, slinking from behind the pile of boulders near the lava pools. Her wing dragged in the dirt and left a trail of disturbed earth.

How long were they watching me? His skin prickled with anger. “Our apologies,” Ruby said. “We were just walking by.” She nudged Jacob with her nose, but the drake remained frozen. Frowning, she looked back at him. The dimness in her right eye felt far more potent in the smoke here, her left glowing amid it while her right was hardly visible. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing you should worry yourself about,” he drawled, and shifted his body to face them. At last Jacob moved, snapping up to attention and smacking a paw on the dirt, as if he were saluting.

He eyed the drake. The thing was skinny, but had the makings of a Deathwing descendant: the wide shoulders, the thick-boned tail, the large paws. He looked too much like Onyxia for his tastes.

“You need to remember to act like a dragon, here, lad,” he said. “You’re no longer expected to act like a human guard.”

Jacob nodded absently. His fins bobbed up and down, up and down. “Yes, sir. I mean - yes. Should I still call you sir? I heard someone else call you sir.”

“Sir is fine,” Sabellian rumbled. “Don’t think too hard about it.” As if he would think hard at all.

Ruby looked at the ground by Sabellian’s feet. The grooves. Sabellian almost had half a mind to move and cover them with his paws, but doing so would be a childish thing, covering up a toy he wasn’t supposed to play with.

“I didn’t expect visitors,” Sabellian said. “You were walking all the way out here?”

Ruby smiled. Something about the expression felt forced or even vaguely sly. “You don’t need to worry. We weren't trying to spy on you.”

Sabellian grunted. “Even if you were, I assure you you wouldn’t find much, other than an old dragon alone with his thoughts.”

“Everyone is alone with their thoughts along the mountain,” she said. “It’s why we took a walk.”

“I gave them a lot to think about,” Sabellian said dryly.

“How’s Wrathion?”

“Well,” he said. “A headache.”

“A large headache.”

He snorted. “I’m afraid the boy has a host of afflictions. You get used to them coming and going.”

Jacob flexed his front paw. “I don’t know how he can already turn into a human. He’s not even my age! I couldn’t turn into a human until I was, hm, maybe five years old, and even then I was almost a drake and -”

“Was this in Dustwallow?” His alone time gone, Sabellian leaned in to the conversation. And it might just get them to know better. Such a thing might help his cause.

If only he was good at getting to… know people. Getting them to talk. There’d been a reason Onyxia and Nefarian had been chosen over him to meddle in mortal world, and him in the battle arena.

Jacob blinked at him. “Yes, sir. I hatched there with the rest of my - hmm.” He squinted. “Thirty-one siblings.”

Thirty-one! He’d forgotten how many eggs Onyxia could have at once.

And now, there remains only one.

“Until one day Mother had to go to Stormwind forever and she took me and some others. Then we went to Stormwind and ate some of the old guards so we could -”

“Dustwallow is a lonely place,” Ruby interrupted gently. “And was too swampy for my tastes. I don’t know how Onyxia and the others dealt with all of that grime and muck.”

“Oh I didn’t mind it at all,” Jacob said. “The mud was sticky but you could trap animals in it then eat them.”

Sabellian grunted softly. “Lonely is good for a broodmother. She raised hundreds of her whelps there, unencumbered. Until she gave herself away.”

Ruby glanced at him sidelong. “I know.”

“I really can’t believe your her brother. My uncle,” Jacob butt in. “She never said you glowed, though. She said you spat acid out of your teeth. And that it was unhygienic and how she was surprised you hadn’t choked on it. I always wondered how you did that, but not how you didn’t choke on it, I always wondered how you didn’t die. From the poison.” A pause. “The poison in your mouth.”

Sabellian blinked, taken aback. Onyxia told him that? “I… yes. I’ve ingested so much over the years, I’m immune to most poisons.”

Ruby glanced at the tracks in the ground again.

“What were you doing over here?”

“I told you it doesn’t concern you.”

“Most things here do concern me,”  Ruby said. “I want to believe what you said on the mountain, but if even you’re going to keep things from us…”

Right to it, this one.

He glanced between them.

“I wasn’t communing with any terrible gods,” he drawled. “If you were wondering such a thing.”

“Could you do that if you wanted?” Jacob asked.

“I doubt it. And I never would.”

Ruby stretched out her maimed wing. It didn’t reach the full span and shook as she lifted it.

“You understand what I’m saying, Sabellian, all gentle conversation aside.”

“Weren’t we just talking about him coughing up poison? Was that gentle?”

Sabellian eyed Jacob for a moment before his eyes slid back to Ruby. He understood well. But would explaining it alienate them from him or make them trust him?

Titans! How did my sister do this so easily? Or the boy, for that matter?

Ten-thousand years and he couldn’t do this one stupidly easy thing.

“I was meditating,” he said at last. “I’ve had a lot to think about.”

“I didn’t know meditating made you glow,” Jacob said. “Though, you know, the pandaren at the lake do it all the time, and sometimes they hover. Can you hover?”

“The glow was… unintentional,” Sabellian rumbled. “The earth tends to make me do so, at times, for reasons beyond my understanding or enjoyment.”

Ruby stared at him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a dragon use the earth,” she said.

“Believe me,”  Sabellian said, “it’s a new process for me.”

“Like a shaman? They practice at the lake, too,” Jacob said.

“I’m afraid the only shaman here is Ebonhorn - Ebyssian - and whatever spirit Ophelion has trapped in his necklace.”

“So there might be some truth to the Earthwarders,” Ruby said, smiling briefly.

“Hardly,” Sabellian said, scowling. “But there’s nothing wrong with using every tool to my advantage.”

“ Every tool?”

Something about the way she said it made him wonder. He tilted his head.

“Some are better left alone.”

“Maybe so.” She sat and nodded toward the mountain peak. “I was surprised what you said. I think most of us were. I came expecting you to want what the others did.”

“And that’s not you want.”

“Not yet,” she said dismissively. “But you aren’t what I remembered.”

A coldness fell over him.

“I didn’t think we had met before.”

“I don’t think we ever really did, officially,” she said, not unkindly. “I was a striker in your battalion until my injury.” She twitched her wing. “During the Red Dragonshrine raid.”

Images of terrified Red whelps flagged his eyes. He blinked them away.

“Yes. I recall that being a more… violent assault.”

“Hmm,” was all Ruby said. Then: “So, no world domination, this time?”

“No. And hopefully the other fools will realize as much is certain death.”

“I don’t know if I trust you.”

Jacob glanced at her, bug-eyed.

“If you trusted me now after serving under me then, I would think you a fool.”

She nodded. Again she glanced at the gouges in the dirt, and again she glanced back at him.

“Might I ask you something?”

“Within reason.”

“How did you change so much, and so quickly? I recall a bloodthirsty lieutenant, bent on destroying everything in our way, clad in armor and hundreds of boiling poisons. Now you proclaim a gentler path, one without our… “cause…” and do earthly meditation.”

“Dragons change,” Sabellian said. “Though places help.”

“Outland has many places to hide,” Ruby said, looking at him intently. She understands. She knows what I say. “I considered going there, at times.” Then she nodded. “It’s a welcome surprise, then. I’ll have to wait and see if it sticks.”

“I suppose we all do.” He thought of his pendant. “Ruby, you did not have to come here. Why did you? What do you want here?”

She laughed airily. “I did have to come here. It’s hard to just deny Deathwing’s son, even if I am a world away.” She paused, her face growing thoughtful. “I guess a life would be welcome,” she said. “But not a life I’ll immediately throw away.”

“Then I doubt you’ll be helping the stubborn lunatics.”

“No. If I wanted a life of death, I would not be living in the Storm Peaks.” She lifted her maimed wing. “And a maimed dragon like me has little to do in war.”

“There is more to Black Dragons’ madness than war. There is manipulation.”

She smiled.

“Trust me,” she said. “If I wanted to do something, I’d have done it far before.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I say I can’t trust you,” he replied. “Just as you can’t trust me. You can be here now, gathering information for the others, and may go back now to tell them of my new tool.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But that’s alright if you don’t trust me. I didn’t expect any different.”

“Wow,” Jacob said. “You two talk like the Nobles. Always going around and around and around one another.”

Sabellian snorted. “A good way for us to fit in with mortals, boy.”

“Oh. Right. Huh. That makes sense. Did we copy how the Nobles talk or did they copy how we talk? I think -”

“Jacob. How about you, lad? What do you want?” Ruby asked.

“Right now I think it’d be very cool to see my uncle do some earth things, or spit poison out of his teeth.”

“No. I mean here. We were called here, but what do you want? For your future?” Sabellian pressed.

“Oh.” A pause. “I don’t know, I usually don’t think that far. But I guess it’d be nice not to die, so maybe what my uncle wants. What you want.”

“Have the others asked you this, Jacob?” Ruby asked.

“No. I think they forgot about me, really, because I stand so still, and if it’s one thing I’m good at its being still and watching things, because I’m a guard - I told you that, right? They never let me guard the Wrynns, though, which is kind of -”

“Boy.” A sudden thought occurred to him. Wrathion had said his Agents couldn’t spy on the others because of the hex.

Titans, was this so easy?

“Would you like a job?”

Jacob’s eyes lit up. “I can do a job.”

Ruby frowned.

“Why don’t you keep an eye on the others for me?” he asked. “Help Ruby and I. It would be helpful to know what they’re planning.”

Would this idiot actually turn out useful? Everyone else apparently discredited him. If Jacob could just do what he did best…

“Oh, I can do that,” he said. “It’s what I’ve been doing anyway. I’m really good at it.”

“Now, boy, if they say something strange, you should come to me right away. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Do you know what I mean by strange?”

“Oh, sure I do,” he said. “If they talk about trying to kill you or asking about a cult or talking about sacrifices -”

“Is this something you’ve already heard?”

“Oh, sure, I heard a lot of things. A couple of times.”

Sabellian moved close, and quickly. “What did they say?”

“Uh -” His eyes went white along the edges. “I don’t remember all of it, I wasn’t listening so much, just what I said, I wasn’t on the job yet -”

“Enough. Fine.” Sabellian took a step back. Jacob stood frozen, his maw stretched tight. “My… apologies. Yes. Those… those sorts of things are strange. Listen for those. And if they say anymore, you remember, alright?”

“You got it, Uncle. Now I’m on the job, I’ll remember everything. I’ll just treat you like the King.”

“Whatever works best, then.”

Jacob bobbed his head up and down. “I’ll go right now. Oh! Sorry, Ruby, is that okay? I know we were on a walk -”

“It’s okay, kid. Just be careful.”

Jacob nodded, turned, and shot off into the air.

I remember when I was that fast. Sabellian watched as the drake angled his way to the mountain in a learned, knowing swoop. He already knew where they’ve set up.

“You shouldn’t use him like that.”

Sabellian looked down at Ruby.

“We all have jobs to do,” he said, and for a moment stood starkly reminded of Azeroth’s spheres, a splintering of responsibilities. He didn’t like that. “I am only pleased he can do something.”

“Just be mindful of him,” she said. “He’s one of the scrambled ones.”

“The what?”

“The corruption has eaten away at him and left him scattered,” she said. “I’m not surprised you don’t know. Royalty like you always saw the best, and not the most broken.”

Irritation swept over his scales like a shudder from the cold. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of dragons, girl, and know more than you ever have.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But maybe not what you didn’t want to see, back then. Just remember we’re here and want things like you do. Try not to use us as all of those ‘available tools.’” She glanced at the earth. “And you and the Prince could do to be a little more honest, too.”

---

  The sun was nearly down by the time Sabellian returned to his cave.

His body ached. After Ruby had left, he’d thrown himself into training - uncaring who saw. It would come out eventually he had turned to using Earthwarding powers, and he had no wish to slink to some hidden, dark place to play with rocks in shadows’ company.

At least it was becoming a little easier. Now he was beginning to think of these powers as a tool to protect and not an extension of Azeroth’s will, he was beginning to grasp it more naturally, with less inhibitions. The fueling of doubt and shame remained, a flicker of dark light in his heart, but turning back to a power he had spent ten-thousand years hating, fearing, and trying to destroy… those flickers would be hard to dislodge, if ever able.

He trudged up the path. He was so sore, he felt like his body was turning to stone.

He shook his wings out as he entered the cave. Not facing the sun, it was a dark and black inside. He shifted into his human guise and groaned as he rolled his shoulders back. The cave was large enough to hold both him and Vaxian, but he was sick of his dragon form. Standing in his smaller frame might help lodge out the worst kinks.

Two red eyes watched him from the back of the cave.

He stopped.

“Boy. What are you doing in here?” He paused and narrowed his eyes.  No gentle sounds of sleeping rumbled back at him. “Where is my son?”

“He’s safe,” Wrathion said. “And so are the rest of us - no thanks to you.”

Sabellian waved his hand, and fire lit the pits of rock etched into the wall. The cavern lit up the cave in red, flickering hues, washing over them both.

Wrathion sat on the edge of a boulder, arms crossed, eyes fixed on him. His face was dark and unreadable.

Vaxian wasn’t there.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Wrathion jumped off his seat and opened his arms wide. His face was flat, a mask of all-business, though his eyes had a hardened, angry cast, a sheen of blood red.

“When were you going to share about your brand new discovery?”

Sabellian went still. Part of him had known the moment he’d realized Vaxian wasn’t there, but -

He knows, but how ? Yet the second he wondered was the moment he knew. Anger smoked in his chest.

“You were spying on me?”

“I knew something was wrong after talking to you,” Wrathion said. “Something you weren’t sharing. So I had you followed. And aren’t I glad I did!”

“How dare you, you insolent little -”

“Hah! How dare I! You’re the one who kept this from us!” He approached Sabellian.

Sabellian growled.

“What did you hear?”

“Oh - I heard nothing. The Blacktalons trailing you heard enough, though,” Wrathion drawled, his eyes fixed on him. “Though Vaxian himself explained the rest.”

“If you hurt him for such things -” ��He gave it up willingly,” Wrathion interrupted. “How he has ‘seen sense,’ as he put it. How he realized he had grown corrupt… and how he realized he isn’t anymore. Out of the blue! And how you hid him here, telling no one.” His face darkened. “My, isn’t that quite the comeback? Who would ever believe this corrupt dragon would grow sane just in time to weasel over to our side? What a miracle!”

Sabellian flexed his hand into a fist. “I had not utterly believed it, boy ,” he snarled. “I am not as naive as you may think I am in these things. Your vehemence alone is why I told no one. I wanted to test him for myself - in company he was comfortable with, if he truly was free.”

Wrathion sneered. “The simple idea of you actually wanting to test his truthfulness is naive enough, uncle! How does this make sense to you? How does a corrupt dragon wake up with no catalyst?”

Of course it sounded foolish to Wrathion: he did not know N’Zoth’s promise. But now he knew about Vaxian, and there was no going back. Sabellian would look a desperate father either way.

Unless he told the truth.

But how could he?

“Vaxian had many openings to kill me,” Sabellian said. “But he took none of them. And if he was corrupt? Then it would be a good time to question him on how the others’ planned to use him.”

Wrathion shook his head, his expression one of disbelief. “I knew going into this your children would be a weak point for us, but I never expected you to lean into it so easily! Maybe you didn’t utterly trust him, but you kept him here. You hid him from us. And you had plenty of time to tell us. But you didn’t, did you? I wonder why that is!”

“I told you why I hid him. Or are you on one of your ranting and raving fits again, where you talk and only hear the sound of your own voice?”

Wrathion bristled. “The fact remains, you lied to us. Aren’t we supposed to be allies? When were you going to share this newest miracle?”

“When I thought the timing was right,” Sabellian said. “There’s more about this you don’t understand.”

“Then tell me,” Wrathion insisted. “We are allies now. Anything we hide from one another is another arrow in the Old Gods’ quiver.”

Sabellian flexed his hands until his knuckles popped.

He sighed.

“N’Zoth spoke to me,” he said. Wrathion’s face fell. “You don’t need to be afraid: it was not from any corruption. Not mine, at least.” He gestured out to the cave opening. “It didn’t surprise me when you told me what Azeroth told you… because They had already told me.”

Wrathion was silent. His stare was, for a bleak moment, vacant and unseeing. Then he began to work his jaw, and he opened his mouth, where it hung open before any words left it.

“And you didn’t - how couldn’t you -” Wrathion opened and closed his mouth, making click-clack noises with his teeth. “N’Zoth spoke to you? The N’Zoth? Surely a nightmare - a figment -”

“No. It was N’Zoth.” Sabellian looked down at his hand. The smell of bodies, the decaying grass, the distant, alien buildings…

“They wanted me to trust Them,” he said. “So I might reconsider my allegiance. Vaxian was Their… gift.” He set his lips in a thin line. He’d been gullible to think Wrathion and the others wouldn’t have thought his sudden doubt in Azeroth particular; he should have reined his emotions in. As usual.

Wrathion stepped back and shook his head. “This… Titans! Sabellian, you should have told us!” He shot him a look full of sudden anger and betrayal. “ This important, and you keep it to yourself?! ”

“Why should I have told you? So you could grow more distrustful of me and mine?”

The dragon scowled. “I distrust you far more now than I would have before,” he said. “What did They tell you?”

“What Azeroth told you,” he said. “Bringing the other dragons here has given Them a foothold. One where They can easily manifest.”

And They want you.

If there he was one thing he still had to keep, it was that.

“They were trying to convince me Azeroth would be of no help,” Sabellian continued. “And only They had the power to free my children.”

“You couldn’t possibly believe Them.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” he said. “I don’t trust Them. I’m not that blind. But Azeroth is blocked to us, and she was the one who we were counting on. How can she heal if she isn’t here? The cursed will open the way… but have only blocked it!”

“I told you. She gave us a way -”

“A way which might not allow her to come, even then.” He sighed. “I know only Vaxian is here and claims sanity. I don’t know how. N’Zoth is playing Their hand to counter Azeroth's, and we are chess pieces on the board.”

“You shouldn’t have kept this from us,” Wrathion bit out. “We should have known N’Zoth is not only here but intimately watching!” He rubbed the side of his face, and for the briefest of moments an intense flash of fear coursed over his face. He swallowed and rolled his shoulders back, and the fear was gone. His acting had improved immensely. “This… this changes things…”

He looked up and caught Sabellian’s eyes, and the look between them was a lock, two great wills grabbing at the other. It felt physical, as if someone could reach out and feel the rope held taut between their gaze.

“That’s all They said to you.”

“Yes,” Sabellian lied. “They wanted me to trust Them. Vaxian was the first gift. That was all.”

Wrathion studied him. “You aren’t considering -”

“No,” he said, voice a snap, stiff. “I know not to trust such promises, and I will never give myself over to the Old Gods.” But that’s not the deal, is it? He pushed such thoughts aside. “But Azeroth… boy, even They thanked me for what we did, bringing all the dragons here. You must see why I was so shaken when you told me what she had told you. ”

The Black Prince scoffed and looked away. The tautness between them fell like a cut line. “You said as much in the cave. But if N’Zoth Themself is here and watching… Deathwing’s corrupter here… ” He paused and shook his head. “No. No. I know what I felt, Sabellian. I know what I felt. ”

They would go around like circles if they continued, so Sabellian dropped it. He was sick of going around in circles. “Where is Vaxian now?”

Wrathion cut him with a dark look. “I’m not about to up and tell you. Not after this!” The dragon crossed his arms over his chest, tilted his head up. “I’m not going to let your weakness break this down from the inside out. Apparently N’Zoth knows well enough where to hit you first.”

“My weakness -”

“Listen, Uncle. I don’t have such ties to your children. They know how to wiggle in and hit you. For all of us, don’t seek him out.”

Sabellian ground his teeth, but no matter the anger in his belly, he could not find fault in the boy’s reasoning. Perhaps the others - the newcomers - didn’t know the great and exploitable weakness which was his children. They could not yet use them against him.

But N’Zoth knew. N’Zoth’s blood pumped through his heart. N’Zoth was the Corruptor, the Manipulator.

He wasn’t a fool. He could trust nothing.

Not even himself.

He nodded slowly.

“Maybe you’re right,” Sabellian said. “My children are a weak point. Keep him from me.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows, and his shoulders relaxed.

“You do understand why, don’t you? Anything They can do to lead us astray -”

“I know, boy. And such things are tempting, no matter all the warning signs.”

Because he knew, deep down, he would trade Wrathion and Ebonhorn for the freedom of his children in a heartbeat if he had no other choice.

“Boy. Don’t take this to mean I will let this pass by.” He approached. “Do not spy on me again. I freed you from my grasp for a reason.”

Wrathion looked a t him evenly. “Then don’t keep secrets. I think that sounds fair.”

Sabellian snorted. “For now, boy. For now.”

  ---

  It was a sound sleep he was roused from, which made him all the angrier.

The hand on his shoulder grabbed him like a threat, and Sabellian woke at once, his hand crunching onto the offender’s before he took a breath.

“Ouch! Ouch!”

Sabellian’s eyes focused, and Jacob’s pained, panicked face grew into focus.

“You idiot! What are you doing?”

“Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

Sabellian sat up and let go of the drake’s hand. The boy’s gauntlet was crunched and dented. He yanked it back.

“Aw, man. This is the third gauntlet I’ve destroyed this year.”

“Jacob, how did you get in here?”

“Oh, through the front entrance, sir,” he said, and pointed with his mangled gauntlet toward the opening of the cave, dark and black in the night sky.

“I meant who let you in.”

Jacob cocked his head to the side. “Nobody. I let myself in.”

Sabellian glanced out at the entrance as he stood up. Blacktalons were supposed to be stationed out there to guard entry.

Did the boy dismiss them?

Wrathion had left in a cold wake after Vaxian’s discovery. But no - if anything, the boy would have posted more, to make sure he wasn’t up to anything else - even though he’d threatened the Prince from further spying.

Maybe they’d allowed Jacob in to watch and listen in case he had secrets to share.

Or they just hadn’t noticed him.

Sabellian rubbed his eyes. “Then what’s so important?”

“Well, I was doing what you asked, sir. You said to come at once if I heard something strange.”

His sleep and irritation vanished at once.

“Tell me.”

“Seldarria was talking about that Cult again. It was called the Twilight Cult. She was talking about going to meet some people from that one.”

That worm.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh absolutely sir. When I’m on the job I’m on the job. The Twilight Cult, made up of a lot of hungry mortals, they can bring a lot of power and knock you down, or make you swayed. That’s what she said, sir, in her own words.”

“Jacob, where are they going to meet?”

“Out at Redridge, sir.”

“When?”

“Oh, she already left.”

“ When ?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you come get me sooner?”

He paused and bit his bottom lip. “I forgot where your cave was, sir, and there’s a lot of them, I got lost.”

He rumbled and moved past the drake. “I’ll fetch the boy’s lackeys - though they’ve probably already heard. Be prepared to tell them where to go, nephew. And don’t mess this up.”

  ---

They were on their way in twenty minutes.

It was nearly impossible to catch up with a full-grown dragon - especially one who had an almost hour head start.

Wrathion hoped, at least, they could arrive before the meeting began, or not miss too much.

One could only hope.

He bent down low on the gryphon, the wind shearing into his eyes and ruffling the black feathers on the mount’s neck. Flanking him rode Left and Rexxar on Leokk, and on the other side, another twin of Agents on an ebon gryphon like Wrathion’s.

The intimacy would hopefully be a plus, not a hindrance. But stealth was their specialty.

They would not get caught.

If they did - speed was something else they could do well, and the small numbers would allow them to escape, and quickly.

He banked the gryphon into a downward glide. They were approaching the band of mountains separating the Gorge from Redridge.

Though the gryphon had the camouflage to blend in with the night sky, they’d decided to stay low to the ground. They didn’t know if Seldarria and the others had posted Dragonkin guards along the mountains, and they would be looking up for flying dragons… not down.

Leokk took the lead as they passed through the Gorge and into Redridge. The blackened ground began to up into clay-red and the mountains around them grew rounder and smaller until even trees began to poke through and blossom green in the blackness.

The Twilight Cult. Wrathion gripped the reins tighter, the leather straps close enough to his face he could smell the oil. Seldarria and the others took Sabellian’s offer to the very reaches, didn’t they?

Left caught his eye and nodded. He nodded back. A small flick of the reins from Rexxar, and Leokk rocketed forward. The wyvern was the fastest, and they would do a quick scope of the place.

Jacob seemed harmless enough, but with the new knowledge with Azeroth and N’Zoth, they couldn't be too safe. The boy could be a talking piece for Seldarria or Serinar - or N’Zoth Themself - and lead them into a trap.

N’Zoth.

A deep weight had yet to leave him. Not since Sabellian. It felt childish of him - because they were only the most tenuous of allies - but he felt… betrayed. Something so important, so necessary, and he had kept it from them.

N’Zoth had spoken directly to him - had showed Their direct involvement - and Sabellian had said nothing.

Sure. He could understand Sabellian not wanting to say anything for fear they could think him insane like the rest. And true, maybe there was some suspicion.

Bur more, now, than he would have before.

At least he’d agreed to hide Vaxian. Wrathion had expected more anger - more of a fight - but thankfully the Blacktalons posted at the cave mouth hadn’t been needed.

Sabellian’s children were their greatest weakness. He’d known that going in - but if N’Zoth Themself…

N’Zoth Themself.

It was one thing, to speak to Azeroth. It was another to know N’Zoth was watching. Not just the amorphous idea of corruption.

The very source of it.

Here.

Watching. Meddling.

He swallowed down a shudder.

However much of him had accepted this next gambit as the highest danger - the last notch of the ladder - the thing which could change everything… nothing could really prepare him for the actuality of what loomed before them. A coming clash of a ten-thousand year old storm -

And the enemy had showed its face.

Now - now, seeing the darkness on the horizon, seeing is claws begin to grip onto any weakness…

Now it was truly real.

Wrathion and the others alighted near a large willow tree along the side of a hill. It wasn’t the highest crest, but they’d still be able to see anyone coming, and no one would see them stark on the horizon.

Anything?

As before, the bloodgems worked when off the Mountain, and as Wrathion sat up in the saddle, he reached out to Left in the darkness. Below, distant dots of farmland rolled around the hills and mountains, and crests of human towers and ancient fortifications from the time of the First War stood between them as sentinels. To the east, he could just make out lights from some hidden town - Lakeshire, surely. Though he couldn't see the buildings themselves, the mere suggestion of it pulled at him.

Did he miss mortals that much?

Maybe so. Or at least his Tavern. At least his champions. That life felt so far gone, relics like the distant towers. His plans with the Alliance and Horde, even moreso. He smiled to himself in the dark. What would Anduin Wrynn think if he found out he’d planned on backing the Horde?

Before all this Siege business, of course. Now the Alliance could dismantle and conquer the Horde and rise as the chosen warriors against the Legion -

But he was getting ahead of himself.

Azeroth had given him the role against Sargeras’s Burning Crusade, but they had other things to do, first.

They’re here , came Left’s voice. Where Jacob said they’d be.

Wrathion smiled. Excellent. As surprised as he’d been to learn of the “Stormwind Guard’s” new job, it had paid off, and quickly.

He nodded to the others, and they took off again.

There’s Dragonkin guards , Left said as they headed east. Take the southern curve along the mountains and stay as low as you can. They’re stationed on the higher ridges.

They passed the towers and headed around the shadowy crooks of farmland. A farmhouse’s lonely oil lantern lit their way in the dark for half-a-heartbeat before it vanished beyond the hills and it was only them and the moonlight again.

Hurry, my Prince. They’re starting.

Wrathion spurred the gryphon onward. The beast grunted; its wings peaked up. Thankfully the breed was bred for its silence. And being expensive, apparently, considering how much he’d had to dig down into his cofers for the things.

The meeting, Jacob had told them, was to take place at the abandoned town at the eastern edge of Redridge, in a forgotten place where no mortals came close.

There, Prince Wrathion , one of his Agents said, and motioned toward their right flank. What he’d taken for a circle of destroyed hills was actually a field of buildings, toppled and littered along a great circle of mountain. Along a strip of cliff, Left and Rexxar crouched in wait, using a natural curve of rock as cover from the town below.

Wrathion and the others spiralled down and landed nearby. He slipped off the gryphon and hurried to Left’s side. Rexxar was looking over the edge, back to them.

“Three from the Cult,” Left said, and together they joined Rexxar by the rock wall and peered over. “And Seldarria is alone, beyond her Dragonkin guards.”

The town was hardly an “abandoned town” at all, but a dilapidated ruin. The buildings lay in piles of rotting wood and brick. Some structures remained as only skeletons of the foundation, and the only thing standing was a long, stone building with a high steeple at its entrance.

In front of its ruined stairway stood Seldarria, her neck poised high and serpentine. In the darkness, her scales shown an inky velvet purple. Flanking her were two Dragonkin guards.

“ -travel quickly,” she was saying to the retinue standing before her.

Three, as Left had said. One stood in front of the rest. The mortal stood tall despite the hunch, and the cloak dragged long behind them. The others had similar clothes, but stood with less flash and grandeur.

“Out numbers span the Eastern Kingdoms, your Grace,” the lead cultist said. “We were ever at your disposal.”

Left had been able to use the charm, then: a common item which amplified sounds from afar. They sounded as if they were only feet away and not an entire field’s worth.

Seldarria smiled. “And how many are available to me and mind, Barthamus?”

The cloaked figure bowed his head.

“More than you may require,” he said. “If we may… your grace… the scope of your plan lays as a thin scope. How will this aid us?”

Seldarria laughed. It was a cackle, an amused wheeze. “Do you know where we stand, worgen?” She waved her claw at the ruins around them. “This… this is a legacy. A town which stood stalled than Lakeshire. And our army swept it off the face of this world. And here we stand, this place now our own, planning steps of darkness.”

“My dear, this has a wider scope than crushing traitors and the soft-hearted. When we retake control, our new age will begin anew, and I do assure you your masters will be very enthused of our work.”

Your masters, too . Wrathion pushed himself closer. This wasn’t good. Left caught his eye.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Barthamus said. “Any victory for the masters is one we shall readily aid.”

Seldarria moved closer, he tail dragging behind her. “Darkness for darkness, my new friend. Show me your end of our deal, then, or we have no business here.”

Again the figure bowed, but this time they turned and raised their arms wide. The other two joined him. Their arms stretched high, reaching toward the moon, their long sleeves falling and catching at their elbows. Tattoos inked along their exposed arms: alien, swirling symbols which made his skin crawl.

“I don’t like this,” Rexxar said. “It reminds me of the fel-users in Draenor.”

Despite the distance from them, a wave of something like a cold humidity swelled over his face. He wanted to pull back, but something stirred between the cultists.

Their hands and exposed arms grew a haze of black-purple.

Between them, the ground began to bubble. Bubble. The haze around them lowered, moved like a snake toward the dirt writhing in front of their feet, and as it touched, the ground began to rise.

But it was not ground at all. It was not dirt; not rock. What grew from this bubbling mass was fleshy, a mound of purple-black matter.

Unnatural. Wrong. Unnatural. Though it had no shape or form as it grew and grew higher and higher, Wrathion felt as if he looked into the structure of a nightmare. His mouth grew dry. His heart thundered. The sky blackened around them.

Seldarria’s eyes were fixed on the column of flesh, and her expression was hungry.

“Yes… yes ,” she hissed. “ Yes! ”

The form began to take shape as the glow around the cultists’ and their tattoos began to grow more vibrant. Two massive trunks extended from its sides, and two more from the bottom. The ones along the boxy torso grew long and sinuous: tentacles, thick like tree trunks. Claws grew from the elephant-like bottom legs. A hunch of a head extended from the shoulders, and from this grew long tendrils and in the center, two yellow, evil eyes.

The Faceless One stood an easy twelve feet tall, and as it extended its tentacled arms, the cultists stumbled back, drained.

"Gul'kafh an'qov N'Zoth," Barthamus said, and the worgen’s hood came down as he gazed to his summoned monster. His eyes were alight with the same terrible madness in Seldarria’s, and black ichor dripped from his grinning maw. “ Gul'kafh an'qov N'Zoth !”

“Ancestors help us,” Rexxar rumbled, and as Wrathion began to pull away, bile in his throat, Seldarria turned her head and, from a hundred feet away,  fixed her eyes on him and grinned a maddened grin.

[aion-rsa]

The Boys Season 2 Ending Explained

https://ift.tt/2GJg6xt

The following contains spoilers for The boys season 2 finale.

The Boys’ second season has featured everything from some long-awaited superhero faceoffs and multiple exploding heads to literal Nazis and almost everything in between. The season 2 finale “What I Know” wraps up a surprising amount of plot in a single installment, as Stormfront finally gets her comeuppance, Butcher and Becca attempt to rescue a kidnapped Ryan, and Starlight finally gets the evidence that could bring down Vought. That none of these plots turn out the way most of us expected shouldn’t be surprising at this point, and yet…

Here’s a rundown of how everything wrapped up – or didn’t – and what we think it all might mean for The Boys season 3.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Stormfront’s Past is Exposed

The finale is another great example of the deft way The Boys has used Stormfront’s character to illustrate the insidious nature of white supremacy all season long – her explanation of the false idea of “white genocide” is particularly chilling – culminating in her declaration that a lot of people actually like what she has to say, and what they’re really afraid of is the word “Nazi”.

However, thanks to some sleuthing by Hughie and Starlight – with an important assist from A-Train – Stormfront is finally publicly exposed as the monster we’ve known her to be since Season 2’s second episode. Photos of Stormfront’s wedding to original founder Frederick Vought are leaked to the press, complete with giant swastika and photos with notorious figures from Hitler’s regime like Henrich Himmler and Joseph Goebbels.

The fact that the same kind of memes and social videos that facilitated her rise are precisely what help bring her down is just the icing on the cake of her comeuppance. Yet, “What I Know” doesn’t really do much in the way of interrogating Homelander’s apparent support of her ideals and/or plans for a superior race of supes, instead choosing to make his motivation primarily about the gaping emotional void inside himself rather than his thoughts on race. Maybe that’s for the best, in the end, but it’s a plot point that would be worth revisiting in season 3.

A-Train Teams Up with Starlight

After eavesdropping on Stan Edgar and Alastair Adana, A-Train learns that the reason he’s been pushed out of the Seven is because Stormfront is a Nazi and virulent racist. Despite his previous beef with Starlight and Hughie (and, you know, the fact that he killed Hughie’s girlfriend in season 1), A-Train deliberately seeks the duo out to pass along a folder of information he’s stolen from the Church of the Collective’s apparently very extensive secret document database.

Read more

TV

The Boys Season 2: What Is The Church of the Collective?

By Jamie Andrew

TV

The Boys Season 2: Who Is Making Everyone’s Head Explode?

By Kirsten Howard

Though A-Train insists no one can know he played a part in leaking this material that will drive his rival out of his former superhero team, his willingness to work with someone he vowed to kill just a few short episodes to go certainly seems to indicate that he and Starlight could be uneasy allies going forward.

Butcher Makes a Deal

Billy Butcher’s goal for most of The Boys has been fairly straightforward – find out what happened to his wife. After discovering she was still alive that goal shifted to reuniting with her. But no matter what, Becca was always the foremost thing in Butcher’s mind. This is why it isn’t surprising that Billy both vows to help Becca rescue her son from Homelander’s clutches and immediately promises to turn Ryan over to Vought as long as they separate him from his mother. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to ensure that he can “get Becca back” without also having to be involved in her son’s life (see also: “Nothing Like It In the World”). But it is the first time he apparently realizes that what he’s been doing is wrong.

In the end, Butcher changes his mind, luring Vought to Homelander’s cabin to give Becca and Ryan time to escape and insisting that he can’t come with them because he can’t be trusted around the boy. It’s perhaps the first selfless decision we’ve ever actually seen Butcher make, and it’s unexpectedly moving, as is his decision to confess his deal in an attempt to get Becca to leave without him.

The Girls Get It Done

Though Maeve initially rebuffs Starlight’s request to turn on – and testify against – Homelander, the warrior queen still shows up when it counts, appearing out of nowhere to deck Stormfront, rescue Starlight and her friends, and ultimately blackmail Homelander into leaving them all alone.

The “Girls Get It Done” marketing ploy that has infused much of The Boys season 2 has meant a lot of lip service to the idea of female empowerment, but not much backing it up with action. (Though Starlight’s arc has seen her reclaiming her own voice and working against Vought from within.) In the finale, we finally get to see the series’ women come together in a meaningful way – and beat the crap out of a Nazi at the same time.

The sequence in which Maeve, Starlight, and Kimiko team up to beat down Stormfront is both immensely fun and intensely satisfying, and a sign that Maeve definitely isn’t the lost cause that some of her Seven teammates might be.

Ryan Accidentally Kills Becca

Unfortunately, Becca Butcher is the sort of female character who generally exists in the world of The Boys to provide narrative and emotional motivation for the men around her. The show spends comparatively little time exploring how she felt about either being violated by Homelander or faking her own death, ultimately using her as an emotional lodestone for both her husband and her son.

Desperate to save his mother from Stormfront’s clutches, Ryan’s Homelander-esque super abilities finally activate and he blasts both women with his laser eyes. Stormfront is badly injured, but Becca’s wounds are fatal because there was probably never any future for this character that didn’t include a tragic death. She spends her final moments begging Butcher to protect Ryan and insisting that it’s not his fault she’s dying. In short: That kid is going to need so much therapy.

Homelander Chooses Himself

After Becca’s death, Butcher and Homelander face off over the child. But before Homelander can kill Billy, Maeve arrives and threatens her Seven colleague with the video footage of him leaving a plane full of people to die last season.

Maeve’s terms are: Let Ryan go, stop hunting Starlight, and leave Maeve and Elena alone, or she’ll release the footage to the press. Homelander, predictably, threatens to destroy everything she cares about, but Maeve says that’s fine, as long as she gets to watch the entire world realize he’s a monster first. (Which honestly, would be pretty fun.) It’s the threat of the public condemnation – and the loss of the cult-like worship he currently enjoys – that finally makes Homelander stand down. This isn’t much of a surprise – the giant emotional void in his soul was never going to be filled by a single child that he never actually wanted that much in the first place.

Victoria Neuman’s Secret     

The final moments of “What I Know” contain one last surprise – Congresswoman Victoria Neuman, a vocal opponent of Vought and a blood-smeared bystander in the supervillain attack on Congress, is actually a supe herself. And, since her ability allows her to make people’s heads explode, she’s apparently behind the attack on her own hearing.

The episode doesn’t reveal much about her motivation – except power, and more of it – but her decision to murder Chruch of the Collective leader Adana rather than owe him a favor for the information he provided doesn’t bode well for anyone. Especially poor do-gooder Hughie, who’s decided to take a job with her campaign.

What Now?

The season 2 finale actually manages to tie up quite a few loose story ends, so much so that it’s hard to predict exactly what might happen when The Boys returns for a third season.

Though Stormfront is left badly burned and missing multiple limbs, she’s somehow still alive enough to be blamed for the attack on Congress and used as a scapegoat for all the problems at Vought and with Compound V. Homelander vows she’ll be punished and welcomes Starlight back to The Seven, clearing her name and restoring her original superhero costume in the process. (Thank goodness.)

Starlight and Hughie finally admit what we all knew – that they’re both crazy about each other – and get back together officially. After a season’s worth of the two of them struggling to trust one another again, it’s nice to get to see someone on The Boys get what feels like a legitimate happy ending and these two deserve it more than most. If Vought doesn’t put some Starlight + Hughie forever merch on the market, they’re really missing a trick.

After almost sacrificing himself for Ryan, Butcher turns the boy over to Malory and her CIA team, despite his concerns over whether it’s possible for him to grow up to be better than his father. (“Becca thought so,” he says, and leaves it at that.) With Ryan in what appears to be child superhero witness protection, it’s unclear where Butcher’s story goes from here. And with Mother’s Milk finally returning to his family, Frenchie and Kimiko heading off to do some dancing on their own, and Hughie turning to politics as a legitimate way to fight Vought, it seems as though The Boys are going to spend some time apart. But with Malory’s declaration that she has some off the books cash to fund a group meant to help keep an eye on the supes…it seems unlikely they’ll stay away from each other for long.

The post The Boys Season 2 Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3jNNOju

[theworstjedi]

Conquer Attachments

Friyr hefted the sack of feed over his good shoulder and waited for his ‘deficiencies’ to catch up. It was almost dusk, and the light waned low but still bright. On Kaas, it would’ve been pitch by now, but Ambria was merely a filtered low gray. Friyr didn’t depend on sight anymore than a Miraluka did. The dirt smelled pungent from the heat rapidly cooling the sand as though bringing out the smell of the musty underlayers. It coated his nose and made it dry. He carried grain into the storage sheds, while dragging his limp left foot in a trail behind him. The instep pressed into the dirt, which wedged into a clod in his sandal. It made the connection between his hip to his knee to the ground firmer than if he tried to support it on a flat sole.

Water lapped in his ears, and the oro-birds’ racous clucking settled into a murmur. Nights on Ambria were silent. Friyr knelt onto on knee and heaved the bag forward over his shoulder, almost going prostrate as he used his full body for what would’ve taken only the upper arms for a normal man.

“I can’t do it yet, Master.”

Elutherius’ skin burned. He didn’t need sight to know his wrists were a raw red, blistered bubbling on the surface of a red tattoo shaped into the Imperial seal. The palms of both of his hands felt raw where the edges of the lightsaber pressed into his skin. He resisted the urge to manacle his hands around them and rub the ache away.

“Look at me.”

Elutherius lifted his head in the gray darkness to the hulking silhouette.

“Look at me.”

Elutherius closed his eyes, pulled the weariness from his bones, like Quirt had asked just one more thing of him on an already bone-weary day, and drew in a shaking draught of Force.

When he opened them, his vision flickered blearily between the lines of blindness and unnatural sight that the rods and cones should never have been capable of. Blurred watercolor blended with sharp seven feet lines of wine-dark Massassi.

Elutherius met the yellow eyes.

“Good, Apprentice. Explain why you can’t.”

His Master’s tone was sharp. Businesslike. Urgent.

Elutherius was seventeen, though he looked younger than that.

“I need a smoother grip to fit my hands and—” Elutherius pulled his shirt up without a lingering trace of shyness for his body. He caught a glance at his hard but gawky teenage muscles fit on a slender frame still filling out and at the same time losing the last bits of babyfat clinging to the Korriban sinew. He was smooth. Pale. New blemishes of spotty brown freckled over his stomach and shoulders but they were healing into peeling skin. A few, very few pink scars traced what had been deep scabby gashes over his ribs.  They caved in as though broken and unset in healing, like his face. A warped dip.

“—and this. This hurts when I move. It makes it harder to do.”

The Massassi gazed at him a few seconds, and Elutherius met it unabashed. He took out his lightsaber and flipped it in his broad, thick, four fingered claws. “Apprentice.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“When I ask for an explanation, I expect it to be one we can both work with to overcome. Do I look like a medic?”

“No, my Lord.”

The Massassi turned on his lightsaber and raked a line down Friyr’s ribs with the tip. A loud sound filled the Apprentice’s ears. It was elegant really, like drawing a red strike through in pen that severed only cloth and cooking muscle but not bone.

Elutherius collapsed to his knees, registering that the sound was him screaming, and he lurched forward onto his hands, feeling his torso sag below his trembling shoulders and his Lord unkitted him. The heat built in a flash, never relenting, and it was only until his chest hit the floor, that he realized his Master had stabbed the lightsaber into his side, wrapping the wounded parts of him from the front of his the chest to the backs of his shoulders in a searing band.

“Give me an explanation,” Elutherius made out as tears fogged his eyes and the unnatural vision dissipated with them, but rather writhed within him as his tried to admit defeat. To curl up.

“I can do it I can do it I can I can--!”

The red beam retracted from the side of his vision, and everything went dark.

“I can do… it.”

“Good. Then get up and do it.”

Elutherius pushed himself to his feet, black eating the edges of his vision. Hearing began to turn from solid sounds, to faint liquid echoes. He fell again, smacking his chin on the metal of the landing pad. Something cracked. He tasted blood.

“There is a penalty for making me empty promises, Apprentice.”

Elutherius fought for consciousness. To stand before he was punished, but the lightsaber flared, and he felt the burn as more of him cauterized against his will, his helplessness used against him. This time. This time. He knew the screams were his own.

The shed was cool. Dark. Empty. Friyr slid his fingers under his shirt. He couldn’t feel much through the smooth scars in either his hand or side. A faint pressure of five tips, but—nothing more. Lord Ignolis couldn’t hurt nerve endings he’d permanently burned away. Friyr traced that absence methodically until his knees protested against the rough wooden floor. He staggered to his feet using the wall.

He dropped his hand from under his shirt and sighed. In time he’d learned through struggling and curling on the ground how to fight back, and eventually the Force buoyed him to his feet. Wicked and dark. There had been many more punishments.

Some of them had been his own errors, as he threw the debilitated side forward, letting people carve him because the scarred tissue was that thick. Their throats constricted in fear because he could take it. Without that he was just… Friyr flexed his arm into a curl and felt the deep current of numbness run down it. He suspected a muscle in his shoulder had been cut, but he couldn’t be sure.

Without the Force, Friyr was disabled. His ability had always been achy, limited, and he’d enjoyed building his strength past what people expected. He’d enjoyed getting stronger, but not by feeding on the Force. Not like this. No amount of muscle or hard work would fix the permanence of this.

Friyr left the shed and locked it up. He locked the Oro-bird coops. He heard the crunch of the dry dirt and the drag of his other foot through it. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. Not about that. He’d find a way. He always did.

“If you work with me, I’ll work with you, Teran! That’s all I ask! Kriff, I won’t even fight you about the med bay anymore!”

Friyr stopped outside his shed and looked up at the sky. It was a filtered gray pink that hurt his eyes.

When Teran had left, Friyr had expected it. His days on Tython had been sunlit and lonely as any Jedi milling around the half-bombed out temple had avoided him. Teran said he suspected Friyr was his purpose, that he’d had a feeling. Friyr, of course, had learned not to trust people a long time ago. They always had their own ends, even types like the Jedi that clung to altruism. They just didn’t realize what their own ends were.

But a feeling. Friyr trusted the Force, if not the headstrong, cocky, acrobatic-obsessed, young Jedi – who preferred to dance among the stars, rather than spend time with his Padawan on the ground. That was—fine. It was supposed to have been fine because Friyr didn’t trust people with red-hair and a way-ward temper because they loved falling into that stereotype.

Friyr snorted. Everybody knew the one.

But Teran had left a sizable hole, that Friyr had stumbled through into freefall. Stupidly trying to control his decent. People didn’t stick around. Jedi were afraid with people touched by darkness. It was stupid to trust that he’d stay, and Friyr didn’t expect As’traa to either. She needed the encouragement that she could do this more than he needed to know that she’d fail him as a Master.

She’d get him a new lightsaber; he’d understand what the hullabaloo was about, and he could ask questions along the way. She’d get what she wanted; Friyr wouldn’t have to form another…attachment.

“I liked Tython, but I knew too that was an attachment.”

Friyr had a smaller trail of people who had abandoned him, died, or had used him than most. Most dragged trains of flesh and tears behind them, but that didn’t make it easy for him to maintain.

Slavery was a hard profession. He’d learned how to serve someone without being too invested, to separate his thoughts form his work, to find moments of acceptable pleasure and indulge them while remaining impartial.

“It is control of your emotions Jedi emphasize not…not having them at all.”

“Slaves too, Lockham; slaves too,” Friyr sighed and let a warm wind carry his words away.

“This is… problematic for some. Like yourself, I suspect.”

When Friyr was around fourteen, he had fallen in love with a boy. Probably the second one he could remember loving. When Friyr was fourteen, he’d been a slave. When Friyr was fourteen, he already knew his chances were nil. His ability to desire, love, crave affection were broken in by the training he’d voluntarily submitted to and the years of service, since before he’d started losing teeth. Since he was a child with no food. It had been a wise decision, and it remained one. Slaves didn’t feel love at the same luxury that everyone else did. When people held food, comfort, and liberty over ones head, they fell victim to affection, false ploys of tenderness, and that was why Friyr had been a good slave. A clever one. Because he knew about this weakness, not because he’d been above it.

He balanced himself, he gained footing in the political game by using his master. When he’d fallen in love, he’d dealt with it. Managed it. When he’d became a Sith. Well…

He watched that boy grow into a man, Apprenticed under his father, and the future of having a title, land, a future beyond a well-fed death under someone else’s servitude was finally his; it had been all he’d ever wanted. As a Sith, he’d allowed himself, finally, the small luxury of uncalculating an emotion never meant for an equation. He’d allowed himself to soften control. He’d allowed himself not just indulgence of love but indulgence to create lasting connections beyond his own benefit.

Elutherius couldn’t remember what he had for lunch yesterday. Most people forgot most errant things, such as lunches. But then again, Elutherius hadn’t remembered anything for a long time except the voice of the Force, painful and beautiful in paradox, she shifted between acerbic mocking tones, paragraphs crusted in old blood, hungry pleads for fresh wounds, and soft decay. It was hard to hear anything else when she filled Elutherius’ head, drifting into different pitches as easily as a kaleidoscope did patterns. He felt compelled to listen to these echoes that had no true sound or language, deriving his life by the echoes of what might be his own mortality.

She spoke often about that in ways he heard clearly, like darkness pressing in on his eyes. She spoke about the end of things, and he understood the way the words fell from her lips like so much rot. If only because, latently, he was included in it. It was as though someone had locked eyes with him, while speaking on something otherwise innocuous seeming to the room at whole. All things worldly came to an end, but Elutherius had a sinking feeling she watched him in particular. The way scavengers did men on their way to death.

The world…sort of passed by. He listened, but he was unconscious of his own role in it. One day phasing from a moment of clarity in a towering mansion of cold metal the next across town and shivering in the middle of a warm rainfall having a familiar conversation.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she said. Again.

Rivulets of grease ran down her face. Elutherius watched the trails through the yellow incandescence of his unnaturally lit and unnaturally sighted eyes. Dead eyes. He appreciated the detail, even if it was something so unappealing such as filth from an unwashed slave just finished her duties.

The balcony railing pressed into his forearms as they leaned against it, staring out into the dark silhouettes of thick foliage and canopy watching taxis go by to avoid looking at each other. The city dropped below.

Elutherius’ lips, heavily scarred from the trenches he’d carved into them, stretched into a warm smile that made him look severely aged rather than a walking blight.

“You’re so—” A shock of lightening darted through the thick clouds and cast Elutherius’ wasting broken face into light. Her eyes cast down on reflex.

Elutherius cleared his throat; his light golden robes swayed in the breeze. “I’ve looked better.”

The young woman gave him a soft smile. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

Elutherius glanced around at the outside of the Mandolorian Enclave, remembering the cold of the slave quarters at night with a strange fondness. It was a relief to have something so distant as an overworked cooling system stir something in him that awkardness of lumping the heir to a legacy with anything as trivial as a slave passed him by.

“The times I feel clear are fewer and further in between,” he said to a pane of grey. The rain knocked sharply on the full-length glass and the metal. It sounded a little like living in a tin can with thick insulation. The Mandolarian Enclave had been last week. Elutherius ran the memory through again over the fading whisper of the Force, but he found he couldn’t remember anything before Danara welcoming him home.

“Small price for ruling the world.” Was what she’d said next, but Elutherius couldn’t remember his response. Or even having existed past that point. It had something to do with him having been made Sith from the workings of a slave, no doubt. Or maybe it was having been made a slave from the workings of a Sith. To the Sith? He had been enslaved to the Sith, but that didn’t seem right.

What had she said again?

His head grew louder until the memory was eaten by both sides, and he felt himself expand into a sea of voices that connected the galaxy. He hummed to the tune they seemed to be pattering out and tried to cup his thoughts in his hands.

It was time to unlearn that.

He didn’t remember who he had been. Continued through numb routines. Friyr edged around the back of the Oro-bird coops until his feet smacked softly against wood. He and Sahley had sat there earlier. This anger wasn’t normal. This loss of memory wasn’t normal. This depersonalization wasn’t normal.

Sahley felt normal. He was down to earth, and sad. Quiet. He was interested. He sounded like Friyr’s age in timbre, and boy did his body certainly feel and respond to Friyr’s like it was thirty something. He was cricked, starting to develop aches….but pleasantly pliant. Falling out of youngness, but he was still so young.

He was an idealist. He believed in hope and thought Friyr was interesting because he was covered in scars, and talked openly about hardships like they were nothing. It attracted him, he listened. Friyr felt like a person when drawing the Mirialan in. Because Sahley let himself be controlled and wowed by someone who seemed as world-weary as he was.

“I realized too that was an attachment.”

If Friyr tried hard enough he could become red, down to earth, quiet, and sad while barking orders because someone else was somewhere in the Empire. For once he understood what he had felt like at fourteen. Perhaps thirteen. He remembered that balance. He remembered keeping people at a comfortable distance, while also serving in perhaps sensitive ways. He understood that he couldn’t stop people. He couldn’t break Force bonds. But he could handle his attachments, and he could let them float away on the wind.

Friyr was good at duty, he was good at serving. It had taken a long time to beat down the frantic angry Sith who forgot that.