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jeongyunhoed · 3 years

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Past-Present-Future Black Dahlia

Two major tragedies bring Lee Mirae closer to the edge as she goes through the stages of grief in a more violent manner that would affect not only her relationships with her boyfriend Jeong Yunho and her half-brother Choi San, but also has her becoming closer with the immortal mutant Kang Yeosang. Fueled by rage, grief, and pain, along with a very rude awakening that has Mirae spiraling out of control and questioning everything she holds dear.

Group: ATEEZ Member: Yunho Pairing: Jeong Yunho / OC Genre: Action, adventure, angst, fantasy

Watch Out! : Violence, blood, death, grief and loss, major character deaths, use of weapons, some jealousy (but no cheating ofc), implied smut (not sure if there is any but i’m putting it out there nonetheless), mental illness (probably?), gambling and alcohol

Anything else? : Mentions of other idols of course as well as other characters. SuperM, Dean, Chanyeol, Zelo, soloist Park Jihoon to name a few.

Author’s Note: Again, interesting things happen when you wing it. Look out for a cool fight scene, I think one of the best fight scenes I’ve written if I do say so myself. It was a challenge to write Yunho’s though, spoiler alert. But I hope this chapter brings us closer to a possible conclusion, or at least gives us an idea of how things could end.

Masterlist

Chapter 7

Yunho could see the horizon from where he stood, feeling the wind come east, swooping by him. This was where the portal brought him. One moment he was at the grounds of the school, and the next he was in this town that seemed deserted, looking like something out of an old western movie. It reminded him of the place where cowboys were, and for some reason, it reminded him of his time in Morocco.

He needed to look for a way out, or a way back, realizing what he heard. Mirae had refused to join them, out of Ino getting Baekhyun out of the way, out of the fact that they probably wouldn’t keep their promise of getting him and San back to her. He knew what was going on, only he didn’t know how to get out and not even his teleporting might help as he didn’t know where to go.

Yunho closed his eyes, trying to hear Mirae again in the hopes of reaching out to her. He wondered if her refusing Ino meant that she was back, back to being the person he knew her to be, if she was back to being the person who could only grieve without getting people hurt.

As he opened his eyes, Yunho felt a strange pounding in his chest, as if he was nervous. The surroundings had changed, at least how the village he found himself in changed, as he could still see the same dirt road ahead. Everything was a lot more colorful, shades of blue mixed in with the shades of rust. The rest of the colors seemed to be in the fabrics of stalls near buildings that were castle-like.

It was like he was back. Back in the place where his immortality, his mutant gene took effect. The only thing that seemed to be missing were the scorch marks and patches of blood, even his own wounds.

Yunho remembered the days of hiding out, disguising himself countless times to blend in. But he also remembered the times his teleportation would fluctuate whenever he was hiding in dark street corners at night, unintentionally scaring off children. He felt a nervousness that he hadn’t felt in a while, a feeling of dread as he looked around the deserted village.

“This is taking you back, isn’t it?”

Ino suddenly appeared in front of him along with Ten. Yunho stopped in his tracks. “Mirae made the wrong decision in refusing to join us. I have to admit, I feel disappointed,” The elder male said.

“You feel disappointed? What about Mirae? What about Hyuk? What about Chanyeol? What about us? You betrayed us, betrayed our trust!” Yunho’s voice was raised. “You think you have the right to feel betrayed? You?!”

“Hyuk and Chanyeol’s deaths were the price to pay in order to move our agenda forward. It’s time mutants really had some influence in the world. We’ve got powers, everyone else does not. If a few mutants dying is part of the process, then so be it,” Ino insisted.

“So all this time, the Ino that we know, the Ino that Mirae knows, is bent on power after all…” Yunho said quietly. “Then Mirae is right to want to get at you too. As a matter of fact, everyone else that’s in here does.”

“It might be so, but just like Hyuk and Chanyeol, it is also a price to pay to move forward a greater cause, for mutantkind,” Ino said.

“What does that make you? Are you the leader for all of us?” Yunho glared at him.

“Uh, we’ll get around to that,” Ten pointed out. “We’ve yet to elect the leader of this...whatever this is.”

“Well, I am quite powerful, Yunho. I thought you knew that,” Ino said.

“What is this world coming to?” Yunho looked down. He tried to get to Mirae again. “Where is San? Where did you put him?” He asked.

“Tsk tsk tsk, I can’t tell you that,” Ten smirked. “As much as I can’t tell you what you remember from looking at this place. Brings back memories, doesn’t it? That last mission you had, your life since that day. People you’ve met, people you’ve… killed. And as a result of your mutant ability too. Don’t think we don’t know where you’ve been.”

“Old habits die hard,” Yunho replied, but he could feel a little tinge of discomfort at his words.

“That, it does,” Ten was grinning. “I suppose by the way you’re just standing still, you know there is nothing you can do right now.”

“There’s always something. Ino knows it too,” Yunho glanced at the elder male again. “All I know is, at least I’m not the one running away from Mirae.”

Ino’s face remained stoic. “I’m no coward, Yunho.”

“Yes you are. It doesn’t change the fact that you made everyone else do the dirty work, just like you allowed Baekhyun and Jongin to tamper with the Danger Room. You didn’t let them in, they had to figure it out for themselves. Just like how you did nothing when you knew something was wrong,” Yunho pointed out as if to taunt him.

“There is a fine line between strategy and cowardice.”

“And you’ve blurred that line.”

“Are we going to continue this little repartee?” Ten asked, rolling his eyes. “We have to go back. They’ll need you to start operations.”

Yunho smirked. “There is always a way, Ino hyung. I’m not running away from Mirae, you are.”

Ino and Ten returned to the portal, Yunho catching a glimpse of where they were going. An island. “We’ll be back,” Ten said over his shoulder, and the portal disappeared.

Powdery white snow fell on San’s head as he tried to figure out where he was while keeping himself warm. He wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, he was at the grounds of the abandoned school, running towards Mirae who had called out to him, the next moment he was at a forked road of what was a snowy mountainside, without his harpoon on him.

San wasn’t sure where he was either. He didn’t know if this was still part of the place that they were in, or if this was somewhere else entirely. All he knew was that he needed to go back to the grounds of the school or at least to the place where everyone else would be.

He stood in the middle of the forked road. It seemed unlikely that cars or even people would be coming any moment, and it made him think of the possible outcomes if he chose one road. If he chose the one going up, he might have an idea of where to go. If he chose the road going forward, he would see what else he would have to deal with if he decided to go.

San thought of Mirae, what she would do in a situation like this, and without another thought, he ran up the road going upwards, looking up from time to time to see how far he had to go. It wasn’t going to be that far, but he knew he didn’t have much time. San kept running, only to skid to a halt, almost falling over when he realized he dodged a dart. Looking at it closely, the dart looked very familiar, almost too familiar.

“Choi San!”

He felt a chill down his spine at the call of his name. The voice sounded just as familiar and looking at the dart and out from the view where he heard his name, he realized just how familiar the place he was in was. The more his name was called by that same voice, San broke into a run again, taking large strides up the road that would lead to the mountaintop.

“I can’t be back here, I just can’t,” San muttered, unable to shake off the sudden pang of dread that came over him upon seeing the dart and from hearing the voice. His thoughts immediately went back to the road ahead and seeing that there wasn’t much distance left until he reached the top, his eyes and fingertips glowed. San jumped on to the side, his hands immediately boring holes into the rock with a faint crack as he climbed his way up, his feet then making use of the holes he made with his hands.

As soon as he reached the top, he saw a frozen pond, along with visibly empty tents and a broken down car. “Choi San!” He heard the voice call out to him again, and San whipped around, on alert of what may come at him from here. He could only feel the chill from the wind where he stood.

“Gives you goosebumps, doesn’t it, the place where you came from, or, where you first ran away to.”

San turned around. From the rocks appeared Taeyong, smirking. “Where am I?” He asked.

“Ten thought we’d bring you back to a place familiar to you. We know more about you than you think, you know, and I didn’t even need to read your mind to know what’s happened to you before you uh, found your sister.”

“I don’t have anything to prove to you, if you know what I’ve been through then you know what I’ve been through,” San said. “If you’re trying to get into my head right now, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“Oh really?” Taeyong raised a brow.

“Yeah,” San was smirking. “For instance, you probably don’t know the exact details of what happened in this place.”

“You are insulting my intelligence,” His expression stiffened.

“Good, because that means you really don’t know,” San reached into his pocket.

“If you’re thinking of trying to kill me, think again,” Taeyong pointed to his temple. “Then again, it might be fun to see you try.”

“Why don’t we try it then?” San grinned, quickly ducking out of the way when he saw shards of ice go his direction, crashing into the nearby trees. He kept running, skidding against the snow to kick the powdery ice into the psychic’s face, catching him off guard and making him fall over. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?” He taunted, picking up the buried chain he remembered close to the car, cracking the string of metal like a whip towards him.

Taeyong kept backing away, sending the car up from its place and towards him. San’s eyes glowed bright as he whipped the vehicle away and making it fall to the ground, the car overheating as it fell back close to the edge of where they stood.

Taeyong dismantled the tent, revealing what else was inside, the poles used to hold it up charging towards him. San whipped the metal poles away, catching one in time. “You’re being quite generous,” San grinned, striking the ground with the pole and sending a wave of energy. Taeyong fell over, turning into his diamond form.

“You’re leaving me with no choice,” He said, getting back up and charging towards San, who quickly moved to wrap the chain around his neck, tugging on it tightly.

“You underestimate me. You forget to realize I am Mirae’s brother. I learned a few things from her,” San kept his hold on the psychic’s neck, squeezing the chains tied around him tightly. “Go ahead and turn back to normal, I dare you.”

Taeyong coughed and sputtered while San kept his hold on the chains, until he burst into laughter. “Go ahead and try and kill me, my brother’s going to come after you.”

“I’ll take that chance,” San’s eyes were still glowing and he pushed Taeyong back, the chains still on his neck as it exploded. He tossed a black disk he found in his pocket towards the explosion quick enough to whistle, the explosion growing bigger until it dissipated, with the psychic’s body on the ground. Or at least, remnants of him in his human form. San figured he tried to change back when he let go of the chain only to be met with the explosive disk he threw.

The ground under his feet began to rumble, and San looked up, sensing the presence of more snow coming from above. The layer of snow from the peak of the mountain where he was broke off and began to slide downhill, towards where he was. San picked up the fabric used for the tent, smirking to himself at the items that he saw came from under it and jumped off the edge, using the fabric to glide down the mountain and onto the forest below.

The rumbling grew louder as he saw the avalanche had settled onto where he was earlier. San landed on the ground, stumbling as he hit the snow, looking back up from where he came from. All he had to figure out was how to get out of the place. He wondered where Yunho was, and where the rest of them were. He needed to run.

From a distance, he heard someone yell, followed by a strong gust of wind coming from the north. The sky had turned cloudy, coupled with thunder and lightning. “Taeyong!” San heard a booming voice from the same place.

“Must be Taeyong’s brother,” San muttered to himself as he kept running, seeing a clearing ahead. The closer he got, the more he saw where it led to. A harbor, only the ocean was an inky black.

Mirae stared at the ruins of the school. Now that Ino had disappeared, she had been staring at the buildings that had disintegrated because of her powers. Destruction was all she seemed to think about now that she knew who to look for. She could hear Yunho’s thoughts, having encountered Ino as he was trapped in a village Ten had created. Ino was a coward no matter how much he’d deny it.

If they wanted a monster, they would get a monster.

“Mirae?” Hongjoong was standing close by.

“My dear?” Yeosang had called as well. He groaned in his place, parts of his dark hair already turning white. “I need to feed, we’re running out of time. Project Apocalypse will be activated.”

“Save it for when we see them again then,” Seonghwa pointed out.

Mirae didn’t speak, and Wooyoung could tell what she was feeling. It made him step forward as well. “Mirae? I know you’re hurting, and I can tell how you’re feeling…” He tried to say it as carefully as possible.

Her eyes were welling with tears. What am I without Hyuk? Without Chanyeol? Without Jihoon? Without Yunho? Without San? She thought, as she observed the cracks in the ground. “Like a monster,” She muttered.

Wooyoung shook his head. “No. I know you feel like you’ve lost everyone you love, but I can tell you. I promise you, Mirae, you didn’t lose everyone-”

“It’s so easy for you to say that, isn’t it?” Mirae glanced at him.

“No, it’s not. Well, in a way, it is, but that’s not the point,” Wooyoung said. “I’ve sensed what is most likely going to happen, and we’ll get them back, Yunho and San.”

Mirae looked down again, her eyes and fingertips glowing. Hongjoong exchanged looks with Wooyoung, and he approached her, the rest of them carefully following behind. “My dear, your shadowy friend is right,” Yeosang spoke. “I know how you feel.”

“No you don’t,” Mirae shook her head, facing them. “You have no fucking idea how I feel right now.”

“That’s fair, maybe we don’t,” Hongjoong said. “But Wooyoung’s point still stands. You didn’t lose everyone as much as they’re trying to make you think. You still have Yunho, you still have San, you still have executive Kang, whatever he is to you,” He turned to the vampiric-looking mutant, frowning slightly at the changes in his appearance. “You still have us too.”

“We followed you here. Teamwork like ours, it’s not something that can just go away, we’ve all been through the same thing in that sanitarium, remember?” Seonghwa said. “Junhong is still here too. He’s waiting for us in the van right now. Mirae, you’re not as alone as you think you are, as they think you are. You still have us.”

“Mirae, please,” Mingi’s expression fell.

“We, all of us, haven’t been together again for a while,” It was Jongho’s turn to speak. “We’d honestly still be lost if it weren’t for the three of you finding us again.”

Yeosang put his hand on her shoulder, Mirae sensing the coldness of his touch even through her clothes. “For so long, I have pushed away so many people, thinking that this was the only way to survive. That was until I met you. All of us here are with you, my dear. Even your technology-affiliated friend who is waiting for us outside. We will get Yunho and San back, I promise you. I only ask that you not make the same mistake towards everyone else who has grown to care for you.”

“Come with us. Please,” Hongjoong said quietly. “...We need our leader back. Just like old times.”

“I wish it was that simple,” Mirae said.

“And it is. It can be simple, my dear,” Yeosang said. “Come with us, my dear Mirae. I promise you, you have not lost everyone you love as much as they’re trying to make you think you have.”

Mirae glanced at all of them, seeing how their expressions were all hopeful that maybe, just maybe, their words had gotten through to her. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she wasn’t feeling that bubbling anger inside her, as if it was slowly getting replaced by a feeling of calm that she couldn’t quite comprehend. The feeling of calm was similar to what she felt after that time Jihoon died, along with her adoptive parents.

It made her think of them. It made her think of what Chanyeol and Hyuk would’ve done. A part of her wanted to stay angry, but another part of her, a bigger part of her, knew that Chanyeol and Hyuk would never want her to turn out the way she was acting right now. She knew not even Jihoon would be cheering for her with all the damage she had caused so far. It seemed to be a relief that not even her home, back in the city, was damaged yet at this point.

“One of these days, we’ll do a mission again, just the three of us.”

“Yeah, someone needs to watch your back this time. You nearly got your powers taken away.”

“Lee Mirae, you’re getting sappy.”

“Even with the way things ended back then. I’m glad the three of us found each other.”

Mirae closed her eyes, remembering the last conversations she had with them. Hot tears trickled down her face. “I really wish it was that simple,” She whispered. “I want them back.”

Yeosang could only keep his hand on her shoulder, unsure of whether to go nearer but sensing that Hongjoong was already doing the same. “I know you do. Hyuk hyung, Chanyeol hyung, I know you want them back, but they're in a much better place now, don’t you think?”

“Just as much as I want them back too,” Mirae said, making the rest of them stare at her, realizing what she meant.

Yunho stopped in his tracks as he stepped out of one dark place to another in the village he was in. He heard her thoughts, heard what was going on with her. A small smile played across his lips, realizing what she said, why she was reaching out to him at this time. She was back, at least it seemed like it.

Yunho ran towards another shadowy alley, trying to teleport, picturing the abandoned school, only to end up in another alley just by seeing the colored kaftans hanging from the two-floored houses he was surrounded by.

Before he could teleport again, Mark appeared and kicked him out of the alley. “Jeong Yunho is it?” He said, seeing Yunho slide down the road, a scratch evident in his face only for it to heal completely. “A fellow external, this is excellent.”

“Yeah, what about it?” Yunho got back up on his feet. “You do know we can actually kill each other, right?”

“I am very well aware. Yeosang’s already weakening, it’s your turn,” Mark kicked him again and disappeared, reappearing behind the taller and punching him. Yunho stumbled to the side but quickly got back up, figuring out where Mark would reappear next.

Yunho smirked. “Two can play this game,” He closed his eyes, letting his instincts guide him on where the other male would reappear. Before he knew it, he reappeared in another alley, and in another, and another, realizing that the sky was getting dark. “Let’s play hide and seek then! You hide and I’ll seek!” He called out, teleporting from one spot to another, stopping at the empty fountain.

“With pleasure,” Mark reappeared, only for the taller to grab him by the collar, both of them teleporting from one spot to another in the midst of their scuffle. Yunho kept his grip on Mark, punching him several times until kicking him, the two of them reappearing and landing on opposite directions. “We have all night, Yunho, give up already?”

“I’m just getting started,” Yunho charged towards Mark, only to vanish halfway through the run, reappearing in a puff of black smoke behind the shorter, tackling him into a headlock. “Losing your touch already, old man?” He taunted, the shorter coughing and sputtering. “Try and teleport, I’m going with you all the way.”

Mark groaned and sucker punched him, but Yunho kept his hold on him as they teleported from one place to another. “You realize while I’m here, the rest of my friends are already trying to activate Project Apocalypse as we speak,” He coughed, trying to break free but his strength was waning.

“Trying, they’re only trying,” Yunho kept his hold. “You tell me where the hell am I and where San is and I might just let you live,” He threatened. “You should be familiar with what happened here, since all of you know things about me.”

“That I am,” Mark sucker punched him again before trying to poke his eyes. Yunho ducked in time to throw him off, running into another shadowy part of the place and disappearing. “This is testing my patience,” He cracked his knuckles and reappeared inside what looked like the inside of a blockhouse that he knew was still within the village.

Mark looked around, trying to sense a presence within the confined walls of the fortified space. “You really think Mirae’s going to go back to you?” He called out. “She’s far down the rabbit hole of her rage. But I am amazed that Yeosang got through to her more than her own boyfriend,” He said, removing the blankets and the sheets from the nearby beds. “Based from your thoughts and memories, she thought you were looking the other way. I can’t blame either of you, though. Both of you seem to be much better apart than you are together-”

Yunho had reappeared behind him, kicking him before he could teleport and knocking him down, the taller quickly kicking his leg to keep him down. “You were saying?” He asked. “Get us out of here, why don’t you?”

Mark smirked. “Bold of you to assume I will easily give in to that.”

“Want to bet?” Yunho kicked his other leg down, hearing the bones crack. “You teleport, I teleport with you.”

“Alright, alright,” Mark groaned, the pain in his legs still present as he faced the taller male. “It’s clear that we are evenly matched at the moment,” He crawled to his feet, only for Yunho to pull him back down by the ankle.

“I don’t think it’s even at the moment,” Yunho kicked his leg down again, making him yelp in pain. “You’re going to take me to Mirae, and you’re going to bring San back, do you understand? But first, I need information.”

“Do you really think torturing me is going to get me to tell you where Project Apocalypse is located?” Mark gave him a look.

“We’re both immortals, we’ve got the rest of our never-ending lives, and we’ve got the time, you might as well tell me,” Yunho drove his foot further into Mark’s leg. “I’ve certainly got the time to break these bones over and over again.”

“Alright! I will have to concede in this battle,” Mark spat. “If you had any knowledge in how plans like these work, you would’ve already figured out by now that the rest of the country will be seeing our entrance soon.”

“Mhmm,” Yunho got the idea, but he still drove his foot down on Mark’s broken leg. “Where there?”

“The city, where else? Seoul itself is about to see once more what happens when powerful mutants like ourselves can take power.”

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ziggyzagreus · 4 years

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The Craftsman’s Son

[Note: Hey y’all! So, I mentioned briefly in an ask reply to @silverwindsblog that I have an OC design and layout for Icarus!!! But, since I am not an artist, I have to write a bunch of drabbles about Icarus instead!!

I intend to make this a recurring series, basically just Zagreus meeting Icarus from time to time throughout the regions... It would mean a lot to me if you guys would let me know what you think!!! I have had ceaseless brainworms about Icarus since I started Hades and found he wasn’t in it. Feel free to tell me what you think of him, I can also use prompts/feedback as ideas for more drabbles with him!]

[AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960650/chapters/71065722 ]

[Summary: In Zagreus' many escape attempts, he runs into a mournful Shade who knows a thing or two of failed escape attempts.

Icarus wanders alone through the levels of the Underworld, too afraid to face his father, even if the man weren't cursed to never see his son again.

Zagreus once again tried to pull some strings with his father's contracts.]

~~~

Chapter 1.

The chambers in which Daedalus forgot his tools were always empty of genuine company when Zagreus arrived – no sign of the master architect before nor following confrontation with any shades commanded to cease the Prince’s forward venture.

Emptier still, were the chambers before much more threatening foes, the terror at the brink of every region. Zagreus had been hoping for Charon’s shop, but instead heard over the bubbling lava of Asphodel the familiar chime of a blessing. Even from a shade, and one who was so meticulous in life now cursed to be somewhat forgetful with his things, the improvements granted by Daedalus’ craft were nothing short of miracles.

Rounding the corner and bounding up the few stairs into that waiting chamber, what Zagreus did not intend to see was a figure already at the tool itself, examining the binding at its handle with such familiarity that the Prince would take to dismiss.

Zagreus slowed his fiery pace and entered the room calmly, though his heart pounded in wary anticipation. “There is usually no one to greet me at these things, mate. I do hope you’re not some new, frightening instillation sent by my father to keep me from getting to that hammer.”

The shade looked up then, wide eyes a dark brown that would be welcoming if not for the hollow expression they took on. The shade was that of a young man, tousled brown locks curling about his ears and in every form of heedless unkempt. The shoulder of his chiton was clasped with one firm buckle, leaving much of his torso bare, as bare as his feet on the thankfully cool stones. Not that shades could feel much, that were, but Zagreus still cringed to think of this young man wandering about the flaming coals with nothing but the skin of his toes as a barrier.

The shade spoke then, and his voice was the deep timbre of a young man past adolescence – yet it carried a wispy, wistful nature of sorrow to soften it. Zagreus’ eyes came back to his face, met those eyes. “No, it would do me no good to believe I could cause you trouble. Just passing through at the same time, so it seems. Would you… like me to fix up that blade for you?”

He gestured toward Stygius, held firmly in the Prince’s grasp, and the creak of wood and leather, the rustle of feathers suddenly drew Zagreus’ focus away from his face and now to the tattered, scorched skeleton of wings fastened to the shade’s arms. The leather straps of harness bound to his shoulders and over his pectorals was clasped with welded metal, but the wood and wax of those wings melted in bubbled white scarring – melted, combined with the skin of his muscled arms and marred back.

“You’re Icarus,” Zagreus blurted out, and instantly regretted the insensitivity. He had heard of the tragedy of Daedelus’ son, heard how the father mourned in sorrow just as much as his anger. Zagreus did not expect to meet the boy himself at all, figured he had been cast into one of the lesser shades wandering Tartarus for some crime of little achievement.

Icarus huffed a soft, bitter laugh, lips curling into a delicate smile. “I am. Does that surprise you? Son of the great Daedalus wandering about, picking up his father’s forgotten tools instead of working at his side.”

Zagreus stepped forward, comfortable now in the knowledge that he would be done no harm, but guilty curiosity swept over him in this unfortunate legend’s presence. “Not really, just… Well, I’ve never seen your father about these parts either. Always seem to miss him, I usually find his hammers to fix up my own weapons and be on my way.”

“Well, leave that to me, then. You look like you could take a rest.”

Zagreus nodded and handed Stygius over, watching as Icarus examined the blade delicately, the muscles of his tattered arms shifting as he held and hefted the blade to check for imperfections. “This will be better done by the hands of an apprentice craftsman himself, no doubt. Thanks, mate. Really.”

“It’s my pleasure, good Prince. Wouldn’t do well for you to be running forward complacent in this blade’s integrity. I’ll have it fixed up in no time.”

Icarus got to work. Zagreus watched, the clanging of metal ringing in his ears, reverberating off the cavernous chamber, the stalactites above and the stone tiled floors, the rock walls surrounding them. Despite the state of his body, Icarus worked quickly, much more surely with the tool and the blade than Zagreus had in his own attempts to improve his weapon. Being in the Underworld alleviated him of the hurts of mortals, and while the lingering scars remained, his movement was uninhibited by anything more than the remaining bulk of the wings.

“Have you seen your father about, Icarus? One day – or, er, night – I’d like to thank him for his skill. Even with only one of his tools and little crafting knowledge, I can usually make something of my weapons.”

Icarus stiffened slightly for a moment, his smooth motions interrupted with a pause. Zagreus cringed, knowing immediately he had broached an uncomfortable topic. Much like when he pestered Eurydice about Orpheus and she grew heated, Zagreus felt a guilt bloom from that curiosity that still did little to quench it.

“I have not,” Icarus replied sorrowfully. “Part of my father’s sentence here is to work without furthering his legacy. And that means I will never complete my apprenticeship.”

The Prince’s brow furrowed, laurel sizzling. “But thousands of mortals read his writings, follow his plans and skills up on the surface, surely that accounts for something? Daedalus’ legacy is everywhere, even in the walls of my father’s house. How does that make sense to be his curse?”

Icarus shrugged and held up the hammer. “He’s not the man he once was. There are flaws in even the finest of his architecture, now. And the other humans cannot copy exactly what his intentions were.”

“Oh. I… think I see. Still though, surely you’re bound to run into him one time or another, picking up after him like this.”

Icarus frowned again. He resumed the work on Stygius, nearing the end of his repairs and brow furrowed in a thoughtful brood. “Forgive my bluntness, Prince, but I don’t think I could face my father even if given the chance. Here is your blade, how does it feel?” He dropped the hammer handle-first into a slim loop on his belt, the weight tugging the leather down just slightly, but seeming at home tucked against the apprentice’s side.

Zagreus acknowledged the subtle suggestion to change topics, and took Stygius. It felt lighter, somehow, and cleaner. He spun it experimentally a few times, rolling his wrist to follow the motion. It felt lighter, but more lethal. He wondered if it would be possible to pierce armor, now. “Razor sharp.”

Icarus smiled softly, a pitiful twitch of the expression registering on his sad face. “It is. Do be careful, good Prince. I… I know you are determined in your path, so I will not tell you to turn back. But do not underestimate your foes. No amount of confidence makes you impervious to error.”

“I will be careful, thank you, mate. Where will you be next?”

“Somewhere my father had been before, most likely. I hope we do not meet too often, for your success in escaping this place. I know a thing or two of failed escapes.” Icarus looked down, once again exhaling that brief huff as if he had said something painfully ironic; in all fairness, he had. But Zagreus knew it not his place to take any humor in this shade’s cruel fate.

Zagreus nodded, and rest Stygius on his shoulder, walking ahead while waving back. “Until next time then, Icarus. I wish you well in the meantime.”

To be continued...

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

“ i'm taking the couch. “ ( just one tired assassin willing to sacrifice his comfort for the sake of his wounded hubby / their sassy onion bf )

characters going to bed and waking up together prompts || @sonxflight. feat. @biiingchu || accepting

💥 ❄️ || While words may have been spoken so sweetly, informing Ryou Sakai’s valiant, self-sacrificing intention. How Hanzo Hasashi’s eyes, earnest and pleading, desperate to ease both Ryou and Kuai’s comfort as his hands remain wrung together tightly, folded over his abdomen as he continues to control the strife of his strained breathing and arrhythmic cadence of his heartbeat. How his heart twitches softly under a layer of thin ice - Kuai Liang’s quenching, balming coolness against his scorching magmatic fever - as Hanzo’s sky stretches continuously across the ever-changing scenery filled with sanguine squelch and ferrous spell of rusted acridness. Tips of clear sunrays may illuminate white clouds with silver linings and edges of pink hues, as Hanzo Hasashi’s sky remains caught in a repeating vicious cycle of sunrises of his revivified strength and indomitable will of Scorpion and sunsets of his crumbling, as he continues his quest to annihilate Lin Kuei and make their ubiquitously shared universe a better world.

Pain remains a pesky part of being human, and he has learned it feels like a stab wound to the heart, something he wishes they could all do without, in their lives here. Pain is a sudden hurt that can't be escaped, but then the Shirai Ryu warrior has also learned that because of pain, he can feel the beauty, tenderness, and freedom of healing. Pain feels like a fast stab wound to the heart, but then healing feels like the cool wind against his face when he is spreading his wings and flying through the air. They may not have wings growing out of their backs, but healing is the closest thing that will give them that proverbial wind against their faces.

His lids are growing heavy; though he knows he should rest, break off from his obsessions, cease his hunt - yet Hanzo Hasashi still search rabidly far beyond his reach for it. He desperately gropes at any shred of his scattered halcyon tranquility and empyrean peace as he makes himself a moth to flame, like the sick to a cure, like death to the living. Perhaps he will never truly be satisfied, even knowing that he could be tenderly sinking in the quicksand of delightful love as his numbed flaring nerves have been expertly learned. He would rather be in the bed of the men who loves completely and indefinitely, as envisioned slumber would effortlessly come, as they entangle around his bandaged being, lest their pressing warmth cause deep ache to exacerbate.

“Don’t be fucking absurd, the bed’s spacious enough for us three, perhaps even more,” even in the delirious haze, does Hanzo Hasashi’s gaze remain evermore twinkling, like the zenith of scintillating star’s intensity, emanating the world and beyond. Colored in red like the bleeding sunset and the substance of his potent passion, as the whirlpool of his fire continues to tread the lapping waters of his strained breathes. “And he looks even more sallow with rings around his eyes, which only confirms his sleeplessness due to my injuries. Bring him to bed at once, Liang.” Perhaps Hanzo was exaggerating, but it had been as if the pyromancer could feel untangled, mangled bundle of their stifled air, the unsettlement of heavy stress and exhaustion floating in the air like particles of ash and cinder after daunting destruction of their beings.

Kuai Liang is also no stranger to sentiments of sinking into the abyss of horror in which he would desperately try to feel his way out. Half-blind, with his young heart distraught and shattered. He often recalls of his adolescent being looking up again and again to the ancient constellations, comforting himself with the inherited confidence that some day, this relapse will appear only an interval in the eternal rhythm of progress onward and upward. The child prodigy was no longer that; a prodigy in making, but a flawed warrior who still was looking for that profound remaking, that would obliterate all the logic he believed in, along with his absolute stubbornness. Time may not have been designed to heal all wounds, including Bi-Han’s resolute intention to see his little brother sprawled and motionless, suffocated and snapped in the puddle of his own fucking blood. This particular tragedy may render him in such plainly dissociative state, as his uncontainable anger would rush through the fireworks of his veins and nerves, rendering him taut and feral.

“Better listen to my 師父/师父, or I will personally beat your exhausted ass over, so you can join him in bed,” the unfurled sassiness of Liang’s mirthful timbre floats over the heavy headiness of ferrous salt, as he remains perched against the foot of the bed, his hips careened towards Hanzo, continuing his ministration to ameliorate the burning emanation of bone-seeping pain, while his head turns to face Ryou, standing over the bed in their opposite side, looking down at Hanzo’s incapacitated form.

“I still recall the darkest clouds of moribund death and hopelessness hanging above my head as if they matched the thoughts I had about the the struggle and the pain and then came down all the rain of my erupting tears after my near-death. It was you two who made the hollow scream of my lungs and heart to become a hallowed construct, flowing a sacred, cleansed river over my eyes to open myself up to all the revelations I refused to believe for so long,” he could still taste the blood as if it was dribbling into his panting, agape mouth. His body produced acid and ice, and pushed it though the cardiac chamber, withdrawing himself to the confines of his stubbornness and unbending lack of knowledge in his denial. “All the pain and suffering, the shock, the ignorance of before and the widened acceptance of now, we all know that our experiences fill our heads and flood our dreams. I know you cannot resist what your body, mind, and soul call for, and it is us both, entangled in appendages, as silhouettes merge into one.” An accentuated grin retorts and solidifies his point, as his long, calloused fingers trail Hanzo’s chiseled bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze. 💥 ❄️ ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ bone-deep chill of despair (kuai liang || biiingchu)#✗ epitome of sunlight (ryou sakai || sonxflight)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#✗ sharp awareness of flesh heart and soul (modern au)#(aureate ablaze)#sonxflight

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antihero-writings · 4 years

Text

Before It Kills You Too

Fandom: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)

Fic Summary: Anger was a fire, it burned white hot and devastated the world around it. But then it faded...This was more than anger.

Hera goes for a drive after a fight with Zeus, and has some time to think. Her internal monologue and memories, using Blackpink's "Kill This Love" as a prompt.

Character Focus: Hera

Notes: If you haven't listened to, and/or watched the music video for Blackpink's "Kill This Love" (I’ll put a link in the replies!), I highly recommend you do so either before or after reading, as the fic is based on the lines, and a few of the visuals of it!

Also, fyi, I am very new to the world of kpop myself... I deeply apologize if I didn't do the song justice!

I am a big fan of Greek Mythology (though I don't know it super well), and adore retellings of it, (as well as retellings of classic literature in general). But the two characters I've never liked in other retellings + the original myths are Zeus and Hera. But Rachel does such a great job with the characters in LO she managed to create a version of both Zeus and Hera not only do I like, they are in my top favorite characters of the series.

I've wanted to write a fic for Lore Olympus for a while (as well as something using "Kill This Love" as a prompt), and I decided to write one about them, both because I don't think there are as many fics about them, and to honor what a great job she's done with these characters, and how much she made me like them (and because the song fit too well with her!)!

Chapter 1: I Owe It All to You

Hera kept glancing from the road to the speedometer, the dial sneaking steadily upwards: sixty miles an hour to seventy in seconds.

She leaned over and took a cigarette from the pack, putting it between the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. She took out the lighter and clicked it open, lighting the end, then closed it again and set it back down in the cupholder while she breathed in.

Smoke never tasted so sweet as when she was angry with him.

Eighty, ninety.

“Good to see you again, Bunny!”

“It’s only been a few days!” She laughed, “And who’s Bunny?”

“You are!” Zeus took her hands and gave her eskimo nose kisses. “Who else?”

The golden girl smiled, big and bright—

—the kind of smile one can only give when the world itself is big and bright. When one lives in a realm of hope, where beings keep their secrets, and their promises, and no one lies, or steals, or cheats.

She breathed out, smoke billowing like her mouth was the gates to the Christian’s hell—(they say hell hath no fury right?).

Sometimes she wished she had Zeus’s power; that she could set the world on fire with a glance.

A hundred.

The world was nothing but streaks of light across her vision. Not trees, people, and buildings; not distinguishable as life or meaning, just lines of color as she flew by. Maybe things were better that way. She could dance in the in-between, reach up and grab the ribbons, twirl around with them in beautiful absurdity. Only absurdity was beautiful; truth and sanity were far too ugly.

“Bunny I—”

“Don’t ‘Bunny’ me!”

She took another long draft, letting the smoke’s medicine filling her lungs.

And out.

Breathe out, feel the negative emotions leaving your body, all the meditation gurus say.

What a load of bullshit that was.

For every soothing inhale there was always an exhale that felt like it was clawing its way out of her throat. For every sweet hello there was a bitter goodbye, full of curses at his back, in return. For every incredible high there was a unfathomable price. That was the rule to life; what goes up, must come down.

And she had risen too high, once upon a time.

The test of life had no answer, let alone a right one. Even the gods were slaves to fate, and emotion.

The tires screeched hellishly as she rounded corner.

Hera walked around the corner.

“It just—I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him! You know?”

The queen stopped. It was that nymph’s voice. The one who came by earlier.

“Ahh I’m so jealous! Tell me more! Tell me!”

“Well he just…I don’t know! When he kisses me the whole world just kind of…stops. You know? And when he listens…I feel like he’s actually listening.”

“Ugh, too sappy! Tell me the dirty stuff!”

“Oh stop! I’m not gonna tell you about our sex life!”

Hera rolled her eyes, beginning to walk away when—

“Well he is the king of the gods. You’re right; It’s better if I imagine.”

The queen froze.

“Eugh I don’t want you imagining me in bed with him!”

“No, I’m imagining me in bed with him!”

Hera couldn’t hear them anymore. Couldn’t see the world in front of her. She was staring at a space before her eyes only she could see; a space, a memory, where the world was wide and she and Zeus were the only beings in it.

That space was shattering piece by piece.

Her breath was shallow in her chest, her blood pumping her ears.

“Mama?” Ares’ little voice brought her back to the world. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

She immediately let go of her son’s tiny hand. “I’m so sorry sweetheart!” She crouched down and took his hand in both of hers, this time with the most gentleness she could muster, and kissed his fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah…‘m okay.” He took his hand back and rubbed it.

He looked at her apprehensively.

“…Are you okay, mama? …Are you angry?”

She whizzed passed broken stop sign, catching her reflection in the rear view mirror; her hair in tattered locks like rags about her face, eyebrows permanently furrowed, lip permanently pursued, blue eyes dim and hollow, with nothing of the brightness they once contained; only a few lingering sparks of electricity in an abandoned power plant.

‘Okay’. ‘Angry’.

Such ugly words.

“I just…” the golden girl pushed her hair behind her ear sheepishly, her eyes bright, “I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him…you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Aidoneus muttered softly.

She put her gently hand on his. “Don’t worry, I know you will one day.” She grinned.

And what made it better was that she really meant that.

He tried to smile back.

“So what’s that…like?” he asked softly.

“Well…when he kisses me the world kind of …stops. It feels like there’s nothing and no one in the universe but him and me. We can talk about anything. And when I talk it feels like he actually listens. He always makes me laugh. When I’m with him…it feels like nothing else matters…”

She hated that word: okay. It was too simple, too easy; one could always throw it out as an answer. It didn’t mean, I’m doing very well, or I’m doing poorly—(though it could mean either depending on the context). Okay was just, ‘fine’, ‘alright’. Okay could mean you were doing wonderfully, having a great day, and okay could mean you would rather be dead, and either way people would smile and say good! I’m okay too!. Okay was never truly satisfied, never fully living. Just existing. ‘Okay’ was a word for ghosts; for those who are neither dead nor really alive, neither sinners nor saints. Just floating through the world, caught in between.

She was always okay…and she was never okay.

She rolled down the window, cool air rushing in to the car and scooping up all the smoke, taking it out into the night, giving it to some other lonely Goddess who needed it.

“Ugh, this again? I thought we were done with this…Just leave it for now. You’ll feel better after lunch.”

And, anger, anger was a fire that blossomed like a rose high, and bright, and scorching for a while, eating everything it saw. Then it dwindled. Sometimes it could be lit again by a passing breeze, if the embers were still fresh enough. And sometimes that relight could touch a passerby leaf or bush, and from there desecrate forests and cities. But often, even then, once it had finished blazing it would wither and die. Anger burned white hot and violent at first, but eventually it would fade, and the world would be left to deal with everything it blackened in its wake.

She sometimes had a vague image of smashing Zeus’s head in, of him clutching his big ugly skull, golden trails of blood intermixing with his violet hair, draining down his cheeks. And there she was, holding the stem of glass, half of the vase, in her hand, the rest of it in pieces all over the floor before them. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to take out all that anger out on innocent paintings. Sometimes she had to destroy something, before it destroyed her.

“You’re acting crazy.” He had said.

Crazy, was she?

Crazy for believing visions in her head, which were always right in the past? Crazy for being angry? For kicking him out? No.

Crazy for staying with a being like him?

Yes. If she was crazy, that was why.

If I’m crazy, well, then…

She smirked, taking a long draft, and letting it out, grey wisps filling the air around her.

Thanks, baby, I owe it all to you.

She had a faint recollection of being sane once. Before him. He always made her crazy, be it when she was first fell in love with him, or when she rose in hate for him. But there was a time, when, before all this, she was a sweet, naïve little golden girl in the forest, with her sanity in tact, who loved animals, and taking care of broken things, her innocence still put together.

He thought he knew crazy. He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But then that impulse would fade as quickly as it came, and she was left with guilt for even thinking that way. She’d never do that. She might burn his picture, but she wouldn’t actually hurt him…would she? She hoped it would never get that far.

No. That was anger. The boiling thing rising inside her that made her want to smash, and spit in, his face, and burn paintings, that was anger. Anger rose, vehemently, but in the end it dissolved.

This was more than just anger.

This, this feeling; this dull resounding ache at the back of her consciousness like an unending death knell; this thing that bored a hole in her stomach, making her feel constantly sick; this thing that hung as a weight in her chest; this thing wrapping around her, chaining her wings; this thing that stained her eyes with sleeplessness; this thing that broke into her mind and ransacked her thoughts, tainting all those happy memories, making them seem diluted with lies, and sickening to think of, and never, ever left her house—

This was heartbreak. Eternal, infernal, heartbreak.

She was on a long stretch of road now, out where nature still bloomed and she didn’t have to look at anyone’s faces or talk to anyone. The ribbons of light still outlining the air—(was it two hundred now? She’d lost track.).

Lucky me.

Everyone always told her she was lucky. Not everyone got to be the wife of the king of the gods. Just her. She was lucky she had a husband who was powerful. Who was rich. She was lucky she had a husband who adored her. Who doted on her. Who listened to her. Who she could talk to. Who made her laugh.

Not everyone had that. Some had husbands who were poor. Who were weak. Who didn’t love them, and whom they didn’t love. Husbands who didn’t dote on them, or give them so much as a wanton kiss. Who fixed a permanent scowl on their faces. Who they couldn’t talk to. Husbands who lied to them, and cheated on them.

She was lucky she didn’t have that.

Not everyone got to be queen.

Lucky her. So lucky he chose her. So lucky she got the crown. No one else.

No one but her.

So lucky she had that handsome face to wake up to every day.

(Every damn day)

So lucky could talk to him every day. So lucky could kiss him, and hug him, and make love to him.

(Sometimes she couldn’t even look at him.)

So lucky she had Zeus. That goofy, dumb, brave, arrogant king as her better half. So lucky she had a husband who was so sweet, and kind, and gentle, and funny, and patient, and forgiving. So lucky she didn’t have had a cheating, lying, conniving, backstabbing little weasel for a husband, who put that crown on his head, and walked into his office like he owned the world—!

And he was the one person who could say he did. Including her. Sometimes she couldn’t say a word against him.

He owned the world. Along with every fucking girl in it.

And he did fuck them.

After it all, what would he say?

We all lie, so what? Something like that.

So what.

Him; the illustrious king with his throne, and his lightning. Her; a jealous queen with a stolen crown.

The only one to blame was herself.

“I just feel like everyone’s lying, everyone’s—!” the golden girl cried, her hands over her eyes.

Someone took her arm, someone whose grasp was gentle.

He put his finger on her chin, tipping her gaze up to him.

“I’d never lie to you.” Zeus said, giving a gentle smile.

And what made it better was he meant it.

She returned the smile, placing her hand over his. “Nor I to you.”

That naïve little ray of sunlight darkened by his moon.

We’ve both lied, so what? That would surely be his excuse.

“You know what?! Why don’t we talk about you for a change?”

He’d said he was sorry before. He’d promised to be better.

And she believed him, then.

He’d spent enough time telling the truth that she believed he meant it when he apologized. When he made promises. When he spoke to her, she thought he meant the things he said.

I cheated on you, I’m sorry.

I lied to you, I’m sorry.

Now she questioned everything he had ever said. His apologies, his promises, his compliments, his kisses. Were those words so long ago just another lie? His promise to never lie to her, was that just the first lie of a thousand? As numerous as the hours they spent together. Did he ever intend to keep his words back then?

That was the unfortunate thing about lies; they could reside in even the most sincere of promises.

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

Long ago she’d wanted him to apologize. She’d been more than desperate to hear those words falling from his lips.

Now she knew they meant nothing. They could, and usually would, be just another lie. And, even if he meant them, they wouldn’t fix this aching hole he’d left in her chest.

She remembered herself at her wedding; them, the picture of a perfect, royal couple, his violet a compliment to her gold. Both of them practically shimmering, wearing traditional wedding attire—(though impossibly embellished and adorned)—and those goofy, light-filled smiles. The whole pantheon applauding, smiling, wiping away tears at their back.

In other countries, at weddings, they said they’d be together in sickness and health, till death did them part.

Did this count as sickness? As death?

Didn’t he break that promise? Did her promises matter after he broke his? Was her faith and faithfulness worth nothing anymore?

She now imagined herself in a black dress, standing at the back of that ceremony with a bow, and an arrow made of adamant, laced with the venom from a certain many headed monster, its gleam reflected in darkened gaze. She breathed out as they spoke, and loosed that arrow, shooting that girl in the back. Olympus shouted in vain, as she watched all that gold flow out of her past self, those blue eyes fade to a cool grey, keeping her from making the biggest mistake of her life. And she’d look at Zeus’ horrified face and think

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

That was surely better than this. Better than dying slowly, the blue in her eyes dimming day by day into lifeless grey still animated somehow, better than that gold leaking out of her with each forsaken sunrise she woke up next to him.

Would he be happy then? Without her? He could fuck around with whoever he wanted.

Would she be happier, dead, without all this?

There was no way she could have known, back then what their lives would become after a few millennia. How that god who held her hands and said he’d never lie to her, who hugged her and kissed her, and seemed so in love, could become dissatisfied. That lust would overtake him; he’d keep wanting more and more, gorging himself on it. She had no way of knowing that she wouldn’t be enough one day.

She was young, and innocent then, and didn’t know better.

She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Something flashed gold in the headlights before her, and for a second her mind manifested before her; she saw that golden girl still, her own hair draining down the street like liquid, that white wedding attire—old, ragged, covered in burns—her own naïve eyes, still full of light and life, staring up at her, terror overtaking their innocent frames. And her own eyes boiled.

The sound of breaking glass was like a cooling rain upon a fire that had been left raging too long.

*****

Zeus was doing important business work. Focus was imperative.

Someone knocked on the door. “Your majesty.”

He fumbled with the spinner he was playing with, dropping it on the floor, sitting upright. He folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat, trying to look professional.

“Yes? If it’s Hermes wanting to install racing tracks in the sky again—”

“Uh, n-no,” the messenger poked her head in the door, looking nervous, “It’s… about your wife.”

He blinked, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “…What’s does she want this time?”

“Um…” she swallowed, avoiding his gaze, “S-She’s been in a car accident.”

*****

Notes cont.: Do you guys have any ideas for what song I could use for Zeus for the next chapter? (I want the next chapter to be framed like this one--based around a song, but for him, and from his perspective.) Let's see...In the simplest terms, I'm looking for a song about someone who knows they've made mistakes and/or hurt someone, and wants to do better. It doesn't have to be kpop, it can be anything XD

I'm not sure if this fic makes it seem like I hate Zeus and think she should ditch him or something...I really really don't. That's kind of the point; I actually like him a lot, and am very excited to write his chapter. Hera is just (understandably, and rightfully so) really angry with him for treating her so poorly. and I was trying to convey that to the best of my abilities...but it does make him seem pretty douchey (and, let's be fair, he definitely can be). Their relationship is broken indeed...but I hope it's not beyond repair. (though...the myths don't give me much hope...).

Speaking of the myths, I know Zeus and Hera might not have been in love in the way I describe in this. I'm not very familiar with their early relationship in the myths, but let's just say I know them getting married certainly wasn't all sunshine and roses. And Rachel's been pretty accurate to the myths in her own way, so it may be true of them in LO too. But when LO Hades was talking about them in the past I kinda got the impression maybe they were at least somewhat in love, so I decided to go that route. Also, I don't know if using Ares' in the memory places things to early, I might change it to Hebe later...I just like the symbolism of using Ares, especially as I have him acting very differently then we know him as. I might decide to alter parts of this fic if and when she reveals more about their early relationship though, especially if this ends up being super inaccurate...

Sorry, I'm rambling now XD

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the fic!! I'd really apprecaite it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog to show your support!!!

77 notes · View notes

wilburmacaulay · 3 years

Text

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And I think for them. Anna Andreyevna stood with clasped hands looking at him imploringly. For the sake of our soldiers and their families we must eliminate 15 month tours. “More trouble than they’re worth, that lot. On the ride over to the 737 factory, I Tweeted out a photo of the AvGeeks on my bus and was told they looked sad. Take one step. Driver license and blue and green bifold wallet, all valued at $15; a fraudulent transaction of $5.81 was made on the PNC bank card; investigation ongoing. The other half of the vented area can be used to install a 120mm fan or small liquid cooling radiator.. That's down from 79.4 percent last May and 79.6 percent in April. I don know that they quite as big as they been in the past, size wise. Is it the issue of them taking jobs? That does seem logical at first, but does that mean that the US cannot support an expanding population? Or perhaps it can't sustain growth past a certain rate? Mexicans do take up jobs, but they also consume just like the rest of us. More followed, when they saw that no harm had come to those who went before. Let him wander off into a whorehouse alone while he lingered like a mooncalf in the square. Poor, child! She had never expected to find such friends, to win such love, and I saw with joy that her embittered little heart was softening and her soul was opening to us all. In the morning, when they ascertained that one of the slaves was dead, they were so shocked and indignant that they refused to eat in the house, and reproached Castleman with his cruelty. It's a fact: walking with dog is different than walking without. Charlie orders the emergency medical responders to set up a makeshift morgue. In this bikes btt usadas book, Adelaide Thom, who appears as Moth in The Virgin Cure, opens a tea shop with a partner, a former medical student, who describes herself as a witch. Dany looked for Ezzara and did not see her. McCardell was one of the first American designers to break away from the couture fashion culture of France. How full of joy and thanksgiving will you be, if you shall find yourself placed on the right hand! but how full of misery and despair, if the left shall be appointed as your portion! * * * *. In terms of dimensions, it is a sizeable fella, measuring 4.5 metres long, 1.8 metres wide and 1.7 metres tall. The ones the Others kill don’t stay dead … and they remember. You were looking through the eyes of the heart tree in your godswood. They lived on crushed acorns and raw fish. Additionally, free lunch will be offered on Saturdays during the grand opening event, March 26th and April 2nd, from 11am to 1pm. He shivered violently for hours, even when they cut him out of his sodden clothes, wrapped him in warm furs, and sat him by the fire. It was Passion Week, which fell that year very late; I went out in the morning; I was obliged to be at Natasha’s and I intended to return earlier in order to take Nellie out for a walk.

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evergreen-dryad · 4 years

Text

faces #1

You see — or rather she couldn't, wouldn't — Zouelle did not know which face to put on around Neverfell anymore, or rather she no longer knew, as easily as slipping on a pair of gloves everyday, how to react to her.

Everything had changed. Their very sky had been blown apart, and here was the real sky at last, as pale blue as robin's egg shell in the morning and all the varied things Neverfell had said it would be. It hurt to look at it sometimes.

Was there another sky above this one as well? Who knew? Did Neverfell? Neverfell, child from the Outer World, had never been long enough out there and couldn't exactly be said to be an authority of this new world they had crawled and clawed their way out for. Out of hungry clasping Caverna, into the light that hurt Zouelle to look at.

But she couldn't resist looking, each and every time, that slow inexorable rise and crack of the first sunrays on the mountain top, somewhere in between the thin line of the horizon and the land.

The sun is a scorching, burning egg of no paint she has ever seen that can do it justice. It is not just a pale shy sliver of yellow as the paintings - Uncle Max had had displayed up in his office, it sparkled and shone white, and as she learnt she really could not look at it for too long, even with the smoked glasses they had brought up.

This overworld was full of elusive sparkle, as she continued to learn as they journeyed over the vast spread of arid sand stretching far and wide, almost as infinite as the sea, as Neverfell had reassured, but never.

It was already surprising enough to watch water naturally flow over rocks and pools here, as clear as glass, as alive as any of the things that lived up here, water that rushed and rushed to have a purpose elsewhere, that was a vein that would continue to live on, water that cupped so many little things in it, not just the shards of sunlight that fell in (and was a natural jewel, unlike candlelight or traplight — had green traplight ever make anything sparkle the way sunlight does?), water that for the first time she saw could nourish so many other beings.

Strange new creatures she had never seen the like of before, the whistling winged bullets called birds, and humans like Neverfell.

The first time they met an overworld one, she finally understood Neverfell had never been one of them in the first place.

The face of the human boy in front of her shifted unnaturally (it really came naturally to Neverfell’s kind), not as clearly as Neverfell’s glass face, but it showed clearly his puzzlement, and his consideration to not mean harm to them. They were not Faces, shifting hardly from one to the next.

“Let’s go somewhere livable,” begins Zouelle.

Somewhere much less hot, and less dry, and less terrifying. Clearly no human really lived here, and Zouelle thought she would go mad if she had to look at this constant nothingness of sand — miles and yards of dry coarse powder that made her shrivel just from looking at it.

She wanted somewhere cool, with shade, with stone where she could work with her Wines. Somewhere — she could grow the grapes needed. Not that any of them have ever experienced growing things — plants — other than the traplights.

But now that she was out here, Zouelle was beginning to realise — she could do anything. She could go to the farms Uncle Max had told her about, watch how they coaxed those grapes they had used for thankless centuries to life, to burgeon.

Some of Neverfell’s talk has spurred some of the drudges to say they want to go to the sea too.

Erstwhile, to Zouelle’s annoyance, still sticks to them like a burr. Why on earth did Neverfell enjoy his company so much anyway? He was a braggart, that’s what he was, and now he had nothing to brag about, he hung around like the most sulky cloud with that nasty stiff face. Sometimes he made that simple angry face Neverfell had taught them all.

Sometimes she found Neverfell teaching him and others new Faces. She supposed Neverfell was now their Facesmith, and their universal communicator.

And their resident Inventor of New Things, clearly.

The thing that surprised both her and Grandible most, day to day, was the fact that most humans here were not out to backstab or kill them, not at first glance no. Perhaps some were shifty enough to want to rob. But it always helped, the fact that they could read the movements of their faces almost as clearly, while theirs were stone-faced, always.

And reputation helps. Don’t steal from the fairies, the rumours go before them.

There are people who will even do the odd gestures of fright — of falling to their knees, or turning away as if to hide, or flicking their fingers from forehead to shoulders.

(It is nothing like how fear is swallowed down instead of projected, how fear might be used as a cloying, simpering weapon instead to invoke pity.)

(Zouelle later finds out this is a gesture of those calling on their God to protect them. Zouelle finds the concept of gods — rather odd.)

It helps there is grizzled Grandible, a formidable sight, an old bear of an old man beside her to glare blackly at any shifty-faced slip. It helps that the stone faces of the drudges, following behind them, give the impression of an army.

It helps that many of the drudges, unused to this new day-and-night cycle, still routinely keep to being out-of-clock, and so there is always at least one up for guard duty. It helps that they have all now gained things of their own they want to protect, and Zouelle barely has to ask. It is not manipulative, she tells herself, not when all the drudges look at Neverfell and lope and shamble off to help her out.

And Neverfell and Grandible’s trapmaking comes in very useful. Never underestimate the resourcefulness of cheesemasters and drudges combined, she swears softly to herself.

//have some rough drafting i’ve been doing on this wip for femslash feb + A Face like Glass by Frances Hardinge!

current wips these days have been for small series that barely have fandoms, if at all. I’ll do my best to actually get the f/f ones out soon...

#a face like glass #wip wednesday #zouelle childersin #neverfell #my writing

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delicrieux · 5 years

Text

amortentia [young!tom riddle x reader] -final-

premise: two students start developing feelings for one another despite having too many secrets to count.

tagging: @cheshirecatbyul @junieyes @whaledenwtf @xoxomioxoxo @cherryvblossom @adidabach @sissieliang @patronusfire @rianrawr @gravitygemjj @aquariemm @storiiteller @fortisfiliae @imagines-all-day-everyday @redrupees @kurara-black-blog @pleuviors @songforhema @zaybmocx @justeveeeee @importanttyrantruler @sissieliang @milkchocolatepretzel @wontyoustandbyme

warnings: angst, sexual themes, descriptions of death, very morbid + disturbing imagery

a/n: this had been brewing in my mind since i read les diaboliques! thank you all for all the wonderful comments and kudos and all that jazz. truly. i started this project because there were no tom riddle fics, and if there were they were not nearly disturbing enough for my tastes. this last chapter is from tom’s point of view and i think you can already guess why. let me know what you think! thank you again for this amazing journey. it is finally time for the curtain to fall. p.s. thank you immensely to my seraph @macchiavellii for the aesthetic. divine, as per usual.

xx d

amortentia masterpost | masterlist | support me | commissions! |

10. The Crimson Curtain/ Odette

There is not enough substance in this world to feed Tom Riddle’s desire for power – power over things that cannot be controlled, and power over people that simply adore him. He had always fancied himself completely in control; since moving to Hogwarts, he had built a new image of himself, a skilfully crafted mask that no one would question, or peer behind it if they did. He is charming, and handsome, and devilishly sly, yet he presents a tender disposition of a diligent student – everyone’s dream. To him very few things matter and nothing matters very much. Yet there is this girl from his house, this gentle, naïve creature that had enough heart to defend him from bullies that years later would worship him on their feet; the same, graceful, roseate cheeked figure giving him the upmost respect and adulation of which she, herself, has none. He was her first everything and he knew this and held this secret with silent pride: her first love, her first kiss, her first everything. And as fitting, or so he thinks, clearly and coldly, it started with him and it shall end with him – she will die in his hands like a swan taking her last bow on stage, in her prettiest white dress and refined movements, so precise they are hurtful, and it will be the most beautiful thing to witness and he anticipated that moment with bated breath and morbid, dark eyes, wild with wonder, drunk on lust.

The days slip by slowly at the Riddle Manor, its strange halls dark and the outside fields misty. The roses that had bloomed in the garden had wilted from the harsh wind; alien grey clouds dotted the sunless sky like a picture void of all colour, of all happiness. Then it got hot again, humid, the stench of old wood and the lingering whiff of death and blood floated in these halls as if a permanent tenant, unable to leave, bringing nothing but a sense of melancholy and acceptance. The nights are cold, bigger than imagining; black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars. It brought a sense of tranquillity, its vastness, though a looming sense of finality, too. (Name) had long ago accepted her fate as a soul to be sacrificed to the Mighty Death itself and Tom had no qualms about that: she accepted it with his first tender touch in confession, accepted it again on the train ride to Little Hangleton, and reconfirmed it with a scorching, delicious kiss. He wanted to devour her like Saturn devoured his sons, like Goya in fretful grey-brown colours depicted on the verge of his madness. He could not share her with anyone else; she is too precious to even bathe in the curious eye of anyone else. It pained him horribly to even imagine it.

Her room is on the second floor, the very last one, spacious and adorned with viridian sheets and cheerful depictions of the Victorian past via paintings framed in glossy wood. Her window overlooks the dead roses and the faraway cabin of the caretaker, who, for days oblivious, stumbles about his home, in his mind certain he had conversed with the Riddle family and watered the flowers, cut the grass, cheerily gave the children candy he used to love as a child himself. A red curtain, satin, soft as her skin, hung above the aforementioned window, swayed from the breeze. They had spent many nights within this room, it now trapping many whispers and groans of his name, embedded into the walls, into the pillows, and the taste of kisses and metallic blood only fuelled this famishing carnal desire.

And it is dark again and he is drawn to her door like a soul is drawn to the afterlife, feeling, in a dreamlike state, the air tonight being electric and different. The hallway is shadowy and he makes no sound as he moves to the handle, his hot hand burning from touching its cold metal surface. The door opens with a ghastly creek and he enters the cool, moonlit room. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring somewhere outside the open window, a candle burning on its sill and flicking with the curtain of rouge behind it, twirling, caressing the air in its sensual dance. She slowly turns her head to him, her features lily-like, submerged in water; she appears as a seraph that climbed down from heaven to wait for him by the foot of the bed. Though this seraph, this divine, lovely creature has its wings clipped, and blood streams lazily from her nose, drips on her nightgown, appearing black in the shade.

“Were you waiting for me?” He asks, knowing the answer. She faintly nods, tilting her head and watching her feet with an empty, lonely look. He approaches her vigilantly, not yet ready to let go this picturesque, medieval image of her, so waxen, so completely lifeless. He sits next to her, his hand coming to rest on hers. Hers feels like marble, cold and sculpted. He brings the hand to his lips, kisses it softly, thinking he shall warm it with his caress, all the while watching her closely in wonder and curiosity. She barely reacts, only the sides of her pale lips quirk upwards, and the faint glow of love lights up in her eyes, and she gazes back at him, through him, drifting between this world and the next. Still grasping her hand, his other lands on the back of her neck, careful to hold her as if she was something pitifully fragile. He lays her down onto the velvety, glossy sheets.

He looks into her eyes and he sees the ocean in their barren depths. It mesmerizes him, makes his breath hitch in his throat; the trickle of red dyes her cupid bow in the prettiest rouge lipstick. He kisses her, a kiss that is strangely unlike him, a kiss full of emotion so strong his heart nearly lunges out of his chest to beat for hers. Her pulse drums helplessly in her lips, on the side of her jaw where his hand moves to rest. He pulls away slightly, enraptured, and she rasps something melodious in blood written notes.

“Ma mort…” Her voice is an alluring siren’s call.

“Ma vie…” He whispers in between kisses.

She unfolds in his grasp like a rose, breathless and beautiful, and he kisses her neck, her collarbones, retraces the spots he had marked the night before with growing eagerness. He captures her lips again, this time void of any tenderness he had exhibited prior, and she returns it with unexpected keenness. Her limbs sputter by her sides as if she wants to grasp him, yet her hands fall back to bed before she has the chance to run her fingers through his hair. He growls, deep, in the back of his throat, because she tastes like heaven, his heaven, his own personal Eden.

Her last dance, her last arch to his roaming lips as they trail down the curve of her breasts. He calls her name with a gentle groan, barely a whisper. Her skin is frost. It does not heat no matter how much he touches it, and the night is dead silent suddenly, and the hand that had been wrapped around her throat feels as if something is amiss. He pulls away from her, sits uptight, and for a moment, or perhaps a minute, or a whole eternity, he stares at the pale, haunting body of a girl laying eerily still. Her eyes gaze into oblivion with alarming emptiness, and the light of the flickering candle reflects warmly in her eyes.

He cannot explain this feeling, cannot trap it within the constraints of his lexis. He trembles, lightly at first, then almost violently, her blood still warm on his lips. He feels horror grip his throat; settle in the pit of his stomach like a serpent. And he feels awe hitting him in waves of opalescent ecstasy. Beauty, true beauty, is terror. He had never seen something so absolutely sublime.

In a daze, Tom Riddle stands and wanders to the window. White wax drips from the candle. He leans in by the fire, exhales sharply and the fire sniffs out leaving put spirals of grey smoke. He slowly closes the window, his hands still shivering. Lastly he draws the curtain over it. What little light was in the room is now replaced by a sinister red glow.

He never felt so powerful, never so ethereal. Finally… it dawns onto him.

It is happiness he feels. Happiness scorched with abysmal pain.

fin.

#tom riddle #Young Tom Riddle #Harry Potter #imagine #imagines #harry potter fanfiction #hp #tom riddle x reader #reader #reader insert #xreader #tom x reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagines #hogwarts #*hp #amortentia #based on the first chapter of les diaboliques #angst

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northwind4 · 5 years

Text

Dearest WingDings（9）

*It's a story about HandPlates! Gaster and Wing! Gaster

*I’ll appreciate it very much if you point out the mistakes I made in the translation, all kinds of help are welcomed!

*previous & next

*Handplates by @zarla-s

Wing!Gaster by me

———————————————

Chapter9

“I hope that you’ll remember me.”

140

The ground of the core was shaking.

W: How’s it now?

N: The quantum magma has changed, and its energy is beyond our control!

Shel: The lava deep in the ground is rising, the whole underground will be flooded it doesn’t stop...

W: ...

W: Calm down, we will handle this.

W: Shel and N go to evacuate the residents near the core, Ginger and Bow assist the King to prepare, and Katy you come with me.

141

Wing put on the protective suit.

Katy: Doctor? Are you...

Katy: Do you want to go to the core and turn off the energy by force? !

Katy: The protective suit will be destroyed in that high temperature!

Wing got in the operation van and unloaded the trunk.

Katy: Even if you are in the vehicle, it is useless!

W: Well, help me maximize the fire protection system then.

Katy: Listen to me Doctor! NONE of this can guarantee your safety!

W: Shh. Easy.

W: I never wanted these to keep me safe.

W: I just need these to make me hold on a little longer.

142

W: The core energy can’t be turned off that easy, otherwise the situation will not be so serious now.

W: I designed it. I know its structure better than all of you, and only I have a way to stop this disaster.

He started the engine.

W: Hey, don’t be that sad.

W: Look at me, Katy

W: I look cool now, don’t I?

143

The operation van ran through the flames.

W: So hot here...

W: It’s a pity that I can’t talk to Sans and Papyrus for the last time—

A familiar voice came from the intercom.

Asgore: GASTER! Where are you and what are you doing!

At the same time there came the cries of the boys.

Sans & Papyrus: Daddy!

144

W: Gosh...

W: Shh...no crying, no crying my dear, dad’s heart is gonna break

Sans: where are you? asgore says it’s dangerous here!

Papyrus: WE ARE LEAVING BUT WE COULDN’T FIND YOU!

W: (Oh please, your majesty)

W: ...dad has work to do

W: It is very important work. It may take a long time and I will be back later.

W: Be good boys when daddy is away, okay?

145

The high temperature made the vehicle screamed on the verge of breaking down.

Papyrus: WILL YOU TELL US THE BEDTIME STORY TONIGHT?

W: Sorry sweetie, maybe next time

Sans: will you take us to Waterfall to watch the stars this weekend?

W: ......

He took a deep breath.

W: Okay, that’s a deal.

146

The wheels began to melt, Wing abandoned the operation van before it ran out of control.

He heard his protective suit squeaking.

W: Hey Sans, my boy, would you do me a favor?

W: When dad is away, tell the bedtime stories for your brother, okay?

He didn’t hear any response, the walkie-talkie fell to the ground in flames.

147

Wing opened the door of the control room, the heat waves flooded out and melted his protective suit all at once. He didn’t even have time to let out a scream, the burning air poured into his chest and destroyed everything inside.

W: ...no...

He fell to the ground on fire.

W: I still...no...

Wing’s white lab coat had become scorched black, a small card with children’s doodles on it fell out of the pocket and quickly got burned.

148

The HP came to ZERO, Wing felt his soul falling apart.

......

BUT IT REFUSED.

149

The scientist stood up again.

Wing moved towards the control panel.

He felt his body melting.

He also felt himself full of determination.

150

W: Although this is only an assumption

W: The energy of “DETERMINATION” is beyond our imagination. It can sustain the monster’s life, can burst out huge power, and even reverse time and space.

W: Now it seems...correct.

W: And the theory of multiverse...according to the data, this accident should be caused by it.

W: If I am right, the core will be stabilized with the power of DETERMINATION.

W: Come on.

He activated the device.

150.5

W: The machine over there... I need it.

He tried to use magic hands, but they melted and obviously their owner hadn’t got used to this.

W: No...now how can I—

W: Ugh

Black tentacles grew out of his back and reached towards where he wanted. It felt like this body had some new parts.

W: WOW...fine

W: Let’s fight.

The scientist quickly operated the equipment, and the tentacles reached out to both sides, giving him every assistance.

Looked like a pair of huge wings.

151

The temperature finally dropped, together with the underground lava liquid. All machines returned to operation, everything was back to normal.

Wing stepped out of the control room, watching the waveless quantum magma under the long bridge.

W: Oh WingDingsGaster

W: You are a genius

152

W: It seems that

W: I have saved the world?

W: With the price...

He started turning to dust.

W: Hey

W: I don’t want to disappear like this.

W: What about doing something super crazy at last?

He jumped down the bridge.

153

Wing felt the howling wind.

W: Save the world and then go to explore the endless unknown, sounds cool, isn’t it?

W: ...

W: ...sorry, boys

W: I mean, see you later.

He fell into the bright golden sea with opening arms, as if he was going to embrace the infinity of vast universe.

154

W: That’s it, the other half of the story you want.

W: I can’t go back to my world, but I went to a lot of parallel universes. In one of them, I saw the Gaster there fell into the core, and then everyone forgot him.

W: So I thought, maybe they had forgot me too?

Gaster did not respond.

155

W: Let’s move on to something else

W: I found that no matter what happened, most of the Gasters fell into the core

W: So maybe we can make an assume

W: Does every world have to have “A Gaster who fell into the core”?

W: So now, my appearance meets this condition

W: Then we can infer that you will not fall again

G: ...

156

W: Wow I’m gonna be convinced by myself.

W: Should this be called like “Law of Conservation of Gasters”or what—

G: Enough.

W: And then we can—

G: I say ENOUGH.

W: Huh?

G: Don’t force yourself to smile if you don’t want to.

Gaster leaned forward and mentioned the other one to stay closer.

Then he gave Wing a hug.

157

Wing admitted that he was at a loss for that moment, the hug was really unexpected.

“You’re a great person.” Gaster whispered against Wing’s shoulder, at where Wing couldn’t see he glowed his eyes.

Wing hugged back after a short period of silence, Gaster heard his sigh.

“I’m far from it.” Wing closed his eyes, his voice trembled slightly.

“I can’t even keep my promise.”

#wing!gaster #gaster #handplates #dearest wingdings #wingdingses

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essektheylyss · 5 years

Text

as he falls from the sky

Perhaps his fall from grace would not feel so wrong if there weren't so many people around him to catch him. Guilt is a dizzying thing.

Post-97, no major warnings. Ao3 link here if you wanna read there or check out the tags!

He’s unused to being on the ocean, and every rock of the boat, however gentle in the Nicodranas harbor, feels like another lurch forward, like a fall. Like that moment before falling asleep, when your mind drops and you are startled awake by vertigo, over, and over, and over.

But it’s not just the ocean, is it? This is the fall. He’s been waiting for decades for the tightrope he’s been walking to break, and now he’s spiraling downward, eyes closed tight so as not to catch sight of the ground rising up to meet him at terminal velocity.

He’s always prided himself on his ability to float. He’d hoped maybe he could keep it up forever. He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

The soft surface of the hammock in the cabin they’ve settled him in—well guarded, he’s sure, though they didn’t say as much—might as well be cement, for all the comfort it brings him.

There will be no sleep for him tonight, he knows. His skin burns where Jester squeezed his hand and Caleb kissed his head, and their affection is a like a brand—imagining it as a burn is the only way he can feel like it’s something he deserve. But these marks they’ve bestowed upon him tie him to them in a way that endangers them, but he doesn’t think they’re willing to take them back.

And they know, he thinks, the way they’ve spoken about the Assembly, how much danger he has put them in just by caring about them.

But he thinks of throne rooms and white dragons and devils and remembers that danger has never driven them away from saving one of their own, and he is, against all odds, now one of them. He only prays that he is worth saving.

Funny. He’s never prayed in his life, not sincerely anyway, and though he is uncertain to what entity he is appealing right now, it is certainly a prayer in his mind.

The gentle rock of the hammock feels too much like a descent, and he stands finally, his breath short and catching in his chest, and he pushes the door to the tiny room open, holding onto what little air he can take in, expecting to get reprimanded, but… no one is in the hallway outside. The ship is silent aside from the occasional creak of the wood hull.

He can’t bring himself to float, not here, not tonight, and he also can’t bring himself to cover his footsteps, and they still fall, even as light as they are beneath his weight, with hollow thuds on the stairs.

It is still so dark on the deck, most of the lamplight of Nicodranas extinguished now, but the stars overhead are bright enough that his keen eyes have no difficulty in picking out the lone figure standing at the railing across the deck.

Perhaps he is being guarded after all, more subtly than a locked door or a set of chains. After Caleb’s attempt to cuff him at the party, he had half-expected to be chained in his room.

This is almost worse—any modicum of trust they award him feels like an admittance that they do not understand how much of a danger he is. Nothing he touches comes away uncorrupted, but he also does not think they are fools.

The cool ocean air comes in gulps as he tries to find his breath again, liberated from the musky weight of his cabin. He walks to the railing.

When Caleb meets his eye, he doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he barely glances over, his eyes fixed on the darkened city. “The docks are crawling with Crownsguard, and it bodes poorly for either of us to be seen together by anyone associated with the Assembly. Perhaps you should be in disguise.”

Essek ducks his head until he can place it in his own hands, elbows resting on the railing in a mirror to Caleb. “I… I don’t know that I can face you all as anything other than what I am. Not anymore.”

“We are going to protect you,” Caleb murmurs, “but we need you to protect yourself in order to do that.”

Essek sighs, and his fingers flit in the air, tracing a few runes, before a disguise falls back over his form, different than the one he had presented to the Martinet. He is not that much of a fool.

“It’s alright though,” Caleb continues as Essek allows himself to stand up straighter again, “we wear many masks here. It’s only fitting.”

Essek frowns at him, though he has no idea how much Caleb can see of his expression in the dark.

Caleb laughs though, so he must’ve seen it, understood the intention behind it, because he says, “Caleb Widogast is not… not the name I had when I was under the tutelage of Trent Ikithon. In fact…” He presses almost instinctively at the bandages on his arms—the sleeves of his robes had hidden them, earlier, but back in more comfortable clothing, his sleeves are rolled up, and the gritty wrappings are exposed to the night air. “I was a very different person then. Not physically but…” His voice trails off, and he peers into the sea below them. “That boy died a long time ago.”

Essek’s mouth is dry, and he has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “When did you study under Trent?”

“Oh, I began with him almost… I think almost fifteen years ago, now,” he says softly, and Essek remembers his interactions with the Scourger, their quick Zemnian conversation before she’d tried to kill him. The small bits of information he’d gleaned from veiled conversations with the Martinet over the past several decades. For all of his poor decisions, Essek is a clever man.

“Caleb.” He’s never been so uncertain of what steps to take next, not even when he didn’t touch the ground. But he is certain that he needs to know this. “I have no right to ask you for anything, but I…” He swallows hard. “May I see your arms?”

Caleb startles now, though he doesn’t seem alarmed, only surprised. “Why?”

“If you worked with Trent, and he has been…” One hand rests in the air over Caleb’s wrist. “Will you permit me?”

Wordlessly, Caleb offers his arm, and Essek’s face burn where he unwraps the bandages. He is grateful it’s dark enough that Caleb won’t notice the color in his cheeks. When the scars are laid bare, the designs are unmistakable, geometric patterns that mirror the ones he has traced so many times in notes and research. “What did he do to you?”

“Residuum,” Caleb answers, and he winces as he remembers. His forearm still rests in Essek’s palms, and Essek imagines the touch sears another brand into his palm, but he cannot bring himself to let go. “There were residuum crystals here, in lines and points.” Essek keeps expecting him to pull his arm away, but neither of them move. “It’s odd; I saw some of… some of my former peers, a little while ago, when they allowed us to inspect the beacon, and they now have tattoos in similar design instead.”

“That is… puzzling.”

“You know something of this?”

Essek wets his lips and shakes his head. “No, no, I have not been told of this. But it certainly appears to me to be dunamantic in nature.”

“And you are something of an expert, hmm?” Caleb asks, and Essek knows his own arrogant words thrown back at him when he hears them. There is no malice in their tone, though, nor in Caleb’s smile, and he still doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches between them as a set of guards passes by on the docks below, and that sensation of vertigo washes over Essek again. Instinctively, he grips the only thing he can—Caleb’s arm, and Caleb’s hands find his own arms, grasping onto him tightly.

“Are you alright?”

“I… I think so. Tonight has been… overwhelming.”

“Yes,” Caleb smiles again. “We can be an overwhelming lot.”

Part of Essek wants to scream at that, wants to rage against the kindness of Caleb’s scorched fingers on his arms, the place where Essek can still feel his lips on his forehead. He deserves none of it, and every extension of that kindness only brings the ground hurtling closer. The impact has not come, and yet it must.

But at the same time, with his feet firmly on the deck and Caleb holding onto him, it is almost like he can feel the ground. Perhaps a softer landing is not impossible for him after all, cradled in the battered, straining wings of his friends. The burden of his mistakes might not be too heavy to carry, with all of them around him.

His friends.

He is burning, drowning, falling, all at once, but when he finds Caleb’s blue eyes in the dark, swimming back into focus, he gets the faintest idea that, of everyone in the world he could’ve met, this group of people—how broken, he cannot say, but he has seen the fear that he feels behind their eyes—understand that the most.

Everything blurs again, but this time it is because of the tears that have risen to his eyes, and before he can speak Caleb’s arms wrap around his shoulders. The sob catches in his throat before he can make a sound, maintaining composure to the end—it is the last of his dignity that he can cling to, but with his face buried in Caleb’s shoulder, he allows the tears to fall.

“This is not a kindness I am worthy of,” he chokes out finally, but Caleb doesn’t move.

“We have not asked what you believe yourself worthy of,” he responds, and the growl of his voice rumbles in his chest. “We offer you the kindness that in the past we have withheld from ourselves.”

Essek has no response to that, but it is the last protest he thinks to give them as Caleb grounds him—to the ship, to the group, to what life he may yet live. And now that he has touched it, been given permission to land, he cannot give up the sweet kiss of the earth anymore.

#essek thelyss #critical role #cr spoilers #I am in ! so ! much ! pain !#please go listen to The Amazing Devil's new album #it's excellent and I'm projecting essek feels onto half of the songs #(the title is from the song This Unwanted Animal)#this isn't really ship related it's really just essek/happiness #give this boi a fuckin hug basically!!!

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

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Wordtober Day 8: Frail

FOREWORD before we dwell into this mess: some of the events described here, just so you know, are actually real. Specifically, the fire that consumed Chartres and the collapse of the choir of Beauvais. It just wasn’t the devil, just shitty master builders. The Sacré Coeur does not exist. I made it up. I named it Scaré Coeur cause every fucking church in France in the 13th century was called Notre Dame and I need a break.

Also, though this is set in the 13th century, the Latin prayer you’ll read is actually from the 19th century, before some pesky historian comes bothering me -- I KNOW, I just don’t give a fuck cause this is fiction. It’s the same with the latin quote about the devil, I KNOW it’s from that one book fake satanists made it cool though it’s actually about witch-hunting and not that deep, but fuck it man, it’s what we get.

Moving on to some Christian horror (I hope to God you understand what Frail plays into here). Be warned of some gore and extremely violent themes ahead.

The man stood, silent and still, at the centre of the choir. He did not look ahead at the altar; instead, his back was turned to the Cross and he inspected every believer that sat on the pews, heads bent in devotional prayer. Abbot Odo though there was something disconcerting to him. He was so still one could easily mistake him for a forsaken statue, and his eyes were cold and buried deep into his craggy face, pale skin poorly stretched over his semblance, marked by angular wrinkles that crisscrossed around his sockets and the corners of his lips.

The silence that settled seemed to emanate from within himself, and realizing this, abbot Odo made the sign of the cross and swallowed a deep sigh. The man standing at the choir raised his head to the dome above him, his eyes dancing across the angular ribs of the tall vault, and his hands came together like in a prayer, but they relaxed at his lap instead. He dressed in black: black cape flapping freely around his shoulders, and black gambeson beneath chainmail. A scabbard hung from his waist, from which the bright silver pommel protruded. His trousers were scratched and ragged, as if worn through many travels, and abbot Odo could swear there were stains of red.

He wanted to believe him a knight. Many came to the Sacrée Coeur to pray, to cleanse themselves of hellish visions acquired in the battlefield – their brothers cut to pieces, members chopped with the swing of an arm, and cries of pain and misery that would forever resonate inside their ears. They believe it to be for God, but came back with the desolation of a Godless mind. They had seen burning hot oil poured onto the bodies of the foot soldiers clambering a rope ladder, up the walls of a fortress, and prayed for Jerusalem as their skins came peeling off, flesh bubbling red and pink in jarring pain as their eyes bulged for one last cry of horror. They had watched the lances and wheezing blades stab their friends though the chest, and the sound of cracking bone and gurgling blood echoed still in their consciences. Mumbled prayers from dying men became litanies they would forever repeat, and poison shook them in shudders and cold sweat as they lingered between the worlds. Before their eyes, desolation, but hope too: hope that, now, having fought in the name of God, the Pearly Gates would offer them Eternity, hope that a life of bloody brutality, away from their families, babes and pregnant women left behind, would at least be worth a noble death and a heavenly pardon.

But abbot Odo knew there was always a moment of hesitation, a moment where – haunted by this life of constant warmongering – they would face Christ and the Elders in their Judgement and tremble in fear of being cast out of heavenly Jerusalem. They feared mercy existed not for a man earning crowns in the business of death. They feared they had acquired a fondness for blood, a passion for swinging a blade, and on the moment the Archangel would weight their souls, their corrupted selves would reveal a life tarnished by bloodlust. They feared it would be the Devil the one to see their taste for putrid flesh and broken bone, and in the flames of Hell, they would remain shackled to constant torment.

Many came to the Sacrée Coeur to pray, to release themselves, to find absolution in the bosom of the Virgin, or seek inspiration and salvation from Saint Matthew. Many found solace and piety in tears shed before the image of Saint Stephen, while others adored the image of the dragon below Saint Theodore, and thought all their nightmares existed there, in the monstrous creature. Perhaps they had led a similar battle, and who they had fought was not the Saracens nor the barbarians from the north, but the evil cast unto the world by Satan himself.

For a brief moment, abbot Odo thought the man standing at the choir could be one such man, seeking redemption by bringing his hands together for something other than holding a sword. But as abbot Odo blinked his eyes, he realized he was wrong. Very wrong.

He had heard the tales before, had even witnessed it once. The Devil tempted in many a manner, seeking to blend in with the world it sought to scorch and destroy, to wipe it clean of beauty and serenity, sowing death and destruction – and sometimes, the Devil was successful. Of all the tales of Satan taking the shape of something recognizable, hiding its horns and demonic tail – something terrifyingly friendly – the one that frightened abbot Odo the most was when he appeared as a man.

He could be a haggling one, clad in ratty clothes, ripped shirt and dirty nails, hand stretched out with pious eyes as he begged for a silver coin to support a wife and a child, seeking charity out of those with good in their hearts, only to reveal himself as a skinflint disgrace, drunk and relishing in sin, between the bosoms of harlots and gambling in dingy, filthy towns, dragging the innocent into his vices. He could be a noble of clean-shaven appearance, wearing a finely stitched doublet and a cape held by the wealthiest of brooches, offering a helping hand to a woman who carried a basket, only to snatch her away and maim her with depravity and filth, stealing her honour, her earnings and her life, until her naked corpse would be found afloat in the river, drained of blood. Sometimes, he was even a man of Faith, wearing the robes of a clergyman, though no cross would ever be visible on their chests, and they would sneak into abbeys and bring about the sins to sow depravity all around, and destruction would follow: fires devouring the altar, food thrown in the waters and gone to waste, wells poisoned and a community sentenced to starvation and drought – and the brothers resting eternally, with blood squirting out of their throats and guts spilling out of their bellies, limbs sawn off and teeth pulled out. Most daunting of all, they always seemed to do it to each other.

The Devil would wipe his hands clean and say with a grin: my work here is done.

But there was one other abbot Odo knew of – the one he had seen before. He was a traveller – sometimes a merchant, sometimes a knight – and he carried in his clothes the dirt and filth to prove it, though never a horse, a mule or a wagon. It was said that, when he took the shape of a wanderer, carrying sword or dagger, he did not seek to corrupt others; he did not attempt to plant the seed of sin in the innocent, nor tempt a believer into wickedness and villainy. His goal was not to cause bloodshed, not to spread about the corpses of the innocent, not to steal the honour of a young maid. His goal, then, was to destroy.

To destroy the House of God through the hands of His own believers.

He had first heard of him when he was initiated in the Fontevreu Abbey, of a fire that had engulfed Chartres and destroyed near all of its main church: the people watching in horror as the flames rose to the tower and licked the bell atop; the tears shed at the sight of the house of Mary being engulfed by the scorching blaze. A priest had salvaged the mantle of the Virgin, hiding the relic beneath his clothes, and against the columns of rising smoke, coughing out the ash and fending off the flames, he saw, standing in the middle of the choir, a man: a man as motionless as any statue, with eyes glinting red, no pupils to be seen but a dark, hollow slit, like those of a snake. The flames licked his body, but he did not burn; the shadows danced around him like whores of Babylon, and small, blackened talons caressed the edges of his hands and feet. From behind, as the fire rose to a hellish rebuke, big and engulfing wings spread, and his mouth tore abnormally wide, sharp teeth and hissing tongue, his skin undulating before the dancing shapes of blackness that embraced him, brows jutting forward and claws ripping the skin of his fingers. The priest blessed himself and ran, certain it was the Devil that had destroyed the holy home of Mary. Yet against the auspices of Satan, he had saved Mary's blessed mantle.

Two years before he arrived at the Sacré Coeur, abbot Odo had stopped briefly in Beauvais to witness its constructions. Abbot Odo had been marvelled at the sight: the wooden scaffolding rising tall and high as the sounds of pickaxe and stilettos against the stone echoed by. On the ground, thin lines marked the church's nave, and he walked with awe in his heart, down to the choir, projecting a dream onto those lines he saw grow into steady walls, slender columns and thick piers. It was even taller than Amiens.

Abbot Odo had stood in the middle of the choir, observing the intricate vaulting above his head, the nerves dashing across the white stone in a promise of grandeur. Then, he had looked back and found a man there, right behind him. He wore a great black cape, closed around his body, which only allowed his tarnished, worn-out leather boots to be seen, and no weapon in sight. His hands moved and joined each other on his lap, but he did not pray. Then, abbot Odo looked into his eyes and there he saw the mark of Lucifer: bright red like blood, and two black slits for pupils – and in an instant, the earth quivered and began to shape to Satan's will.

He heard a scream and a crack; a gust of wind swept past, so strong he saw women holding on to their veils with a cry for help, and children collapsing on their feet as the gale made the foundations of the cathedral tremble. But the man stood. Like a tree rooted to the ground, he did not shudder. Another crack, and abbot Odo saw the wooden scaffolding snap and break, and people came falling down like rain, smashed on the ground, their skulls cracked open and blood pooling beneath their bodies. The wind sang, and the man remained – motionless and cold. His eyes glinted, and shapes danced around him, talons sweetly fondling his shoulders, and the darkness that loomed seemed to seduce him like a harlot. He parted his lips, tearing across his face into an ugly, gut-wrenching smile, and pointy teeth peered into a grin of malice. Though it had been a sunny day, the skies filled themselves with thick, grey clouds, and the wind blew stronger than anything abbot Odo had ever witnessed.

He blinked his eyes, and within a moment, the man was gone, but something remained; when he watched the vault above him crumble and stone began to rain down on the people below, at last, he turned back, ran into safety, and saw a devilish shape draw itself against the walls. A figure danced, crowned with horns and jutting talons at the edges of its fingers, and black wings spread behind, setting flight before the destruction it had just sowed, watching victoriously the men of God crushed to death by heavy boulders.

The ceiling fell, and the beautiful cathedral of Beauvais was shrouded in ash and dust. From the rubble, groans of pain appeared, and as the wind stopped, the ground began to paint itself red. Outside, the cries of women rose to the skies, and thick grey clouds slid away, casting light into the Devil's destruction.

Now, he stood again before him, and abbot Odo felt an urgency beneath his skin. The man lowered his gaze and found the abbot's; a sweeping wind blew, and his eyes – deep red and with two slits for pupils – glinted. His lips tore menacingly into a smile, a smile abbot Odo had known before – a smile of all malevolent things, disjointed and fearsome, ripping his elastic flesh until threads of skin stitched themselves together like a ripped, ragged cloth.

Abbot Odo gave a step forth, but the ground quivered; he stopped, glanced around. Everywhere, eyes snapped open and heads rose from prayer, and the imminence of disaster settled slowly. A woman grabbed her child by the hand and ran through the nave and out the door, but the others watched; abbot Odo thought he should leave, but there was something he needed to do first.

He would not let Satan win again.

"Leave!" He shouted. "Leave now!"

He was unsure if he was expelling Satan or passing a message to the believers, but nobody moved; abbot Odo launched himself forward before the man who stood impeccable, his hands softly resting on one another above his lap, those sharp teeth glinting as shadows began to swirl around him like trusting companions of all his heinous acts. He heard a crack and stopped; behind him, men and women raised their eyes to the ceiling above, and abbot Odo felt a bitter urgency of stopping an impending Apocalypse.

He gave another step, but stopped once more. Now, something pushed him back, and it hurt to keep his eyes open. He grabbed the thick chain around his neck and pulled the heavy silver cross from beneath his clothes; the touch brought him comfort yet it prickled his fingers, and through his chapped lips, he murmured a prayer – but his words wafted by unheard, for he was now in the domain of the Devil. When he snapped his eyes open, the man in front of him was twisting and shaping himself into his true form; abbot Odo blessed himself once, twice, three times, as he watched the horrid transformation take place.

He heard bone crack, joints snap, and flesh bubbled beneath the undulating, quivering skin. On the clothes around his body, holes formed as it if they burned from within, and the abbot saw the chainmail burning bright red as it melted and sunk into his skin, slender columns of smoke rising from his insides. His shoulders popped as he shook them, pointy and angular like two flying buttresses spreading outwards, and the arms bent back and forth in inhumane ways; from his hands, long claws ripped through his flesh, blood slithering in thick drops, as the creature opened its mouth to let a slick, rubbery tongue out, and a bellow that carried the deep stench of sulphur and rot wafted in the air. It smelled of burned flesh. It smelled of a thousand corpses. It smelled of a hundred fetid things the abbot deemed only worthy of a battlefield. It was the spirit of all men of war sentenced to hellish torment by the scale of Holy Michael, the souls of the damned who had killed for pleasure. Those who did not seek to repent before Saint Theodore, because they had never slain the dragon.

Abbot Odo quivered as much as the ground, and inside his chest, his heart pumped in cold dread. Drenched in sweat, he clung to the silver crucifix and prayed – an endless string of prayers, stitched together by his rapidly moving lips, as he watched, horror gripping his throat, robbing his lungs of air – and the creature danced in dark and red. The shadows now rose almost as high as the Devil, and they lurched themselves at the body of their Master; from below his twisted, animalistic feet, the floor cracked and lines of red and orange shined through. Abbot Odo began to feel incredibly hot, as if a volcano erupted below his very feet, and the silver of his cross started to burn the tips of his fingers.

Then, the walls and ceiling began to cave in; abbot Odo saw the fissures in the stone crawling like worms, past the shadows, like water running upwards, and trembled when the first loud crack echoed. A boulder fell, smashing pews to splinters, and above him, a hole tore itself open to let in the sunlight that fought and lost against the grey clouds. The creature in front of abbot Odo raised a hand, and a loud clang sang across the hollow nave – the front door was shut.

Abbot Odo looked back and saw people – trapped people – banging on the thick wooden doors with their fists. Then, in a fit of silent madness, they all stopped – frozen to their feet entirely – and their eyes painted themselves red. Their mouths opened, a collective hiss resonated around in unison, and they all lurched at each other. Before it began, abbot Odo somehow felt a stench he thought to be of hatred.

Horrified, abbot Odo saw their finger dig into their clothes, fingernails ripping skin apart and poking their eyes out; they grabbed candelabra, pieces of wood and broke, with inhuman force, the stone sword of St Theodore, and slashed their bellies until bowels wrapped in red slithered out like demonic snakes; he saw with paralyzing terror as they were driven into heinous insanity, falling deeper into the Devil's temptation, killing for pleasure with not a cry of pain, but many a growl of delight. They killed, they maimed, they tortured each other; and when the pain wasn't enough to satisfy their hunger for blood, they filled their hands with torn-off flesh and shoved it deep into their mouths, or dug their sharp teeth into their legs and arms. Breathless, abbot Odo watched as they devoured each other, as Hell materialized before his eyes and the Damned consumed the poor innocents entirely, who ate and clawed until blood fell from their teeth and their chins painted themselves in red – until they fell into lifeless beings, and the nave was riddled with the maimed corpses of God's creatures.

It seemed to last forever; it seemed time stopped so Satan could relish in his creation. And abbot Odo, gripped in paralyzing terror, watched.

The ground quivered again, the walls trembled; those who had not died at the hands of the Satan's madness looked up and saw as death approached in the form of a boulder that smashed their skulls and crushed the rest of their bones. The smell of sulphur rose, but now it blended with the stench of a thousand battlefields – blood and flesh, dirt and fire. The walls shook, and soon, the house of God would crumble over Satan's victims.

Before the abbot, the man was not a man anymore, but the Devil in full. Abbot Odo saw the curling tail behind it and the slender claws of its hands clench; its tongue curled and twisted, and from its mouth came a malodorous stench abbot Odo could not identify anymore. And the walls shuddered, and the ceiling groaned. The world was not coming to an end, but it might as well have begun then; the Devil made the wheels turn.

Then, the creature tore its lips open, and in a guttural growl that reverberated in a cold vibrancy all around, it spoke:

"Opus dei potest opere Diaboli omnio vitiari."

Abbot Odo collapsed on his knees, and fatigue possessed him. Clinging to his cross still, he watched the holy altar crumble down, candles tumbled over and their flame kissing the fabrics of curtains and flowers sweetly enough that they rose. The eyes of Holy Mary became engulfed by a sea of bright orange and yellow, and the paint of her stony face cracked and melted, until a skeletal remnant of her beauty remained; the vestments of Saint Anne crumbled into ash, and the babe on her lap fell over, its little head cracking and smashed to a thousand pieces; like in a demonic omen, the book of Saint Matthew, albeit of stone, burned and withered into cinders, and the abbot could swear the dragon at Saint Theodore's feet began to move, its sharp teeth sinking into the saint's ankles, thick blood pouring out as the statue's eyebrows arched and the eyes bulged in horror.

Abbot Odo looked up at the stained glass of the clerestory and wept. Once, its blue lights had been celestial, and a tinge of red had passed through only as a reminder of the Sacré Coeur's imperial might, of the Virgin's reign as Holy Queen of the Heavens. Now, her eyes looked back at abbot Odo in agony, and the ambience inside the cathedral had lost its celestial blue tone entirely. Everything was red – blistering, daunting red, where black shapes hovered and danced, the walls blemished with the shape of their flapping wings, and beneath the sounds of spluttering wood and the high-pitched clinks of shattering glass, he heard someone sing in tongues.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio," abbot Odo began to pray, and in a swift gush of courage, he moved against his every quiver and stood. Rubble and ash surrounded him, the air thick, prickling his eyes and throat. Abbot Odo thought of covering his mouth with his habit, but then his prayer would be muffled. So he screamed louder: "Contra nequitiam et insidias diabolic esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur—" he ran, though not to the door, but to the choir, straight to where that nefarious beast stood, and hoisted his crucifix with a growl: "Tuque, Princeps militia caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen!"

The cross in the abbot's fingers shined, and though the pain that shot through his fingertips blinded him, he remained; slick, bubbly silver began to melt, fusing with his skin, but he did not falter. Archangel protect us, he begged in a murmur, and protect this world in Light, through God's might, against the Evils we face.

Abbot Odo had always thought himself a man of physical weakness, unfit for battle. He had never sought a sword because the horrors of war did not appease him. But as God had willed, he was made to be a Knight of Peace.

The beast roared and shuddered, its talons retrieving into the putrid flesh that melted like wax, and danced a horrid dance of pain and anguish as it slithered through the cracks of the ground. Stood in terror, abbot Odo watched – watched as the flames diminished as if they were sucked away by the scorching winds of Hell, reeking of sulphur all around, and a thousand screams rose to the air into a deafening, blaring song of the damned that cracked the glass on almost every standing window. The black shadows winced and shrivelled; screeches, like nails scraping against glass, pierced through the abbot's ears, and the air was filled only with dust and ash – thick and grey as his hand rose in solitude amidst the destruction.

Then, everything was silent. Abbot Odo blinked his teary eyes open and watched the dust settle. A short moment later, the doors flung themselves open, and people stopped at the threshold, watching with horror the sea of bodies covered in blood, chunks of their flesh stuck between their teeth, arms and legs cut off by a ravaging possession of the Devil, killed at each other's hands for one last consummation of Satan's will.

The deafening, dreadful silence was slowly replaced by muffled weeps, cries and moans of anguish and horror. Nobody came inside. Nobody dared touch the dead. A dozen pairs of eyes looked dully at the broken ceiling above. The fire had stopped, disappeared entirely, and all it remained was the black mark of its scorching flames.

Abbot Odo looked at the altar. Amidst the wreckage, of piles of broken stone and scorched wood, molten wax and chipped off paint, the rose window stood. It cast celestial blue and royal red glints onto the floors, licking its marred stone with the grace of Heavens.

He did not feel shrouded in the Grace of God when the sun moved and the colourful lights brushed against his dingy skin.

Finally, abbot Odo looked back wistfully at the sea of frozen, bloodied horrors that filled the church nave, in blood and flesh and broken bone.

He had defeated the Devil, but the Devil had won still.

___

Past challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

Wordtober Day 5: Build I

Wordtober Day 6: Build II

Wordtober Day 7: Enchanted (Encantada)

#wordtober #writing #my writing #creative writing #fiction #Odo isnt even a french name lmaooo #my wordtober

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katedoesfics · 5 years

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Breath of the Resistance | Chapter 20

A blur of white swooped down and Teba threw himself against the Windblight, knocking it to the ground and sending its prepared laser attack shooting across the sky. Link shot twice more at the blight as it lay stunned on the ground. One of the bullets hit, but it dodged the second as it stood up once more, shrieking in agony. It was slower now and growing desperate. It prepared another attack, this time firing rapidly like a machine gun at Link and Teba.

They ran across the Divine Beast once more, ducking behind one of the pillars in an attempt to avoid the attacks. The bullets stopped and the blight returned to its laser attacks, blasting the pillar away. Link and Teba ran from the debris of the blast and Teba pulled Link onto his back once more as he took to the sky. The Windblight wasted no time teleporting above them, another deadly blast locked on to them. But this time, before Teba could think to dodge the blast, Link lept off of his back and onto the Windblight, clinging to its legs.

The blight shrieked and tossed itself around in an attempt to dislodge Link, but he clung on and fired two more shots up at the phantom. The Windblight screamed as it plummeted once more to the ground, and Link held on as it crashed against the ground. It did not hesitate to prepare one last blast, but this time, Link took hold of its arm and forced it backwards, twisting it around as the blast let loose. The blast hit the Windblight square in its head, cutting its screams short as its head exploded. Mechanical debris and a strange, dark haze flew in every direction and the blight fell limp, defeated.

Link pushed himself to his feet and leaned against his knees as he fought to catch his breath. At the corner of his eye, he saw Teba land beside him and grunt at the corpse of the blight.

“That was ballsy,” Teba said with approval.

“Yeah,” Link said between breaths. “No shit.” He straightened, pocketed his gun, and turned his gaze to Teba. It was then that he had noticed the scorch mark down the side of Teba’s body. He opened his mouth to say something, but Teba cut him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said quickly, waving a wing at Link and turning around with a slight limp. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“You’re not gonna leave me up here, are you?”

“If you don’t hurry up, I will,” Teba warned him. “It does hurt, you know.”

Link rolled his eyes and jogged to the control panel, pulling the Sheikah Slate out of his pocket and placing it against the panel. It pulsed a cool blue light for a moment and Vah Medoh let out a life-like sigh. Its screams turned into a more melodic kind of screech and it perched upon the tall pillar above Rito Village.

Two down, two to go.

Link tucked the slate in his pocket and hurried to the edge of Vah Medoh where Teba waited. He climbed as carefully as he could onto his back and they took flight, making their way down into town.

*****

Teba, a newly appointed Champion, did not let Link leave without stocking his car up with gear. He filled the trunk with additional ammunition, for Link’s guns and for a few additional pieces that lay across his back seat, courtesy of the grateful Ritos. Along with these weapons were some knives, a box of C4, and of course a few snacks for his drive. Besides a quick bite in Goron City before he left, he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and his stomach was definitely complaining about that.

He tossed some chips in his mouth as he drove south towards Gerudo Desert. Once more, he opted to avoid the main interstate as much as possible, taking the long way around in hopes of avoiding as many of the Guardians as possible. The road moved up and down over the rolling hills of the countryside, and he noticed a few shrines in the distance as he drove.

Zelda mused over the shrine. She held the Sheikah Slate in her hands, peering at it curiously before attempting to place it on what seemed to be the control panel just outside. Unlike the Divine Beasts, however, the slate did not seem to activate it in any way. She was muttering to herself as Link got out of the car. He closed the car door which caught her attention, but she only seemed aggravated with him.

“Let me guess,” she started, her hands on her hips. “My father sent you after me.”

Link opened his mouth to speak, but Zelda cut him off angrily.

“I bet he told you I was off doing some silly research project like I’m some dumb schoolgirl. If it doesn’t have anything to do with this stupid power or a damn war that hasn’t even started, he doesn’t want me doing it. But I’ll have you know that there’s more to these shrines than people realize. They’re part of the ancient Sheikah technology, too, so they must be important, and I’m going to figure it out.” She turned on her heels abruptly and collected the slate from the pedestal. “I just don’t know why the slate isn’t responding to it. I cannot get them to open no matter what I try!”

Link hesitated, unsure of what to say to comfort her. But mostly, he didn’t want her going off on some rant. “Maybe you just need-”

“What I need is for everyone to stop breathing down my neck!” She pocketed the slate and turned to Link angrily. “Stop following me! I don’t need any guards or escorts and I don’t need you. Got it?”

“I don’t think you have a choice in that matter,” Link said crossing his arms.

Zelda ignored him as she walked towards her car. She slid in the driver’s seat, closing the door hard as she did so, and turned the key in the ignition. Without hesitation, she threw the car into drive and peeled away from the shrine and back onto the road heading towards the highway.

Link slunk into his seat. While his memories of the Champions had come back to him suddenly, one by one, the ones with Zelda were more sparse, and he couldn’t quite fit the pieces together. So far, all he knew was that he was entrusted with the task as her handler to work with her to prevent Ganon from starting a war. And that she was kind of a bitch.

Still. For reasons he didn’t understand, he felt drawn to her. With any luck, more memories would come back to him and complete the mysterious puzzle that was his life.

*****

To Link’s fortune, the drive to Gerudo Desert was fairly uneventful. Except for the stray Guardian patrolling the back roads, Link had no other encounters, deadly or otherwise. Hyrule seemed lifeless. Cities and towns lay in ruins, and the ones that somehow managed to remain standing were heavily guarded, makeshift walls built around them in hopes of keeping Ganon’s forces out. No one dared leave the protection of the walls, and they were even more hesitant to let unfamiliar people in, including the remaining Hylian soldiers. Despite that, Link had managed to find a bed to sleep in for the night instead of his car, and he arrived at a small town just outside of Gerudo City early the next afternoon.

And that’s where his fortune ended as he was stopped by two Gerudo soldiers.

“What business do you have in the desert?” one of the tall, dark skinned women asked him. Her gaze was fierce.

Link flashed his badge at them. “I hear you have a pest problem,” he said.

The two Gerudo exchanged unamused glances. “If you’re referring to Vah Naboris,” the soldier continued, “pest is an understatement.”

“Are you going to let me through to get to it?”

“That depends,” the second woman said. She popped out a hip and placed her hand atop it. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Vah Naboris has been possessed by Ganon,” the first explained. “It has whipped up a sandstorm that threatens to overtake the city and won’t let anyone near it. If we are fortunate enough to penetrate the storm, it attacks us with lightning.”

“Look,” Link started. “I’ve reclaimed two of these Divine Beasts already. I’m under order to reclaim them all so we can end this war. Are you going to let me through or not?”

“We have our own orders, Link,” she snapped at him. “Riju, the leader of the Gerudo, has ordered that no one enter the desert without her approval.”

Link sighed and rolled his eyes. “Then get me approval.”

“Fine,” she said. “I suppose I cannot deny you that. But even if Riju lets you in, I can assure you that you will be unable to reach Vah Naboris. You will die before you get within one hundred yards of it.”

“Let me talk to Riju.”

The Gerudo shook her head. “You should know, Link, that voe are not allowed in the city.”

“We will let her know that you are here,” the second woman said. “If she wishes to speak with you, she will come to you. For now, you can stay in town here.”

Link narrowed his eyes at them. “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” he said. “I have a war to end.”

The two Gerudos stepped aside allowing Link to enter the small town. He found his way to the inn on the other side of town and parked in the small lot. Outside, the wind picked up, and he turned his gaze across the desert to where a sandstorm kicked up. He could hear the distant roar of Vah Naboris, hidden by the wall of sand that surrounded it.

Rather than see if he could get himself a room, he walked anxiously about the town. A few smaller memories dribbled back to him as he walked about, and he realized the town was very different from what he had remembered it to be; a place where people all over Hyrule had come to enjoy the desert heat, like a sort of vacation spot. But now, only Gerudo women and children occupied the town, and very few of them dared to even venture down the road to Gerudo City for fear of Vah Naboris.

Link wandered aimlessly around until he found himself back at the inn. He trudged back over to his car and checked his phone. It had been a couple hours since he had arrived, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take to hear from the two Gerudos, if he would hear from them at all.

“It’s about time our hero showed up.”

Link turned to the sound of the voice. At the edge of the parking lot stood a young Gerudo. Her red hair was pulled up, but draped over one shoulder, and there was a sort of crown on her head. She was much shorter than the other Gerudo, but her stance told Link she was just as fierce and full of sass. She had her hand on her hip, the other raised in the air in a pose that screamed “what gives?” to Link. Behind her stood the two Gerudo soldiers Link had spoken with earlier.

She strode across the parking lot as she spoke. “I got word from one of the Ritos that you were heading this way. Seems you’ve been pretty successful with those Divine Beasts.” She leaned against the car when she reached it and threw her chin in the direction of Vah Naboris. “Up for another challenge, then?”

“Riju, I presume,” Link said with a raised brow. “How kind of you to speak with me.” He was only slightly sarcastic in that comment.

Riju grinned up at Link. “I like you,” she said. “Urbosa was right about you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Riju nodded. “I may not be my sister, but she was my sister. Her friends are my friends.”

Link offered her a smile, unwilling to admit to her that he had know idea who Urbosa was. Riju was spunky though, and pretty. And like all the other Gerudo, she wore very little, leaving plenty for Link’s imagination.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to keep his eyes on her. “So, Vah Naboris,” he said. “How can I get to it?”

“You can’t,” Riju said with a grin. “Not without my help, anyway.”

Link raised a brow at her. He had a feeling that she would not take kindly to Link’s chivalry; she would not allow him through unless she were with him. “So, are you going to help me?”

Riju rolled her eyes up in thought. She put a finger to her still smiling lips, then met Link’s gaze and held a hand out as she spoke. “I guess I can,” she said playfully. “Under one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m driving your car.”

Link glanced at the car, hesitant.

“Is there a problem?” Riju said, her eyes narrowed at him. She leaned forward with her hands on her hips.

Link shook his head quickly. “No. Of course not. But… it’s a fast car.”

Riju grinned. “I know. I like it. Are those the kinda toys you get to play with when you’re in the SFU?” She stepped around Link and peered into the tinted windows. “What other cool stuff you got in there?”

“Nothing for you,” he muttered.

“Is that an AR?” She pressed her nose against the window.

“You can drive, but that’s it.”

Riju turned and grinned at him. “Good, because I know my way around Vah Naboris better than anyone. You’ll want me behind the wheel if you want to get aboard in one piece.”

#chapter 20 #botr20 #breath of the resistance #botw #loz #legend of zelda #breath of the wild

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corvimperatrice · 5 years

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Icarus - The Legend Reimagined

Daedalus P.O.V.

I’m sitting under the birch tree, its white and cool bark rough against my shoulderblades, its wavering leaves casting tremulous shadows on my tired legs, like blue fingertips. And i watch him. Him, with his golden curls bouncing around his molten brown eyes as he runs through humongous fields of dandelions and other wild flowers, wild as him. But it’s not the flowers that he loves, nor me (me, Daedalus, who’s loved Icarus since birth, since our inocent childhood we’ve spent together, at first without knowing it and then, as we’ve progressed through years of foolish adventures up until this day, at 18, the fire of love and passion he’s ignited in me unknowingly has come to burn so bright that I can feel it engulfing my ribcage) but the Sun. Whether it’s Helios himself, the emperor of light, riding in his cart among Aurora to drag the sun across the Blue, or the youthful Apollo, laured leafed, singing in his silvery voice and playing his infamous lire, Icarus’ heart has been stolen, and it isn’t to come back. For I, a simple mortal friend, couldn’t possibly travel to the Olympian lands to retrieve it, to cage it and make it mine. I can’t do this to him, I can’t rob him of his rapture, this childish, heliophilic, ravishing boy that is jealous even of the birds, dreaming of taking flight and aiming for the sun’s lips. The thought of my love for him would neer cross his mind, nor would I dare to say a word about it, keeping my feelings safely inside my chest, even though every time he takes my hand to run together through his father’s labyrinth I can feel them banging on my ribs as if they’re prisoners behind metal bars. They weep, as I do in the dead of night, knowing they’ll never be set free. But I can’t give Icarus any light. My love and the thought of my lips on his arent’s as bright as the gleam of the sun, he’ll never look at me as he looks up at the scorching celestial entity. I am doomed to watch him play aubade tunes at dawn, welcoming the sun as it breaks the sky asunder (just as the lack of redamancy does to my heart) and I’m doomed to blow him a mere, weary kiss when he lays in hay, ready to wave the sun goodbye and close his tired eyes under the crimson burst of the dusk sky.

Wr’re 18. We’re grown ups now and we have time no more to chase the sun through the forest or to climb the highest columns in order to cut the distance between us and the sun and so, envisaging a painful separation, I decided to create something, a last gift, that’ll take him further than he’s ever imagined, fulfilling his deepest desire: flight.

Therefore, on the day he was supposed tp start his work as a novice in his father’s workshop, (I, soon to do the same andstart putting my feelings on paper, with water and paint, if I couldn’t confess them until now) I was the one to take his hand, my heart fluttering harder than ever, and lead him through the forking paths of the now known labyrinth, right to the center (”the center of our universe”, as we liked to call it when we were dumb childen with big dreams). There, on the crumbling beige stone, two great pairs of wings, laced together with feathers and wax, were lying. At the sight of them, Icarus’ eyes grew bigger, sparkling as if all the light of the world was contained in them, and, letting my hand swing empty -much to my dismay- he let his fingers wander over the luscious feathers, caressing them so gently, fearing that the frail flight machine might collapse, this treasure that is now his.

He gave me one last embrace -little did I know that it was the last one in his existence- and my fingers got to trace his spine at the soft, bronzed skin of his shoulders as I helped him place the pair of wings on his back. After he had done the same for me, Icarus climbed the not so tall wall of the labyrinth and took one last glance at the petite, modest city of Crete, surrounding the legendary edifice on which he stood, before a strong blow from the severe god of the wind, Eol, scooped him up and threw him towards his destiny, far away into the atmosphere. Laughing loudly and cheery as if he was a child once again, he moved his strong arms up and down and rose higher and higher, flashing his lover, the luminous Apollo, the biggest smile that has ever stretched on his face. It was quite a sight, Icarus, the ever dreaming Icarus,racing with the birds, defying gravity with his glorious creamy-coloured wings. Never in my life had I wanted to catch him in my arms so much, never to let go, and to kiss him ‘til the sun goes down defeated.

However, my daydreaming didn’t last long, for a hot drop of wax landed on my cheek. And then another and another until i dared to open my eyes and see the inevitable disaster: in the sacred moment of rapture, Apollo, trying to greet his lover with an embrace, released his warmth and light in such amount that it melted the wax and sent Icarus darting down, directly into the sea. In vain he threw his arms up and down.no ne could save him. All I could do was watch him leap to meet his death, his grave of water, as I caught one last glimpse of his eyes: his gaze was drowned in fear, but also contentment and gratitude, as if saying “thank you” -to whom? me or the sun? I got my last chance to blow him one sincere kiss, wet from my salty tears that poured down my cheeks, ready to mix with the sea water along with Icarus.

And so, Icarus, the boy who loved the sun became the boy who flew too close to the sun. He sank to a death free of regrets cause he got to fly, to meet his lover. And I am forever to mourn him and my life, cause I never got to confess my love, nor be that lover. Golden boy, I hope you didn’t feel any pain when you fell to your death, I hope the sea was kind enough to catch you gently in her unblemished arms. And I hope the afterlife will endure to bring us together to a new existence -maybe then I’d be able to be in your heart.

Playlist

● Icaus – Bastille

● Lover of the Light – Mumford & Sons

● Make a Shadow – Meg Meyers

● Daedalus – Thrice

● Sunlight - Hozier

#icarus #daedalus #legend #love story #unrequited love #writing #fanfiction #greek tragedy #grece #greek mythology #playlist #crete #sunlight #sun #helios #apollo

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blankdblank · 5 years

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Forgotten Pt 6

Prologue - Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 -

All –

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @ggbbhehe4455, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78

X Thranduil - @evyiione, @sweetlytenacious25, @tigereyesf

Sleeping alone in your new home proved to be more difficult though even after finishing off the interior of it. Once again leaving you strolling through your back door and settling out in your yard with a mug of cocoa to sip on. Under the clear night sky you lounged against a large boulder by the edge of the water. Nearly an hour you sat, simply watching as the moon and starlight danced across the surface of the lake as a pair of swans gracefully glided across, breaking through the reflections that glittered across their wings.

Shifting your eyes they landed on the only other living creature still up and roaming around off in the distance, the tall Elf that daily lingered around your shop making sure the progress on his rusted heap was coming along. Lost to sleep himself still unable to keep from thinking of the kiss you left on his cheek two days prior all but leaving him speechless in your presence in a loss for what to say. Walking to a set of chairs by the waters edge he claimed one sending a glint of icy blue at you when he stole a glance at you. Bringing a small smile to his face raising his own mug in a distant toast you sent back before taking another sip of your drinks.

Finishing your mug you set it down beside you, shifting sideways to lay back to get a better look up at the stars relaxing your arms up around your head brushing your hair from your face propping up a leg feeling the warm breeze crossing over your bare arms and legs in your tank top and knee length sweats. Each distant flicker seemed to ease your lingering tension from the long day of sanding and scraping you’d spent on that damn boat. Closing your eyes your mind snapped back to that first boat you’d helped to repair, the same one Bifur and Bofur escorted you across the lake to your first and only dance you’d attended in Erebor.

Soft crunching of grass brought your eyes open again and causing your head to turn facing the Elf approaching with a soft smile and a thermos in hand. Nearly at your side he watched as you sat up propping your legs up in front of you resting your arms on your knees meeting his timid gaze, raising his thermos he asked, “Need a refill? Cocoa right?”

Smiling you nodded at him turning to grab your mug and offer it to him as he sat at your side filling your mug, “Can’t sleep either?”

He shook his head passing it back to you, “Rarely do. Nights are so clear here, not like back in the city, plus I never understood how Dwarves could miss some of the best parts of the day. Stars are far too gorgeous to miss out on.”

His eyes watched your smile grow as you nodded, “True. Your Ada loved to sit up and watch them with me.” From the corner of your eye you watched as he brushed back his glowing long blonde hair over his flannel coated back as his bare feet shifted on the cool grass out from under his matching flannel pajama bottoms. Glancing over you asked, “That why you moved out here, the stars? Finally convinced you out of all the noise?”

He smiled again, “That, and Ada kept insisting I not waste any more time in that scorching job. Insisted I need to move at a slower pace, funnily enough. Mainly so we could trade and he could be with Naneth again more often.” His eyes watched as you took a sip of your drink, “Why did you pick here? Ada never mentioned it.”

Your eyes met his, “My parents died.” His smile fell, remembering the loss of your Mother from the art exhibit as you pointed at your old cottage, “Bifur and Bofur, my Godfathers, took me in. Went off to school and all I could think of was coming home.” You smiled again bumping his elbow with yours, “Don’t worry about it, no need to give me that look. But that’s why a lot of people don’t bring it up. Your Ada moving in was part of the reason the town stopped focusing on me after he showed up.”

He smirked, “Quite a distraction I assume.”

You giggled drawing his eye back to you and smile larger, “Oh yes, blondes have that effect I’ve noticed.”

He chuckled as you smiled again and turned to watch the swans preening, “I hear he also caused quite a stir shutting down the diner.”

You giggled again, “There’s still a few people who refuse to speak with him after that.” Your eyes met, “I hope you’re not planning on shutting down any businesses yourself, we’re running out of social spots.”

Chuckling again he eyed his nearly empty mug then met your eyes again, “No, I wouldn’t do that. We’ve got all the room we need.”

You nodded pointing at his Manor, “I can see that.” Making him chuckle again, “You’re just focusing on taking control of the ocean.”

“Not control. Honestly I’ve never sailed a day in my life. But I took lessons and then I saw the Pearl was for sale.”

“Please tell me you didn’t spend more than 500 for it.”

He chuckled again, “I, am not that gullible, worked him down to 350. The guy just wanted to be rid of it.”

You shot him a playful smile, “So one day you just, decided to take up sailing?”

He smirked taking a sip from his mug he’d just refilled, “Well I don’t own a tractor.” Your brow rose as he gave you a timid smile, “You work on boats, and it seemed simple enough to learn, especially ones with motors.”

You asked through your giggles, “So you bought a boat, just so you could have me work on it?”

Wetting his lips he met your eyes again, “I needed an excuse to get the courage to talk to you.”

You giggled again, “You’re serious?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

You nodded, “Ya, I’ve never had anyone work that hard for my attention before.”

He smiled larger, “I highly doubt that.” Your eyes met his with a raised brow, “Seriously?”

“Last relationship I had was a set up from a friend in trade school. I don’t think you’ve noticed but most of the people I speak with are mainly my Godfathers’ relatives.”

“So you’re truly not interested any of them?”

You giggled again, “I’m not their type.” His smile grew watching you take another sip.

“I hear there’s an old Black and White marathon on at the old theatre a town over if you’d like to see it. And there’s an incredible Italian place down the block.”

“When did you want to go?”

His smile grew, “Clinic’s closed on weekends.”

You smirked, “Well I would, but my weekends are mainly taken up by this Elf who bought this rusted heap.” You broke into giggles as he chuckled again.

“I’m sure the rusted heap can wait. Saturday?”

“Saturday’s good.”

He chuckled again and glanced back at his house spotting a small animal roaming across his lawn, leaning over he gently kissed your cheek, “I’ll see you later today. My Son’s cat is loose.”

“Thank you for the cocoa.”

He smiled at you again before turning back to his house, downing the last of his drink before starting a slow trot towards the creeping cat making you giggle watching him wrangle the creature back inside and wave at you before joining it. Leaving you to draw in a breath take another sip of cocoa as you stood and went back inside with a growing smile, finishing your drink to leave your mug in the sink. Then continuing back in to your room to lay out across your bed with another giggle about all the effort he’d put into asking you out, and wonder about what he was really like outside of him as a hovering customer.

…

Rolling out of bed you brushed through your hair working it back into the familiar braided bun and stripping to change into your work clothes and boots to head out of your house on your motorcycle, taking advantage of the clear day, and so you could leave it in the shop for a tune up. Parking in your usual spot you opened the shop before guiding your bike inside and starting your daily round of check ups on your supplies and files as the Durins filed in. Each giving you a second glance noticing your lingering smile, Sitting on his wheeled stool Dwalin smirked and scooted to your side making you giggle as he peered up at you, “You seem happy.”

You nodded, “I am. Good morning Dwalin.” Gently pecking him on the top of his head and walking around him only to be blocked by Frerin and Thorin with arms crossed and brows raised.

Frerin, “Spill.”

You gently poked him in the stomach stepping around him, “I, have a Date.”

Their eyes all followed you as Thorin said, “Alright, I drove you home, around 7 and somehow in the last 12 hours you’ve gotten a date?”

Dwalin scooted to their side as you turned to check the drawer of wrenches to see that it was fully stocked as he asked, “Online thing?”

“No.”

They turned to follow you into the office as Frerin asked while gripping Thorin’s arm excitedly, “Wait, Doctor guy?!”

His answer came with your growing smile as Dwalin chuckled, “Oh it’s about time. Poor thing’s been fawning over you since he moved in.” Frerin grinned hugging Dwalin tightly.

Thorin’s head tilted as his smirk grew, “That explains the boat. Does he even sail?”

“He took courses.” You giggled out.

They chuckled as Frerin replied, “Well he certainly is determined, have to give him that.”

You giggled again with your smile creeping even wider, “I think it’s sweet.”

Thorin smiled at you, “Impossibly sweet. Tad bit foolish, but if he wanted to spend all that money to test your skills it seems fitting.” His arm wrapped around your back to kiss you on the forehead.

Dwalin, “Now you just have to get sick and test his healing skills to make it even.”

You rolled your eyes and joined them back in the larger area of the garage pulling on your coveralls to get started on the boat, climbing inside to scrape the engine hold only to slam your knuckles into the corner as your hand slipped hearing Dwalin shouting, “HEY BOFUR! GUESS WHO’S GOT A DATE?!”

You popped up asking, “You’re really not going to shout it at everyone that passes are you?!”

Thorin turned with a grin as Dwalin rushed over to share the news as Thorin said, “Oh come on, it’s the first time we’ve heard anything about you dating at all!” His brow rose, “Is it your first date?”

“I dated in trade school. Obviously didn’t last, but I’ve dated.” Ducking down before he could see your growing blush only to have Frerin’s head pop up above the hold asking, “How bout sex?”

You groaned as Thorin added, “Valid question.” Joining his brother peeking in at you.

“I have. Nothing to write home about.”

Frerin, “Why didn’t you bring him home?”

“Bombur met him. And he took off.”

Their brows rose and Thorin said, “That’s not happening again.”

Frerin, “We’ll tether him down if we have to.”

You rolled your eyes again, “Between you all and Dis I’ll be surprised if he even shows up on our date.”

Both, “Oh he’s going.”

Turning back to your work they chuckled again and went back to work themselves as their family and yours filed in and out before spreading the word around town until finally even the postage delivery man had congratulated you causing you to pop your head up and say, “Mahal, even he knows?!” Only to see their grins growing at the familiar car pull up causing you to groan and duck back in your hiding place.

Parking in his normal spot Thranduil chuckled softly spotting your head disappearing from sight as the Dwarves approach him for their usual greeting with growing smirks as Thranduil said, “I take it you heard as well.”

They nodded and chuckled after he said, “Word travels fast. I’ve already had upwards of 30 people congratulating me and asking for details. Including your Sister, who mentioned something about dress shopping.”

Your head popped out again pointing at Thorin, “You stop her! Last dress she picked for me nearly gave me a rash from all the taffeta and bows.”

Thranduil chuckled and moved closer to join you resting his arms on the boat at your side, “How’s she coming along?” His hand patted the side, “Looks nearly new out here.” He chuckled again spotting your quirked up smile readying to laugh at his comment, “Alright, relatively newer than it used to look.”

“Hull’s patched and scraped, just finishing the engine hold, those parts finally come in by next week.” You bit your lip glancing at the ceiling figuring the math making him smile larger, “Maybe two months to get her running, then it’s just paint and interior.”

His smile grew, “Just in time to take you out on the water in spring.”

You giggled again, “Might want to aim for early summer, the water’s really choppy around here through spring due to the rains.”

His smile grew, “Sounds like a plan.” He caught your faint blush as your eyes shifted over his shoulder, “They’re all watching aren’t they?”

You nodded, “And taking pictures.”

“Well hopefully we’ll get copies.”

“I’m sure they’ll be on the front page tomorrow.”

He chuckled again, “Even better.” Smiling larger at you again when your eyes met, “I do have another appointment, but are you off at 8?”

“Yes.”

“Care to stop in at the pub tonight?”

“Sounds good. Though we’d have a crowd.”

“Might as well get it over with now, right?”

“Fine, but if Dis shows up don’t be surprised if I hide.”

He chuckled again patting his hands on the hull and turned to walk back to his car slipping through the approaching group who all crowded around you asking for details.

… Kili/Fili …

Barely a few years together and Kili had finally seen the error of his ways, realizing everything his Mother had tried to convince him of since she’d moved with him to Erebor. Tauriel had left him, and ran off with all the money she could snatch up before leaving with Rorrnn, a Dwarf she’d been shamelessly flirting with on the breaks Kili had taken. Years she had been shamelessly money hungry and grasping at any and all chance to wring all the money she could out of his relatives in hope of riding Kili’s coat tails to success, only to fail again and again at his refusal to use others and resort to scams and impossible loans. All this and all he could think of, even facing bankruptcy and losing everything he’d built the pub up into, was you.

Finally out of a relationship he could finally do what he’d been fighting against attempting to build any sort of relationship with. Ignoring his crippling debt he would surely deal with later he primped extra and descended the stairs from his apartment above the pub to head on over to your shop for the asking only to meet his brother at the base of the stairs panting with a growing smirk on his face, “You are not going to believe what’s happened.”

Kili’s brow rose brushing past Fili, “It can wait, I gotta go to Jaqi’s shop.”

Fili chuckled grabbing his arm, “So you’ve heard then, about Jaqi’s date?”

Kili’s eyes met his brother’s feeling his heart skip, “Her what? Jaqi doesn’t date.”

Fili chuckled, “Apparently she does. Had an ex or two back in trade school too.” Patting his brother on the shoulder, “Guess she’s not so helplessly smitten over you anymore.”

Kili grabbed Fili’s arm stopping his leaving, “What do you mean smitten?”

Fili chuckled, “Surely you noticed, all through school.” His eyes narrowed, “You didn’t notice? At all?”

Kili’s head shook, “No, why didn’t you say anything then?”

Fili, “You never even spoke to her barely, wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Kili, “I would-.”

Fili’s tone rose, “You didn’t even have any interest in her at all until she came back from school, fully grown. Besides you had Tauriel already, and you dated all through school. You said it yourself, you thought she was boring.”

Kili, “Ya but-.”

Fili, “But nothing. Ki, you’re not going to win this one. Not now, all you can do is wait to see how this turns out.”

Kili, “Who is it? At least tell me that.”

“The Doctor.”

“The Doctor?! The one that bought that rusted heap?! He probably doesn’t even know how to sail!”

“Doesn’t really matter, he bought the boat as an excuse to see her. And went to talk to her each day. Now that, says something about how she should be treated and you know it. Not like some after thought just because you’re free.”

Fili turned to leave but stopped at the door as Kili said, “I don’t know why you’re so bent about this!”

Fili turned with a glare, “Really? Not at all?! She spent years being ignored, forgotten, pushed aside. Every dance Amad would say, ‘Don’t forget your picture with Jaqi’ and every time she still wouldn’t get asked, and if I hadn’t been seeing Em for so long I’d have asked her myself. Because she is absolutely incredible and everyone seemed to miss that until the package matched the gift! I really don’t get it, I really don’t. But I will tell you this, if it doesn’t work out with the Doctor, you give her time and space and you better crawl on flaming glass to earn a chance with her.” His hand landed on the handle to the door and he left as Kili deflated and sat down on the stool behind him remembering just how difficult the kids you had gone to school with had made it for you to be their friend.

…

It wasn’t until that same bowl of toothpicks skidded into his view that his eyes rose towards the obvious source. Even in the back corner of the bar Mal had still managed to knock it over in her move to keep Sam from falling off the stool he had climbed onto. The sight of the boys around the fiery haired young woman made a smirk ease onto his lips as she forced a nervous smile watching him blindly collecting the mess to right the bowl again and move it aside while reciting their usual order he got started on.

Curiously at the silence Mal peered around as Merry blurted out, “So, where’s the gold digger?”

Mal instantly glared at him, “Merry!”

Pippen glanced between them and he peered up at her, “What? Uncle said it!”

Surprisingly Kili had skipped the pained reaction he no doubt should have felt and chuckled bringing out the first round of their orders, “Tauriel left me yesterday.”

Mal’s lips parted, “Oh..”

Frodo, “She take your money?”

Sam peered up at her stating, “Valid question.”

Kili’s hand patted Mal’s stirring a deep blush across her cheeks as he shifted his weight on his suddenly wobbling legs with a comforting smile, saying, “No need to stop them. It’ll be public news soon anyways.” He glanced at the boys, “Yes, she did.”

Mal inched closer to the counter wetting her lips saying, “Is there anything we can do?”

Kili chuckled easing his hand back turning to fetch the next set of the orders to serve them, “I’ll think of something. Always do.” He fired a wink at her pleased that he could make a smile flicker on her face easing his worry about the trials ahead. As long as he could keep her smiling he knew he could make it through the day, just focusing on her and the boys he hoped the pain of missing yet another chance with you as well as you apparent massive crush on him when you were younger would fade at least a sliver.

Curiously Kili looked over the boys then asked, “Don’t you normally bring your Uncle with you for lunch?”

Mal, “He and Thorin are having lunch at his place. Planning the dinner reservation I set up for them.”

Kili grinned, “Still dragging it on?”

Mal nodded then wet her lips, “Now I just have to make us scarce tonight like I promised Bilbo.”

Kili smirked jumping on this chance to keep himself distracted all night, “It isn’t much, but you’re welcome at mine for a movie mash up if you like. There’s an extra King mattress and Siggy and Fi are off to visit her Dad in Dale, something about her brother and a science competition.”

The dopey grin growing on Mal’s face made Kili’s spread as an odd warmth coursed through his chest at her nod, brushing her hair behind her ear, “That, would be great, thank you.”

He chuckled, “Anytime. I’ll just spruce up a bit and you can drop by after the clinic closes.” She nodded and after they had eaten he waited for her to be out of sight so he could dart up to his apartment and start hiding all the piles of clothes in his and Fili’s rooms before starting on the dishes piled in the sink and all over the counter. Only going back down for the next lunch rush that eventually freed him to rush up again to vacuum and scrub up the living and guest room just in time for a shower then change into fresh clothes to meet with Mal and the boys to help them carry their bags upstairs and start on the movies as he handled the dinner crowd with his two waitresses.

Pt 7

#Thranduil x Reader OC #Kili x OC #bagginshield

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ovmatt-blog · 6 years

Quote

Chapter 1-2. Telephone Interview

One extremely hot afternoon in July, when the cottage-dwellers didn’t venture to poke their noses out to the sultry dusty streets of a little town, a milky-white Butterfly was hiding in the shadow of green tangles.

When the sun reached its highest point the Butterfly suddenly flushed and hovered high under the blazing sun over the line of ancient oaks, still remembering the former glory of a small town old school and towering majestically along the carved fence of a football stadium. She landed on an oak leaf, spread out her wings and glued down to the green surface, stock-still, as not a leaf was stirring.

If you could come nearer and get a closer look at her, my dear reader, you could see that this lovely Butterfly herself looked much like a leaf, with golden streaks imbuing her wings, silky-smooth and sleek. Having been almost lulled, the Butterfly suddenly twitched and glanced upwards. Tiny mosaic patches of dazzlingly blue sky sparkled through the canopy of emerald leaves, luring to the eternal sky depth and calling up childhood dreams…

A teenage boy sprinted to the centre of the empty football stadium from the near-by house and hurled himself down on the ground. He lay sprawled on the grass for a few seconds. Then he rolled over onto his back, his hands beneath his head and his knees crossed. Lying in the very blaze of the sun, he sucked on a blade of grass and talked to himself, waving his right leg in a sneaker in the air.

Under summer's scorching glow the air resembled в transparent jelly, slightly rippling in the absence of the wind, blurring the shapes of the objects. The Butterfly squinted her eye to the boy and then attracted by his voice, left the tranquil emerald coolness and flittered to him to perch on the waving sneaker as at the swing. And that is what she had heard:

I have just sat the exams and consider not to proceed with A-levels. At least this year… And to find a job. I live in my grandaunt’s tiny house. She has no her own children. Grandauntie agrees that extra money would help, as her pension is the only source of money for us to live on. Five years ago my parents went missing in the mountains. The police told they must had been lost under the rock avalanche. But grandaunt says they fell in the battle with the Stone Men at the Orkney Islands. The first time I have heard about the Stone Men I got realized that all what has happened, and this newly-obtained responsibility to grow me up… in short, all this was altogether too hard for her and she went a bit “mental”.

She usually minces along, mumbling something to herself under her breath and waving her arms like the wings of a windmill. She talks to me only to call me for meals and to allocate household duties. And, as we both don’t bother cleaning the house, we live in perfect harmony – I would have even forgotten English if I wasn’t attending school.

She has lived all her life alone and she used to talk to herself, her second important interlocutor being “the box”. She is passionate about watching soap operas during the night as a means of soporific. I adore them either. Oh, I almost forgot – she has the remarkable ability to turn the house into ruins while I am at school. So when I come home in the evening and see ghost-blue shadows flickering through the curtains, I halt and look at the stars, grateful for the fact that this day we would have a fascinating dreamless night with TV zombies instead of having to restore the walls, which had got damaged from sheer touch, and having to clean away the crushed stone. While still expecting the unexpected, I come in with a smile glued to my lips.

My grandaunt loves to sleep, clutching at the TV remote. But with the lapse of time, I have got the hang of crawling stealthily to her bed and pressing the power button without unclutching the tenacious grip of her forepaws. When she awakes during the night with the remote in her hands and the TV switched off, she considers this to be the dirty tricks of zombies and starts switching the lights on throughout the house and checking whether the windows are tightly shut and doors securely locked. The windows turn out to be opened as I can’t stand the stuffiness from the radiators, working at full capacity and seething with heat. Then she has to choose between zombies and me, being the reason of the windows openness, and definitely preferring it being me, she stretches in a sugary voice, “Are you suffoca-a-a-ting, dear?”She's got a thing about this. Like a bird of prey, she hovers over me, looking out for the slightest signs of any illness. But I cough only if I choke on the water. Though as a child I could not scramble out of colds, during last five years I have neither fallen ill, nor even scratched my knees, playing football. Contagion simply does not stick to me!

At that place the boy halted as his eyes flitted to the sky where a cat-shaped fluffy cloud was pursuing in great leaps the mouse, skedaddling pell-mell along the blue sky. The boy sat up in the grass, staring at the trail of clouds, rushing with great speed across the windless sky. Three pig-shaped clouds galloped, hopping and hipping, to the horizon followed by little bears, somersaulting in the raspberry tangles, replaced then by a fox, turning wildly on the spot, pursuing its tail.

The boy rubbed his eyes to shake off illusion. Obviously, it was a mirage, roused by abnormal heat, the haze blurring the shimmering sky. With closed eyes the boy went on with his story.

In early childhood I had some friends, but after they had also heard about the “Stone Men of the Orkney”, they never showed up again…

When the boy opened his eyes and raised his head and looked at the sky again, he saw seven little milky-white cloud goatlings, butting each other. Stunned, he stared open-mouthed at the fairytale play performed above his head, when –

“Robin, come get your lunch! It’s served!” an old woman's voice called from out the house behind the football stadium. The boy jumped to his feet and rushed home, while the Butterfly flushed and hovered to the north, to London…

On the 55th floor of the glass office tower there was an open floor-to-ceiling window. A man about thirty years of age was sitting on the floor with his back turned against the open space, swinging his legs which were dangling above the abyss. He was dressed in denim shorts, red T-shirt and sneakers… and a huge ruby hung down from his neck on a massive silver chain. And this was not the only weird thing about him, my dear reader, as the eyes in his face were of incredible amber colour!

He was snapping his fingers to the regular beat of some self-invented melody, which he was humming under his breath, while observing the clouds, crossing the brightest blue sky. With every snap of his fingers one of the clouds swelled and stretched to a fluffy shape to stand still for an instant, as if gaining consciousness, and then sprinted on all its paws across the sky. Snap… A hare, pinned under the weight of a backpack, stuffed with carrots so tightly that they protruded from under the clasp, was running his file, trying to foil the dogs… Snap… A flying squirrel glided on a parachute… Snap… A snowy owl hooted, flapping her fluffy wings in the flight…

The milky-white Butterfly with golden streaks sat on his knee and started observing the clouds with the same curiosity as the amber-eyed man did…

A low velvet voice, strangely drawling the words in some unknown accent, belonging to a man in a dark blue tubatay, stitched with silver almonds, and dark blue cashmere kaftan, embroidered in silk archers, said to the amber-eyed man’s back, “Robin Orion has successfully passed the first test today and he will be interviewed by Love tomorrow. Do you want to talk to him yourself?”

There followed long silence. Shoulder-length black hair was getting in the eyes of the amber-eyed man as he lowered his head. When he raised it again, his bright eyes flashed, “I suppose there is no doubt that he would pass the interview…”

“I’m sure, he would.”

“Then you know my answer.”

“Okay,” answered his vis-à-vis and retired silently.

The amber-eyed man “pulled” her legs into the room, stood up and turned the handle closing the window and when he turned his back to it, the handle melted in the air, leaving a solid glass wall, the outward side of which the Butterfly remained glued to.

Chapter 1

Transparent beads of torn water necklaces were clinking against the pane, shattering into crystal splashes. I was eating ice-cream and contemplating the wet world beyond the rain-lashed windows. The torrents of rain were gushing down, tattering the iridium-green foliage, all the scene backed by the steady rumble of water. A boom of thunder made me startle and then the telephone rang.

When I thought it over afterwards, it occurred to me that the whole story began at that instant, when thinking it was one of my Grandauntie’s friends-gossip calling, I picked up and said in a voice, hoarse of cold ice-cream, “Hello.”

Silence, only broken by faint clicking and the echoes of ghost voices. Then an icy sweet voice asked very near to my ear, "May I speak with Mr. Robert Orion, please?"

Flattered with a courtesy title, I swelled with self-importance, squared my shoulders and answered, “Robin speaking.”

The icy soda voice continued, “I am Cassandra Lime, HR manager of M.. (click-click, static, hissing) Consulting,” and before I could ask her to repeat the company’s name, she went on, “We have thoroughly scrutinized your CV and consider you for the position of an intern in our … (scratching, indistinct noise, cracklings) company.”

Indeed, I have sent my CV to all the companies listed in the Yellow Pages but what have they been scrutinizing? Two lines – the one in “Education” about GCSE exams and the second in “Work experience” about my summer employment as a cleaner at Sandy’s? And what is the company’s name?

I cleared my throat to ask these questions when Cassandra said, “So if you are interested in the position, then you won’t mind if I ask you a couple of questions as a quiz?”

My ice cream started melting and being busy licking it up, I unconsciously said, “I don’t mind,” and regretted it immediately as the first question followed.

“What is two hundred and fifty six squared?”

Trying feverishly to do the computation in my head, I repeated slowly, “Two hundred and fifty six times two hundred and fifty six…”

“Right! Next, is it true that time passes slower at sea level than it does in the mountains?” Unconsciously I bit a large piece of ice-cream and burnt my tongue with the cold, which must have cleared my brains as I answered, “Do you mean Albert Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity? Time moves relatively slower where gravity is stronger. Gravitational time dilation phenomenon?”

“Yeap, I do! You are tough! And what’s ten plus ten?”

Suspecting a trick here, I gasped, “A hundred.” Wait, what did she mean by saying “right” in the previous question, as I didn’t even answer it?

“Correct! What has a golden number to do with the stars?

“They pulsate according to the Golden Rule?” the quiz was turning into the theatre of the absurd and my answers were equally absurd.

“No! What is the colour of a quark – red, green or blue?”

“You mean curds? But it’s milky white…”

“Have you ever cooked snacks for snakes or snakes for snacks?”

“Oh, I don’t think…”

“Okay! What is the cause of laughter without a cause?”

“Pardon?”

“What is inside a dew drop?”

“Reflection!”

“Correct! What piece of art would remain in the end?”

“Mona Lisa’s smile!” I always loved to read and maybe this helped me…

“Okay, Robin, you have passed the test and the next stage of the selection process would be a telephone interview with one of our company’s Managers. The interviewer will ask you several questions and I suppose the whole procedure would take less than half an hour. I will arrange the interview in a couple of weeks and will inform you about the precise date a bit later.”

“And what will the questions be about?” I asked and immediately rushed to smoothen the question’s straightforwardness and curred, “At least give me a hint…”

But Cassandra seemed to have not noticed my diplomacy, “Oh, I think, these would be standard questions. What are your career aspirations, your strengths and weaknesses, ambitions, plans for the future…”

Getting a taste for asking questions, I piped, “And what would the work be like?” It seemed like a good idea at the time to get some information about a job I had to pass crazy tests to apply for.

Soda fizzed in Cassandra’s voice as she said, “For sure you’ve heard about our Company –”

“Nope,” I cut in and took a bite of a waffle cone.

“Really, haven’t heard about our company?” she sounded disconcerted, “Ranked Number 1 in the UK Top 100 Employers listing; named UK Best Diversity Employer, UK Greenest Employer, UK Top Employee for Young People; recognized as an UK Employer of Choice and an Indeed Best Place for Work! Or just Dream Job I would say!”

“Nope, I haven’t heard about it,” waffles crunched between my teeth. In fact, I didn’t know whether I had heard or not as I hadn’t caught the name of the company in the very beginning but it was embarrassing to tell this to Cassandra.

“Humph,” the rustling of papers sounded in the handset and then Cassandra mumbled indistinctly, “where have I put it? These cleaning fairies must have been straightening things again at my desk… No — here it is.” And then her sparkling soda voice fizzed into my ear, “Behind almost each fortune of the Forbes 100 List stands a treasure found by a future entrepreneur. A story of business success or the turnaround of an almost bankrupt company begins when a treasure hunter at last hits the jackpot. We consult our clients on pots-of-gold quests, assist in communication with Djinns, who guard charmed treasures –”

“Hic!” my diaphragm involuntary spasmed with cold ice cream while I stood there with my jaw dropped.

“Once you’ve obtained cash, we would offer you several broad investment strategies. All the details – such as the choice of the specific assets to invest in – are handled by our investment experts. We recommend to our clients not to put all their eggs in the one basket and diversify their investments –”

“Hic –”

“Oops!" Cassandra choked and whispered something like, “they had messed up everything at my desk – it’s a booklet for experienced professionals! And where is the one for the undergraduates?” Some more rustling of papers and she exclaimed, “Oh, here it is!”

And she started reading in a more calm voice, “There are few bad businesses, but many bad strategies. We offer to our clients creative solutions that make their competitors lock themselves in their boardrooms and start hot discussions. The kind of projects the firm works on are hugely varied, from building new products and services to advising on management structures. We work closely with our clients, providing a team of consultants at the client site and arranging business travel in the way to maximize the workday –”

“Er, so there would be business trips? And what are the destinations?” all this strange stuff was starting to sound attractive and my curiosity awakened again.

“Oh, yeah, we have a separate booklet on business trips,” she puffed, searching for the paper and then voiced, “As an employee of our company, you would explore the world while doing a job you love. You would visit the largest and most prominent cities of the world, from Rome and Los Angeles to Singapore and Tokyo, applying deep industry knowledge to the world’s largest industry players. You would discover distant island resorts, looking for treasures ships sunken off their coasts. And you would spend months, often years, in the farthest flung cities seeking the end of the rainbow…”

“Bang!” the end of a waffle cone fell from my hand as I mumbled, “But a rainbow doesn’t have a fixed spot or a real end!”

“Yeah! That’s why it’s so difficult to find a pot with gold that a leprechaun had hidden…”

But here the creak of the front gate distracted me from Cassandra’s mumbling. I looked out of the window. My auntie, loaded with packages, parcels, little packets, paper bags and boxes was trotting up the garden path.

“ – at the place where a rainbow ends!”

The key started to turn in the keyhole. I barely cried into the receiver, “OK, I will be waiting for your next call!” and dropped the receiver onto its cradle, as the door swung open.

I whirled around and nearly stumbled into the sharp gaze of my auntie’s ferrety eyes. I grinned at her. Her slit eyes scanned the gleaming-clean walls and got hooked on the floor. Sounding as though not believing herself she squeaked, “Kid, haven’t you vacuumed the carpet while I was out?”

“Nope, auntie, I didn’t have time to vacuum. But I have cooked cabbage soup. It’s on the stove,” With these words I turned around, scuttled inside the door of my room and shut it as quickly as I could.

Chapter 2. The Second Telephone Interview

“Auntie,” I said and prodded moodily at the remains of my corn flakes, floating in the milk puddle on my plate. Today was the day of the second interview with a Manager. Cassandra’s call was less than two hours away and I wanted to get my Auntie out of the house for a few hours so she wouldn’t eavesdrop on my conversation. In fact, I was afraid I wouldn’t pass the interview and I didn’t want her to know about the interview at all.

I crossed my fingers under the table – if I didn’t say anything stupid, I might get rid of her till noon – and went on, “have you heard the Indian Food Festival will take place today at Central Square?”

No reply. She was staring open-mouthed at the telly as she did every day after having served our breakfast. Her favourite soap opera “Wild Orchid” was just on:

“You are getting married tomorrow,” semi-affirmatively, semi-inquiringly said Orchid, looking deep into Jack’s eyes.

“Yes, I am,” Jack was hiding his eyes.

“I wish you every happiness, Jack. I hope you find it,” tears were trickling down Orchid’s cheeks.

I shook my head and averted my eyes from the telly. A morning newspaper lay on the kitchen table beside me. The headline on the first page read:

Taste of India served at Central Square

I sighed, and trying to sound louder than the shrill voice of Orchid, started to read:

The Indian Food Festival will be held on August 21st at Central Square. The event is completely free to enter and will be open from 10 am to 10 pm.

There will be 12 stalls presenting different sorts of Indian tea and different kinds of Indian spices – “warm and earthy” cumin for curries, “nutty” and “fruity” coriander, sweet cinnamon, the staples of Indian cooking, similar to the way that herbs de Provence function in French cuisine.

My auntie was crazy about spices and cooking and it was a good idea to use the festival to get her out of the house for a while. Still, Orchid’s hysterical sobs broke through my speech:

“Why are you crying, Orchid?”

“Jack is getting married tomorrow!”

Auntie seemed to be snoring softly in front of the telly, her glasses askew. But was she really sleeping? The lenses of her glasses shone in the light and couldn’t make out whether her eyes were shut or not.

Meanwhile the voices in the telly whispered:

“But why did you refuse to marry him, if you love him?”

“Because he is my brother!”

“Your brother? What are you talking about?"

There was only one way to check whether Auntie was sleeping. I waited for an ad in the telly and then clapped my hands as hard as I could. And, indeed, it worked! Auntie started, closed her mouth and fixed her glasses. Then she sat straight in the arm-chair and asked, “What has fallen, kid?”

I said nothing and turned the page where I came across another headline – Three places IN the Town where you can enjoy THE Solar Eclipse

I raised my voice, reading the headline, but still couldn’t shout Jack’s Mum down:

“Today is my son's wedding! This is a very special moment for me, which I would like to share with all those present. I’d like to take this opportunity to inform you that I’m also going to get married!”

I shouldn’t give up! May be to throw a cushion at her?

The Total Solar Eclipse will occur on August 21st, when the Moon will move directly in front of the Sun and will cast a shadow over the southern part of the country. It's been nearly 100 years since the last total solar eclipse in the UK and our town is luckily on the path of the eclipse!

I was contemplating thoughtfully the collection of glass vases, one piece of which I considered this morning to pee in, if Auntie won’t let me use the bathroom (usually she takes a shower for two hours roughly). Meanwhile, the telly was roaring:

“And the person who would marry me… is the father of my son!”

“What?”

“Jack, forgive me for not being able to tell you before, but you need to know the truth – Gabriel is not your farther!”

Orchid fainted. “What rubbish!” I sighed and read:

The observation deck at the Town Hall, the Town Hill and the Town Park will be hosting special viewing events and giving out viewing glasses to visitors on the day of the eclipse.

It would be great to witness the total solar eclipse by myself. Just think, once in 100 years! If it wasn’t for the interview… Meanwhile, the fuss on the telly was reaching a climax. Jack was tearing himself from his bride’s embrace. Gabriel was shouting something incomprehensible.

And I was drawing patterns on the plate with my fork and considering the situation. At last, I decided to check whether my Auntie really didn’t hear me or if she was only pretending and spoke the news I had invented at that precise moment:

Aliens have landed at Rosegreen school stadium

Today, at seven a.m. at the stadium at Rosegreen Primary School, 10 children – members of Rosewood Aeromodelling Club – were testing a new radio-controlled model aircraft that they recently constructed when they spotted a fast moving object on the eastern horizon. Its shape shifted from a straight line to a triangle and then to a 50 ft-diameter silver-coloured disc, hovering above their heads.

The series in the telly was approaching its end:

“Jack, you can’t leave me standing at the altar!”

“Vanessa, release me!”

I went on talking nonsense:

The disk emitted a bright light forming a halo and radiated a range of colours. Running to the cries of the children, a crowd gathered. People witnessed as the object landed in the stadium. Then a door opened on the side of the craft and two humanoid beings in seamless metallic costumes emerged out of it, greeting the earthmen in unearthly language…

All my efforts were in vain. Auntie cared neither about spices nor about the aliens. With nothing better to do, I stared out of the window. And then the higher power in the face of my Auntie’s dear friend – a famous local gossip called Maggie Grace – intervened in my communication with Auntie. “Magpie”, as she was called by her inner circle of friends, was strolling past our fence straight to the house of our neighbour Gale Nighting, commonly referred to as “Nightingale”. And she was carrying a pink and white pie-dish, covered with a cloth, keeping it in front of her with both hands.

“What stuffing could be inside the pie that ‘Magpie’ is carrying to “Nightingale” – veal, ham or bacon?” I mumbled under my breath and in less than the blink of my eye the telly was switched off and Auntie rocketed out of the armchair. The next second I was helping her on with her shawl and bonnet and ultimately sighed with relief when the door closed behind her wide behind.

In five minutes I was sitting cross-legged on the sofa near the telephone. Opened books were lying all round me in piles. Broad bars of golden light stretched across the room, burning my shoulders, but the forthcoming talk with the Manager made me shudder. What would be at the interview? What if I say something wrong or will find no answer at all? Seconds passed, counting minutes, making me more and more anxious…

The ring of the telephone broke the silence. And suddenly, it turned out that I simply could not pick it up. My palms were sweating and I was sitting and staring at it and listening to it ringing. I can later apologize to Cassandra for missing the call… I can say that something has held me over… But would they give me another chance?

The telephone rang for the fifth time when I finally forced myself to pick it up.

“Hello, Robin,” Cassandra’s fizzy voice streamed into the receiver, “Are you all right?”

I could only make myself mutter something incomprehensible, so she went on, “Your interviewer is Love Violinne. Hold the line, please. I’m going to switch you over to her.”

Click. Click. Buzz. Silence. Buzz. Silence.

“Hello,” said a glassy woman’s voice. “Robin Orion?”

“Yeap, speaking.”

“My name is Love Violinne. We are searching for candidates for the position of intern at our company. So, Robin, I have a couple of questions for you. Let's not waste time and get to the point. The first question is – do you believe in omens?”

I surveyed the opened books with my perplexed gaze and asked, “What do you mean? Magpie and broken mirrors and all like that?”

“I mean whether anything unusual has ever happened to you? Any strange events or just anything out of the ordinary going on around you?”

“Oh, in this sense…,” I hesitated for a second. There were things I hadn’t told anybody about, but Love was so winsome that I decided I could be innocent with her without any fear, “Well, yeap! Once I quarrelled with my best friend. And when I was sitting in my bedroom, raging at him and thinking that I would never ever speak to him again, the wardrobe standing near the wall collapsed with a deafening ‘Crash!’ Astounded, I decided that the Heavens themselves sent me a sign to make up with him. That was it. Then another case…”

“Well, enough. And could you please describe what I look like? I mean how do you imagine me to be judging by my voice?”

This was a strange question. She seemed to divine my thoughts, as, indeed, I imagined her so clearly as if she was standing in front of me.

“Why, I suppose you are a blue-eyed blonde… And you are dressed in a beige gown of transparent multilayer chiffon, embroidered with silver reeds. Wide silver bracelets of sophisticated carving, something like fantastic curlicues alternating with gaps cover your arms from wrists to elbows…”

After a prolonged pause she said, “Robin, my last question to you is the following. Could you please complete the rest of the verse – ‘Every day holds away, raising obstacles…’?”

“’… on the way to the dream,’” I whispered, but I wasn’t listening to her anymore. Time slowed down, stretching, growing limitless… I was inside an elastic soundproof balloon, submerged into cool divine silence… A train of recollections passed through my mind, reviving the images, buried deep in sub-consciousness…. Mum’s long black hair… She sang me that song, rocking me to sleep in the night… Her dear voice… I remembered the first two lines of the verse, but the rest of it was lost in the darkness, trying to surface, tearing my mind, and still slipping away…

A buzy signal on the line. Love must have hung up and I hadn’t even heard her say goodbye. But I didn’t care. Was it a famous verse? Why had Love asked about it? I felt shaken up, embarrassed, completely unhinged. I was staring at the wall with unseeing eyes when the phone rang again.

“Robin?” Cassandra’s voice was tense, “I’ve spoken to Love about the results of your interview.”

My heart sank to my stomach. They rejected me. I didn’t shown my worth during the conversation or maybe I simply didn’t fit them. Cassandra was still silent and then…

“Congrats!!! You have passed!”

I was absolutely amazed. It was a great load off my mind. I was so exhausted that I could not even rejoice at my good fortune.

“Now you will need to take the last interview with one of our Partners in our headquarters in London! Only after that will we make you an official job offer and sign the contract with you. But don’t worry! Love says you are a really prominent candidate and she is a hundred percent confident you will pass the last interview.” Cassandra slowed down her patter a bit, “Robin, we are seriously considering you for the job. So I should inquire, are you ready to relocate to London?”

I gabbled something affirmative in reply and she went on, “I suggest that you arrive the day of the interview and we would start onboarding you to the projects the next day. The third selection stage is already arranged for the penultimate week of September. I will enter you into the list of the last group. The Partner will interview all of you on Tuesday, September 22nd, at noon. If you pass the interview… well, after you pass the interview, I will make an appointment for you with HR at 8:00 a.m., on Wednesday, September 23rd. You will be asked to sign the contract with MAGI and after you sign it, you will be paid a relocation allowance. You still have plenty of time to pack your things for the relocation. Write down the address of our office, please… Wight Tower, 15 Harbour Quay, Canary Wharf, London, E14. The Jubilee Line train stops at Canary Wharf tube station, and this is a few minutes’ walk from our office.”

I somehow guessed her smile and she said, “Robin, Love asked me to tell you that she wishes you good luck. So I do wish you the best of luck! See you in the office in September!”

9 notes · View notes