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suitetarts · 5 months

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cloud nine (part 1)

Astarion x Original Female Character, Dark Urge Tav (Good) Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Eventual Smut (Link to AO3) A much needed discussion about freedom and what it means for two rebellious spawns (Bhaal and vampiric, respectively) in the aftermath of Lorroakan's defeat. They are both free to discover their own desires, and Delilah really wants to fuck Astarion in running water while she still has the chance.

The intention was to just write beach smut where my OC Delilah and Astarion get sunburns but it completely went off the rails. So here's part 1, the angsty lead up to a smutty smutty part 2. You can go to the AO3 series for the other gen one-shot fics I have for my OC, or click here and there.

The second floor of the Elfsong was scrambling to quickly don armor, fill bellies, and otherwise prepare for the day’s events, which happened to start with chasing Aylin through the city streets during the small hours of dawn. The aasimar’s whereabouts were no puzzle to solve, however; she had rather loudly announced her plans to storm Ramazith’s Tower and confront Lorroakan under the spell of her mother’s moonglow. The logistics and planning blur into Delilah’s memory of the fight itself – the crackle of her storm magic piercing through the summoned elementals like a hot knife in butter and the Sword of the Moonmaiden cleaving the wizard’s torso from shoulder to hip.

All at once with earth shattering speed, the tower was quiet, save for heaving chests and the sheathing of weapons.

Once the adrenaline of battle wore thin, Aylin appeared to lose her strength and resolve. A numbness falling over her that even her darling cleric could not mend. The sudden loss of her inner fire seemed to cast a gloom over the party, although the others did their best to move past it. Gale accepted Rolan’s thanks to the party, trying to leverage some assistance in retrieving artifacts he desired. Karlach and Shadowheart mulled about on the promenade and gossiped in the passing clouds. Astarion, though…

Where was he?

A half smile pulled at Delilah’s features as a location came to mind, tempered only by the mood at the top of the fallen wizard’s tower. She immediately made the executive decision to take the rest of the day off even though the sun had not yet reached its highsun crest. The others barely noticed her slip away to the portal, and if they did, they must have thought little of it.

The vampire and drow were rarely apart, if not constantly on top of one another. If one wandered off, the other would not be too far from their heels. And for the rest of the tadpoled adventurers, they were better off not having to be subjected to the constant public display of sickening and often off-putting affection.

Her boots raced through the Basilisk Gate and through Wyrm’s Crossing, down the path winding around Ilmater’s church. The fresh air caressed her like fine spider silks as she found her way to the bay, a markedly more welcome scent than the dead fish and industrial waste of the main city port. She veered away from the visible shore onto an animal’s path snaking through trees and eventually approached a stone wall overlooking the churning waters where the fresh muddy Chionthar met the salty clear Sea of Swords. With an incantation and a wave of her hand, she floated over and down to her favorite secret: a small sandy beach, far away from the stink of Baldur’s Gate.

Delilah looked down as she flew, the two pairs of crimson red eyes locking together as Astarion smirked up at her through the flapping of her skirts. Blood rushed to her face as she made a show of it, swinging her knee out in a curtsy motion and flashing him with what she hoped would be a better glimpse of her underclothes.

“Don’t you think it’s rather early to be so forthcoming?” His usual flamboyant and chiding tone did not match his body language as he caught her gently by the waist. He recognized the incongruence, and so to compensate, shifted his grip around to her ass as her feet met the ground.

“Saer, I’m just being polite. What are you implying?” She played along with his temperament, her arms twisting loosely around his neck to pull him close. “That it's forthcoming to offer you my respect and deference?”

He genuinely laughed, a hearty singular ‘ha’ escaping his chest. “When have you ever been deferent to me, my dear?”

Delilah faltered for a moment, the response to their banter withering on her tongue. When had she been deferent to him, indeed?

Her tadpole writhed against her eye as flashes of her other life splattered across her vision like so many bloody victims of her gruesome crusade. She had previously obeyed her “mother” and the Spider Queen, her true father, his dreadful blood coursing through her veins, and, to some extent, apparently even Gortash. The memories she could recall of them were surely a drop in the ocean compared to what she had forgotten, and she knew she was better for it.

More specifically, when it came to Astarion, nearly every suggestion of his was taken with a grain of salt. Not for a lack of love and care, he was just consistently not thinking things through and seemed to overall acquiesce to her preferred methods without too much complaint. But… Truly the one thing he ever seriously asked of her, to help him complete the ascension ritual for himself, and she basically said no. The pinched fury in his brows and the way he tensed around her in Cazador’s grand chambers in the immediate aftermath still haunted her. He later insisted that he was grateful for her clarity, for saving him from himself. But anxiety chewed through her resolve and made her question herself.

She sighed around a bitter smile as she returned to the present, shielding her eyes from the morning light as she looked up at him. “I can’t recall, my love.”

The jesting tone between them had evaporated in the bright sun, which drenched the small stretch of sand in a near blistering heat if not for the breeze coming off the harbor.

“Yes, right,” he said, clearing his throat.

The pair of rebellious spawns stood in silence, neither of them sure how to start the inevitable post-battle discussion that was sure to cause more painful memories to bubble to the surface.

“Astarion… Why did you leave us in the tower?” she asked tentatively, cautiously, as she took a step away from his embrace and pulled him down to sit on the warm sand with her.

“To be dramatic, of course.”

He waited for Delilah’s eyes to roll before softening, combing through the granules of sand with his hands as he avoided her gaze.

“It’s just… It’s hard to see someone go through that. It’s unfair, to feel so empty after finally getting what–” He cleared his throat with a purse of his lips. “What Aylin wanted. Like justice denied.”

Delilah was tempted to say that she understood, but truly she didn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was even possible to get a chance to face Bhaal the way that Astarion and Aylin were able to face their tormentors. She was honestly a touch jealous, but she also couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to bring upon the end of those who hurt her so deeply. At least it made sense that an entity as untouchable to mortals as the God of Murder would be difficult to extract closure from. And yet, on the other hand, it was so impossibly unfair for someone like Cazador to die swiftly in the face of multiple human lifetime's worth of suffering.

Instead of speaking, she simply leaned into him as they watched the crystalline waves lap at the shore. He mirrored her, resting his ear against her shoulder.

The biological warmth of her pressing against his head mixed with the radiant, near overwhelming heat from the sun and its reflection off the sand felt like a drug, the anxiety and numbness sloughing off of him like molting snakeskin. The manifestation of his greatest desire, for Cazador’s death at his own hand, had not been what he dreamt of, but it still happened. His sire was still dead, while he was now richer than his master had ever been, even with the entirety of Baldur’s Gate at his gilded fingertips, thanks to the tadpole’s gift of the sun and his friends and lover at his side. He and Aylin were still free.

“Still,” he said after a minute of rest, his tone steady and composed. “The Nightsong’s fair-haired fool is done. That’s what matters.”

Her thoughts lingered on her predicament with her father.

“Is it?”

Astarion’s brows pulled together in confusion but kept his head tucked under her ear. A mocking tone entered his voice as he spat, “Surely you don’t think that charlatan twig could possibly come back to life after being cut in half.”

“No, not like that. I…” Delilah’s words trailed off as she began to lose the nerve to give her thoughts weight by speaking them aloud. She set her jaw and pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

He made a frustrated sigh. Even after all their time together, he found that she still took him too seriously at times. “My love, you know I didn’t intend to silence you.”

“I know.”

“You make it so easy to give you grief.”

“I know.”

He pushed more of his weight into her for a moment, allowing the two a brief sway. “Go on then.”

“Fine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You said Lorroakan is done. And that’s what matters. So is killing what matters?”

Astarion waved his hand with a non-committal yet affirmative, “Well…?”

“I– I don’t know. Aylin looked so tired. And I’m tired. Killing is what I’ve always done, endlessly. Even now that I’m trying to change and be better, I’m still killing. And I’m still enjoying it. I don’t want killing to matter to me anymore. I want what happens afterwards to be what matters.”

Delilah emphasized her final point by taking his hand, intertwining their fingers with a firm grip.

Astarion’s involuntary response was for his heart to jump into his throat at her implication, before it dissolved into a warm fuzziness spreading from his chest to his toes. In his old life, there was never an “afterwards” worth having. After they’d used his body up for all that it was good for, if they weren’t already drained of their blood by Cazador or left in some dungeon to rot for centuries, who could possibly want him after finding out what a monster he was?

But everything was different thanks to the tadpoles. He began to think about it all, became overwhelmed, and deflected.

“I really do think you’re making a stink out of what I said. Killing and revenge can be mutually-exclusive actions, but they are so delicious when served together.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, letting out a small breath from her nose.

Taking her response at face value, he continued. “Honestly, don’t worry about all these Dead Three worshippers. Enjoy their blood if you want to, I sure am.”

She slowly stilled, her breath light enough to not disturb a feather.

His voice dropped as he doubted himself, “Listen, with–”

“I put on a good show, Astarion, but I’m tired,” she interrupted him softly as she laid her head on top of his, wiping her smudged eyeliner into his white curls.

His lips pulled to a taut line, unsure of how to best respond. His first choice was always to make a joke, and she was morbid enough to enjoy his humor, but definitely not at this moment. He could offer to do all the killing for her; he wouldn’t mind, although the battles to come as they approach the Absolute may prove overwhelming without her participation.

Or, going against his learned nature to please above all else, he could tell her hard truths.

“We’ve got at least two cults and an elder brain to contend with before we’re done with all of this.” Astarion took his other hand to cup their conjoined fingers. “But we’re so close. Don’t give up just yet.”

“Who said anything about giving up?” She bristled, her voice rising as she spoke. “I’m just looking forward to a morning where I leave my trance without being terrified I’ve hurt someone again.”

“Being tired, giving up. Six of one, half dozen of another,” he retorted, meeting her volume as his hands pull away from hers to gesture, only to return to her hold as his voice lowered. “You can’t lie to me about this… I know it far too intimately.”

She hummed, a light airy thing that contrasted heavily with the tense hold of her muscles.

Silence.

Neither made an effort to disentangle from the other as they sat in their anger.

Until he twitched.

“Gods, I hardly need a reflection when I’ve got you,” Astarion breathed, the affection in his voice strong enough to choke him unconscious. “A complaining, stubborn, impatient little wretch.”

He always knew how to make her smile.

“I promised that we will get your freedom, like you helped me get mine. We’re close. Just be patient,” he asked, petting the back of her hand. A twinge of guilt threatened to churn his eternally empty stomach, as it did every time he told this sweet lie of a promise that he knows he can’t guarantee. Her freedom wasn’t as simple as vampiric chains between sire and spawn.

“It’s hard to be patient when there’s so much to look forward to.” Delilah pulled him in closer by his waist, the words turning sour as she said them aloud.

When did imagining the future become so painful?

It had started in the wilderness of the Sword Coast, when she was at her most lost and before he even cared for her in the slightest, in part as an exercise to keep spirits high and hope alive. The first idea he had shared with her was an exaggerated tale of another loveless and passionate tryst, except in a feather bed with Cazador’s head on a spike. The dreams became less grand and more real as feelings progressed, and simultaneously more terrifying.

She was the first person he truly cared for, the first person to truly care for him. And yet, mortal peril was stalking them both around every corner, snuffing out their dreams before they could even give them life as spoken word. Why would Delilah tell him that she will forsake every god on every plane to be at his side, on adventures or in domestic bliss or whatever else he wanted, for the rest of her days? Why would Astarion tell her that after a brief mortal life and 200 years of slavery, he had so many more firsts to experience and he wanted all of them with her? Saying such things would only cause them more pain should they fail.

She cleared her throat.

“But I will be patient. We’ll figure it out,” she stated with an impostor’s confidence. “And I’ll– I’ll do what I need to do.”

She pressed her ear further into his hair, holding onto his thigh for balance. “Once they’re all dead and we’re free, we’ll have so many nice mornings.”

“Ooh, interesting,” he sang, ever the opportunist, seizing upon a chance to shift in the mood in a less self-pitying direction. A dramatic grimace painted his elegant features as he continued, “I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t even want to think of what sort of hedonistic rituals come after a mass killing with you Bhaalist freaks.”

“I– What? Gods, just–” She thrusted her shoulder up in aggravation, hitting it against his ear rougher than she intended. He yelped and clutched at the side of his head, but even so he seemed proud of himself for riling her up. “Get your mind out of the gutter for five seconds, Astarion.”

“Five seconds?” After a brief moment of dramatized thought, complimented by a hand gesture and a flick of his wrist, he continued the countdown.

“Four…”

He made a show of removing his gloves, an act that always got her undivided attention.

“Three…”

Delilah generally had an even and intimidating poker face. However, at this moment, she was failing to keep her amusement and desire under wraps.

“Two…”

Astarion firmly grabbed her arms with his trademark mischievous grin.

“One…”

Don't fret, I've already got over 2300 words written for Part 2. Coming soon!

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halfbloodsnowy · 1 year

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Penance: Chapter 6 excerpt

Full fic --> Archive of Our Own

9:31 Dragon - Greenfell - The Past

***

Cullen met with Delilah regularly, each time hoping it would somehow break Amell’s hold over him, but he always found himself feeling worse after.

He was eventually sent orders from Knight-Commander Greagoir, informing him he’d be transferred to Kirkwall.

It was a relief.

“I’ll miss you,” whispered Delilah, sitting beside him in the Chantry.

“Will you?” he asked, surprised. “You shouldn’t.”

“I’ve enjoyed the time we spent together,” she said. “Will you write?”

“I don’t think I’ll have time,” he lied.

He already felt monstrous enough for the way he used her. It was best that he cut it off when he left.

She sighed, “I suppose it’s for the best. Will you at least pray with me before you go?”

Cullen wasn’t sure if he wanted to pray, but he agreed. It seemed the least he could do.

He followed Delilah to the aged statue of Andraste, and they both knelt before it, bowing their heads and clasping their hands in front.

And she recited:

“ These truths the Maker has revealed to me,

As there is but one world,

One life, one death, there is

But one god, and He is our Maker.

They are sinners, who have given their love

To false gods.

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

Foul and corrupt are they

Who have taken His gift

And turned it against His children.

They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.

They shall find no rest in this world

Or beyond.”

Cullen’s eyes opened, but he remained in his praying position as Delilah continued the verse.

“Foul and corrupt are they, who have taken his gift, and turned it against his children,” he whispered.

“What is it?” asked Delilah, pausing to look at him.

“Oh,” he said, not realizing he had been loud enough for her to hear. “N-nothing, I was just praying too.”

“Of course,” she said, “please, take over.”

“It’s really not necessary—”

“I insist,” she smiled.

Cullen felt put on the spot, but he clasped his hands once again, and bowed his head:

“In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know

The peace of the Maker's benediction.

The Light shall lead her safely

Through the paths of this world, and into the next.

For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,

She should see fire and go towards Light.

The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,

And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker

Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

Once he started, the words seemed to flow on their own. It was an unconscious prayer, pouring from his heart, out into the world he’d grown to despise so much.

For the first time in months, he truly prayed, and his chest tightened as he did:

“My Maker, know my heart:

Take from me a life of sorrow.

Lift me from a world of pain.

Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”

“So let it be,” said Delilah quietly, and she raised a brow at him. “That was heartfelt, Ser Cullen.”

“Was it?” he croaked, massaging his throat. “It was the first verse to come to mind.”

“Who was it for?”

Who was it for? He wasn’t sure.

“My friends,” he said, clearing his throat.

Delilah smiled knowingly at him, “I hope whoever she was, she was worthy of you.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“I hope your journey to Kirkwall is safe,” she said, before clasping her hands together and resuming her prayer in silence.

Feeling uncomfortable. He left Delilah in the Chantry, and wandered outside.

The village was old and creaky, and he was glad to leave.

It wasn’t until he arrived in Kirkwall that he realized he had prayed for Amell, and that the hate he had for her was only pain at her loss.

#dragon age fanfiction #romance #amell x cullen #cullen rutherford #fanfiction

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silurisanguine · 2 years

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First Line meme

Tagged by @hirvitank, thankyou!!! Rules: List the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends. hmm pattern? not finishing a long story. They are not dead, just dormant at the moment. posted in order of writing.

1Starry Starry Night (Vampyr - McReid ship) It had been almost six months since Jonathan’s return to London, the epidemic slowly dying out and the remaining skals, beasts and other monsters returning to their hidden places. The doctor had gone back to what he knew; The Pembroke, London and the familiarity of being a medical professional.

2Paradigm Shift (Vampyr - McReid ship) The journey back from Scotland had been a long slow one, over a month passing before he drove into the familiar streets of London. The time taken was partly due to being limited by when he could travel and by the speed of the car, but mostly because of what he had just experienced had taken time to take in. He had even stopped at The Bull Inn, where Elisabeth had lived once as a mortal. He'd sat in a dark corner of the Inn contemplating all the events that had happened in that ruin of a castle in Scotland. In a short space of time, he had met with one of the oldest, greatest figures in history, realised there were many famous kin he was related to through blood and watched the person he considered a mentor and friend, burn themselves to death in front of him, all because she had told him she felt betrayed by his choices.

3Obsidian Dreams (Dishonored - Emsider.) Corvo opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. The Void. it was familiar in some ways, yet it also struck him as different. The Void looked colder now than those many years before, dark and empty...like a void. He was sitting on the stone floor of this vast expanse yet the last thing he'd remembered was being in the throne room fighting the witch Delilah. He swore he had stabbed her, driven the sword deep through her chest, but somehow she had laughed, pulled the sword out and then, trapped him in some magical vine, before having the Outsider’s mark pulled off his hand and then attacking Emily and him. He remembered telling Emily to run, to flee and he pushed her then threw himself again at Delilah only to feel a sudden cold and then darkness.

Now he was in the Void. Was he dead then? Had Delilah killed him? Was his spirit now to wander the Void, punishment for all the deeds he had done those many years ago?

4Savages (Vampyr - McReid)

Jonathan woke from a dream. A dream of blood and fire. Blood that surrounded him as he fought the Red Goddess, fire as he watched the flames consume Elizabeth. Events of his recent past that he just wanted to forget. He’d been the saviour, a bittersweet champion as his maker put it and now he was done. People he’d thought were friends had used him, friends he thought he understood and who understood him called him a betrayer. No. He was done with it all.

5To See Beyond Forever ( Dishonored - Emsider)

Billie Lurk hadn't planned to save The Black Eyed Bastard when Daud had first given her the mission, but when she saw his screaming face, his writhing torso captured within stone, something broke inside her. It confirmed a suspicion she had gained in the recent days about who he really was and ...She felt for him.

6Recovery Mode ( Deus Ex Human Revolution - Adam Jensen)

Standing at the window of your apartment, you look out over the city below and for a moment the very fact you are there at all takes your breath away. If one thing had gone differently, you’d be dead, like everyone else at Sarif’s labs and yet somehow you survived. It had been four months since you were let out of the hospital. Four months since they helped you walk again, helped you hold a ball again, helped you see without blinding headaches. Four months and now here you were, back at home, alive. You’d woken up 14 days after the surgery, they said. 14 days in an induced coma as your body healed from what had been done to it. Through repeated surgeries to change you from purely human to cyborg or Enhanced Human as they preferred to call it. What ever name they gave it, you had been fundamentally altered.

7Revelations ( Deus Ex Human Revolution - Adam Jensen)

It had been over 5 months since the attack and the last time your physiotherapist had been round, he’d recommended you take up a hobby to help with fine motor skills. You’d been proud that you’d managed zippers and pants buttons, finally able to dress how you wanted. But the really delicate things, the things you knew you’d need for your job, you couldn’t quite manage and you had been so frustrated, almost wishing the mirror in the bathroom wasn't still broken so you could smash it again.

8Fade To and Echo ( Dishonored -The Outsider & Delilah)

As Delilah’s spirit passed once again into the Void, The Outsider waited for her to appear. He stood impassive against the forever expanse of the abyss, but his face betrayed something she had awoken by once being a part of him. Emotion.

9Shattered Reflections ( Deus Ex Human revolution - Adam Jensen)

It was daytime outside but with the window shutters down, your apartment was dimly lit only by the light coming from your tv screen. Wearing comfortable track pants and a grey t-shirt, you lean forward on your couch, watching closely a recently recorded game of baseball and sipping at a whisky. You could for a moment forget everything that’s happened to you in the past few months. But in order to forget the bad, you’d have to forget the good and why would you want to do that after it had made such a difference to your life?

10An Emerging Shadow ( Thief4 / Dishonored - Garrett/ Aeryn Black O.C.)

Aeryn Black, to all appearances was a daughter of good parents from a good old Morley family. Born in Caulkenny on the west coast to well respected tailor parents she appeared on the surface to be a good daughter that when she came of age would marry into another good family. Except Aeryn never cared for the trappings of middle class life or the strictness of the school she was sent too, spending much of her childhood escaping both to wander the docks of Caulkenny Port and its surrounding cliffs. Listening to the sailors tell tales of ancient great whales, of The Outsider and the Void and the Old Gods of other lands just as mysterious as each other. I tag @lakritzwolf @themortalscout @deusexwarpaintfanfiction @darthfluff @onewhoturns and anyone who else liked to do this!

#first lines meme #my writing #silurisanguine fanfic

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fanfictrashdump · 3 years

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Queening a Pawn, 22

If you’re new: this is my procrastination fic. It is what I drabble around with when I’m being my worst self, and ignoring all my other WIPs and responsibilities! Enjoy!

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Pairings: Loki x OC

WARNINGS: Language, fighting, swords, impending doom, nervous throwing up, and entirely fictional traditions that are just... so dumb.

It was the clinking noise of metal on metal that caught her attention first. The situation pretty much snowballed from there, but the noise was the first indication.

Delilah had been busy staring at her computer. She was finishing her fiscal year end reports, much to her utter dismay. The only glittering spot in her day had been the unusual side effect from Loki and hers exchange of jewelry. Throughout the day, Delilah would get sucked in by the pleasant buzz in the back of her skull when Loki had a particularly strong emotion. The god could make all of the excuses he wanted about how he felt nonchalant about the children, but the utter fondness that flooded her system most of her work day was the only indication that he was a big fat liar. She had been in the midst of a most pleasant flood of endorphin-filled fondness when the noise pulled her out of her head. Her name in a shout followed immediately after.

"Delilah Vázquez!"

When Delilah glanced up from the copier, she was greeted by the sight of Brunnhilde, in her full Asgardian royal armor and Uru crown. In her hand, she wielded a broadsword, though Dragonfang was sheathed on her hip. The tip of the sword swayed ominously towards her, the warrioress staring her down with intimidating focus. Delilah didn't exactly noticed when she started running, but she was damn sure she was not going to stop.

"DELILAH!"

Pumping her arms, she continued running down the corridor a good thirty paces ahead of Valkyrie. She hated admitting it, but the occasional workout Loki made her do with him was probably the only reason she wasn't a panting, sweaty mess being skewered on the end of a broadsword right now. Lilah knew that she needed to get to the common room. Sam and Bucky had returned from another mission two days ago, so they were probably taking it easy for the next few days. If she could find them–clunk clunk

The heavy footsteps were gaining on her as she skidded into the living room. Bucky jumped, startled out of his nap by the ruckus. He noted only the blurred outline of Delilah running past and ducking behind his chair, but when he finally saw Valkyrie, he took up a defensive pose.

"Out of my way Barnes!" Valkyrie grumbled through clenched teeth. "I came a long way for this, this armor is killing me. Move!"

"Are you out of your damn mind!?"

"Now, Barnes!" When he remained rooted to the spot, she half-heartedly swung the sword in his direction. He parried the blow with his modified arm, engaging her into close combat while Delilah slipped away in the background.

Her escape was not unseen, though Bucky did his best to keep the Asgardian King at bay before he was knocked through several doors with a well-placed kick of her armored boot.

Delilah backed into one of the empty storage rooms. She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her labored breathing. Maybe if she was quiet enough, and kept to the walls, the Valkyrie would think she had run out the emergency staircase. Her hope was short lived, however, the door to the storage room was kicked open with a boom. Quiet as could be, Lilah lowered herself between two empty rows of metal shelves and closed her eyes tightly. And for a moment, her plan was working.

"There you are!"

Emerald eyes snapped open to see the figure of Valkyrie backlit by the harsh, white light of the storage room bulbs. Trembling, Delilah began crawling backwards, mentally calculating her probabilities of making it out before Brunnhilde caught up to her.

A clatter made her start. At her feet, Valkyries sword, Dragonfang, shook and settled while it emitted a harmonious hum. Delilah looked from the sword to the King for a mite too long, it seemed. "Pick it up! Full armor chafes!"

"I-I don't know how–"

"Pick it up and fight me! My laws demand it for satisfaction!" With tentative movements, she grasped the pommel and closed her hand around the grip. "Oh, Norns your grip is fucking awful. Who taught you to swordfight?"

"No one! I don't know how!" Delilah snapped back, lifting the point of the sword off the ground. Her free hand went up to the runic medallions resting on her collarbone. For a protective talisman, they weren't doing a hell of a lot in the way of protecting.

Valkyrie rolled her eyes and raised her own weapon. "You and I will have short battle for the purpose of satisfying our ancient laws in regards to trysts with members of the Royal Family. Do you understand what is required of you? Yes? Great, let's begin."

Before Delilah could even protest that this wasn't being fair to her, Valkyrie had swept her weapon straight down, meeting Dragonfang in her grasp and making her arm shudder all the way to her marrow. With a yelp, Delilah jumped back, trying as hard as she could to avoid the Asgardian's blows. She had successfully pushed the King back and made a short run for it before Valkyrie leapt and landed just short of blocking her path.

The thought that she was going to die crossed Delilah's brain at that instant. As sudden as that realization was to hit her, so was the wispy green smoke to surround her body in a nearly solid mass. It quickly swirled around her before disappearing to a place she thought was in her chest, if the sudden pain was any indication. Valkyrie's eyes darkened, and charged for Delilah, sword raised. Delilah crossed her own weapon in front of her and her free hand braced itself for the incoming attack in front of her.

Just as the blow was to connect, the pain in Lilah's chest exploded outward through her arm. Her open palm, facing Valkyrie and waiting for impact, spewed a dense ball of that same wispy, green smoke that knocked Brunnhilde off her feet. She flew several yards back and landed with a loud thunk on the concrete floor.

"What the fuck is going on!?"

Loki's booming voice was so welcome that Delilah thought she might sob. Actually, she did, because Loki was by her side and wiping her tears away with his thumbs a moment later. He wrapped an arm around her, trying to soothe the violent trembling that was making her teeth knock together painfully. He pried her fingers off the grip of Valkyries sword and reassured her in soft murmurs that she was OK and that she was in no danger.

"I yield. Oh, Frigga in Valhalla, dearest. I yield," Valkyrie gasped, pulling herself back onto her feet.

"What the fuck is going on, Valkyrie?" He repeated, though his voice was low and sounded poisonous.

Brunnhilde pulled a face, rolling her eyes. "What do you mean, what the fuck is going on? You know our laws, Loki. She is not a member of the court and since you've endeavored to make it quite clear that you are both alive and in love with her, she needs to ascend."

Loki stared blankly at the King for a few minutes, no noise being made among the three, before he drew an extraordinarily long breath. "I know that. She does not."

"So?"

His response was perfectly enunciated, each syllable dripping vitriol unlike any Delilah had ever heard. "She thought you were attempting to kill her, you empty-headed troll." His arm gripped Lilah tightly and pressed her securely into his side. She was still trembling, though she had stopped crying. He assumed that the shock was just settling in. They needed to be careful before–

Splat.

"Oops?" Valkyrie looked contrite, especially considering that Delilah was now hunched over, emptying her stomach of any and all contents in the space that existed between the three. "You would think a civilized society would at least teach all of their members to fight properly! She was acting as if it was her first time battling with swords."

"It was… You've been living in Midgard for a long time. How did you not notice they don't swordfight anymore?" With a scoff, he handed a surly Valkyrie back her sword, which she promptly sheathed at her hip.

"Can I at least finish so I can take this ridiculous court armor off?" Loki's eyes cut across with a darkened glare. "She's already doubled over!" He nodded reluctantly and allowed Valkyrie to touch the top of Delilah's head with the flat of her blade. The Midgardian gasped and tensed again and would have continued to be sick were it not for Loki's hand smoothing down her back. "After brave battle, you have earned your place in court. Blah blah blah. I guess you can continue seeing Loki, though the Norns only know why you would choose to do so." Brunnhilde bent over and caught Delilah's eyes, dulled by fear and exhaustion. "Could you do the fist thing really quick?"

With a delirious laugh, Delilah thumped her closed fist over her heart, nearly sobbing when the Asgardian put her arm around her and helped her straighten. "Could you have not sent a message ahead or literally anything before chasing me down wiTH A DAMN SWORD, VALKYRIE!?"

Valkyrie shrugged. "I really did think you guys had better battle training than this. Sorry." The group stepped over Delilah's mess and took back to the corridors. Bucky had been patrolling like a mad man in search for Valkyrie before Loki had told him that he was on it. As they moved past him, Lilah offered him a thumb's up and a thank you. "Did you make her that seidr pendant, Snakeboy?"

Loki helped Delilah sink into one of the chairs in her living quarters, anxiously brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Yes. Did it hurt?"

"Like you wouldn't believe!"

"Good," he replied, deadpan, and Delilah could tell he really meant it. Shortly, he placed a bottle of Gatorade in front of her and kissed her crown. "Drink. You need it." His fingers loosened the chain around her neck and closed it in his fist. "I will bring this right back. Evidently, I need to add a warning for idiot Asgardians on it," he offered before blipping out of existence in her flat.

Valkyrie had pulled off all the heavy, metal armor off her body and sighed with satisfaction. "Did you really think I wanted to kill you?"

"Yes! You only yelled my name and that you demanded satisfaction. I had no clue what was going on."

"I guess not the best warning, I'll admit, but I'd never hurt you. You're the only one in this hell hole I can stand." The Valkyrie nudged Delilah in the ribs until she let out a laugh. When Loki returned, they were sitting on the couch, one arm around each other's waist, giggling. He wasted no time in reattaching the necklace with an adoring smile.

"Since when do you care about tradition and protocols?" Loki asked, offhandedly, sitting on the coffee table opposite Delilah with her free hand in his.

Brunnhilde rolled her eyes. "Since several ladies took offense that they were not informed of the fact that you were alive and demanded tradition be upheld. They're desperate to rise the ranks and go back to being courtesans."

"It's no secret I've never been the preferred prince. So, why bother?"

The warrior sighed. "Because even power and title from the dark prince is still power and title. They'll do anything to grab their share. Now, they can't."

"I'm not in line to serve, though. And it'll be a cold day in hell before I willingly go to New Asgard to live, so it's a moot point." He ran him thumb over the back of Delilah's hand. "Not to mention, I wouldn't take them. Can't exactly marry me by force."

"They'd try," Delilah and Valkyrie replied in unison.

"From what I've read, they've downgraded from a futuristic paradise to a cold strip of land by the sea. It's hard to forget thousands of years worth of privilege. Especially if you've lived the thousands of years." Delilah shrugged. "I don't blame them."

"I'm spoken for," he argued, his lips twitching just the barest bit upwards.

"Well, now you are. You're welcome, by the way," Brunnhilde grumbled, stretching out with a sigh before hopping to her feet. "I have duties to attend to, so I will see you later. My Prince. Princess."

Delilah frowned, watching Valkyrie toss her armor over her shoulder and close the door behind her with a slam. "Princess? There's a new nickname. Can't say it's my favorite."

Loki grinned widely, resting his head on his free hand, propped on his thigh. "You've got no clue what you did today, do you?"

"I don't exactly study Asgardian history in my free time, Lo." There was a long pause before she tacked on, "Why?"

"The challenge you fought was for position in the court as a member of equal measure to the Royal Family."

"I don't follow."

His eyes glittered in mirth. "I'm not surprised. It will make sense soon enough." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. "Nonetheless, you will always be my Queen in all that matters, Princess. Though getting rid of the Valkyrie would be an easy enough task, should you desire to ascend."

With another kiss, he mentioned something about going to get her some more Gatorade. The words sunk slowly into Delilah's adrenaline-drowned brain. "Wait, are you telling me she just made me a Princess? Like an honest to god, I could have my own Disney movie, Princess? Loki?!"

#Loki #Loki MCU #Loki (Marvel)#MCU #MCU fanfiction #MCU fanfic #Loki x oc #Loki x ofc #alternate timeline #time heist #not Loki show compliant #Queening a Pawn

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vexing-imogen · 5 years

Text

bones, hearts, and other broken things

The Lady of Whitestone’s scream echoes through the foyer as Sylas sinks his fangs into her neck. Her blood warms his throat as he feeds, temporarily sating his ever present thirst. She cries out in pain as she struggles against him ineffectually, her shoulder wrenching out of socket, the bones of her wrist snapping in his iron grasp.

Good he thinks, snarling with satisfaction. Let her suffer. Let her suffer as Delilah was made to suffer.

“Please,” she whimpers, voice already weak. It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. Weak. It is the greatest injustice that Whitestone is being ruled by this mewling kitten instead of his strong, proud Delilah. His Delilah, who never once lowered herself to beg for anything, not even her life.

He removes his mouth from her to growl in her ear. “Please what?” he snaps. “Are you asking me for mercy?” He tightens his grip on her and she shrieks. “I will grant you the same measure of mercy that you granted my wife when you murdered her.”

He sinks his teeth back into her flesh, drinking more slowly this time. “If you’re going to kill me, fucking do it already,” she says, struggling to break his grip.

Sylas laughs at that. “I don’t think so,” he says, bringing a hand up to caress her cheek. I think I’ll wait for your darling husband to arrive home, so he can watch me tear your throat out. That way he’ll know how it feels to watch the love of his life be slaughtered in front of him and be powerless to stop it.” He laughs again, softer this time, as he kisses her neck, fangs scraping her jugular. “I suppose I am granting you a small bit of mercy, killing you first. You’ll never know how it feels to live without him.”

She’s trembling against him, her heartbeat sounding quick and panicked in his ears. There’s something more there, too. Twin flutters. Soft and impossibly fast. His booming laugh echoes through the hall when the answer dawns on him. His free hand slips from her neck to rest on her abdomen. She stiffens against him, whispers a soft, “No.”

He strokes his hand over her stomach gently. “So, this is why they left you behind. Why they left you alone and unprotected. They thought you’d be safer at home.” He laughs. “They were wrong.”

He pauses to drink from her again. “Perhaps this changes things,” he muses. “Maybe I won’t wait to kill you after all. Maybe he’ll come home to find you in your bed. Pale. Lifeless. Belly torn open and your innards strewn across the sheets.” He hums thoughtfully. “Or perhaps he’ll find you laid out on the altar of your brother’s temple.” He kisses her neck again. “Did you know you taste like him?” he whispers before sinking his fangs in and drinking deep.

The cry she lets out is feral, primal, anger replacing the fear and the pain. She whispers something, and he’s suddenly blinded, reeling back from her, his mouth burning as if he’d drunk acid.

When his eyes adjust, she’s standing before him, emitting brilliant, divine light. Her eyes burn white with the intensity of the sun. She smirks. “Champion of Pelor, bitch,” she says, lunging at him.

She manages to jump onto his back, wrapping arms and legs around his neck and torso. He howls in agony at her touch as he tries and fails to wrest her off of him.

“Sylas!”

A voice rings out across the foyer, and he turns to find Cassandra de Rolo, in her dressing gown, rapier in hand. She charges him, and he just barely manages to draw his own sword in time to parry her first strike.

Even with a radiant half-elf clinging to his back, Sylas is stronger than Cassandra, and he disarms the girl quickly. He strikes hard with his sword, cleaving open her chest, and Vex’ahlia’s grip on him slackens as she screams Cassandra’s name.

He gets a grip on her bad shoulder and tears her off of him, hurling her across the room. Her skull hits the wall with a sickening crack, and she falls limp, the glow dimming but not fully extinguished. He’s looming over Cassandra, raising his sword to strike her down, when an explosion sounds behind him and something impacts his hand, nearly causing him to drop his sword.

He spins around to see Percival standing in the open doorway, gun trained on him, black smoke rolling off of him in waves. He smirks, eyes burning with cold hatred as the rest of Vox Machina steps into view behind him. “Hello, Sylas.”

The pup foolishly puts his gun away and pulls out a sword, charging Sylas with a roar echoed by the goliath that bounds in after him. Sylas parries the goliath’s axe, and swings at Percival, almost catching him across the ribs. He roars in frustration and goes to strike again, but he’s caught off guard by a voice ringing out from behind him.

“Oi, your mama’s so ugly, even Vecna wouldn’t take her on a date!”

The goliath’s axe sinks into his shoulder, and then again into the left side of his chest. He manages to land two hits on Percival, slicing open his cheek and slashing across his thigh. Thunder booms above him, producing a bolt of lightning that nearly forces him to his knees.

A radiant blast hits him square in the chest, and he should run, but Percival is right in front of him, bleeding. He lunges for the pup, intending to rip out his throat, but something strikes him in the back. An arrow, he realizes as thorny brambles erupt around him, and he falls to the floor prone.

He catches a glimpse of Vex’ahlia, propped against her bear, a bow clattering to the ground beside her. A shadow falls over him, and he looks up to meet Percival’s eyes.

The pup has his gun out again, and he’s contemplating Sylas. “Would you like to do the honors, Cass?” he asks as his sister steps into view, her rapier in hand.

She ponders for a moment. “Together, I think, brother.”

Percival nods, cocking his gun as Cassandra rests her rapier at his neck. “Give our best to Delilah,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

Percy doesn’t even bother to watch Keyleth and Pike unleash their Holy Bag of Dicks on the dust that was Sylas Briarwood. He’s dropping his gun and racing to Vex’s side as soon as the trigger’s pulled. She’s conscious, but just barely, the radiant glow emanating from her flickering like a dying candle.

He pulls her into his lap, apologizing profusely when she cries out in pain. “I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He peppers her face with gentle kisses, and he can see the deep brown of her eyes through the blinding white that overtakes them when she invokes Pelor’s blessing. She’s deathly pale, her breath shallow, throat torn open with multiple bite wounds. “Pike!”

He hears the clank of armor as the gnome rushes to them. “Okay, okay,” she says, laying her hands on Vex. “It’s gonna be okay, Percy. She’ll be okay.” Golden white light bursts from her hands, washing over Vex and Percy. He feels his own wounds seal up as he watches the healing magic work over his wife. Her breath evens out, color returning to her cheeks, the marks on her neck now barely visible scars.

She stares up at him, gives him a weak smile. “Hi.”

Percy stares at her for a moment before he crushes her to his chest, sobs overtaking him. “I’m sorry.” He repeats it like a mantra. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m sorry I left. I should have been here to protect you.”

She clutches him just as tight, hushing him gently. “How could you have known?” she murmurs. “None of us had any idea he was watching us. We all thought I’d be safest here.” She takes his face in her hands, forces him to look at her. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“Say it enough, and I might actually start to believe you,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against hers.

She sighs, and he closes his eyes against her scowl. “That’s the best I’m getting for a while, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” he says, starts combing his fingers through her hair. “How are you feeling?” he asks, catching her wince when she shrugs. He only has to glance at Pike and she’s quietly pouring more healing into Vex. He swallows hard, preparing for the question he doesn’t want to ask. “Is the...is the baby...”

He sees tears start to well up in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice catching. “Percy, I don’t...”

He hugs her close again. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’ll be alright.”

Pike clears her throat softly. “I think I can help,” she offers.

Vex turns to her hopefully. “You can?”

“I know a spell,” she says, shuffling closer. “It should only take a couple of minutes.”

They wait as patiently as they can as Pike casts the spell, but they’re both fidgeting by the time the two minute, and then the five minute mark passes. After ten minutes have gone by, Pike beams up at them. “Well, do you guys want the good news first, or the better news?”

Vex sags against Percy, and he can feel tears starting to soak his shirt. Percy lets out the breath he’s been holding. “The baby’s fine then?” he confirms.

Pike grins. “Yeah. They’re both a-okay.”

Percy’s heart skips a beat, and Vex’s grip tightens on his arm. “Both?” they ask in unison.

“Yeah,” Pike nods. “Congratulations, it’s twins.”

Vex’s hands go to her belly, and she’s smiling through tears when she finally looks at Percy. “We’re having twins,” she says, disbelieving.

“Apparently so,” he says with a laugh that’s only slightly maniacal.

Their delighted laughter echoes through Whitestone Castle as the first rays of sunlight peek over the mountains.

#critical role #critfic #vox machina #sylas briarwood #vex'ahlia #percival fredrickstein von musel klossowski de rolo iii #cw gore #cw violence

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words-writ-in-starlight · 5 years

Note

hey so rewatched legend of the sword yesterday w/ a friend (partially cuz i showed them one of your posts about it) - so vox machina: legend of the sword au maybe? randomly generated hozier lyric: Mid-Youth Crisis. hope youre doing well :)

INSPIRED! EXCEPTIONAL! VISIONARY! For this ask meme, which is still open!

mid-youth crisis

“Percival deRolo,” the queen says, rolling her words over her tongue like a fine wine lacedwith poison. She’s dressed in a fine gown of deepest blue, with the Briarwoodcrest embroidered over and over in silvery white at the hem. Her dark hair ishalfway pinned up under her circlet, the rest falling in orderly curls down herback. “You did cause us no end of trouble.”

“My name isPercy, Your Majesty,” Percy says, forcing himself to bow his head over hismanacles and look afraid. The fear isn’t a challenge. The bow costs himeverything. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Don’t you?You would have been—what, nearly eight?”

Percy triesto look guileless, tries to look baffled and afraid and every inch the bastardson of a whore. He doesn’t know if he’s selling it, but he does knowthat the second he stops trying, he’s going to be executed. He’ll never see Vexor Vax again, and any chance of revenge he’s ever entertained, any hope ofmaking the queen and her consort pay for the fall of the de Rolos, will diewith him. He wasn’t ready for this, he wasn’t prepared, and now he’s in a cell,unarmed and completely unable to call for aid. Even if he could, three streetfighters with a sword, a bow, and six knives between them aren’t liable to getfar against the full might of the Briarwoods’ personal army.

He neverexpected to live, when he faced Queen Delilah Briarwood, but he’d hoped to atleast take her down with him.

“I’m—twenty-three,Your Majesty,” Percy says. He keeps his eyes fixed on the chain between hisfeet. If he looks up, the acid rage in his chest will fight it’s way up histhroat, until he’s snarling at her. He forces his head down further andpictures Cassandra, her chubby little hands losing their grip on him and herblood staining her nightgown. “If that helps.”

“I’m sureyou’ve been told you look older,” Delilah says, reaching through the bars ofthe cell to curl her fingers thoughtfully into his hair, raking at the whitecurls.

The familiartouch, as casual and friendly as if he were her son, or her dog, is too much totake.

Percy jerksback hard, as much as he can without moving his feet and testing the chains.His head snaps up and he doesn’t know what his face looks like right now, buthe’ll gamble it’s neither deferential nor frightened.

“Do nottouch me,” he snaps.

“There itis,” Delilah says, and she catches his jaw in a lightning-fast move, forces himto look at her as she studies his eyes, the brilliant blue that he inheritedfrom his father, and his father before him. “That famous de Rolo pride. Tell meyour name, my dear boy.”

“You’regoing to kill me anyway.” He can hear an old accent starting to touch hiswords, distantly, as if this is all a play on a stage and he can’t do anythingto change it. The streets of Londinium fade, the high towers of thecastle taking their place in his vowels and liquids. If she wasn’talready sure of who she’d managed to capture, he thinks that alone might haveproved it to her.

“That’strue,” the queen says, her grip tightening until it’s nearly enough to leavefingerprint bruises on his jaw. “You are the oldest surviving de Rolo heir, theBorn King. The sword knows it. I can’t allow the people to know it,too. But if you cooperate, I may not kill anyone…else.”

Percy has amoment of ice-cold dread as he wrenches himself away from her grip. Gods,who— “What have you done?” he whispers, and it’s all nobility.

Delilahsmiles at him, the calm satisfaction of a cat watching its prey run directlyinto a trap. “My dear,” she says, raising her voice from its usual softmurmur to a summoning shout without taking her eyes off Percy. “Join us.”

And a womanwalks down the hall to stand at Delilah’s side. She has long, chestnutbrown hair threaded in several places with snowy white, pinned up over a longoval face, and for a wild moment, Percy thinks mother, but no. Thewoman is too young, younger than her hair and severe expression suggest—youngerthan Percy, maybe, with traces of childish roundness still in her stubbornchin. She’s dressed in a lighter shade of blue than Delilah’smidnight, a simple dress cut from expensive cloth that makes the woman’sstartlingly blue eyes nearly glow in the torchlight.

“Cassandra,”Percy chokes out. He feels like he did when he took the hilt of thesword, like there’s such unimaginable energy in his chest that there’s nowherefor it to go, nothing for it to do but rip him to pieces. Cassandraalways had the family eyes, even when she was such a tiny thing that her hairhadn’t yet darkened from baby-blonde to their mother’s deep brown. Hehasn’t seen his sister since the night the castle fell, when his mother forcedCassandra into Percy’s arms and told him to run. Cassandra had been fouryears old when she died. Cassandra had been four years old when shewas shot with an arrow, while he was still holding her, and the blood hadstill been soaked into his nightshirt and coat when he was pulled from theriver, numb and tearless with shock.

Cassandrahad died. Percy had watched her gasp desperately as he clumsilytried to stop the bleeding, had seen her eyes slip shut before he fled from thespell-creature in the silver helm, shaped into a bird’s skill and wielding awar scythe.

Cassandra hadto have died, because if she hadn’t—

Oh, gods, ifshe hadn’t, he’d left her there.

“Cass,”Percy forces through numb lips. “You’re alive.”

“Percy,” shesays. Her face is utterly serene, utterly removed. Colder than thestars and just as untouchable. “It’s good to see you again.”

“How did you—Isaw you die, how are you here?” He turns a look on Delilah andwhatever it is, whatever his blind rage has done to his features, it’s enoughto make the queen blink, although not quite enough to change the expression ofself-assured satisfaction on her face. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Of coursenot,” Delilah says, almost offended. “I believe you’ve met my daughter,isn’t that right, my dear?” She strokes the back of herknuckles over Cassandra’s cheek, as carelessly proprietary as the way she’dtouched Percy’s hair, and Cassandra doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t evenblink, still watching Percy with a strange combination of white-hot intensityand complete blankness, as if so entranced by what she’s seeing that Delilahcould put a knife through her chest and not get even a flicker of response. “Cassandra, dear, answer the boy’s question.”

Cassandrainclines her head and says, “Of course, my lady.” Her eyes fix back ontoPercy’s, the bright blue showing a flicker of real life for the first time—anger. “After you left me to die,” she says, and her voice is still controlled,emotionless, so that her words cut like a naked sword, “I was found by HerMajesty herself. She saw to it that I was saved—that my wounds werehealed and no sickness was allowed to fester. She and Sylas have beenvery good to me, the past fifteen years. I was fortunate to be given asecond chance at a family, after my first one betrayed me so completely.”

Percy cannotbreathe, still so washed in the shock and elation of seeing her that he canfeel a smile fighting to appear, even under the fresh pain of her words. It takes a moment before he can answer her.

“I—Ibelieved you had died,” he says, and tries not to sound too much like a lostchild. Tries not to laugh in raw wonder. Tries not to rage atDelilah, for all she’s taken from them. He steps forward, so quickly thathis first step comes up sharply against the manacles around his ankles, andwraps a hand around the iron bars separating him from his sister. “Cassandra,I—I had no idea. I had never heard tell that the Briarwoods had achild. No one has ever spoken of a surviving de Rolo. Not even me.”

“I am not asurviving de Rolo,” Cassandra says, biting off each word like she’s in a hurryto get them away from herself as quickly as possible. “You left yoursister to die, and she did. I am a Briarwood, and—” For the first time,Cassandra’s determination flickers, and she advances a step, staring Percy deadin the eye like she’s challenging him to something. “And,” she continues,as hard as before, “I look forward to attending your execution tomorrow,Percival.”

Withoutanother word, Cassandra turns on her heel and strides out of thedungeons. It’s her stride that gives away her emotions, more than herperfect mask of neutral engagement and her near-immaculate vocal control—hergown flares and swirls around her with the force of each step, a fighter’s walkthat doesn’t match the image of the polished court lady. Delilah watchesher go with the same pleasantly satisfied smile as before, and turns back toPercy while he’s still reeling.

“So,” shesays, silken. “I believe you were telling me your full name.”

“Percival,”he whispers, staring after Cassandra. “Percival Frederickstein von Musel Klossowskide Rolo. The third.”

“Very good,” Delilah says, as approving as ahoundsmaster praising the latest addition to the pack. “Now, it mayinterest you to know that we are also looking into your friends in Londinium,but I expect that lovely Cassandra should be more than enough to assure yourcooperation, don’t you?”

#percy de rolo #cassandra de rolo #critical role #vox machina #lady delilah briarwood #starlight writes stuff #ask meme #this is actually such an UNBELIEVABLY phenomenal concept that i may write the rest of it??????#I GOT EMOTIONAL ON SHIFT AND WROTE LIKE...A B I T OF SYLAS STUFF IN THIS UNIVERSE???????#some other stuff in no particular order #keyleth is the mage/merlin but like...a beautiful earthshatteringly powerful goober #who spends all her time converting percy to the idea of actually ruling #rather than just showing up and murdering the briarwoods and calling it a damn day #vex and vax are backlack and wetstick except scarier #vex brings keyleth a wounded bear cub and gets herself A Pet #grog is a wayward viking berserker the size of a house who runs a fight club/training house in londinium #it is frequented by his long time best friend pike who was camelot's trainee priest before the briarwoods #she's also Scary with a mace and helping plan a revolution but nbd #scanlan wouldn't be helping if pike wasn't but she is so he's right there with her they're bedivere and goosefat bill sort of #THEY OVERTHROW THE BRIARWOODS AND PERCY GETS A MAGIC SWORD IDK WHAT ELSE YOU WANT FROM ME #lotheben #asked and answered #queue deeper than the sea of stars

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allisondraste · 5 years

Text

Temperance (11/?)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary: Did someone say "Epistolary Chapter?" Oh wait, no, that was me... EPISTOLARY CHAPTER.

First Chapter Previous Chapter [AO3 LINK] Denerim, 9:31 Dragon

Dearest Sister,

Apologies for taking so long to write to you. I know you must be just beside yourself with worry. Never fear! Big brother is alive, just drowning in responsibilities. Assuming the role of Teyrn has a lot more to it than just sitting in the big chair and sending soldiers to do things. Who knew there would be so much bloody paperwork? Father certainly never mentioned it. He made it all look so very seamless and easy. Were he here now, I think he’d be wishing his brilliant daughter had been the heir instead. You should have been the heir from the start, precedent be damned.

I never expected to inherit Highever like this. Father led me to believe he would pass it on well before the end of his days and serve as my advisor. I’m honestly lost. There are so many things in disrepair. Queen Anora did a marvelous job at restoring the castle, but the city, our lands… they’ve suffered from the Blight, and from Howe’s piss poor management of them. I hope and pray everyday that I am making good choices for our home and for our family.

I know that you are eager to know how I am faring more personally, and to be honest Liss, it is all I can do to make it through the day without breaking down. It was one thing to be told that my wife and son were murdered, it is a completely different experience to walk into the room we once shared and for it to be empty. To see Oriana’s dresses and jewelry, that wooden sword you gave to Oren. Just being here is a constant reminder of everything I’ve lost. If I could bring Rendon Howe back to life just to murder him myself, I would without hesitation.

Did you know Queen Anora stripped the Howe family of their lands and granted it to the Grey Wardens? I just received a very official letter from the new Arlessa of Amaranthine, Warden -Commander Lucia Amell, Hero of Ferelden (What a mouthful!) I don’t think she wrote it. I feel like she might be too busy dealing with whatever is happening in Amaranthine right now with the Darkspawn. Either way, I thought you’d be interested to know. I’m not sure that I think Howe’s family deserves to pay for what he did. Maker… I wonder if word has even reached Nathaniel in the Marches. Wonder how he’ll take it.

Anyway, I am sure that you do not want to read pages of my rambling. I do miss you, sis. I wish that you could be here to kick the arses of all these families trying to arrange marriages with their daughters. I’m not ready yet... I don’t know that I ever will be.

I hope that Denerim is being kind to you. Does the queen keep you busy? Knowing Anora, I assume so.

Talk to you soon. Love, Fergus

P.S. I’ve sent a package along with this letter. I found something that I thought you might want to see.

Liss sighed heavily, as if she could exhale the weight off her chest, and sat Fergus’ letter down on the desk before her. It was not easy for her to hear that her big brother, the man she looked up to above anyone else alive, was so defeated. Not that she blamed him of course. She had only to mourn the loss of her parents while he had lost his wife and son as well. He didn’t blame her for that, but she still did. She probably always would.

Blotting the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, she moved to open the package that had come with the letter, doing her best to avoid thinking about Howe or his family or Amaranthine or any of it. It sat atop a stack of correspondence which she had only gotten the chance to sort through today. Fergus was correct in assuming she had been busy. Restoring order to a country required long hours in a small chamber and many heated discussions.

She smiled at the package’s clumsy wrapping. There was no question that it was truly from her brother. Nobody else in Thedas could wrap something so poorly, and with such honest effort. She pulled at the twine that held the burlap in place, uncovering a thick, leather-bound journal. Even worn by time and water damage, it was unmistakable. It was hers, and she had forgotten it even existed.

Unable to contain her excitement she leaned back in her chair and began to thumb through the pages. The first several were relegated to poems and pieces of prose she had started but never finished, poorly drawn women with swords, and some pressed flowers. After that, she had apparently begun using the journal as a diary.

15 Justinian, 9:18 Dragon: Today was bad.

That was all Liss’ eleven-year-old self had written. Vague, but the expressive scribbles below depicted a man that looked like Rendon Howe with the word “knife-ear” written in a bubble beside his head. Her blood boiled remembering that day. Poor Rila. Liss had fond memories with the Elven girl, but she recalled all the times she got her into trouble, simply because she was too oblivious to realize that Rila did not have the same privileges she did. If she had, it would have spared them both some grief.

Liss flipped through several pages of brief entries from that summer, most of them complaining about the fact that Nathaniel was not allowed to talk to her. That had always pestered her, and she had not really understood the reason why his father frowned upon their friendship, at least not at the time. Obviously, he had been worried that it would develop into more and that she would want to marry Nate instead of Thomas, but Rendon did not know his own son. Nate had not been interested in her like that. If so, he would have taken one of the ample opportunities she had given him throughout their formative years to say so.

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. Howe was dead, her family was dead, Thomas was dead, and she had not spoken to Nate in over seven years, so he might as well have been dead, too. None of it mattered anyway.

She slammed the journal shut and placed it in one of her desk drawers, unable to bring herself to go through the rest of it at the moment. She knew how the story went, after all. It had been some time since she had really let herself think about Nathaniel. Well, she always thought about him. There just happened to be a particular way she didn’t let herself think about him. He was a part of her, and he took that part with her when he left, that’s all that really mattered. Damn him for never writing. Damn him in general.

Opening another drawer, she pulled out a piece of parchment and reached for the quill and inkpot that sat at the far corner of the desk. She wanted to write to her brother while she had time. It would not do for her to become lost in thoughts of a past that wasn’t important anymore and forget to respond to Fergus for weeks while she drowned her sorrows in work.

Dear Fergus,

You don’t have to apologize for needing time to get yourself sorted. I kind of expected that. I am just happy to hear from you at all. I wish that there were some words I could say to make everything better, but you and I both know that the only thing that will help us heal is time. I was going to try to avoid saying sorry again because you told me not to, but I am. I’m sorry. I seem to get sorrier every day.

I have heard about Amaranthine. More than I would like to, quite frankly. Amaranthine this, Amaranthine that. Amaranthine is all I hear about these days. One of the members of Anora’s council is a Grey Warden, and each time we meet, we spend more than half of the time listening to a bunch of angry banns complaining about the fact that an apolitical entity like the Grey Warden Order is now somehow nose deep in politics. Alistair — the Grey Warden — doesn’t even have contact with the Warden-Commander, so he can’t answer to any of it. I worry, Fergus. There are talks of an assassination, a plan to remove the Hero of Ferelden from her seat. It’s almost as if they’ve forgotten the woman saved their sorry arses from the Archdemon.

I understand the queen’s reasoning, but this has caused needless strife. If she had granted Amaranthine to Delilah, who almost assuredly had nothing to do with her father’s evil, we would actually be able to get some work done instead of rehashing the same arguments a thousand times. Andraste’s blood, I’m not cut out for this.

But that is beside the point, and I’m certain you don’t want to read me rant on and on about politics, of all things. Sounds like you have enough on your hands as is, juggling all of those marriage proposals. I will gladly march right up to Highever to put those power-hungry airheads in their place. All you have to do is ask. You need time to actually mourn, and taking a wife who will be more interested in your status than your well-being would not be a good decision.

Listen to me, Fergus, I do not care how lonely or hot and bothered you get, don’t you dare marry one of those glorified leeches. Get a friend. Go to a brothel. Get a friend who you feel comfortable doing brothel things with. Do what you have to, but I’ll not see my brother married to someone who does anything but love him for who he is. Do you understand me?

Remember that you do have a sister here who cares about you, too. Denerim is just a couple days’ journey from Highever, and as soon as things slow down here, I’ll be making a trip to visit. The thought of it terrifies me. The last memories of home I have are covered in blood and sound like screams. Still, I’ll have to eventually. What better motivation than to see my big brother who I miss dearly.

Thank you for the journal, by the way. It’s a difficult read, but I’m grateful to have it back. I had forgotten it even existed. Apparently, 11-year-old me was chock full of feelings about Rendon Howe, too. I’m sure you remember that.

I love you, Brother, and I will see you soon. Sincerely, Liss

Liss folded the parchment and stuffed it into an envelope that she then sealed and addressed to be sent out tomorrow. She wondered whether she had been too stern with her brother, but someone had to remind him to think with the head on his shoulders and not the one in his breeches! He was a grown man who had basically been coddled his entire life, which meant he needed someone to look out for him until he learned to do that for himself. Sheltered young men always made the worst decisions. Perhaps it was hypocritical, coming from someone who was younger than him and also sheltered, but she didn’t care.

Setting the prepared postage aside, Liss focused on the stack of correspondence filling her desk, going through each envelope and scroll one by one. Many of the letters were junk: advertisements from local shops, political mailings, bounties, missing persons reports, and other things that Liss tossed into the waste bin at her side.

There were several messages from Bria, asking Liss to come visit, and she made a mental note to do so. Bria was intelligent, funny, and good at what she did. Liss enjoyed her company, and had spent many hours talking with the woman, learning a lot about Antiva and a little about the Forge. It was a friendship she had not expected, but one for which she was grateful nonetheless.

Speaking of unexpected friendships, there was also a handful of notes from Alistair -- tiny scrolls that, when unraveled, revealed brief messages with messy sketches beneath them. One in particular depicted a stick figure labeled as “Alistair” sitting atop a pile of little triangles.

There is too much cheese in this castle. What is it with you noble people and smelly cheese? Is it some kind of contest? I don’t even like cheese. It’s just old milk. Blech!

Another note featured some poorly drawn shape that looked oddly vulgar until she read the note that accompanied it.

Liss. Did you know that the first ever crime reported in Denerim was “Theft of Parsnip?” Look it up. P.S. I don’t actually know what parsnips look like.

One note was written on the back of a book page, and Liss had to take some deep breaths to calm her feelings about the damaged literature.

Sorry about the damaged literature. I just ran out of parchment. I don’t actually remember what I wanted to say. I’m sure it will come to me later.

Another note written on a torn book page:

I remembered. It was that I wanted to say that I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages. We’ve both been so busy, I guess. It’s weird to miss someone who lives just down the hall.

A flush climbed to Liss’ face and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as she read his words. Had she not known better, she would have sworn he was interested in her in a way that was more than friendly. She hadn’t known Alistair very long -- around three months -- but in the time that she had known him, she observed that he was kind to everyone, but not in the same way he was kind to her. It was slight, and hidden under a lot of other emotions he had, but it was there. Yet, she knew better. The last time they’d really had time to speak outside of small exchanges in the hall had been the night they drank too much rum in her room and he talked about his past. Most of the conversation was centered around the Warden-Commander, who he affectionately referred to as “Luce.” Liss figured only he was allowed to call the Hero of Ferelden by that name. She doubted Alistair even remembered much of that discussion, and he never said it outright, but Liss could tell that he loved her. Even inebriated, his words sang praise of this woman whose absence so clearly wounded him. She figured it was best to not remind him of their conversation. The poor man would probably be embarrassed.

Rolling up each of his notes, she placed them in the same drawer with her journal, and turned her attention to the final letter on her desk. It was a large envelope with an official-looking seal. Upon closer examination, Liss realized that the seal was stamped with the shape of griffon, and she turned the envelope over to see to whom it was addressed. Alistair. It had been delivered to the wrong person. She hopped up immediately and ran out of her room, down the hall and toward the corridor where his room was, letter in hand. She knocked on the door erratically and relentlessly, not stopping until the door swung open to reveal her sleepy-eyed friend.

“Liss,” he mumbled groggily, although he did not seem particularly annoyed. In fact, he had the beginnings of a smile on his face. “What are you -?” “Can I come in,” she blurted excitedly walking past him before he had time to answer. He closed the door behind them and turned to face her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this late night visit?” He rubbed at his eyes and motioned for her to sit down in the chair at his desk.

She shook her head politely, indicating that she wanted to stand, so Alistair slumped into the chair in her place, raking fingers through his disheveled hair. “I was going through my mail, and at the very bottom of the stack, there was this letter.” She extended the envelope out to him. “It has your name on it, and a griffon seal. It must have been delivered to the wrong -.”

Alistair stood abruptly and took the letter out of her hands, shaking nervously as he broke the seal and pulled out a piece of thick parchment. Liss watched as his eyes flicked across the page. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as he read on, and when he finished reading, he shook his head, crumpled up the letter, and tossed it to the floor.

“It’s not her handwriting,” he stated tersely, the laugh that followed more bitter than Liss had ever heard from him, “She can’t even write to me herself to tell me that she’s alive. Is it really so difficult? ‘Dear Alistair, I’m not dead.” No, I don’t think it is.” He threw his hands up. “Maker’s breath.”

“I’m, um,” Liss began, unsure what to say, and feeling incredibly guilty that she woke him up in the middle of the night just to cause him pain, “I’m sorry, I thought… Well. You know.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he assured her, expression and voice softening instantly as he reached out to touch her shoulder, “I thought the same. Thank you for bringing it to me.” His eyes lingered on her for longer than he intended, or at least it seemed that way when he darted them away quickly and took his hand from her shoulder, bringing it up to scratch the back of his neck.

“I should… go.” She motioned to the door with her head, and began to walk out of the room.

“Wait,” Alistair said, urgently, reaching out and taking her wrist in his hand. Liss turned back to look at him, his features pleading with her. “I mean.” He let go of her arm. “If you’re not… You know what, nevermind.”

Liss moved forward, taking his hand in hers and smiling as she met his gaze. “Alistair, we’re friends, remember? If you need company, all you have to do is say so.”

Alistair nodded slowly, eyes sparkling with tears Liss knew were about to fall. She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around him in a hesitant embrace. She’d never hugged him before, and he had always tensed and flinched at her touch, so she was prepared for that. She was not prepared for the giant man to return the embrace so forcefully that it nearly knocked them both over. He buried his face into her shoulder, a few warm tears falling, wet against her skin.

They stood that way for several long moments, until Alistair released her and offered an embarrassed smile.

“Want to go to our spot in the Gardens?” Liss chirped, hoping to cut the awkwardness out of the moment.

“That would be good,” Alistair said with a nod. “Thank you, Liss.”

#dragon age #dragon age origins #cousland #alistair theirin #liss cousland #cousland x nathaniel howe #cousland x alistair #we're getting there #temperance #my writing

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haledamage · 5 years

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yay, writing! Chapter 2 of my Cait Cousland/Nathaniel Howe fic, and what looks like it’s going to be a long story after all. Takes place after this one. Someone help me name this damn thing so I can put it on AO3

Cathain hated Amaranthine, and hated Vigil's Keep most of all. Every inch of it felt steeped in history, in the combined legacy of the Howes and Couslands. Every room held a memory, of summers and holidays and dinners and parties. Of mornings with Thomas and afternoons with Delilah and nights with Nathaniel. Cait's bedroom still smelled like Delilah's favorite perfume. All their things had been removed, but the feeling behind them remained, drifting through the halls like ghosts. And through it all Nathaniel loomed, a living, scowling specter from a different life. He didn't speak, not to the others and especially not to her, but she could always feel him there. He was in her periphery as she spoke to Veral about deploying Wardens to surrounding lands, hiding among the stacks as she perused the library, waiting in the hallway as she headed to her room for the night.

Once, frustrated and more than a little tipsy, Cait leaned against her door and demanded, "Are you waiting for an invitation, Nate? You never needed one before." He didn't stop looming after that, but he did it a little farther away, giving her more space. She tried not to be disappointed. After three weeks, Cait had had enough. She wandered into the cellar under the pretense of exploration, listening for quiet footsteps on the stairs behind her as Nathaniel followed her down. It had been outfitted as an area for sparring and close-combat training. Straw mats covered the floor to soften falls and polished wooden weapons of all shapes and sizes lined the back wall for practicing armed fighting. Best of all, it was empty. "What is this?" He asked quietly from the doorway. It was the first time he'd said anything to her since the Joining. Cathain kept her back to him, pretending to test the balance of a couple of daggers. Over her shoulder, she said, "I need to blow off a little steam. All this time in the Vigil is making me feel restless. I thought I could take it out on one of the dummies down here." "There aren't any dummies down here." "There's you," she said with a sly grin. He huffed a laugh, the sound surprised out of him, and she grinned wider. She grabbed a longsword and tossed it toward him. He caught it almost absentmindedly. "This was your plan all along," Nathaniel growled, but he stepped onto the mat across from her as he did. She tried not to notice how broad his shoulders were from years wielding a bow. "I had other plans, but I figured you'd be averse." Cait spun the daggers in her hands and stood on her toes, ready to move quickly when she needed to. He tried not to notice the toned muscles of her arms from years of swordplay. Nathaniel lunged at her without warning. He was faster than she expected, but she was faster still and managed to sidestep the first swing of the blade. In the opening he left, she brought a dagger up toward his ribs, but he knocked it away with a quick strike to her elbow. She danced backwards a couple steps and waited. He wasn't as angry as Cathain had anticipated. She'd expected that hatred she'd seen from him that night in the prison; the whole plan had been to help him work that off so they could make some progress towards civility, but it seemed to have mostly simmered away over the weeks since. Nathaniel was aggressive, sure, but not in a way that said he wanted to hurt her, just in a way that said he wanted to win. He was good. Larger and stronger than she was, but also nearly as fast. He was smart, calculating, and willing to fight dirty. No wonder Varel's men had had trouble with him. He feigned a leg sweep, changing at the last second to land a solid blow in her stomach. "I came here to kill you, you know," he murmured in her ear as she doubled over. "Don't worry," she rasped, trapping his sword against her stomach and using the opening to strike hard under his shoulder joint. He grunted and stepped back from her. "I don't take it personally. Some of my best friends have tried to kill me." That made him pause, and she tried to exploit the opening to get a few hits in, but he moved almost instinctively to block her attempt. "What makes you think I won't try to kill you now?" It was an empty threat, either a test or an attempt to drop her guard. Progress. Cait smirked, unable to catch her breath enough to laugh. "You're welcome to try." He lunged again, but instead of sidestepping she moved forward, getting under his guard. She flowed around him and brought the pommel of her dagger down on the back of his neck. He collapsed to the mat. "When you're done, maybe we can sit down and actually talk about this." He rolled onto his back and stabbed up toward her. She only barely dodged in time. "There is nothing to talk about," Nathaniel said as he climbed to his feet. "Right," Cathain said. One of her hands was numb; she dropped the blade it held and kicked it away. "Nothing. Certainly not the eight years since we last saw each other. Or the fact that we're here beating each other up instead of any of the much more pleasant ways I always imagined this reunion going." Nathaniel roared and rushed at her again and she was too slow to dodge. It was all she could do to get her one remaining blade up between them before he shoved her hard against the wall, practice sword to her throat. "I win," he growled breathlessly. "Are you sure?" Cathain pressed her wooden dagger a little harder into his ribs where she held it in the minuscule space between them. If this had been a real fight, with real blades, they'd both be dead. They stayed there for several long moments, faces inches apart and breath loud in the empty room. She couldn't read the look on his face. He looked like he wanted to press his sword closer until she couldn't breathe. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. He looked like he wanted to keep fighting. He looked like he wanted to run. In the end, he did none of those things. He dropped his sword to the floor with a clatter and pulled away from her enough to lean against the wall next to her. He slid down it to sit. After a second of hesitation, she sat next to him. Now that they were here, Cathain didn't know where to start. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to justify her actions. She wanted to tell him that she missed him. She did none of those things, instead just letting the silence build between them. "I've been speaking with your… Zevran," Nathaniel said softly. He sounded so weary; Cait clenched her fists in her lap to stop herself from reaching out to him out of habit. "He told me a little about what happened in Highever. About… what my father did. Was he exaggerating?" Cathain leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. "Probably not. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry too," Nathaniel said. She could feel his eyes on her, but kept hers closed. "You've never given me reason not to trust you before, I just didn't want to believe my father could be capable of... something like that. I've been cruel and stubborn. You deserve better." "You've always been stubborn," she smiled slightly and was gratified when he chuckled. "You deserve better too. From me, and from the King, and from the Grey Wardens. Your family shouldn't have to suffer because of your father's actions." He didn't say anything in response, but Cait didn't really expect him to. The tension he'd been carrying had finally left him and the silence between them was almost comfortable; that was enough for now. She heard a small thud as his head hit the wall next to hers. Nathaniel’s voice was very low and very close when he spoke again. "This isn't how I pictured you becoming Arlessa of Amaranthine." That made her sit up and look at him. He was the picture of relaxation, head tilted back and forearms resting on his knees, but she could see the shrewdness in his half-closed eyes. The way he studied her made warmth bloom in her chest. "Obviously," Cathain said too quickly, but with thankfully just enough glibness, "once we got too old for suitors to be interested, Delilah and I were going to get married and rule Amaranthine as spinsters together." Nathaniel laughed, a full and joyous sound that made the room a little brighter simply by merit of its existence. "And what age were you when you came up with this foolproof plan?" "We were 10, and the plan was very sound, thank you," Cait tried to look offended, but his laughter was infectious. "It held up well until one summer Fergus and I came to visit and your voice had changed and you were a foot taller. It was all downhill from there." His eyes were still full of laughter and a warmth that had been missing the last few weeks. "I'm sorry to have ruined all your plans, but I'm afraid I don't regret it." His smile faded into a look of contemplation. "Have you heard from Delilah since…" he trailed off, but she understood. There were a lot of things that could be since… and none of them were pleasant. She shook her head. "Not in a few years, actually. I was going to ask Zevran to look for her while he's in town." A look of panic crossed Nathaniel's face and Cait held up her hands. "Not like that! I just mean he's very good at finding people." Nathaniel thought about that for a moment. Finally, he asked "And you trust him? Even though he tried to kill you?" "Technically, he didn't try to kill me. Loghain tried to kill me and used Zev to do it," she knew it was splitting hairs, but the difference was important to her. She added, "But yes, I trust him. More than most." "Loghain sent assassins after you," he said incredulously, "and you traveled with him as well?" "I… yes. It sounds kind of reckless when you put it like that." Cathain felt strangely defensive of the former teryn; Loghain had made some very poor decisions in the name of good intentions, but they'd grown to understand each other and even, after a time, become close friends. "Some of your best friends have tried to kill you, indeed," Nathaniel chuckled. "I guess I thought you were joking." He dropped the subject, though, and instead climbed to his feet with a groan. "Maker's blood, I think I'm made of more bruises than skin. You sure know how to put a man in his place." "You needed someone to knock some sense into you," she said as he offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. "Maybe you shouldn't have led with 'I came here to kill you' and I would have gone easier on you." The smile was gone from Nathaniel's face as if it had never been there. "Caitie, I'm--" She put a hand on his chest and shoved him lightly, just enough to knock him off balance. "Nathaniel Howe, if you apologize to me again, I'm going to knock you around the mat for another round." He stepped forward into her personal space, catching her hand and holding it against his chest, where she had minutes ago held a blade on him. She could feel his heartbeat through her palm. His eyes and voice were intense when he said, "I'm sorry, Caitie." Cathain tried to shove him again, but this time he didn't budge. She sighed; she didn’t have the energy left to fight him on this. It was hard to stay properly righteous when he was so close. "We both screwed up, okay? Let's just… start over." "Start over," Nathaniel mused. The look on his face was somewhere between awe and skepticism until it spread into a rare, gentle smile. "As you wish." He was still quiet around Vigil's Keep after that. He still stalked the edges of her vision as she went about the business of being Commander and Arlessa and rebuilding the damage done by war and neglect to both the keep and to the people. He no longer maintained a hostile silence, however, occasionally offering advice or a dry quip; once, he even attempted conversation with Anders. But mostly he just watched and waited, never too close but never far away. When finally, finally, things had settled down at the Vigil enough for her to pursue interests outside the keep, Cait found Nathaniel waiting for her outside her room. He was in his armor, bow strung and slung over his shoulder. As soon as he saw her, he growled, "I'm going with you." She fought to keep her face serious. "You don't even know where we're going." "Doesn't matter. I'm going with you." She pretended to think it over, as if she hadn't already planned to ask him along. As if she had ever even considered leaving him behind. "Tell Anders and Oghren to suit up. We leave in 20." Nathaniel gave her shoulder a quick, friendly squeeze. "Thank you," he said. Cathain wasn't sure what he was thanking her for, exactly, but he was gone before she could ask. She watched the empty hallway for a long minute before she went to her room to get dressed. Her shoulder was still warm where he'd touched her, and for the first time in a long time she felt something like hope.

#dragon age awakening #dragon age origins awakening #nathaniel howe #cousland/nathaniel howe #cait cousland #cait/nate #I wish I could draw #I want to draw that whole fight scene!#this was a lot of fun to write

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apolafsi · 5 years

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THEY WERE COMPLETELY OUTNUMBERED. she knew it from the moment she saw the monsters up in arms with the romans. it didn’t matter which demigod side won - the creatures would turn on the winner and finish them all off, making it ten times easier for gaea to wake. luckily, they didn’t have to fight the romans. but it still felt like a hopeless battle.

all around delilah, there was carnage. fallen demigods and clouds of monster dust. she had been using all her strength to turn monsters away. she had gotten better at controlling her emotional power over the months, but it still drained her like no other. it didn’t help that she kept using it over and over, on top of her other abilities. her head was spinning, but there was no time to rest. delilah dodged under a ghost’s arm, remembering what nico said about not letting them touch you. she rolled under a centaur, hitting it in the head with the butt of her dagger. they weren’t chiron, but she still just couldn’t seem to kill them. an ogre came charging at her, but with the slightest bit of concentration delilah pulled the bad right out. the ogre dropped it’s club and blinked, then grinned with all of the three teeth it had. while the monster skipped away, delilah staggered and fell.

she was seeing spots at this point. her limbs felt heavy and full of lead. she needed to find a safe place to sit down, so she could pull out the ambrosia she had trapped in her back pocket. she feels a hand on her arm, and quickly swings to chop it away from her. there’s a yelp and the dagger is pulled from her grasp - not a hard thing to accomplish. she could barely make a fist.

❛ hey, delilah. it’s me. ❜ will solace’s voice carried out over the fighting, and delilah felt herself relax.

❛ will. ❜ she allows him to help her up, carrying her to a small patch near the big house that seemed far enough from the commotion. ❛ thank the gods your alive. ❜

❛ it’ll take more than some giants to kill me. ❜ she was still seeing spots, but she could hear the smile in his voice. slowly, her vision cleared to see the raging battle before her. there was a tug in her heart, seeing all the fallen campers, but there was nothing she could do in that moment. she hadn’t realized it, but something had gotten a hold of her right leg, several bite marks and claw scratches decorating flesh. it had probably been when she had nearly blacked out, loosing most of the feeling in her body. now that her head was clearing up, the pain was coming back. hard.

delilah looked away to distract herself, spotting lou ellen a few feet away from the two, standing guard. she looked back at delilah and grinned. ❛ sup, dee ? ❜ delilah had to smile.

❛ we need your help. ❜ that was will, drawing delilah’s attention back in. eye brows furrowed, and then winced as a bandage was wrapped around her leg. will continued, a bit more gingerly. ❛ we saw octavian heading to one of the onagers with a bunch of weapons. we think he’s going to try to pull something. ❜

❛ like what ? ❜

❛ like try and fire on camp half blood. ❜ lou ellen spoke up, her eyes still trained on the battle. delilah had a suspicion that the only reason they hadn’t been attacked yet was because the daughter of hecate had wrapped the mist around them. she looked back at delilah, a grim expression on her face. ❛ he’s down right nuts. ❜

❛ okay. so we stop him before he does anything stupid. ❜ delilah moved to get up, nearly falling down as her leg buckled. will steadied her, a frown on his face.

❛ you’ve really exhausted yourself, delilah. doing any more fighting isn’t such a good idea. maybe you should - ❜ but he didn’t get to finish that sentence. or at least, delilah wasn’t listening. her attention had be drawn past both of her friends, to the outskirts of the battle.

standing in a clump were several young demigods. most of them were about twelve, the oldest seeming maybe fourteen. their armor was too big for them, their swords looking like toys in their hands. delilah recognized a few as kids who had come in just a month before hand. lumbering in front of them was an ogre, ten feet tall with a snarl on it’s features. it seemed to be snapping and laughing at the group of small children, most of whom were crying as they held up their swords.

delilah couldn’t do nothing. she sucked in her breath and hobbled past will and lou ellen, despite their calls for her to stop. she turned around briefly, waving them on. ❛ go ! stop octavian ! i’ve got this. ❜ she gave a smile, and turned from her friends for good.

the more she used it, the more she got used to the pain in her leg. her body felt heavy and clumsy, but she couldn’t worry about that right then. people needed her. she dives in front of the group, her dagger drawn. ❛ hey ! leave them alone, you harry potter wannabe ! ❜

apparently the ogre did not like being called a harry potter wannabe. it roared in anger at the girl, swinging it’s club. delilah was able to dodge the wood, landing and crumpling on her leg. new note - beware landing on injured leg. pain shot up, but she merely winced and stood up again. eyes connect with one of the older kids from the group, and she shoos them away. ❛ get them out of here ! go ! ❜

she turns back to the monster, who was turning to face her. delilah tries to remove the bad feelings the ogre had, to replace them with love, but as soon as she tries she feels as if the world had closed around her. the air leaves her lungs, her heart picking up speed as if it were going to burst. she gasps and falls to her knees, clutching her head - everything was swimming in front of her.

she was too weak to use her powers. it had completely drained her, sucking her own life force to finish the job. at least it had worked, if not for a minute. the ogre blinked in confusion, setting down it’s club for a split second. but it picked it back up again just as fast, and delilah was not ready.

the first blow must have been affected by the magic still. it glanced off of delilah’s shoulder, though it looked like it was aimed for her head. the pain still sprang up along her collar bone, and she rolls out of the way of the second swing. it makes a crater where she had been standing.

the moving coupled with the swimming head wasn’t good. she was trying her best, but the third blow hit her in the back. she fell over wit a cry, landing on all fours. her breathing was heavy, but there was nothing she could do. she couldn’t out run the monster, she couldn’t fight it. he was closing in on her, his eyes almost seeming red with hate. delilah flipped herself on her back, looking at the sky. up in the air, she could have sworn she saw a bronze dragon holding what looked like two demigods and some falling sand.

in the next few second, her brain ran through everyone she never got to say goodbye to. piper and jason. nico and will and lou ellen. leo and percy and annabeth. patty. maggie. her father. she ran through her lasts that she hadn’t known were her lasts - her last talk with her sister, a few days ago. patty had asked if delilah was coming home soon for her birthday, and delilah had promised to be there. her last dinner at camp. she had sat with her cabin, laughing despite the threat of war. lacey had shared a smuggled cream puff with her. her last boat ride with percy, the last time she had put a blanket over leo as he fell asleep in the bunker. memories of her friends continued to flash through her mind, pulling up mo and silena and all the others who had come before her.

as the ogre raised it’s club again, delilah exhaled. she didn’t want to die, but she had hope. her friends would be okay. they would win this without her, and they would all live happy lives. she could picture each one of them growing old and being happy - what they all deserved. what delilah wasn’t going to get.

as the club connected with delilah’s chest, smashing her ribs and crushing her heart, she felt nothing but peace. the sigh escapes her lips, eyes still wide at the sky, and then there is nothing. not a sound, not a movement. not even a blink. a trail of blood trickles out of her mouth and to the ground, but nothing else moves.

delilah cho was dead.

#&. there’s more to love than valentines ─ about.#death /#blood /#uhhh idk how else to tag this #im sobbing while finishing this

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ed-edward-blackbeard · 5 years

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WIP Wednesday

Okay, Imma give you bits from three wips. Cause those are my big three projects right now, besides some RL stuff.

First bit, Resolution, Stranger Things, Spoilers for Stranger Things 3. (aka, the fic in which I pretend Billy isn’t dead and Hopper didn’t get taken by the Russkies)

“Morning, William.”

“Billy.”

“Hey, that’s great! That’s new, when did you remember that?” Owens sat down across the table from the young man. His hair was buzzed close to the scalp, and he was wearing loose scrub pants and a hospital top. Otherwise, he looked very much like the picture in the wallet that Owens was just passing over. “This belongs to you.”

“This morning, when I woke up.” The voice was flat, almost a monotone, except for the lilt at the end of certain words. He took the wallet as it was passed over to him, and pulled out the license to inspect the picture. “This is me?” He looked at the distorted reflection of himself in the metallic tabletop and then back to the license. “This is me.”

“Yes, it is.” Owens made notes in the file that William--excuse him, Billy--had remembered his own name that morning. “Have you remembered anything else?”

“Some other names,” he answered. “Susan. Max. Steve. Lucas.” A pause. “Eleven.”

“Do you remember who those names belong to?” Owens started fiddling with a stack of photos that were in the folder with his notes.

“No. I mean, I know Susan is a girl, but no.” Billy closed the wallet, and put it down on the table between him and Owens. “Who are they?”

Owens laid out ten photographs on the table. “How about you tell me. Do any of them look familiar?”

Billy reached out and touched some of the photographs. Then he picked one up. “Yeah. This one. I think it’s Max.”

Owens took the photograph. A redheaded girl on a skateboard was zooming towards the camera, laughing. “Yes, that is Max. Do you remember who Max is?”

Billy reached over and yanked the photograph out of Owens’ hands. “Somebody… I have to look after, I think.” He stared down at her, at the skateboard mended with duct tape, and knew there was more, if he could just reach past his brain to find it. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, Billy. You recognize anyone else?” Owens rearranged the photographs to close up the missing space where Max’s photo had rested.

Billy touched each photograph this time, sliding his fingertips over each photo before settling on two. “This. I think this is Susan.”

Owens looked down, and nodded. Yes, that was Susan Hargrove, who he’d come to know was Billy’s stepmother, and Max’s real mother. “Yes, that’s Susan. You remember who she is?”

He tilted his head to the side, and he groaned softly. A memory returned with a vicious, spiking pain through his eardrum. “Mother. Step. Step mother. Neill said… Mother’s Day. Had to be nice.” He gritted his teeth and slammed his hand flat against the tabletop.

It dented almost eight inches deep, and when he looked up, there was a trickle of blood flowing out of his nose.

---

Second bit, from Domestic Chickens, an Ineffable Husbands Bingo story

It began simply, with a gift.

Newt had gotten the idea that Anathema wanted to live on a farm. (In fact, what she had said was, “There should be more farm-direct options for people in Tadfield.” What Newt had heard was, “I’d like a farm.”) So he’d gone out and bought eighteen tiny yellow chicks, a do-it-herself incubator, and blueprints for a henhouse.

Two weeks later, Anathema showed up in South Downs with a basket of peeping chicks and a copy of the henhouse blueprints. “Here, take this, and… don’t let Crowley near these.” After shoving both basket and plans at a very startled angel, Anathema hurried back to her bicycle and quickly pedaled away.

Leaving Aziraphale with a basket of nine baby chickens and no idea what to do with them.

---

“Oi! You leave Delilah alone this instant!” Crowley’s foot kicked out at Oscar. “She’s already told you, she’s not in the mood. Go bugger Jezebel or something.” Cooing softly at the young hen, Crowley picked her up and petted her. “Daddy will protect you.”

“At least Freddie is being a good boy.”

“Don’t know why we didn’t fry Oscar up for dinner last week,” Crowley grumbled. They’d ended up with seven girls and two boys; Jezebel, Delilah, Salome, Mags (for Magdalene), Mary, Martha, and Rose. The boys were Oscar and Freddie, after Oscar Wilde and Freddie Mercury. Aziraphale had allowed Crowley to name one of the roosters and three of the hens.

Lastly, In Extremis, Bello, also Ineffable Husbands, but this is one in which Crowley dies and Aziraphale loses his shit.

Four hours later, they came for the shop.

Crowley and Aziraphale were locked down inside the shop. Aziraphale’s wings were fully unfurled, his coat had been miracled clean and tucked away for safety. A sword--not the one he had been given by God, but one he’d acquired over the millennia--was in his hand, and his eye was trained on the front door.

Crowley’s eyes were trained on the back. Black wings had risen far into the air, and his eyes burned a golden yellow. His fingers were tipped with claws, and snake-like fangs descended far past his jaw. In his claws was clutched his old angelic sword, and a vile green venom dripped from the blade.

There were no thoughts of napping now, no playful flirting banter. Before the Ritz, they could indulge. Afterwards, they were soldiers on the alert.

In the end, the attack came from above. The glass of the oculus skylight was broken, and a fireball exploded on the carpet.

Crowley dropped his sword and pushed Aziraphale out of the way. “Infernal flames,” he shouted. There was no time to switch; Crowley simply willed Aziraphale into the back room and the angel vanished.

Reappeared in the next second, but he was too late.

Through the broken skylight, demons dropped in like skydivers. They landed on either side of Crowley, disarming him at the cost of one of their hands. Crowley’s snake-head spat the hand out of his mouth, but it was too late.

A fire hose broke through the front door, and Aziraphale knew what it was before he could even scream “Crowley, no!”

The blast of holy water caught all three demons square on. There was a grotesque scream of three voices tangling together in a sudden instant of torment, and a great hissing as ichor and bile splashed back from the hose spray. Aziraphale was doused by holy water, which extinguished most of the flames, and in the smoke, he could see a charred, bubbling pit of demonic remains.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and picked up the demon’s sword. In angelic hands, the green venom turned to holy fire, and in a heartbeat, he shed the human guise he’d worn for six thousand years.

A golden crown sat upon his head, and in the hand not holding the flaming sword, a golden sceptre appeared. His wings grew and multiplied until there were three sets, each one reaching higher than the last. His clothing fell alway to be replaced by silver armor with bronze epaulets, and a shimmering chest plate that shone resplendent in the dying fires of the bookshop’s remains.

The bookshop shattered around Aziraphale’s unencumbered form. To the masses watching, it would simply look as if the shop had exploded, but to the other Heavenly bodies lurking around the shop, they saw a Colossus rise out of the broken building to tower over the London skyline

#wip wednesday #my fic

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wykart · 5 years

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Delilah’s Masterwork

It’s here, the AU that no one was waiting for... it’s the one where Delilah succeeds in the DLC and is now empress (yay)

Summary: When Daud falls to Billie Lurk after the Overseers storm the flooded district, there is no one left to stop Delilah from finishing her masterwork and stepping into Emily Kaldwin's skin. Forced to flee, Corvo tries to uncover the ritual that has taken his daughter, along with a few remaining Whalers still loyal to Daud. Meanwhile, in the capital, Delilah rules her empire with Breanna and Billie by her side, uniting the Whalers and her coven into an unstoppable occult force. But, Delilah has her eyes set on a greater prize; to be worshiped throughout the isles, and to take the throne of the Outsider himself.

read chapter 1 under the cut or here on ao3

When Pretty Emily woke one day,

She saw the world a different way,

Her eyes now looked with a stranger's guile,

Her dainty mouth smiled a stranger's smile,

Her hands now worked the stranger's wrath,

Her feet now walked a stranger's path,

Emily fed, another grew stronger,

The stranger's cravings drove her onward,

And no one who looked on Emily's face,

Ever guessed who ruled in Emily's place.

- Delilah Copperspoon, 1837

...

“Corvo, are you there? It’s dark. It’s so dark, and I don’t know where I am.”

Corvo wrestled the key into the lock, the blood of Farley Havelock still wet and glistening on his blade. The old Admiral lay dead on the newly laid carpet of King-sparrow Lighthouse, his betrayed comrades Martin and Pendleton slumped over their poisoned glasses at the banquet table. The killing was over, though he feared that the worst was yet to come. The guards patrolling the fortress still wanted him dead, and his head carried a thirty-thousand coin bounty across the isles. Convincing the public of his innocence was going to be difficult, even with the evidence of journals and audio graphs that Havelock had so carelessly left behind. That was, if there was a public to convince at all. The plague didn’t care who was empress, no matter what Teague Martin preached at the Abbey. Noble blood couldn’t save them from the doom of Pandyssia.

The lock clicked, and he pushed on the gold-ornamented wood tentatively – bracing for some new threat to spring forth at him. Instead, he found Emily, just as Havelock had said, standing patiently in the centre of the room. Emily wasn’t patient.

“Royal Protector,” she said, voice cold and clear. He tried not to appear hurt, usually the girl would jump joyously at the sight of him, or at the very least call him by name. He cursed the loyalists once more, wondering what they had done to her to change her manner so. He took it in his stride, as he did so many things, and pulled off his mask – hopefully for the last time.

“Emily,” he said, offering her a hand. She ignored him and continued past, brown eyes indifferent – moving up the stairs towards Havelock’s commanding office. She didn’t even comment on the body of the Admiral growing cold by the door. “Emily!” He tried again, as her footsteps echoed sharp and tinny on the metal stairs. No response. He was making to follow her when she switched on the Admiral’s microphone – a broadcasting station to the whole island.

“City watch, this is your Empress, Emily Kaldwin.” She didn’t sound like herself. A regal, ancient tone resonated in her young voice. "Guards to the inner chambers immediately! Corvo Attano has broken through our defences.” At that he sprung up steps with the heightened speed and agility that drew from the void between the world. In less than a moment he was by her side, reluctantly pulling the mouthpiece from her hands. “The Admiral is dead,” he muffled voice still rang through. “Protect me!” That was the moment when his hand closed over hers, and he saw the truth plainly. “Protect your empress!” She cried, this time in a woman’s voice – deep, clear, and sharp as his sword. She turned to him in alarm, and there were her eyes – icy blue and uncaring. In his shock, he almost missed the first shot as it rang out through the lighthouse foyer – an elite guardsman firing a sturdy pistol up towards the landing.

He grasped the fabric of time and pulled it to a stop. The world was grey and swimming before him, that awful drumming and buzzing in his ears as if he were being dragged down deeper and deeper. Emily’s hand was frozen and ghostly white in his own, but something moved and shimmered around her. Concentrating, the being came into focus, and the smoke formed a face, jaunted and pale. It smiled.

“What have you done to Emily?” He demanded.

Its grin only grew wider as it spoke, that same tone of voice that Emily now spoke with. “I’m afraid that precious Emily is gone, Lord Protector. Only I am here now.”

“Who –“ the slowed, droning cry of one of the guards sounded as Corvo’s grip over reality faltered. He couldn’t hold it in place much longer.

“I’d hurry if I were you, dear Corvo,” she teased, “time is running out.” He had no choice. Once again, he had no choice but to run. It seemed innocence was a lot farther off than he’d hoped. He let time slip through his fingers and the rogue bullet smashed one of the crystals hanging from the chandelier. The watch rushed in, brandishing blades and hot pistols, crying out in the name of the empress and the fallen lord reagent. He dashed towards the stairs, covering two flights in a second and a wash of bluish mist. The mark on his hand burned with power, craving blood. There was no way he was getting back down to the base of the structure without carving a bloody path to do so. An exploit like that was tempting – now that he finally had nothing left to lose. His hope of restoring Emily stayed his hand. He was no expert in the occult – he hadn’t even believed in such things until the Outsider had paid him a visit – but he knew that rituals, no matter how powerful they seemed, were the deeds of men on earth, and they could be undone. The guards clambered up the stairs behind him, as clumsy as he was swift. The stinging salty hair whipped at his unmasked face. It felt good as the cold tossed through his hair, billowed his cloak. He’d been so close to getting it all back – a life in a palace, with his daughter… now someone had taken it all from him yet again. That ghostly figure of a woman wrapped like a snake around his daughter’s throat. Those days spent in the flooded district winding his way back to the Hound Pits through streets and sewer tunnels. That long trip along the water to the island at the edge of Dunwall… they had left Emily unguarded, and now she was gone. He leapt his way to the highest point of the tower, where the wind was at its fiercest and metal beneath him its coldest. A tin bridge to nowhere, overlooking the vast murky ocean. The guards rounded the corner. The younger ones where terrified, but determined – their lower guard caps swept off on the wind. One of them stepped forwards, braving the creaking, soaked metal. Corvo simply sighed, not wishing to make a spectacle of himself yet knowing that this would make for a daring and popular tavern tale. He leapt off the edge of the lighthouse.

He pulled himself down into a streamlined position, head locked between his arms in hope that his skull would remain relatively un-rattled, repeatedly dashing and re-materialising closer to the water to lessen the impact, as many times as his power would allow. He tried to imagine himself back on the Southern ridges of Serkonos, diving off the sandy cliffs and into clear tropical waters in the summers of his boyhood. It was a difficult image to conjure up, especially given the wailing winds and bitter cold sea-spray battering his body as he fell.

“I’m here,” he tried to say, but he couldn’t speak. It was as if he were drowning, his lungs heaving under the weight of crashing waves, screams muffled into inculminatous bubbles of air.

The void was dark, as if its sunless sky were setting. The bright blue haze was fading to a richer, royal shade, and the grey cobbles stretching out before him crumbled under his weight. She was there – a slight figure on the horizon, clothed in creamy white lace and frills, calling his name.

“Corvo?” She cried, that energetic, child-like tone restored. But only in his dreams. He reached out to her as the void fell away, the hazy blue deepening to dusky sea green.

His eyes began to sting and blur, and his chest burned as his lungs drew in water. The greying sun was a distant wave on the surface of the water, far away. Too far. Emily.

...

“Corvo?” She asked, one final attempt. She knew he wasn’t here. Whales floated by in the blue mists – bloodied and moaning. Upturned stones were suspended in spiralling paths, and trees stood upside-down, reaching down towards the endless void. She’d heard tales of this place. This was a place for the dead and the unfaithful. She was terrified. A coil of dark smoke erupted, spitting fragments of black stone – knitting themselves into the shape of a man. He floated a few inches off the ground, arms crossed, looking down a pointed nose through pitch black eyes. She’d seen him before. A figure of her nightmares. He cocked his head to one side, surveying her without saying a word.

“Who are you?” She demanded, “am I dreaming?” She added, suddenly uncertain. Surely a place like this couldn’t be real, despite the Abbey’s teachings.

“In a way, your majesty, I suppose you are,” his voice was cold, layered as if echoing throughout a great chamber, muffled as if sounding from beneath the surface of a pond. It was eerie, the way his outline shifted and swayed like gas dancing in the air. “Except, this isn’t just any old dream, this, I think you know.” She nodded, and he continued, “this is a dream from which you will never wake, not if the new empress has her way.”

Emily furrowed her brow and put her hands on her hips, indignant at the thought. “But I am the empress, there’s no one else!”

“No, there isn’t," he agreed. “It’s a tricky matter that you will soon understand.” She wished he’d speak plainly. She reminded her of one of her mother’s advisors – so many pretty words that said nothing at all. The late empress had warned her of such people. “As for who I am,” he said, looking past her with those terrible eyes, “I think you know, Lady Emily.”

Of course she did, those pompous overseers always talked of him; an evil being that brought corruption and sin to all it touched. “Y-you’re the Outsider.” She tried to keep her voice from stumbling, an Empress should not fear anything. He didn’t confirm the fact, just smiled thinly. “Am I really going to be here forever?”

“Forever is an impossibly long time, your majesty. Whether here in the void, or looking out of your own eyes, a prisoner. You will be here until someone can undo what has been done. I, however, will be gone much sooner, if the empress has her way.” Before she could ask what he meant, he was gone as he’d appeared; in a swirl of smoke and black stone.

“Wait! –“ she cried out to the empty air. She didn’t want to be alone here. She couldn’t be alone again.

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fanfictrashdump · 4 years

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Queening a Pawn, 8

Pairings: Loki x OC

Loki sat to the side of the agent's training grounds, attaching weight to different lengths of sticks and slats of wood– the nearest thing to a sword or dagger he was currently allowed in the gyms. And, even then, they were granted on his good behavior and the recommendation of both Thor and the compound manager. He sent a rogue smirk to a handful of agents who glanced at him, cross-legged and surrounded by materials like a child, and made any sort of mocking face. It turns out that they were no longer feeling high and mighty when they had no idea what he was doing, and though he had been exceedingly well-behaved the month he had been living free in the building, the agents seemed to be waiting for him to snap. He carefully balanced a makeshift blade in his hand, feeling it tilt severely to one side. With a frown, he undid the adhesive bandage and shifted the weight further down the wooden length and tried again. He certainly wasn't making much headway, but the tedious work was proving cathartic to his grossly unstimulated mind.

The sound of giggling pulled him out of his focused reverie. A short glance to the door made him double-take and wonder if his isolation or lack of magic was causing him to have hallucinations, because he could swear there were a dozen or so tiny humans rushing into the gym.

"Hey, what did I say about wandering off? James?"

Loki suppressed a smile. Delilah had been bringing up the rear of the group with the Falcon at her side and had stopped to stare down a small, blond boy who had clearly been on his way to grab at the bows and arrows. The child gave her a wide, knowing grin and rejoined his peers a second later. "STARK agents have to be big and strong to help catch all the bad guys, right?" There was an angelic chorus of yes at her question. "Well, this is where they train. STARK agents, SHIELD agents, and some Avengers, like Sam, come here to get fit. They train with weapons, with each other, and some even train with their powers!" There was a wave of oohs at that, and Loki chuckled to himself as he wrapped up another set of sticks.

"Whacha doin'?"

When the Asgardian looked up, he couldn't help but smirk. "I believe, James, you were told not to wander off." He was already on his feet before the child could even protest.

Making sure the child was with him, he approached the group with unease. The agents were already staring daggers at him when the boy snuck off to him and their sentiments weren't improving when it came to a whole hoard of them. Loki cleared his throat and Lilah spun on her heel looking friendly if a little confused. He gestured the boy.

"James! You're going to lose cookie privileges if you keep sneaking off, OK?" The tone she was using on the child sounded familiar, and Loki couldn't tell if he was offended by it or not…

A hand tugged on his shirt, and he looked down to spot a freckled, brown-haired boy looking curiously up at him. "You're Loki. My mom said you were bad." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam wince and Delilah mouth I'm sorry.

Ah, youth!

If there was something to be expected of children, it's ruthless honesty. It was actually quite refreshing to be described in such binary terms without any of the vitriol behind it that it usually had. The crowd gathering to stare at him had grown, but he paid them no mind as he took a knee, leaning against his arm as he leveled with the boy.

"I suppose your mum was right about that–," he looked at the name tag pinned to his shirt, "–Jackson."

"I heard you brought a bajillion aliens that killed a bunch of people!" A redheaded girl in a purple dress exclaimed, a little too excitedly for the content of the message. "But then my dad said that Thor said you weren't a bad guy no more!"

"What do brains look like!?"

"Guys!" Lilah admonished, clearly having lost control of the pack of wolves.

"Why'd you kill those people?"

Delilah cut over the crowd. "Lo, you don't have to–"

"I suppose," Loki started, ignoring the wild signals she and Sam were giving him, "I was unhappy and I trusted someone who I shouldn't have, not knowing he would hurt a lot of people."

"Why were you unhappy?" The same girl in the purple dress asked. She looked struck with sadness at the confession.

"I had a fight with my parents," he replied, and immediately felt like an idiot. What was worse was that it was true, but he wasn't dwelling on that truth at the moment. "They hurt my feelings and I got sad and a little bit crazy. A lot bit crazy." The kids giggled.

Several of the children had sat down around Loki, as if he were telling a deranged campfire story. "But you're not a bad guy no more?" James asked.

"Er… I've gotten better. I got caught when I was doing naughty things and they brought me here and then they put these bracelets on so I can't be naughty, anymore."

James was already feeling the manacles before Loki could even react. He decided that staying as still as he possibly could had the least chance of getting him killed, afterward. "What'd they do?"

"They stop me from doing magic."

"I saw a magician once. He pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Can you do that?" It was Jackson who queried.

Loki chuckled. "I'm afraid not. At least not with these on." He tapped his wrist twice.

"But you can still fight! I saw a video of you on YouTube with some daggers and–"

"Oh, that's what Delilah's here for." The woman in question flushed, immediately, when fourteen small children and Sam turned their full attention on her. "You should ask the agents for the video of her fighting me. She's so scary! I'd be on my best behavior if I were you." There was a few woahs and wows at that. "But, even if she wasn't, I wouldn't be much trouble."

James tilted his head and his demeanor and blond hair reminded Loki of Thor. "Why not?"

Loki thought for a second, before leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell anyone, but I kind of like it here. I don't want to get kicked out." The children all nodded in understanding, adorably serious about the confession. Loki made a show locking his lips and gesturing to Sam and Delilah with his head before straightening up. "I think you imps have gotten enough high security secrets out of me for the day."

Someone came running into the room, jumping beside Loki and giving a scream of surprise. The kids were off their feet, screaming "Bucky!" at the top of their lungs. A moment later Sam and Bucky had kids hanging off them as they moved to the secondary gym to play some dodgeball.

Lilah tried to contain the grin on her face, looking at Loki out of the side of her eye when she came to stand beside him. "That was–"

"Too much?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No. It was brilliant?" The word seemed foreign on her tongue, or perhaps it was its relation to him. "Did you really just explain the Battle of New York to a bunch of eight year-olds?"

"I suppose I did, yes." She nudged him in the ribs with a smile. "What?"

"You're good with kids?" The observation sounded like a question from her lips.

Loki smirked, turning his head to face her. "You're surprised." His was most definitely not a question.

"A little bit, yeah. Pleasantly surprised." Copying his pose, she nudged him in the side with her hip. "Thanks for entertaining their questions. I hope it wasn't bad for you." Lilah cut him off before he could protest. "No, really. Thank you. It's a big deal… or, it is to me." She unwound, reaching for the hand nearest her, curled around his bicep and gave it a squeeze. "I'll see you a little later, Lo." She retreated, walking backwards to face him for a few paces, offering him a smile and a wink, before turning and disappearing through another door. Loki stood still for a long moment, biting into the inside of his cheek as he determined whether or not it was concerning that his heart felt like it was overinflated.

Valkyrie's voice appeared suddenly beside him. "Close your mouth, Loki. You'll catch flies."

He groaned, his head hanging, immediately. "Do you just appear anywhere you're unwanted or is it a happy coincidence?"

"I follow the scent of yearning and desperation." She quipped.

Loki smirked. "So, you end up chasing your own tail quite often, don't you?"

Valkyrie laughed, clapping Loki on the back which jolted him a half-step forward. "I think you're confusing genuine concern for desire, there, Snakeboy."

"Am I?"

"He's not my type." Loki knew exactly what she meant. There was silence between them. "Delilah on the other hand…"

He tilted his neck left and right, his spine cracking as he did so. The tension in his neck was only rivaled by the tension in his jaw as he ground his teeth together in response. "Perhaps you can make your intentions known to her."

"Oh, Lokes," she cooed, grinning. "Who says I haven't?" Loki cut his eyes at her, failing at keeping his expression even. "She's a good kisser."

"Well, I suppose you don't mind lowering yourself to such a standard," he drawled, looking at his fingernails with feigned interest. "Considering your life in Sakaar and all."

Delilah stuck her head out the door with a smile. "Brunn! You're here!" The human scurried from the door towards them. She had tied her red and gold STARK Industries t-shirt at the back in a knot and had braided her shaggy fringe out of her eyes.

"I'd ask how the dodgeball was going, but you look about ready to pass out," Valkyrie commented, straightening some of the braids in Delilah's hair until it resembled a warrior's pompadour–fit and ready for battle.

"They've divided themselves into humans vs Lokis and are waging battle… except they're all Lokis and we're the humans and instead of battle, they just wait for me to chase them and then play dead."

Loki couldn't help but snort, quickly trying to cover up the laughter with a cough. Lilah narrowed her eyes at him with a shake of her head. "I should have chosen my armies more carefully. I'd have definitely conquered the world with a handful of children at my command."

"Just when I thought you could be a positive influence," Delilah joked before looking pleadingly at Valkyrie. "Do you mind rallying the troops? They're on the adrenaline kick."

"My pleasure," Brunnhilde declared with a wicked grin, loosening her shoulders before leaving them and kicking the door open. "Alright, where are those tricky Lokis?" She yelled, before the door closed behind her.

"Oh, Lord. She's worse, isn't she?" Delilah muttered with a sigh. Loki nodded with a smirk and she groaned in defeat.

"I wasn't aware that you and the Valkyrie were…" he trailed off.

"Were…?"

"Involved?" He finished, looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

Delilah let out a cackle. "Involved? With Valkyrie?" Her smile fell almost immediately and a flush rose up her already pinkened face. "What exactly did she say?"

"Nothing much. Went on about your abilities in kissing." He said, easily, with an airy gesture of his hand.

"Oh. Nothing else?" She fidgeted, tugging at the end of one of her braids.

Loki smirked, crowding her. "Is there anything else? Are you keeping secrets from me?"

"Obviously."

"Is that advisable?" The space between them continued to shrink. "I am the god of lies."

"Secrets are not lies," she challenged, sticking her index finger into his sternum.

He closed his fist around her finger. "Lies of omission–"

She snatched her hand away, making a face at him. "–are only lies when you consciously withhold information for your benefit," she countered, "I went to Catholic school."

"So, you're well practiced on your knees?" He quipped, raising an eyebrow in challenge. He let out a hiss when she jabbed him in the shoulder. "I apologize. That was too easy a target."

Lilah looked up, and in the moment she looked like the portrait of innocence. Her wide green eyes were glowing under the fluorescent lighting of the gymnasium, hair tastefully in disarray from running after the little monsters. "I'm too easy a target?"

His insides did that same overinflated song and dance number. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering over her cheek. "Not at all."

She shivered in her spot, but remained unflinching. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you haven't decided how to murder me," she explained, slowly. "But I'm certain it'll end in some sort of cannibalism."

He wetted his lips, and for a moment he swore her eyes widened but a fraction before darkening. "It's not murder I'm contemplating, but I might take you up on the cannibalism," he husked, his fingers now trailing her neck. "You're avoiding my question, dearest. About the Valkyrie?"

"We're just friends. She just knew you'd bring it up with me." Lilah blushed again, setting her mouth into a scowl to avoid looking weak.

"And why would she want that?"

Delilah didn't answer, finding herself mercifully delivered by a notification on her smartwatch. When she turned her attention back to him, she had reset her casual mask. "Would you, er, like to come with us to the mess hall? The kids were hanging onto your every word, so…"

"Would you like me to come?"

Delilah rolled her eyes. "Really? Would I ask you if I didn't?"

He was getting comfortable in this banter. "Must you answer my every question with a question?"

"Must you?"

Loki chuckled, tilting his head like a curious pup. "I would love nothing more than to accompany you and your little monsters to lunch," he assured, fist over heart before he bowed. "Provided, of course, that I am not the adult in charge."

"Lo, I wouldn't put you in charge of watching paint dry, much less of minding small children." There was a glint of a frown in his face at the comment, that was quickly covered up by a smirk. "Hey, I didn't mean it like that. You're very capable, just not the most responsible adult I know. You like having fun and doing pranks and–"

He waved off her concern. "It's fine. You needn't bother with explaining yourself."

"No." She had Loki's hand in hers. "It's just– I'm good at taking care of people and bad with talking and I'm sorry."

Loki squeezed her hand. "I'm not worth your time, pixie."

"Hey! Don't badmouth my friend!"

He genuinely laughed at her heated response. "Are you going to slap me again?"

"I might. You're a good person, Loki."

The phrase knocked something loose in his chest and he took a rattling breath to try and ease the ache. Before he could respond in kind, the rabid pack of children had exited the gym with Valkyrie and Bucky in tow, looking more tired than all the children, combined. He dropped Delilah's hand amid the chorus of Lokis being shouted at him, and he couldn't help but smile. He wished he was half as interesting as what these children thought he was.

"Have you all fought valiantly against the Valkyrie and the Winter Soldier?" He asked, bending down to face them. They all nodded, excitedly. "Well, we shall feast with the gods, then!" Loki was nearly knocked off-balance by James, the sweet, nosy blond, clambering onto his back and winding his small arms around his neck. "Alright, come on, you lot."

It was no time before Loki found himself the most popular person in the former Avenger's compound. He sat at the center of one of the long lunch tables with a mess of children sat around him, hanging onto his every word. Delilah smiled from the next table over. The demigod was regaling the children with a tale of how he convinced Thor he was a normal stray dog for a whole month, only to pop up and scare him the second he tried to give him a bath.

"Is it true you're a prince?" A little girl asked, to his right.

He bit down on a piece of asparagus. Every time he had a vegetable, so did the rest of the table, so he figured he would do some poor parents a favor. "Yes, I am."

The little girl gasped. "Do you think I could be a princess one day?"

Delilah expected Loki to brush it off as an absurdity and say that Princesses were born that way, but he was beaten to the punch by another girl down the line. "Don't be stupid! You can't just become a princess! You have to be one for forever! "

Loki frowned. "That's not very nice, Alice. Is that any way to treat your peer?" Delilah and Valkyrie both looked at each other, nearly choking on their juice boxes. "In chess, a lowly pawn can become a Queen. Why is it inconceivable for an ordinary person to become a princess? Through hard work, you can do anything. Apologize to Callie, please."

"But she–"

The look Loki sent the child could have very well melted paint, and it took less than a second of it for Alice to mutter an apology to Callie and continue her meal, somewhat sullen. "The only thing stopping any of you from being whatever you like is the time you put into it. If you're not willing to work harder than anyone else, you're not fully dedicated. That goes for anything: prince, princess, warrior, healer, engineer– anything."

"But, can I be a princess, though?" Callie asked, again.

Loki smirked. "I'll put in a good word for you with King Brunnhilde. How about that?" The rest of the table began clamoring for the same favor. "Alright, I'll talk to her. Let's go fetch your dessert, you imps." All fifteen left the table to get some sweets, and sat right back down. Loki had sneaked a few extra cookies with his scoop of ice cream and was alternating bites.

"Oh, shit," Delilah muttered, making Valkyrie frown and turn towards the table where she echoed the sentiment. "Loki, you're not supposed to have ice cream, remember?"

The Asgardian frowned, narrowing his eyes at Lilah, who seemed to be staring quite pointedly, but he had no idea at what. "Pardon?"

"You know! The way you get cranky when you eat something frosty," she explained carefully, lifting her eyebrows. Loki glanced down.

The hand holding the ice cream scoop was beginning to turn dusky blue at the contact and he quickly set it down on his plate with a chuckle. "Right. Of course." He rubbed his hands together quickly to dispel the color. "Do I have any on my face?" She shook her head in the negative, but did prompt him to pull his collar up. "Thank you."

"Really? Him changing species doesn't freak you out?" Valkyrie whispered. "His eyes literally turn the color of nightmares!"

"Loki is Loki is Loki is Loki…," she countered, stuffing a piece of brownie in her mouth. "Stop laughing at me!" She threw a piece of her treat at the King's cackling face.

"In chess, a lowly pawn can become a Queen and I already have a lovely pawn in mind," Brunnhilde imitated Loki's mannerisms and smoky tone.

"You're such a shit friend, I swear!" Delilah complained, though she was laughing, too.

"Delilah, let my awful flirting trick you right into my pants."

"I certainly hope to have more finesse than that, my King," Loki said, suddenly standing beside the table with a smirk. Delilah flushed a deep rouge, lowering her face to stare at the table, hoping the ground would decide to show her mercy and swallow her whole. "The children have finished their lunch. Where should they be taken?"

"Sam and Bucky are on drop-offs. Let me get them!" Lilah squeaked, all too eager to volunteer and leave her place in that conversation.

"We should put a bell around your neck, so we know when you're creeping around."

"And miss her face turn that fetching shade of red? Blasphemy!" She had returned with Sam and Bucky and was busy giving instructions about where they were going now. "You could probably do with thirteen more royals in your court, couldn't you?"

"I thought there were fourteen kids?"

"Alice will become royalty when she learns some manners!" He snapped, much to her amusement.

Valkyrie smiled. "I'll take your suggestion under consideration, Prince."

"Thank you, my King." His eyes flickered upwards to where Delilah stood, clearing the kids' lunch table. "Now, about that pawn–"

"Not going to help you, Snakeboy. She can do better."

"She could also do worse!" He defended, almost pouting. He hesitated before tacking on, "can't she?"

She laughed heartily. "Here? No. I think you're bottom of the barrel, I'm afraid." Valkyrie hummed, contemplating before sucking against her teeth and sighing. "But for some reason, she's sweet on you, anyway. Don't fuck up."

#Loki #loki fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #mcu #mcu fanfiction #post-endgame #alternate timeline #valkyrie is pan af fight me #loki x oc #loki x ofc #valkyrie #babysitting

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wantonlywindswept · 7 years

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roleswap anon here! and on one hand, cool aunty delilah, but on the other delilah always wanted to be a Real Kaldwin, and burrows' plans would be Very Different if there was another kaldwin around. corvo wants his baby to be safe, and daud has stumbled into a big mess and is trying to get out and the outsider definitely ships it. but delilah's options AREN'T mutually exclusive, which makes her Interesting to watch and see how his marked interact with, if not enough for a Mark herself?

Maybe Burrows thinks to use Delilah to claim the throne after Daud kills Jessamine, but it turns out that Delilah was the one using him all along?

Either way, have some shenanigans! Daud is so tired.

Daud’s mother once told him to never make an enemy of a witch.

She had never shared her thoughts on serving one.

“You want me to do what?”

“You’re going to help me put Emily back on the throne,” the witch repeated earnestly, as if he didn’t have Daud dangling by one foot, upside-down, from a gently swaying vine. “You have the contacts and manpower in Dunwall to get what I need done while I continue putting things together for the ritual.”

Daud folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to scrape together what remained of his dignity. By the way the witch’s mouth twitched, it didn’t entirely work.

“No.”

The witch smiled: sharp, dangerous. The back of his left hand glowed softly and the vine around Daud’s ankle tightened, more crawling down his body, wrapping around his chest and throat.

Corvo Attano, the Outsider had said fondly. One of my Marked, and a mystery for you, Daud. I know how much you love those. Follow that name, and maybe you can lighten the stain on your soul from murdering the Empress and stealing her daughter.

“I wasn’t offering you a choice,” Corvo said patiently. The pressure around Daud’s neck squeezed in warning for just a few moments before loosening again to let him breathe. “You will do this for me.”

“I’m not ruining that little girl’s life more than I already have,” Daud snapped, voice rasping. “Kill me if you want, but my Whalers will burn this place to the ground before you lay a hand on Emily Kaldwin.”

The witch blinked. He leaned back, tilting his head to one side.

Abruptly all of the vines holding Daud aloft vanished, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, hitting the ground with a pained grunt.

“I have no desire to hurt Emily,” Corvo replied as Daud grabbed his sword from the floor, rolling to his feet. He seemed completely unconcerned about the now-armed assassin facing him, a contemplative look on his face.

“The fuck do you have that painting of her for, then?” Daud demanded, nodding toward the half-finished portrait sitting on an easel. He’d come across some of Corvo’s paintings before, vivid colors and steady brushstrokes, but this one was different. Emily’s face was depicted in soft, gentle pastels, her head limned in a blue haze that reminded him of whale oil.

“I know you can use them to possess people,” he continued, eyes narrowed. “That you can influence reality through them. And I’m not about to let you go through with whatever scheme you have to take over her throne.”

Corvo stared at him.

Then he threw back his head and laughed.

Daud lowered his blade, nonplussed and a little bit insulted.

The witch walked over to his painting, running a finger along the blue haloed around Emily’s head. Despite the fact he’d just been working on the portrait, his skin came back dry.

“You should do more research into magic before you decide you’re an expert on it,” Corvo said, amused. “This paint is made from crushed Serkonan cobalt and whale oil, mixed at a shrine to the Outsider during the Month of Earth.”

When Daud didn’t react with anything more than narrowed eyes, Corvo sighed.

“It’s for protection,” he explained.

He dropped his hand, looking up at the painting with a fond, tender smile, and all of the whispers about Emily Kaldwin’s father–that he was a noble, that he was a pauper, that he was a witch or even the Outsider himself–suddenly flashed through Daud’s mind. A feeling of sick dread welled in his stomach as he remembered the Outsider’s coy, enigmatic smile.

Maybe there’s a way for you to mend the mess you’ve made of poor little Emily’s family.

Corvo turned around, lifting an eyebrow at Daud, who was very viciously internally cursing himself for not looking deeper into that black-eyed bastard’s words.

“Emily Kaldwin,” Corvo said, “Is my daughter.”

#dishonored #dishonored fanfiction #liz writes dishonored #Anonymous #now sleep #dishonored roleswap verse

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matredaen · 7 years

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the high road

late, late, late cross-posting of this story from AO3

dishonored 2; 2.4k | feat. fever dreams and minor violence, & emily kaldwin and the heart

Run, the Heart says, and so she does.

The blade cuts quick and deep into her side; sticks there. Emily feels her breath clog up her lungs. Sees her arm move more than she feels it – a bystander in her own body. Her knife lodges in the meat of the guard’s shoulder.

Someone screams. The man’s eyes widen – he looks startled, surprised – and his fingers loosen on the hilt of his sword; the skin of his face goes pale, pale against the blue of his shirt collar. He stumbles back, takes his blade with him, and it scrapes against her ribs on its way out. Leaves a terrible heat pulsing loud where it’d been.

Run, the Heart says, and so she does.

She stops in a condemned apartment near old Batista, by the waterfront. Collapses, really – stumbles on a loose roof tile and falls in through an open skylight. Blood draining out, mixing with the dust on the hardwood floor. The impact rattling her bones. Instinct makes her freeze, go quiet and listening, but there’s no one alive in the building but her. Even the bloodfly nests lie dried and emptied. All the doors and windows sealed up tight.

She closes her eyes, makes an effort to steady her breathing. Does nothing for the pain, which still flares white hot agony in her side with every twitch of her traitor body. She didn’t think it would. What it does do is help her drag her thoughts into something resembling order. Neat, pristine. Bloodless.

She’s still bleeding. Can taste iron in the back of her throat.

Bind the wound, says the Heart.

Emily braces her forearms against the floor, pushes herself up and grits her teeth at the fresh surge of pain. She peels out of her jacket with clumsy fingers and tears cloth from the hem in long strips. Wraps it tight around her ribs. It’s slow going, and her hands shake.

She’s shivering when it’s done, drenched in cold sweat. Her hair is falling out of its knot, and there’s the bitter tang of iron at the back of her throat. She pulls herself up on the kitchen counter, stumbles with a hand braced on the wall down a hallway and into a sitting room. She sees light filtering through the boards on the windows, slanting through the dust.

She’s shivering, and shaking, and cold – but the sunlight is warm against the wall when she steps into it, and so she slides down onto the ground, a hand pressed tight against her side. Her own heartbeat pulses flighty under her palm, like a strange bird caught up in the cage of her chest. She thinks that she will only linger here for a moment or two, and no longer. The other Heart beats quiet and steady, somewhere in the space by her left hand.

Emily tilts her head back, closes her eyes.

When she opens them next she’s still shivering, and the sun is gone.

She’s got blood in the back of her mouth, and the wound’s gone hot under her hand.

The building may be abandoned, but the neighborhood isn't. It’s fringe Howler territory just the same as it’s fringe Batista: the Howlers and the dust seem to go hand in unfriendly hand. Already, only two days into her fever, Emily has heard the wind screaming through the seams in the building like a living thing more times than she has cared to count. Thinks it’s a wild beast and wakes from her dozing in fever-bright terror. Faceless men and witches come to put her down.

There are people singing down in the street too, a woman’s mournful croon and a man’s deep voice supporting it. One of them plays the fiddle and Emily can see it behind her twitching eyelids. The singing woman’s hands, the dark amberwood of the instrument. The silverdust in the street around them.

She coughs and it sends vibrant starbursts of pain scattering across her vision. Been flickering in and out anyway, of late. Bursts of gold and purple and void blue. Sounds leaving bright echoes. Her fingers twitch where they rest on the floorboards, and she shivers again. Presses her hands against her bandaged side and whimpers at the sticky damp, the heat.

The woman hits a high note. Emily feels it echoing under her sternum.

She and Her Mother used to sing together, until dust from the mines stole Her voice, the Heart says in its faraway voice, half lost and half desperate. Emily’s head lists to the side, her hands falling away from her wound. Finds her breath sticking in her chest. The woman and the man sing lullabies, not unlike the ones Meagan hummed when she thought Emily wasn’t listening. Not unlike the ones her father hummed to her a long, long time ago.

Emily?

“Yes?” she says in her dust-cracked-broken voice. Closes her eyes.

The Heart is silent.

“Mother,” Emily says – breathes really, a note on the wind on the dawn of the third day. The Heart beats gently, and Emily thinks she hears it whisper a response. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

She is drowning in dust, in her own skin; she is –

I am proud of you, the Heart says.

“Get your boots off the table,” Meagan says, knocking gently at her feet with the ladle. Her tone is harsh but she’s got a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth – been kinder and softer since Emily brought back Sokolov. Heat drifts from the galley, the smell of something warm and salty and rich.

The Wale creaks around them, and Emily laughs. Plants her feet firmly on the floor.

“Better?” she asks. Meagan smirks less sideways, nods.

She is adrift in the void, whales singing all around her and bright light spearing the darkness and burning in her eyes. Delilah is in the void with her, standing above her shivering corpse and smiling beatifically. Emily is not certain that she is real – she is not certain that Delilah would ever smile like she thinks her mother did. The streets of Karnaca bloom around them, gilded in silver, bright and shining and malformed.

“How strange,” the false Delilah says, her voice echoing strange through the space, “How funny – that you will die in the city where your father was born.”

She crouches, lays a hand on Emily’s cheek the same way she did in the throne room on that first day. Emily recoils from her touch, reeling, her body splitting apart in the light.

“I won’t die here,” she rasps, her voice wrecked and hoarse. The shade’s smile stretches wider, and splits her face. Bloodflies swarm from the empty cavern of her jaw.

“You will,” she says.

“Tell me a story,” she asks. Whispers, really. Voice like Karnaca’s hot winds over salt-crusted sea stones. Her eyes tracing the outlines of the cracks in the plaster of the ceilings, spidering lines mapping out from the seams of the room. Dust swirls in the corner, stirred by her breath. Shadows flicker in the corners of her eyes and the Mark throbs on the back of her hand.

What sort do you wish to hear? the Heart beats, slow and unfrantic. Emily turns her face to it, seeking warmth, comfort. That which she will not get from the chained spirit of her dead mother, but desires regardless. Shadows flicker, dancing along the walls. Dark fire, licking at her skin. The wound is hot on her side, dries her out her tongue and makes her slow.

“Anything,” she whispers. Thinks she can glimpse a woman’s shape made of shade and starlight at the periphery of her vision. Her hands rise up and settle cool on Emily’s face. She turns herself to it, clumsy and slow. She wishes that she could see her face – that she could remember her mother as anything but a fragmented collaboration of old oil paintings and Delilah’s harsh eyes.

You are burning, the Heart says, low and somber, here is a story that is perhaps familiar: a Man you know was born not far from here. He ran through these streets and was untamed and He threw stones at bloodfly nests and he laughed when they buzzed. Did he ever tell you of it? a Girl you will never know was born here too, and ran with him, faster and farther still.

They never settled, children of quick-wit and sharp-tongue and wandering-feet. a Woman you will never know waited behind their paths and held the Strictures to her heart and she would have been proud to know you. Did he ever tell you of it?

The Heart gasps then, or the closest thing to it: a sharp sound, like what the rush intake of air would be in the language of a creature only remembering it. The Heart says again, You are burning.

“I am burning,” Emily agrees, reaching through the fog and starlight for the hands of her mother’s spirit. Feeling more dust than Empress, more fever than girl. She can see the fire licking at the shell of her skin, and wonders if her bones make for good kindling. What anyone could do with the ash.

The whales are singing to each other in the deep of the seas.

Long and mournful; high and finite; the echoing of it fills the void. Slips down into the empty cavity of her chest and makes a new heart for her. An organ that sings sweeter than her ruined voice could ever manage – something pure and incorruptible.

“Get your boots off the table,” Meagan says, knocking gently at her feet with the ladle. Emily laughs and smiles so wide it splits her face. Sparks falling down into her lap. Meagan turns back to the galley, humming quietly.

“I am burning,” Emily says. Meagan nods.

The Heart, the stardust shadow woman, her mother slinks across the walls, pulling secrets from the bricks. Comes back to Emily’s side and lays her coldwater hands on Emily’s face, her shoulders, her neck. Pulls the fire out like threads on an unfinished hem – it only flares back stronger, hotter, and the Heart sings a cradlesong tune and keeps working.

“I can’t remember what you looked like,” she confesses, glowing coals falling out of her mouth like uncut gemstones. Turns her blind eyes to the window. The woman is still singing down in the street – her mother’s shade is still singing in the space above and behind her right shoulder. Glowing coals rattle in her chest when she breathes.

Like you, the shade says softly, gently, pulling at the threads, like you, only without your strength and without your father’s eyes.

“You were strong,” Emily breathes, remembering the set of her mother’s shoulders, the steel in her spine and the kindness in her words; remembering everything about her mother but her face. The Heart hums, and the shade bends double, brushing Emily’s hair back behind her ear.

Perhaps, it says, but I shattered like spun glass. You are already stronger than I ever was, and you are not yet done.

The whales are singing to each other in the deep of the void. She can hear the resonant song rattling in her jaw, between the little bones of her ears. Her eyes are full of distant fire and she imagines that she is more skin than bone, more ash than blood, and less still than even that. The stone of the island is solid at her back, but she is so far gone that she cannot even feel the chill.

She breathes out sparks and bleeds out coals and heat. Is scoured clean and raw in the inferno. She thinks it would be nice for the cold of the void to sink into what is left of her corpse. To bury herself in it and be lost. She keeps her eyes fixed on the distant stars.

“Emily Kaldwin.”

She turns her head, creaking like an old machine. A fine and fair clockwork, ruined by her own hand. Bits of herself breaking apart and drifting; burning, always burning. The Outsider is crouched near her, his eyes dark in his bonepale face, something halfway between curiosity and concern writ in the slant of his mouth. She forces the tattered remains of her lips into a smile.

“You,” she rasps, pushing air through shredded lungs. She does not worry that her embers and sparks will catch him on fire – he is far too drowned and damp for that. She reaches for him and he leans forward, black eyes hungry. “What happens to the Empire, when I die here?”

He shakes his head.

“You won’t die here,” he says, and he does not sound at all like a god – only like a boy.

Emily laughs.

I am proud of you, the Heart says, I am so proud of you, but you are not finished yet.

Emily can hear the ocean through the shuttered windows. Birds calling. She cannot open her eyes.

Her mother sings to her, combing fingers through her hair.

What I wouldn’t give to hold you just one time more, she sighs, Emily. It’s time to wake up.

“You won’t die here,” the Outsider says, and pours seawater down her throat.

“Here,” a voice sighs, low and rasping, “Careful, she’s resting. That board right there creaks – step over it.”

A quiet murmur, indecipherable; then closer: “-how is she?”

The second voice is warm like good whiskey. Emily sinks into the familiar sound of it, comfortable in the dark. The first speaker grunts, scuffs a boot along the floor.

“She had a fever when my boys first found her, and we had to stitch up a pretty nasty cut on her flank, but,” another vague noise, the air shifting near her face, “She should be past the worst of it.”

The second voice sighs, a long and slow exhale. “Thanks, Blanchard,” they say, and Emily hears the soft jingle of coins in a purse, “What do I owe you?”

The first voice laughs, says, “Come downstairs for a drink and we’ll call it even. We’ll help you get her back to your boat in the morning.”

The two of them go back down the stairs together and shut the door quietly behind.

She drifts back down into the dark.

In the dim of the room above the Crone’s Hand Saloon in old Batista she reaches out for the Heart.

It beats on, steady against her fingertips, and is quiet.

#dishonored 2 #emily kaldwin #my writing

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mckanwrites · 4 years

Text

Runa Character Backstory

“Bastard, absolute bastard—“ Runa hissed before she kicked her dresser beside her, causing it to quake and bump against the wall behind it with some force. Beneath her breath she cursed, her foot no worse for wear but her dresser likely scuffed. Hopefully Delilah would have no need to move it in the near future. It was unlikely, considering how busy her mother had become in just a few days time. Even Hana had been swept away with the current political climate, leaving Runa with but a few Durnatha in her halls and garden. Suddenly Runa was left utterly alone, and it was all because of Caly’s poorest decision yet.

Runa had been pacing her bedroom for days, attempting to exercise the anger and frustration she felt coursing through her but to no avail. Word had come in that the Morros family was no more, the house conceded by Caly’s own words to the queen in a private and impulsive meeting. Runa, in her short life, had lived to see her mother’s two greatest rivals of the underground fall, likely not even by her own will. First it was Lancer, then the Morros family in its entirety.

As if Celise’s death didn’t give her enough new opportunities, Runa thought bitterly as she played with the signet ring on her right middle finger; the ridges outlining the silver panther indentation hardly yet worn from age. It gave her a sense of both bitterness and pride, wearing the paraphernalia of her mother’s house when Delilah acted as she did.

After Caly relinquished his rights to the Morros name, his property was left untouched, his quarries simply just meant to be kept aside, yet Delilah was a viper as always. In her infinite cunning, she’d found a loophole or perhaps — better put — an old, relatively unused law by the courts’ standards.One that stated when someone like Caly collapses their family house, all properties under that name are but public property. Everything was but a purchase away, and Delilah of course, was a quick bidder. The quarries, the land, and eventually every underground contact the Morros kept were being swept under Delilah’s dress in less than a fortnight. Thinking too much of the future made Runa nauseous.

All her life, Runa was groomed for an important role in the Edarian council, she was all too well aware of this. Coming up under Delilah’s roof was a challenge, but it was bearable. She’d always lived with the small comfort that Caly would be her partner in crime in the council, that she would have her back watched by not only Hana, but another ally from a completely different house. Yet so suddenly the rug had been swept out from under her, and she did not yet know where she would land. Every time she thought ahead to the future, where her mother would inevitably tighten her leash on her and she’d be bound to the council, alone and all eyes on her — it made her eyes sting with tears.

So abruptly, she’d been betrayed and sentenced to a life in her mother’s prison while Caly got to travel world-wide with the infamous Guiding Lights, fighting and exploring, living so freely…the first day she had wept, but with every passing hour, a rage festered in her ribcage and Runa felt as though a fire were burning in her chest. Any guilt she could have for feeling hatred towards her best friend was pushed away. She had waited for a letter. For a formal explanation. Yet she never got one. Instead, all she heard was that Caly had moved on to the next country with his new troupe of friends while she sat in her room in silence.

She needed answers, and she couldn’t wait the weeks, months, or years it would take Caly to come and face her again. She couldn’t stand by in a dusty courtroom watching herself age in the reflection of her wine while others guided her through her entire life. Her best and only option was to confront him herself. Not in a few months, not in a year to wait for things to blow over, but now. She’d break up the never-ending party he was on if only for a moment, to hear what he had to say for himself. To know what grand plan he was riding on now.

“Wait—“ Runa said aloud as she caught her own gold eyes in the mirror on her vanity. Why stop there? she thought to herself, a smirk tugging on the corners of her lip. Why not just join the Guiding Lights too? If I’m already there to get answers, I might as well stick around for an adventure or two, she thought, her features softening. Looking to the mirror, she lifted her long blond locks up, pulling them back as if in a mock ponytail. She turned side to side, wondering what she’d look like in real armor, or dirtied after a real fight, one where the opponent didn’t hold back like Hana did in training. Suddenly her plan just got a whole lot grander, and for the first time in days, Runa felt ecstatic. And there was no time to waste.

***

“My Lady,” one of the Durnatha nodded in greeting as Runa left her bedroom, their face obscured by their long silver mask, “Do you need an escort somewhere?”

“No no,” Runa waved her hand, “I’m just going to the library. There’s only about three windows to pass on the way there, the likelihood of assassination seems perhaps rather low for a Durnatha to be needed.”

Beneath the edges of the mask she could see the two Durnatha on either side of her door grimace, obviously unimpressed with her humor. She smiled, satisfied with the reaction as she turned on her heel and headed down the hall. The Marshburne’s had estates in Valtimiri, the Capitol, and The Glittering Cliffs, yet the Capitol’s estate had by far the best library within it. Each book had its most recent edition included beside it with extensive improvements on topics from historical information to the newest atlases, and maps were exactly where Runa planned to start.

Passing through the marble halls, there was very little to see besides the occasional Durnatha or house servant, each one taking an opportunity to bow, nod, or curtsy as Runa passed by. Most of the usual faces, Hana included, were with Delilah in a council meeting no doubt.

When Runa reached the library and peered inside, it was unsurprising to find it empty. Her heeled shoes clicked gently beneath the folds of her dress as she walked in, shutting the door gently behind her. The shelves of books that stood against each wall reached the ceiling, encompassing a large open reading area a few steps down where desks, chairs, and couches companied an unlit fireplace. Everything seemed relatively untouched since Runa had last come into the library, though since it was dusted almost daily it was hard to tell if no one had really been here or not. Letting her guard down, Runa began to walk up and down the aisles of bookshelves, reading the spines of each collection as she passed, running her hands along the leather bindings as she wandered. After some time, she caught a glimpse of an atlas on a lower level. With one index finger she flipped it out onto its spine and pulled it from its place on the shelf before sitting on the floor in front of her.

Enthusiastically, she whipped the book open to its table of contents, quickly finding the map of every country and their most frequented travel routes. She bit her lip — as she often did when reading, writing, or focusing intently on something — as she ran her index finger over Valtamiri. Setting her nail under the dot that represented the city, she traced the line that led off towards Anaser’a, the elf kingdom she heard housed the Guiding Lights. To her disappointment, the first line she chose ended at the southern shoreline. Realistically, if she were to make it out of Edaria, going by ship was by far the last resort. Not only had the seas been out of control lately, but the likelihood of her being able to sneak her way onto a ship without any of the wrong people seeing her was near impossible. Delilah had eyes everywhere.

Nearly each travel line she followed from Valtamiri or any other nearby city all led to the coast, the most direct route possible obviously. It took several minutes to finally find a land-only route, and it seemed that involved crossing the land bridge directly into Noa and then an extensive journey south. And that was all before Ban’ya, where there’d be mountainous areas and seldom-traveled territory. Noa wasn’t much better, relatively speaking. The east was basically under water and who knows what kind of bandit rings or other thugs would take advantage of a lone female traveler in noble gear? Runa grimaced, sitting upright and rolling her shoulders as she thought to herself for a moment.

“Ok so ship-route pros and cons.” Runa said as she held up her fingers to count, “Pros are I don’t need armor or gear or maps, cons are…well…everything else. Pros of land route? No sea witches, no Delilah spies, no sea sickness. Cons? Where the hell am I gonna get a suit of armor and a sword?”

Sighing, she put her face in her hands before running her fingers through her hair. It wasn’t a fear of combat that complicated things, but the weaponry needed for long and safe travel through practically three countries was not easy to come by quickly or stealthily. It wasn’t as simple as asking Hana to acquire some for her. Hell, this was the first time she would be unable to rely on Hana or tell her anything at all. In all honesty, her heart ached when she thought of how Hana would react if she ran away, but Hana was patient and composed. Runa certainly was not, and could not wait for her life to untangle itself.

After closing the book and placing it back on the shelf, an idea came to her. These estates have storage for weapons and armor, she remembered. Nobles had so much valuable shit to store, of course there had to be a few swords or suits of armor that could go missing without anyone being any the wiser! Now with her second wind, Runa left the library, swiftly navigating through the halls to find the storage room she so often entered on her way from the east parlor room to her room. Turning the doorknob, she was pleased to find it unlocked.

Upon entering, Runa crossed onto the cobblestone floor, taking in the room that wasn’t much bigger than her own. The two large windows on the opposite side of the room let light fall on the tables and shelves packed with different containers, objects, and odd but expensive trinkets. On the right side of the room, multiple mannequins stood donned in bright armor. Initially elated to see them, as Runa approached the chest plates and helmets, each piece seemed so painfully gaudy. The Marshburnes were renown for their jewels certainly, but to choose high fashion over functioning chain mail seemed… excessive. Runa had never actually seen these outside of this room, so perhaps they were in fact used for a ball instead of battle, at least she hoped so.

The swords and daggers on the wall rack close by seemed to fall to the same fate of gaudy and unnecessary. At first glance they just seemed over-decorated, but as Runa held each sword in her hands she could sense the lack of balance in the blade, the lack of precision that went into the steel’s smithing. Beauty over brawn made sense in a lavish court of rubies and diamonds, yet Runa knew better than to take any of these items into serious combat.

Disappointed in her findings yet again, she sighed as she paced around the room, looking for anything of use. After a moment of perusing, her eyes fell on a note sat up in a glass case for what looked like a ring case. Curious, she lifted the lid and flipped the note open. In it, it stated “Military Rings relocated to basement treasury in Glittering Cliffs Estate,” signed off by one of the estate handlers Runa recognized the surname of.

“If they have old military rings, they must have legit armor and weapons,” Runa said to herself. She couldn’t even name a Marshburne in recent memory that would possess military rings, then again she had never imagined the Marshburnes as a fighting family. For all the knowledge she knew of every other major family’s history, she knew the least of her own, and she was uncertain whether or not she preferred it that way.

Satisfied with her investigation for the day, she began to wander back to her room, taking her time as she traversed the corridors. It wasn’t uncommon for her to hear parts of conversations when passing by rooms with open doors, yet as she passed a small break room often used by off-duty guards or Durnatha, she caught wind of something that sounded like “—burne estate” being mentioned between two Durnatha. Eager to eavesdrop on council drama, she passed the door then pressed herself against the wall beside it, standing just out of their potential line of sight.

“Why tomorrow night?” one asked, sounding dumbfounded.

“Because idiot, why let potential enemies know where we’re bringing or taking soldiers?” the second replied.

“But mate, consider,” the first said, “Half of us got darkvision. I bet if someone’s assassins are working under the cover of night, they’d probably send a man with darkvision too, eh?”

“That’s why we got masks.” the second said, followed by a light metallic sound that Runa guessed to be the man tapping on his mask.

“But Durnatha’s got special masks compared to other guards, ain’t they? So they know it’s us anyway.” said the first. There was an awkward pause.

“Well that’s why we got hoods and covered caravans obviously,” the second Durnatha finally replied, almost too confidently considering the pause it took for him to think of those.

“Do we gotta keep such a low profile all the way to the Glittering Cliff house? Sounds like an awful ride.” the first bemoaned. Runa’s ears perked at the name of the main Marshburne estate. This guard transfer might be exactly what she needed.

“If you’re gonna whine about your job, you might as well quit now. It’s just a couple days’ ride West, you ninny.” the second scolded his coworker.

“Yeah I know, but we gotta leave so late and sleeping in a caravan won’t do kindly for my back,” the first sighed.

“We’re poppin’ off at ten at night, what part of that is so late to you?” the second said.

“I go to bed early. Early to bed, early to rise, you know all that good stuff for you.”

“You’re somethin’ else, Roy. Ugh, whatever, just be at the gate by ten or I will tell the captain to shove off without ya.” the second finished the topic, causing Roy to grumble quite loud. Runa heard the sound of chairs scraping against wooden floorboards as the men presumably moved to leave their seats at the table. Without delay, Runa took this as her sign to leave and swiftly headed to her bedroom.

Her heart beat rapidly in her chest and her head began to spin as she plotted out the next days of her life. This Durnatha guard change was the perfect opportunity to get transport to the Glittering Cliffs estate. Though she would have to acquire a set of the Durnatha garb before tomorrow night. And after she made it there — assuming she made it — how would she travel then? No doubt she could steal a steed from her father’s stable, but then she’d be deemed a horse thief and tailed justly. She had magic, she was a sorcerer by nature, she could certainly summon a steed when necessary. But her practice was novice at best, and more than once had her spells gone awry and backfired on her.

There’s no time for me to doubt myself, she thought as she sat at her vanity, tucking her hair behind her ears as she pulled a blank journal from her drawer. It’s time for me to follow my own path.

***

“How was your day, my love?” Delilah asked in a calm, low voice as she tenderly ran a brush through Runa’s hair.

On her busiest days, especially ones where she didn’t take Runa with her wherever she went, Delilah still found time in her day to spend alone with her daughter. Runa sat at her vanity, watching her mother’s face as Delilah stood behind her, focused on the long strands of gold hair in her fingers. At times, Delilah was strict and abrasive, yet in moments like this, Runa felt at peace in her mother’s presence. For a short while, she could forget the times Delilah had been unkind or done unfavorable things in the name of their house. She preferred it that way, dreaming of a mother with no blood on her hands, that which would inevitably be passed on to her daughter.

“It was mostly uneventful,” Runa replied, fussing with the pages of her journal as she thought of what to write.

All she could think of were her future plans in the coming days, and those were not for her mother’s keen eyes to see. She wondered what Delilah’s reaction would be when she ran away. Would she be able to tell she ran away and be angry? Runa had never seen Delilah look sad or heartbroken, but when she pictured her mother weeping for the disappearance of her daughter, guilt built up in her stomach, heavy like a stone. Perhaps Delilah would think she’d been stolen, maybe indirectly by another council family for ransom use. Runa wouldn’t put it past Delilah to assume that first. To Delilah, it was her and Runa against the world; Delilah may very well uproot the entirety of Edaria and its noble families in search of her prized daughter. Runa fought back a smile, finding the idea of Delilah searching under every chair and table for her all across Edaria. But I won’t be there, Runa thought to herself contently, almost as though she were whispering it in the imagined Delilah’s ear.

“Certainly not that uneventful given that look.” Delilah said with a mischievous smile, as though Runa had gossip to tell and she desperately wanted to know it.

“It’s nothing that exciting,” Runa waved her off, “I just wandered the library and flipped through some of the older books for fun.”

“Ah, you’ve always loved books now haven’t you?” Delilah replied, clearly satisfied with the answer, “Looking at older texts reminds us how far we’ve come in learning and understanding the world today. Some of the oldest maps and roads are so vastly off the mark you can hardly recreate them in real life.”

“Is that so?” Runa asked, slightly shaken that her mother mentioned maps, as though she had looked into her daughter’s mind and seen the atlas Runa used herself. Still, she made sure not to let her guard drop as Delilah ran the brush through her hair again, the silver brush still just as gentle against her head as it had been when she was a little girl.

“Yes, yes,” Delilah nodded, her smile soft and genuine, something the courts never saw, saved for only private moments with her daughter or bodyguard, “the roads are always changing, becoming more efficient, or making room for new towns that tend to spring up in places such as Noa. Cartographers are skilled craftsmen and explorers in their own right.”

“I see,” Runa said, the conversation falling to a lull for a short moment as Runa thought of what else to say. Her silence could be suspicious, or at least it felt that way. Finally, after a moment, she asked, “So how goes the meetings with Delmare?”

“It goes,” Delilah sighed, tilting her head to the side, “Some of the others in the council are calling for a bidding war over the old lands and quarries of the Morros family. Yet it seems Queen Marion is on my side, thank Nox. She understands there would be no argument had I not reviewed my older Edarian property law books, and so rightfully I get the privilege of first buy and the rest of the council can fight as they please over what scraps remain.”

“But there won’t be any scraps left for them, will there?” Runa asked her, giving a wry smile. In many ways, her mother was a tyrant. Tactical, quick-moving, and constantly finding new paths to power. It was both respectable and rather terrifying, even from Runa’s standpoint. What need was there for so much land? What was it worth to be richer than the gods?

“You know me well, my dear,” Delilah smiled brightly, “every piece of land has use. If not today, then perhaps tomorrow. Our ancestors did not know they sat upon an expanse of fine jewels when they built the Glittering Cliffs estate. The land is fruitful and always giving in new ways. That’s Edaria for you.”

“Forgive me if it’s not my place,” Runa began, trying to keep her voice steady as she thought of her next words carefully, “but what if Caliean Morros returns to Edaria? What if he wishes to reclaim his lands?”

“Then he will have to have brought a sizable army to my doorstep.” Delilah guffawed, her smile still light but her eyes becoming more serious, dark, “The Morros children tarnished their mother’s name and now they are no more than traitors and deserters. Caliean has no stake in the game of nobility any longer. He gave up that right willingly and should expect nothing else from this country.”

“But his mother was your ally and he’s my friend,” Runa replied, feeling a heat rise in her chest, “If he returned, could we not just return some of his lands back to him in his name?”

“Young lady,” Delilah said, taking hold of one of Runa’s shoulders as though she was taken aback by her daughter’s statement, “We are not a charity, nor do we owe anything to people who give up their responsibilities so simply. This family is better than that. I raised you better than that.”

“But what of human compassion?” Runa asked, her heart beating as words left her mouth faster than she could filter them, “Who gains allies by leaving the children of family friends homeless? Caly’s just a child, this could all just be an impulsive mistake!”

“Runa Ardala Marshburne!” Delilah gasped, using Runa’s full name as she only did when truly upset with her daughter’s antics. She stepped to Runa’s side so that she could look straight at her, bringing a hand to her daughter’s jaw and turning it to face her, their gazes meeting. “You have to let these childish beliefs go. You are no common woman. Your priority is your house’s reputation first. Allies and friends come and go, but your heritage, your blood, your name does not. You are an adult now, and still younger than Caliean. He has no excuse to resign his name as much as you. Do not let emotions or the heat of the moment make you consider otherwise like he may have. Understood?”

Runa looked at her mother for a long, hard minute, both of the women practically boring holes into one another’s eyes as they tried to read one another. This was often how their disagreements went, with Delilah claiming the importance of the strength and reputation of the house more than anything or anyone. She always had the last say, dangling Runa’s responsibilities or inexperience over her like a blade. Delilah had her good moments, but often Runa was reminded that some things never changed.

“Understood.” Runa finally replied through clenched teeth. Delilah softly let go of her jaw before tenderly running a manicured hand through her daughter’s hair. Runa stifled a sigh.

“You should get to bed soon,” Delilah finally spoke, her gentle matronly voice having returned, “You have studies with Hana tomorrow morning and you don’t want to miss it. It’ll be your only opportunity for some semblance of tutelage this week before I take Hana with me again for a time.”

“Yes mother,” Runa nodded. Delilah took a step back as she opened her arms, looking for a hug goodnight. Obediently, Runa stood and entered her mother’s embrace, exhaling softly as she leaned her head against her mother’s shoulder. Just like that, they were both back to a calm life between mother and daughter, one where there was no fighting or grand responsibility looming over them. Runa was sure there would be more to come in some time if her escape plans came to fruition.

***

Runa held her longsword firmly, feeling her rapid pulse through her palms. Her breathing had become heavy, and in much less time than usual. She was out of shape from lack of practice, that much was clear. Hana rarely canceled their class sessions, yet as of late the climate of Edaria and the importance of Delilah’s position within it were rapidly changing and reshaping, and Hana was just as much Delilah’s bodyguard as Runa’s. Yet that didn’t make the lack of Hana’s presence any less bearable.

“You’re daydreaming!” Hana called out, waking Runa from her daze just as she brought down her own longsword on the girl, aiming for her right should her with the blunt iron blade. Runa, must smaller and swifter than her elven retainer, swiftly raised her sword to meet the blow. As the blades met, Runa felt the force of her teacher’s strike push against every muscle in her body. Unable to withstand it for long, she quickly slid her blade out from under Hana’s, using the momentum to retreat to a safe distance where she could catch her breath.

“S’not my fault someone’s been skipping practice.” Runa exhaled, rolling her shoulders and letting the belated rush of aching pain run through her body. Hana lowered her guard, sticking her sword in the mix of sand and dirt of the practice arena as she now had the attention of her student. The sun elf was statuesque as always, holding her head high as her amber eyes looked Runa over, the sweat caused by sword practice highlighted on her dark skin in the early morning sun. Though she wasn’t smiling, Runa had been around Hana long enough that she knew the woman was almost amused by her insult.

“You’ve got me there,” Hana said as she casually cracked her neck by rolling it side to side, “Though I can’t help it that your mother’s been so popular as of late.”

“Yes, but there are other bodyguards.” Runa huffed as she corrected her posture and brought her practice sword to rest against her shoulder.

“I could say the same for you, my Lady,” Hana spoke as a tender smile crossed her lips. It was something only Hana could do, making my Lady sound less like a dry title and more like a term Runa had genuinely earned from Hana’s admiration of her. Hana had been as much of a parent as Delilah and had every right to call Runa by name, but titles or pet names were her form of love and care, her love language.

“But there’s only one Hana,” Runa replied, kicking at the dirt at her feet, “and could you imagine how any of the other guards would react if I asked them to spar with me? Not only would they hold back in a fight, but everyone and my mother thinks I’m studying fencing, not badass sword fighting.”

“Fencing is sword fighting, dove,” Hana smirked, using her other favorite pet name for the young noblewoman.

“Yeah but like, for dainty little nobles with their little twinkle toes,” she rolled her eyes, hardly managing to stifle a groan at the thought of restrained and delicate “combat”. “I want to learn how to actually beat the shit out of an opponent, is that too much to ask? Is having a noble who can fight ten men at once a negative?”

“You certainly have the confidence for it,” Hana laughed, “though unfortunately we all have appearances to uphold. It’s best you appear gentle and compromising in court, while also being able to defend yourself at a moment’s notice. Your mother perhaps had the right idea with your first fencing studies, yet we’d have all our rapiers broken in half before you learned to control your hand.”

“I control my hand!” Runa huffed, her exhale causing her bangs to fly up for a second before settling back above her brow. “I could fight all fancy if I wanted. But sword fighting is more fun when you’re letting loose and feel powerful. If I wanted to feel like a ballet dancer after a long day at court then yeah maybe I would fence.”

“Too bad your brashness isn’t as charming at court as it is on the battlefield.” Hana teased, lifting her sword and turning it in her hand, “I suppose that’s why you beat yourself silly in practice. To knock the uncouth out of your personality for another day.”

“Hana,” Runa grumbled. She hated when Hana got all introspective and thoughtful, which was often. Those moments weren’t allowed at practice, Runa always told her that. Still, sometimes her sage-like disposition would peek through and Runa again would complain how Hana acted more like she was 800 years old as opposed to under 200.

“I wouldn’t need to fill the silence if you weren’t being so slow and wasting practice time.” Hana chided, raising her sword and pointing it at Runa. Her smile was gone, but Runa could see the mischievous look in Hana’s eyes, the one she always got when she knew she was goading Runa on on purpose. Runa smiled, lowering her sword from her shoulder and raising it at Hana. No sooner had she secured her beginning stance before Hana initiated the match.

Effortlessly, Hana traversed the distance between them, her first incoming strike aimed for Runa’s right hip. Wasting no time, Runa cleared the swing with a jump over the blade, following her move with a strike up towards Hana’s chest. Hana met Runa’s attack by catching the side of the blade with the hilt of her own. Before the girl had a chance to flick her blade around it, Hana drove a fist into Runa’s chest, the blow’s impact — while mostly absorbed by the practice armor’s protection — knocked the wind from her lungs as she fell on her back coughing. Hana retreated a good distance while Runa rolled onto her stomach, trying to find her breath.

“You leave yourself open.” Hana said in the stern voice she always used when teaching Runa, “How will you wound your opponent when you leave yourself so unguarded for them?”

“I always forget the fucking punching,” Runa coughed, speaking mostly to herself as she slowly rose to her feet. After learning the formal ways of dueling, Hana had expanded her teaching to include dirty tactics. Rarely did sword masters practice realistic fight situations where there could be biting, hair-pulling, sand-throwing, and most of all punching. That was Hana’s go-to way of showing Runa where she was leaving herself open.

“Come on now,” Hana called as Runa stood tall again, prepared to spar, “we’re running short on time today, and I’d like to see you knock me off my feet at least once this afternoon.”

“Why stop at one?” Runa joked.

Without another word, Runa initiated the match this time, lunging at Hana with her sword aimed for her left arm. As Hana went to parry it, Runa pulled back, her faint maneuver successful as she changed her target to Hana’s right hand, disarming her. The weapon went sliding behind Hana some distance, and as Hana retreated to retrieve it, Runa fell back as well. I’ll knock you off your feet, Runa thought, self-assured as the adrenaline of fighting rushed through her. Quickly, she focused on the distance between her and the fallen blade, collecting herself as she brought all her magical energy into the front of her mind. With a soft utterance of arcane words beneath her breath, she cast a chromatic orb onto the field.

Or at least, that’s what she intended to do.

Just as soon as she had focused all of her energy into her fingertips, she felt a surge of magic quicker than lightning snap back through her, destroying all control she had in favor of igniting the air before her into a burst of flame. Runa was thrown back by the force of her own rebelling magic, landing hard on her back. Her sight went hazy, blurred with tears that had risen in her eyes due to the heat she’d just faced. Breathless, she fought to suck in air before succumbing to a coughing fit. Slowly she rolled onto her side, lifting herself to lean onto her elbow as she heard Hana rush over.

“Runa, are you alright?” her retainer asked in a panicked voice, a rare sound coming from Hana.

“I lived,” Runa replied, trying to let out a chuckle, yet it was lost between coughs. Hana put her hand on her shoulder, her grip firm yet gentle, as though she were afraid Runa would break under her grasp.

“Trying to use magic?” Hana asked as Runa looked up at her, giving her an honest look that told Hana all she needed to know, “We talked about this Runa. You’re not in full control of your powers yet.”

“I figured better to practice now rather than later.” Runa replied as she moved into a sitting position, looking out over the practice arena. The floor where she’d failed to cast her spell was now lightly scorched. Tentatively, she ran her hand along her brows, curious if they had been singed off in the blast. Thankfully, they were still with her.

“Fortunately you don’t appear any worse for wear.” Hana said as she looked Runa over a few times, brushing a few locks of blond hair behind her ear.

“A fireball has nothing on a good punch or two from you,” Runa joked, and the two of them chuckled. Hana rose to her feet, reaching a hand out for Runa to grasp as she got up as well. It was almost time for the two of them to return to their daily lives apart from each other, Runa could sense it. Hana always wore a somber countenance before she had to excuse herself. It was rare that Hana was not by Runa’s side, but now that was no longer the case. Runa was no longer a child who required her babysitter, and Hana was needed at Delilah’s side in this time of sensitive dealings. It was unfair, Runa thought, but it wasn’t her place to give demands, only to accept them. That was her place in life, it seemed.

“It’s time, dove.” Hana spoke softly, looking down at the young lord.

“Until next time, I guess.” Runa joked bitterly, remembering her plans for the night, how she would do as Caly had before her and disappear. Desperate to fight back the anxiety in her chest, she stepped forward and embraced Hana, her head just barely reaching the chest of the elven woman who towered over her. Without delay, Hana returned the embrace, her hug soft and motherly, even with the armor on. After a moment, they pulled apart.

“Try not to get caught practicing in your bedroom,” Hana smiled.

“No promises,” Runa replied, returning the smile, though inside her felt her stomach drop. She would soon be in danger of getting caught in much worse places. But getting caught is not an option, she reminded herself, I have a job to do.

***

Night had fallen over the Capitol in a thick sheet of black, the new moon leaving the land unapologetically dark. Delilah had already spent time in Runa’s quarters relaying the day’s events to her daughter, and now at a quarter ’til nine, Runa was alone in her room, anxiously packed and ready to make her move. Delilah had given her a good sum of gold for what Runa had said was going to be a day trip into town. In her backpack, a solid, dark leather bag of holding, she’d packed three proper gowns — for potential espionage escapades, Runa thought (or rather dreamed) —, a couple simple dresses, and all the pants and shirts she owned and so rarely got to wear. The pants and shirt she wore now she never even knew she had, yet they fit well and the change of style was a welcome one.

Runa also stored her House dagger, a journal gifted to her by Hana — she wasn’t much of a writer, yet it reminded her of Hana and perhaps she’d find a use for it on the lonely journey —, blankets, and a few other adventuring goods that should see her through to Anaser’a. Finally, she packed the mask she’d been saving for any upcoming masquerade; a silver mask that covered the whole face, the upper half from hairline to the tip of her nose it was a simple female profile, the eyes seemingly blank though the wearer could see through it just fine. The lower half was a veil of fine blue silk, an elegant way to shadow one’s features while also allowing for food or drink to pass under it (and Runa certainly ate her fill at large parties). It would do better than a Durnatha mask when passing through Noa and Ban’ya while wanting to remain nondescript.

Now, as ready as she could be, Runa stood at the end of her bed lost in thought as she twirled her long golden hair, twisting it into a single braid. Dare she leave a note? What would she write if she did? She didn’t dare leave any word of where she was going for fear of being caught along the way. She considered leaving her signet ring, yet it would likely send the wrong message. Runa had no intentions of abandoning her house name. She wouldn’t risk appearing to be a deserter like Caly before her. In the end, it was best to leave nothing at all. Leave them all guessing just what she was doing. Perhaps they’d think she was stolen in the night, and maybe then they’d wait patiently for ransom notices or her mother would go blaming every noble family in the realm. Let her go mad then, Runa thought, resolute in her decision as she reached the end of her braid, tying off the end with a small band of scrap leather.

Without a last glance back, Runa left via her window, scaling down the multiple levels of rooftops of the Marshburne manor quietly before landing on the grass with a soft thud. There was a building that served as a Durnatha barracks and armory a few yards to the west which Runa had her sights set on since yesterday afternoon. Taking a moment to scan the area, Runa began her trek across the backyard garden, clearing a few hedges on her way over.

In the dark of the night, she still had exceptional vision. It served well given the lack of a moon’s glow to light the stone paths or the metal of the guard’s clothes. She wondered just what those with darkvision saw; perhaps night was merely a permanent twilight for them.

Swiftly, she made her way to the Durnatha’s hall, a well lit building where Durnatha serving under noble families of the local neighborhood would go to rest or dress. Doubting she’d get through the front door without trouble, she circled her way around the building, glancing through windows until she found her mark: the armory. At this time, there were no Durnatha in sight, as all were either retired for the night or out on duty. Gingerly, Runa pried the window open, sticking her head in to double check for people before climbing in.

Her landing onto the hardwood floor was less-than-silent — or graceful for that matter —, yet after a moment of panicked silence no one came in to check what the sound was, so Runa stood and took a deep breath. She approached the wall of armors, running her hands over the gold and red fabrics the Durnatha now sported, a proud signifier of their rebirth. Just the thought of the significance and might of their struggle caused goosebumps to rise along Runa’s arms.

She’d admired and adored knights since she was little, and before she understood what it meant to be a noble, she’d dreamed of being a Queensguard, a staunch and loyal knight who fought to protect and serve the realm. Even now it seemed that dream still lived inside her, anxiously anticipating her donning the armor of knights and fighting alongside the Guiding Lights, saviors of the realm and knights in their own right.

No longer able to contain her excitement, she began stepping into armored boots and trying on different gauntlets, searching for gear that would fit her petite frame and not bury her in metal. Even if the metal gloves were too long or the straps weren’t tight enough against her calves, she flexed each piece of armor in the torchlight, dazzled by the weight and strength of such beautiful armor. How they balanced both style and grace in the metal astonished her and took her breath away. If only the armors in the Marshburne mansion’s treasury had learned a thing or two from these! Hopefully the gear at the Glittering Cliffs estate would be half as breathtaking.

“Admiring the armor, my lady?” called a voice from behind. Pulled out of her state of revelry, Runa gasped and turned towards the person who’d entered the room unbeknownst to her. By the door, a Durnatha guard stood, their mask concealing their features, their pale straight hair tucked behind short, pointed ears. Runa stood silent for a few seconds, wondering if she should be angry at the guard or at herself. It was her own fault for getting so wrapped up in a silly dream when she had a task to do — and limited time to do it no less.

“You’d do best to forget I’m here, Durnatha,” Runa finally spoke, standing up straight and trying to take on the strict noblewoman persona her mother so often wore when giving orders, “no one is to know I’m here tonight and that goes for you as well.”

“Well you certainly won’t be able to fight me dressed like that,” the Durnatha replied, nodding to Runa’s half-dressed appearance. Runa felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, yet before she could jump into action, the Durnatha began to wander the room, perusing the sets of armor just as Runa had been doing not moments ago. Confused and speechless, Runa watched as the Durnatha would lift one gauntlet, glance to Runa and the put it back. Finally, after what felt like eons, the Durnatha seemed to find a set of boots they liked and closed the distance between them at Runa.

“Take a seat,” the Durnatha told her, nodding their head to a nearby bench. Hesitantly, Runa did as they asked. The Durnatha then took a seat in front of her before removing the leg armor she’d originally tried out and instead dressing her in one of the new ones.

“Do you mind if I ask what the fuck you’re doing?” Runa finally asked, causing the Durnatha to burst into a small bit of laughter.

“It’s not my business what you’re doing,” the Durnatha explained as they tightened the straps of the leg armor, “but you’re my liege, so who am I to say you can’t take a set of armor if you so please? I may as well make sure you take a set that fits you.”

“Hmph,” Runa exhaled as she sat back, thinking on the Durnatha’s words, “you’re a weird one.”

“You’re not the first to say that.” they replied, finishing the armor for each leg before motioning for Runa to stand. She took a few steps, feeling the welcome difference of a proper-fitting set of armor. Without another word, the Durnatha helped her find arm, hand, and torso armor, as well as a mask to complete the look.

“What’s your name?” Runa asked, holding out her arms as the Durnatha brought the chest armor over her head and set it firmly on her shoulders.

“Why do you ask, my lady?” the Durnatha asked, methodically pulling the straps on either side of the armor to tighten it in place.

“For insurance.” Runa replied, “If I know your name, I’ll know how to find you if you turn around and rat me out.”

“I see,” the Durnatha said, finishing up the chest piece with one last tight pull of a strap, “My name is Rhiannon. Does that serve as insurance enough, or would you like my place of birth as well?”

“That’ll do.” Runa replied, saving the name to memory. With little other speaking, Rhiannon finished both sets of arm armor before letting Runa put the mask on herself, completing the set and looking as authentic as any Durnatha. The weight of the armor across her body felt satisfying, both safe and powerful. I could get used to this, she thought.

“The sizes aren’t perfect,” Rhiannon said, stepping back, “we don’t have many petite people in this unit, as you can see. I recommend not wearing it for long periods of time, but otherwise you should get where you need to go just fine in this.”

“Uh, thank you,” Runa replied, unsure of how to repay the Durnatha for what she had done, “I can give you some coin in return for your help if you’d like —“

“It’s fine,” Rhiannon interrupted, putting up her hand, “I already told you it’s my duty.”

“Right,” Runa nodded, still uncertain of what to make of the situation, “well, this is where we part. It’s been splendid, Rhiannon.”

Runa put out a hand and in return Rhiannon shook it. After, Runa nodded in thanks to her one last time before making her exit, heading to the Marshburne estate gates to gather with other Durnatha where she would soon begin the first part of her long journey.

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