#and the residual dark matter in her body reacts when dark matter creatures are close to her

[startistdoodles]

Morpho Knight spoke of DMB's sword infecting Prisma with its "venom". I wonder, did the Triple Star purge this poison, or merely stop it from doing further damage?

While it did purge most of the dark matter that was infecting her, it did not get rid of all of it, since it is still fairly difficult to completely get rid of once it seeps into your body.

Dark matter leaves traces of itself in whatever it infects or influences. So she still has some dark matter venom in her to this day, just not enough to be fatal.

[heartwoodventures]

The Crystal Man Conclusion

Part 1 Part 2

If it was at all possible, Coerthas was even colder once the sun had sunk low behind the mountains. As night darkened the land, there wasn’t much to keep the mind distracted from the frigid wind that mercilessly found its way through any opening of clothing, no matter how small. 

Ifoux had found his bed bells ago but the small band of mercenaries had a long night ahead of them as they staked out the Elezen’s makeshift graveyard, waiting for these would-be graverobbers the man had insisted were about. 

"B-bloodeh hells, I ferget how much I hate Coerthan nights...no amount o' clothes evah truleh protects ye..." Nazyl grumbled, all bundled up next to a crate. He couldn't possibly grow tired in this freezing weather even if he was on his last legs. 

As if to add insult to injury a heavy snow began to fall, sending a wave of disgruntled complaints through the party. For a band that was supposed to be lying in wait, they were doing a horrible job of it thus far. 

"There seems to be a good place to hide over there by the wood pile. Perhaps we should get into position?" Rolanda pointed out, ever polite, but the Au Ra’s underlying message was clear; ‘And keep quiet.’ 

Aislinn eyed the woodpile, noticing the roof over it also provided shelter from the snow. "Makes sense. No point standing around so close to the graves we're supposed to be watching." she nodded, as she stamped her feet in an effort to keep them warm. 

"Anything’s better than getting battered by this god awful ice. I second the motion," Aiswyda managed between shivers.

While the rest of them tucked themselves in close to the woodpile, N’yami chose a different route altogether and climbed atop the roof instead. The Seeker laid down with her carbuncle snuggled under her chest. Within a few minutes the snow started to cover them, providing a nice hiding spot. "Keep a lookout, Whack." She whispered to her companion, and the summoned chirped in agreement.

Then, there was nothing to do but wait. The biting cold ceased any inclination to talk and time stretched to a standstill. The once white landscape steadily darkened, until naught was visible but faint lights from faraway settlements. With a new moon in the sky, there was not even the benefit of its silver glow this night, the muffled silence of drifting snow leaving each of them with only their own thoughts for company. 

The wintry quiet made the sudden sound of glass shattering all the more shocking. A loud and piercing sound that came directly from Ifoux’s hut. As one, the band jolted with alarm, several hands flying to the hilts, grips and quivers of their own weapons. 

 "A thief?!" Tana hissed out.

Nazyl scanned the area. It didn't feel right to leave their hiding place...but the sound was concerning, "M-mayhaps someone should check on our c-client..." he said, his teeth chattering in the cold. 

N'yami stood up and shook the snow off herself, dropping down from her hiding spot and drawing her gunblade as she started heading towards the house. Several paces behind her, firearms drawn, Aislinn and Rolanda wordlessly circled around the house to cover the Seeker. 

"I'll s-stay here n' watch fer anehthon' unusual. Holler if somethin' happens." Nazyl said as loudly as he dared as the three disappeared into the night.

In the darkness, not much can be seen...but much can be heard. There came the sound of snow crunching underfoot and heavy, gusty breaths off to the right of the woodpile, in the exact opposite direction from where the three women had gone. 

Nazyl jumped from the logs, letting his ears guide him towards the heavy footfalls, sword fully drawn. His eyes strained to find something to pin the sound on. Tana and Aiswyda, not far behind.

Reaching the hut, N’yami pushed the door open slowly, her ruby orbs scanning the inside of the house to see what had caused the crash, her carbuncle perched on her shoulder. "If this guy gets me killed we're taking all his rugs, Whack." She mumbled to the carbuncle.

The living room area appeared untouched, though the floor was unnaturally wet. Once inside, the Seeker noted it was noticeably warmer and even a bit humid. She pushed further in, heading toward Ifoux's bedroom, whose door was left ajar.

"Odd..." She took a couple more careful steps forward as she entered the living room, sending out a pulse of her own aether to sense for anything living or dead, using it as a sonar of sorts. 

But as she crept her way into the space all that met her was a bedroom that felt as heated as a furnace and a shattered window. Ifoux was nowhere to be found. She stood there, puzzling over the sight until a bellow from outside grabbed her attention. 

"Stop right there!" Nazyl shouted, "Ye'll go no furthah!"

From behind the hut a gangly man-shaped creature had come into view. Although hard to make out in the dark, the beast looked as if an Elezen form had been stretched beyond any natural limits. The thing now teetered on four spindly limbs as it crunched its way across the snow, lifting its head to sniff the air, blatantly ignoring the lalafell’s shouts. 

"Have it yer way." Nazyl grunted as he aimed a strike at the creature’s legs. In the darkness his sword bit through empty air. 

The creature paused long enough to tilt its head at Nazyl with a glowing, blood red stare. And yet something about those eyes and its face was familiar - a hollow echo of someone he once knew. With its long limbs, it stepped right over Nazyl and steadily made its way to the graveyard.

Rolanda rushed to join Nazyl and the others as Aislinn kept her post, her concern growing with every moment that N’yami failed to emerge from the hut. The minutes ticked by until she decided it was time to go after the Seeker. She had just taken a few cautious steps towards the hut’s door when N’yami came bolting out of the house, alerted to the sounds of the fight. Wasting no time, the miqo’te launched herself at the creature with a loud battlecry. 

The dark cover of night added a sense of disarray to what was already a chaotic fight. Half the time the band was striking blind and hoping against hope they hit something other than empty air or worse, a comrade. There was an overwhelming sense of gratification when a punch landed solidly or a blade struck dark flesh, causing the creature to howl in pain. 

"Shoulda stuck with our gut on this one. I -knew- that Elezen wasn't right." Aislinn muttered as she cocked her gun and stared down the sight, trying to target the dark mass against the shadowy drifts of snow in the night. After a breath and confident in her aim, she pulled back the trigger, firing off a single shot. The sounding report echoed off the mountain walls.

The shot hit a partially wounded limb, knocking it clean off. The writhing shadow howled in pain as a hot, black ooze spurts out from the area, staining the white snow black. The cool ice hisses as the liquid makes contact.

"The hell is this thing?!" Tana exclaimed as she jumped back to avoid the errant limb. 

In retaliation, the beast struck out at the nearest person, N’yami, and took her in its iron grip, squeezing with a force that could knock the breath out of a man twice her size. The miqo’te felt the wind knocked out of her with a gasp as the creature tried to crush her. From up close, she could make out the shadow beast’s face. It was covered in a constantly moving, black slime - and every so often - something else peeked out from just underneath. 

"Didn't yer mother teach ya to chew yer damn food?" she sputtered. 

Nazyl already knew what was happening, the window break and the oddly familiar features...it was just as he feared, "Try not ta kill the thing. Cripple it n' disable it, but don't kill it." the knight shouted, running to the limb that held the Seeker, raising the blade high and cutting down with all his strength.

Nazyl’s swing cut at the beast’s arm, and it loosened its vice grip on Nyami, though it still kept her in hand. It seemed scared, but motivated by a fierce desire to live. With great effort, it splurted two more limbs from its body that hit the ground, wet and hot.

The Plainsfolk glanced around quickly, "Hey, who had that sleep juice?! Mighteh fine time ta use it I'd say!"

"Whackara! Someone has your friend!" N’yami cried out to her carbuncle.

The summoned that stood next to Aislinn slowly turned its head towards the beast, its aetherical fur puffed up in anger and the little ball of light charged in, ripping right through the limb so N'yami could be free from its grasp. The detached hand of the creature dropped to the ground, still clutching the miqo’te, though she could now wiggle free of the limb’s frozen grip. 

Aiswyda hurriedly found the sleeping serum - a vial of glowing, blue liquid - deep within her coat pockets. Now she had to find a way to somehow get it IN the beast, with nothing but fists at the ready. She climbed the shadow, ignoring its scream and twisting attempts to shake her off, and felt around for anything that felt like a mouth. She managed to pour half of the liquid in before she lost her grip and fell back into the snow. The glowing vial landed a few fulms away from her and luckily, the remainder of its contents still sloshed around the vial. 

With the sleeping draught aided along by a draining spell from Aislinn, the creature’s movements slowed and its glowing red eyes blinked several times, fighting back the urge to rest.

Its limbs shook, and finally gave, as it collapsed into the ground with a great sigh. The dark ooze that covered it jittered uncontrollably, and exploded in every direction as it repelled off of the beast’s core.

Most of the party hit the ground, allowing a majority of the black ooze to fly safely overhead. However, Aislinn and Nazyl failed to react in time, one knocked off the balance by the explosion, the other simply distracted. Black ooze slammed into both of them, coating their clothing and leaving a hot, foul residue behind. 

"Lovely." Aislinn sputtered. "That's what I get for not paying attention." she looked down at the ooze dripping down her frame in distaste. As her heavy winter coat heated up to an unbearable degree, she hurriedly shuffled it off, putting some distance between herself and the affected clothing.

Nazyl fell backwards and landed on his rear "GGH! Ugh..."

"Well Nazyl you were complaining about the cold... here is some hot steamy goo to warm yourself with..." Tana gave the Lalafel a sly smile. "Is everyone ok?"

A chorus of confirmations rang out in the dark, though as Aislinn moved closer to the fallen body and the rest of the party, Aiswyda found she had trouble holding back her laughter. "By Llymlaen...is that you Lin? Can hardly tell in the dark and slime."

Aislinn shook her slime-coated head but gave Aiswyda a thumbs up. "Here...and in need of several showers." she called over to the Seawolf in wry amusement.

Though Ifoux’s dark skin made it hard to make out against the black snow, the naked duskwight elezen lay at the center of the explosion, deep asleep. Rolanda’s arrow was still embedded in the man’s back, and several bruises from Tana’s punches decorated his abdomen.

"....What a mess. He's injured." Nazyl said lowly. 

N'yami hoisted herself up as her gaze landed on the Elezen. "Oh...he's naked." It finally hit her. "Oh my gods, this man is naked and needs a coat!"

"I think he needs a healer... it seems my punches did good work and... he doesn't look to be a fighter..." Tana noted.

"Would that I could be proud o' harmin' an innocent..." Nazyl retorted.  

As Rolanda, Tana and N’yami saw to protecting the naked man from the elements, Nazyl turned his attention to Aiswyda. 

"Who gave ye that serum again? This all just screams setup..."

"Ser Papachimo. He pretty much made this mess, and we're the cleanup crew," Aiswyda answered as she peered down at the sleeping elezen.

Nazyl scoffed under his breath. "Man's been aethericalleh altered it seems. Fallin' asleep makes somethin' else take ovah, n' if this is what this Lalafell caused, then I wanna have a chat."

Aislinn slid her gaze to Aiswyda, wondering what Papachimo would think of a chat with Nazyl. Though she blessedly kept her silence.

Aiswyda caught Aislinn's glance and responded with a knowing look. Papachimo had a lot to answer for, and she had a feeling Nazyl was going to lay even more justice into the man.

The lalafell glanced between the two women. "...There ain't anehmore like this, are there?"

"This is supposed to be the last." Aislinn answered Nazyl.

"I see." He paused, glancing at what was going on with the man beside them. The others had pulled a heavy rug from the Elezen’s hut and were currently bundling the injured man up within it, chattering all the while about the make and price of Ishgardian rugs. 

Nazyl side eyed the rug-robbers with a sigh. Do they always take personal possessions? Mayhaps he should consider who he goes with in the future... "Bettah late ta the parteh I guess. Then that'll be me next destination. Wherevah that man is."

Aislinn nodded to Nazyl, understanding the lalafell's anger but she had already given Papachimo a piece of her mind on the subject. She looked to the Elezen, now snug in a rolled up rug. Odd...but protected from the elements?

They couldn't very well take the man to the Ishgardians. A shared look between them said they all well-remembered what lay at the bottom of Witchdrop and they had little faith he wouldn't end up joining the dead on the floor of the chasm if they left him in the care of those at Camp Dragonhead.

"We could take him back to the Heartwood estate so Y'ahn and Nys can take a look at him." N’yami stated with a firm nod. 

Aislinn couldn’t argue with the logic. "Shall we get him back home?"

N'yami gave a curt nod. "Faster we get him there, the better."

Aiswyda agreed and stood behind the rug as to hide from public view the elezen that was wrapped up within. "What's done is done. Let's get out of this cold."

[theairportau]

the airport AU, part 130 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29

—

ERIK

Her voice wraps around him, gleaming silk ribbons that catch light like prisms and send stars scattering across his vision; he shuts his eyes for the sake of focusing on the piano below his fingers. Still, it sits like a reassuring arm across his shoulder. This is why he believed in this voice; it isn’t technical perfection, but there is some unteachable passion in it, something that he doesn’t even understand himself. Her voice stirs something deep inside of him, the frail pieces that he has locked up for their own protection, things that he has forgotten himself capable of over the course of a too-long life. It is a wall so industriously built that he had thought it permanent, but when she sings, it is as if she is chipping out a window. A window that may someday become a door, that may someday bring down that wall- it’s too soon for all of that, but his heart throbs with things that he can’t name, and he is too caught up in the wonder and beauty of it all to be afraid of the freedom, the sudden ease of breathing. As if he’d been holding his breath, not just for a few minutes, but for decades of his life.

He is quite convinced that he could listen to her sing forever, especially this joyous passage. It almost feels like an intrusion, but at the very least, the words of Vaudémont’s interjection feel right-

“Yes! It’s true! You speak the truth!”

The conviction in his voice- she has brought him the truth, bathed his dim world in light; perhaps, like Vaudémont, he had begun this journey as a teacher, as though he knew more than her- and every day, she has pushed him, challenged him, changed his way of looking at the world. His way of looking at her. Vaudémont had been arrogant, to assume that this young woman knew any less of the world than he did; he had been unchanging in his ability to perceive the world until Iolanta described the way she saw it.

These things come to him rapid-fire, moments of clarity that hit him and spark at him before fading back into the background, before thought sinks away and the music rises up again.

Oh, you’re right! In your heart shines the great torch of truth, and before it, our earthly light is fleeting and pitiful!

Any light he’s ever seen has paled in comparison to the radiance that seems to bounce between them now, the vibrating energy that draws the song forward and through towards its conclusion; at some point, he finds, he must have half-stood up from the bench, too restless to sit, hunched over the keys. He lets his eyes close again, focuses only on each tandem breath, living inside these final moments, if only to avoid dreading the end of the song. 

---

CHRISTINE

The song could only ever have been a duet. There’s no real gap between the end of Christine’s verse and the beginning of Erik’s. No room for a breath, had a single person attempted to sing both parts; no span of time that could have been measured in blinks of an eye, or the quickest beat of a frantic heart.

Standing just behind her friend, Christine freezes in that nonexistent space between her voice and his, gaze caught like a snared rabbit by the glinting wire of the mask—conscious thought scrabbling uselessly in the dust as emotion leaps and wrestles with instinct, twisting her heart into a tangled, choking knot.

Only to snap just as suddenly, sawn apart by the razor edge of the moment itself.

Vaudémont’s words describe a light within Iolanta; Christine’s own heart feels more like the moon as Erik’s voice floods over her again, the warm blaze of a star that she can only hope to reflect. Yet, there can be no disputing the faith, the absolute certainty of the sound that fills her ears; she shivers as bright wings lift her from the ledge on which she had been so precariously perched, raising her beyond the reach of the tempting whispers of the abyss below.

As if pulled by the same force, Erik rises partway from the piano bench, blocking her view of the sheet music; though, the markings on the tablet screen have long since ceased to matter. The song soars onward, hauling her feet off the ground even as she races joyously after it. It’s like gripping a kite string in a hurricane—a strong line that stretches through her, taut as it runs from head to heel, dredging her voice from the deepest part of her soul.

“But, to be like you, I would like to see the light of the sun!”

Music flows through them, around them, between them—living in the solid vibration of the piano, in the breath of their each shared note, like some kind of symbiotic creature; making *them* somehow more alive by its presence. Maybe this, she thinks, is the reason most operas are sung-through: who could bear to write silences into a score, knowing that they would be signing the death warrant of something so precious?

Yet, even as their own song flies inescapably towards its conclusion, Christine finds no pain, no tragedy in the beautiful, soaring phrases. To its last breath, the heart of the music beats without regret, unrestrained and fearless. What she’d taken for death is instead a triumphant ascension—Faust’s Marguerite taken up to heaven, borne in angels’ arms.

Her heart aches to recognize how lost she had been: to have seen a sunset, and believed that it meant endless night; to have resigned herself to a lifetime of stumbling with only a candle to guide her, when she had merely to wait for the return of morning. It’s disconcerting, unsettling, her view shifting like a sudden landslide—like Iolanta’s first terrifying, dazzling glimpse of the blue sky after agreeing to have her vision restored.

The light in the basement is dim, soft, as Christine opens eyes that she doesn’t remember having closed. The late afternoon sun trickles in through the single high window, like the glow that must have streamed into the mouth of Lazarus’ cave. Painting warmth and shadow with the same brush, it shines dully on the weathered body of the piano, on Erik’s shoulders, which shake slightly as he stands over the keyboard, driving the final chords from the instrument in a dynamic clash of sound. Her eyes well up to see him so transported—the thought occurring to her that she might not have been the only one to learn something in this ‘lesson’.

Silence comes too quickly.

Despite herself, despite knowing better, Christine can’t help the residual flare of panic that hits her. For a moment, it’s as if she’s forgotten how to breathe, desperately and irrationally uncertain of how to survive in a world from which music has disappeared again—like a life ring slipping from the hands of a drowning person.

Then, her friend takes an unsteady breath of his own; in it, she hears the first note of all the other songs they will sing together.

Tears spill over, running down Christine’s cheeks as she leans forward, fighting herself for every inch—tears that fall in tiny, dark spatters on the back of Erik’s sweatshirt when she finally lets her forehead come to rest in the gap between his shoulder blades.

---

ERIK

Dust specks hang still in the warm beam of light filtering in through the tiny basement window, as if the whole world has frozen with them. The silence is choking after the brilliance of sound, and Erik feels frozen in place. His mind is foggy, and the thought of speaking or moving is so distant- as it stretches on, the familiar weight of anxiety begins to settle around him again. What to do, what to say, how to react to something so utterly unique and fantastically beautiful- how will they ever interact the same way again? How can they go back to a casual lesson after something like this? He knows that Christine must have felt it as well; it wouldn’t have worked if Christine hadn’t felt it. They had ceased to be separate individuals- just for a moment, he had lived outside of himself. He can hardly remember how to breathe; how is he supposed to guide a student?

His worrying doesn’t have to last long. His muscles tense instinctively at the unexpected touch of someone at his back- he goes frozen with the effort of suppressing old reflexes. The largest piece of him would whip around to confront a person coming from behind, touching him unexpectedly, but Christine’s presence, especially in that moment, seems to have quieted those impulses.

What is she? He can’t place her, never has been able to- she has landed in his world with the brilliance of a falling star, and all the blinding confusion. Some hidden part of him, something that he has scarcely acknowledged since childhood, makes its presence known around her. It demands attention- it overwhelms him with a need for affection that contradicts everything else he’s ever learned about human touch. 

When the initial fear fades away, when his muscles relax and he lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, all that’s left is a warmth at his back, and somehow, it feels like seeing a pinprick of light after years of fumbling in some dark and twisting cave. He straightens slowly, moving away from her just for a moment, just so that he can turn around, and at the sight of her, he is helpless to contain it. All the years of learned caution and fear succumb to the person inside of him who has been, for an entire lifetime, struggling to reach out. 

So he reaches out. Without calculation or hesitation, he reaches out, and his arms find their way around her shoulders, and he steps closer to her until her forehead just barely touches his chest. He’s tall enough that, even with his head bowed, he doesn’t touch the top of her head; his arms are long enough that they nearly encircle her completely. His heart beats its quick and frantic rhythm, and he doesn’t bother attempting to push back the tears that spring to his eyes.

It is only when it is done that he realizes exactly what he’s doing- he trembles at the sudden proximity, the proximity that he has caused,and his muscles start to tense again, though he stays frozen in space. This is wrong! A voice beats and screams in the back of his head-wrong! and he his breath escapes him in almost a hiss- but he wants it! Something in him wants this proximity, demands to know why he can’t have this. There’s a tremor in his shoulders, and the air feels thin- and he recognizes his expectation; with a sucking black hole of dark and yawning certainty, he tenses and waits for her to push him away as he battles with himself- why can’t I be close to a friend?

Have you forgotten what you are? Is she only your friend?

His eyes clench shut, and gasps as he chokes on the sob at the back of his throat. He is fixed, paralyzed in the wake of his hasty decision. He can only wait for what he knows is the same inevitable rejection that has pushed him into himself in the first place. She doesn’t owe him this- and if he were stronger, less selfish, he would back away and send her home to Sweden this moment. 

“Jag är ledsen,” he chokes, his voice utterly transformed from a few moments ago. Despite his words, his arms remain around her. 

---

CHRISTINE

From the first night they met, she has thought of Erik as a kind of angel. To Christine, there’s no other comparison that could be drawn in such heartfelt lines; no deeper possible expression of her wonder and gratitude. How else could she ever describe it? To have this remarkable person come into her life at a time she least expected it, offering help just when she needed it most. If one of the angels from her childhood stories had manifested itself in front of her, wings and all, its appearance could hardly have seemed any more unlikely of a miracle than the simple chance of her and Erik’s paths having crossed.

After years of leaning on daydreams, Christine lets her head rest upon a shoulder that is utterly human—tense, uncertain, but solid and real where her brow presses gently against it—and knows that she would never trade it for one with feathers.

There are so many reasons for caution. Things that she is already aware of; things she may never learn; things that she could guess if she only allowed herself to try. They crowd at the back of Christine’s mind now, pooling like shadows in the depths of a cave—shrinking away from the radiance of her joy.

Her strained neck relaxes into Erik’s back as she senses the tension leave him, smearing tears between her face and his sweatshirt; the ridges of his scarred skin disappear beneath the heavy fabric, but the faintest hint of warmth seeps through, soothing the overwhelmed aching of her head. There’ll be time later to remember how complicated things actually are: time to worry—about him, and herself, and the past, and the future. For now, Christine finds all the reassurance she needs in the rise and fall of his back as he breathes: a reminder that she isn’t alone; that the wonder of this music has been real; that she has someone to *share* it with.

Then, just when things seem steadiest, they tip: Christine flinches at the sudden emptiness of the cold air against her cheek, her eyes opening in surprise as Erik steps away.

There’s just enough time to doubt herself; just enough time for her to gaze at the damp marks her tears have left on the back of his sweatshirt, as if she were a lost traveler trying to retrace her footprints—wondering what wrong turn had been taken; which path might yet lead back to safe ground. But as her friend turns around, facing her for the first time since they sang together, there’s no time to seek an answer—no need to even look for one, as one finds her on its own; enveloping her the way Erik’s wiry arms closing around her shoulders.

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, as she stares wide-eyed into the front of the sweatshirt, in which Christine feels certain that she is about to speak. A reassurance; a question; a phrase of gratitude—she’s not sure which. When her mouth opens, though, all that comes out is a soft, stifled breath; a gentle sound caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. Somehow, it’s fitting: a word not devised or spoken by her mind (which runs in wild circles, still struggling to make sense of the black wall that has appeared hardly an inch from her face, and the gentle weight around her shoulders), but by her throat, her lungs, her heart itself. Like the silent syllables formed by her hands as they twitch upward, her arms lifting towards Erik in a way that could have been instinctive if it weren’t so *deliberate*.

Words don’t seem to belong in this moment any more than they had when they were singing—not even ‘hug’ itself, entirely wrong for the stiff, tremulous arms that encircle her.

Christine’s own arms fall limply back to her sides as her thoughts finally catch up with her, her hands curling, nails biting into her palms.

How many times has she wanted to hug him? How many times has Erik become overwhelmed by far less? Now, she can tell that he’s crying. Can hear it—can *feel* it, wrapped as she is in his dark shadow. This is the closest she’s ever been to him, closer than his boundaries had once seemed capable of bending; yet, even with the gap between them narrower than ever, there’s room for doubt. Christine tilts her head up, the tip of her nose brushing against the soft fabric of the sweatshirt, but gains only a useless glimpse of the underside of her friend’s jaw.

He shudders again, and she feels it as if it had reverberated through her own bones. His arms seem so terribly brittle; though he’s chosen to wrap them around her, can she be sure that it won’t frighten him—won’t *hurt* him—if she tries to do the same? Tears hit the back of Christine’s neck as she leans her forehead lightly against his chest again—taking no more than has already been given to her; risking no more than Erik himself has put at stake.

Waiting for him to push her away, she realises with a sudden, sickened jolt.

She’s been so careful, has tried so hard to be the friend that she thinks he wants—has done her best to avoid making him feel uncomfortable, or pressured, or any of the things that have seemingly caused him to distance himself from everyone else who has tried to be there for him.

But where has it gotten the two of them?

And who has she really been trying to protect?

She feels Erik draw a breath, the syllables rattling in his chest as he offers her a ragged apology. The only apology that she sees necessary is her own. But though her heart aches, Christine finds that she can’t force the words from her throat. Maybe they’ve been said too many times already; maybe they simply have no place here.

She has learned so much from Erik in their short time together. About singing, and music; language, and cats, and people. But maybe she should have paid more attention to the very first lesson of their friendship, that night in the airport when she accepted his offer to stay in Paris: that, even when the odds seem impossibly high, there are some risks worth taking.

In the shaking of Erik’s shoulders, she can feel the weight of the gamble he clearly believes himself to have made—a bet that she doesn’t intend to let him lose; as her arms once more begin to lift, Christine can only hope that her own fears are just as unfounded.

But, after all, sometimes there are angels.

Her hands slowly venture upward, hovering blindly in the air behind Erik’s back—tentative; gathering courage. But then, finally, her fingertips settle on his back. If she’d thought that Erik couldn’t possibly become any more tense, she’d been wrong. But despite the startled frisson that cuts through him, drawing another strangled noise from his throat, he makes no move to separate himself from her. And that’s enough: with a sudden unrestrained desperation, Christine’s arms tighten around corrugated ribs, her face turning to press itself against a chest that seems cushioned more by fabric than flesh.

It’s one thing to know that he is dangerously thin by looking at him; it’s another thing entirely to measure the terrifying extent of it within the span of her own arms: her embrace loosens almost instantly, as if in fear of breaking him, and she shifts her head away from the bruise that she has remembered too late—but she doesn’t pull away; doesn’t let him think that that was ever her intention. As her palms smooth gently across the ridges of his back, she only wants to hold him tighter—to soothe away all of the hurt that he has suffered, in the way that she knows only a hug can; to finally *be* held by this person who has become so important to her.

“Det är okej,” Christine says, finally making a concession to speech as Erik’s heart continues to beat frantically against her ear. “Det är okej, vännen.”

(illustration by rjdaae) ---

ERIK

As a child, Erik can remember slapping his mother’s hand away from his shoulder- rare as her affection was, it was better to not have it at all. He had distanced himself from touch, written it off as something childish that only weak people depended on. He knows somewhere that it has always been a survival instinct, but his reaction has not changed since childhood- contempt for any sentimentality in relationships.

It had been easier to cope with anger than to fear rejection. His mother’s drawn, pitying face- he hated looking at it nearly as much as she hated looking at his. Eventually, she had stopped attempting to touch him completely- a relief on both of their parts. He had given her the excuse she needed, and he had believed himself free of that need for physical affection.

In most ways, he has not grown from that belief in the decades he has spent away from his childhood home. And the sense of completion he feels with his arms around Christine threatens to bring that carefully constructed idea, the idea that he has cultivated for his own self-preservation for almost forty years, tumbling down around him.

It has been difficult, in the past, to regard himself as a member of the same species as others. It has been difficult to regard them as alive at all. There has always been a degree of selfishness attached to his survival. Depending on himself only has meant keeping others at arm’s length wherever possible. Khan’s presence in his life was the first chip in his armor.

He can feel the rhythm of Christine breathing down to his core. She is to him as the moon is to the tide; every small movement she makes pulls him along with her.

He is transfixed by every detail of her, down to the wisps of her hair that brush the backs of his hands. She is so steady, steadier than anything he’s ever held onto in his life.

His breathing shifts automatically in time with hers; for a moment, nothing exists other than the movement of her hand over his spine. Things are still, and quiet, and his mind is empty, won’t allow him to ruminate on what lines may be crossed here. The quiet murmur of her voice sets him at ease.

“Merci,” he says in response, his voice barely a whisper. There is nothing else to say- it’s like some sort of intoxication, being held like this. He doesn’t know what else to express to her, or how to even begin to say any of it, and his mind feels stuffed with cotton, too blurry for any reasonable thought process. Just for this moment, there is only quiet, and against every instinct, he finds himself wishing it could last forever. 

---

(Part 131)

[alittlestarling]

Welcome Home, Good Hunter

It’s the Avvar AU no one asked for and the thing I’ve been yelling at @rhetoricalrogue about for months now, honestly. Currently I have a few parts planned and more to come. Featuring Vincent Trevelyan and Rosalind in a “what if Vincent were Avvar and Roz were inquisitor?” AU.

Part 1: Fallow Mire

“Herald, watch your step,” Cassandra held a hand out as Roz’s foot slipped into the muck for what felt like the millionth time. It was hard to see the pathway through the swamp; not for the first time, Rosalind Marlowe wondered exactly who would settle down in the Fallow Mire. Rain had assaulted them with an annoying consistency since they had made camp along the borders, there was more water than land anywhere she stepped and, of course, the residue from a plague as well as the dead rising gave this place little charm.

“Thank you,” Roz shot a quick, grateful smile as she shook the peat and mud from her boots. Armor felt strange to her despite having been decked and dressed in it since waking in the dungeon in Haven. The last few months had rushed past in a blur of faces, battles and all eyes upon her as she made choices that she never wanted to be part of.

True, she had participated in rebellion (Leliana and Josephine had gently asked her not to disclose that piece of information to anyone looking to join their ranks), but even with the unsteady legs the rebel mages had stood upon, they at least were fighting for freedom. Yes, saving the world was important too, but Roz only felt shackled again, caught in a web that she knew she might never escape so long as the mark remained on her hand.

It crackled and sparked to life in the dim mist, the sickening green tingle running up her fingertips. Strange magic and an even stranger lapse in her own memory left her searching, seeking answers that always seemed just out of reach. Not to mention the looks people gave her. Some were caught in reverence, bowing and scraping and called her Chosen by the Bride of the Maker; others watched with wariness, tense and uncertain, as if she might spring forth a demon in disguise.

Perhaps it was better they remembered she was a mage and that she should be feared. In the end, though, it left her feeling more lonely than satisfied.

Cassandra had never swayed after their first attempt against the Breach, steadfast and faithful beyond words. Not many others had looked upon her the same way. Varric had this way of watching from the corner of his eye, as if mentally taking notes, sometimes narrating under his breath, but never getting too close to her. Blackwall was polite and uncertain, strong on the field but the wandering Warden hadn’t opened up much since joining their party.

“You really do take us to the nicest swamps, Rosebud,” Varric quipped from behind, “though I don’t think I care so much for the undead.”

“Perhaps you’ll have to write a strongly worded letter to the bog,” Roz snorted, shooting the dwarf a small smile. “Find some good words to use to describe this place. Damp, squelching, muddy-”

“An ever-constant fear of stepping in water and summoning the dead?” Varric added. Roz brushed back a small piece of damp hair off her face with a shake of her head, pausing only a moment to keep an eye on the shore nearby.

“Whatever magic’s afoot here, it’s not good.” Was it the rifts? Or perhaps someone else had harnessed something deeper and darker to bend and twist to their own will? The beacons in the bog didn’t give her a good feeling either way, not when she sensed it wasn’t the only one.

The world was filled with more magic, wonder and dread than Roz could have ever possibly imagined. Had she been told only a year ago that this would be her life, she would have laughed. But now stepping through dangerous territory, fighting off bandits and undead alike had become normal, along with the magic that swirled and surrounded her.

“Another broken home,” Blackwall tilted his head towards yet another run-down building in the distance. “Poor sods. I’ve seen plague, it’s not pretty.” Roz could believe it, wrinkling her nose against the putrid scent of death and decay that permeated the air around them.

Her own mind wandered to charred bodies, those broken by the fires set in the Circle and the people she had lost when they ran for freedom. How many bodies made anything she did worth it? How many deaths could be justified for the cause of seeking a life free from the Chantry and the Templars?

Shaking herself from a familiar spiral, Roz wiped rain from her face and kept them moving forward.

Magic was calling to her, a shift in the air drawing her closer to it. The mark offered an unfamiliar tang in her mouth, a strangeness that felt so unlike her own power that she’d nurtured and lived with almost her entire life. That was a force she knew well, a vast warmth that glowed and smoked like embers in her chest. The magic she could taste felt like the mark and she knew before they’d reached the strange green glow that there was another rift.

“Well,” Varric frowned at the stitch that glimmered green against the sky, cursing under his breath a moment. “Looks like the one in the valley, doesn’t it?”

“Not fully closed,” Roz sighed from the ruins of the house they’d paused in, eying the improperly sealed rift with irritation. Her hand sizzled at the thought of opening it, the magic already tugging to the stitch, the mark given a mind of its own when they got close to these when they were in the field. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

“Wait-” Cassandra had an arm flung out before Roz could move further ahead, running straight into Cassandra’s armored arm before slowing down. A gesture and Roz turned her attention to the shadows. Solid, strong and far bigger than she was, the stranger made no move forward to attack when Roz became visible.

“Is he friendly?” Varric intoned under his breath, the question they were all asking. It was hard to tell friend from foe in the wilderness sometimes, especially when they had yet to run into the Avvar who had apparently caused all this trouble and fuss.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? We need to close this. Properly.” Magic surged in her fingertips, wild and free as she stepped forward, lifting her hand to rip apart the veil. It struggled against her attempts, harder to control and contain, but she grit her teeth and let out a snarl as the world exploded in a green haze and demons burst into the world.

Roz held her staff, magic channeled within it, focusing the raw energy that raged within her. She was a wildfire, a clean burn that surged forth with spells and stabs of burning, bright energy. Fighting had never come easily to her; she had focused her own skills into herbalism and learning how to hone healing as an art. It helped in hiding evidence of her darker dealings, developing poultices to keep scars closed and healing. She wasn’t graceful in a fight nor did she have the brute strength that came with a warrior’s body.

Cassandra and Blackwall could dive into a fight, clashing metal and steel against their enemies, drawing forces to them to slash and hack away with brutal precision. Varric picked off stragglers, keeping them from getting too close, his line of sight always seemingly clear, despite his height. Despite only being grouped together for a few months, they worked rather well as a team. Roz alternated between savage bursts of flame and cool, shimmering barriers to protect as the dead rose from the peat bog around them.

All it took was a moment when her attention turned away, focused on setting a mine below the feet of a corpse near Varric, that she nearly missed another one ambling towards her; first slow, then fast, tripping over it’s feet momentarily in anticipation of slicing into her. There was a brief should from Cassandra, but before Roz could turn to face the creature, an axe sailed just past her, landing with a dull thud against the head of the creature.

There was no time for her to do more than react, instinct shooting flames into the mist at the sudden arrival of, what? Friend? Foe? Neither?

“Hold, I come in peace!” The fire bounced off a barrier, the figure light up a moment as all the breath left Roz’s lungs. Dark hair clung to his face, a smattering of scars along his face and one hand up, the other clutching the twin axe close to him. Another flash of green light and she noted, without looking too closely, that he was undoubtedly Avvar.

Roz swore internally. Of course, two would appear when they were in the middle of battling a rift.

“More demons!” Cassandra bellowed and Roz shifted her attention quickly from and then back to the stranger.

“If you intend to stay, then help fight them with us.” Roz called out, muttering a prayer under her breath. A glance to her side and she couldn’t help her eyes widening as lightning and blue energy surged along the axes in his hands.

“Hakkon guide your blade, Herald.” And the fight was on.

“Be careful, Rosalind,” Cassandra was eyeing their new friend with caution and wariness. Roz couldn’t blame her, not when he had arrived at just the right moment and found himself among those his people were trying to fight.

“Not my people,” Vincent clarified when the rift was closed and all eyes fell upon him. “I’m not of that clan, lowlander.” He was a little gruff, despite his earnestness to help, watching them all with a relaxed gait that still held coiled concern in each step. He may have helped, but he didn’t trust the companions he’d found himself amongst.

That is, everyone but Roz.

There was...something there. A tug not unlike what Roz felt when she grew close to rifts. It didn’t feel quite so severe or strange. As though there was a force calling to her, drawing her in when she got close. Intoxicating and strange and filling her with a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt since she left the Circle.

“I don’t bite, Lass.” Vincent hadn’t even looked up from the fire he was tending to, blowing across embers before the steady flow of magic turned them into bright, glowing flames. The warmth felt good; she had used magic on her clothes and the others earlier, drying the dampness from her armor

Rain continued to fall outside, puddles forming at the cave entrance and mist rolling inside. Roz couldn’t help herself – she was desperately curious, a million questions already forming in her head. “Yes,” she huffed softly, shifting from foot to foot, as though uncertain. Sit? Stand? But a glance from him followed and his gaze was warm, open and she could see the same curiosity echoed back at her.

“So,” Roz began, sitting down on a nearby log, rubbing her hands together before the fire. “If you’re not with the Avvar here, where are you from?”

“My clan is from Stone-Bear Hold,” Vincent answered, lifting his gaze from the fire to meet hers across from him. “My home is in the basin, along the mountains to the northwest.”

“You’re a ways from home,” Roz noted, “why are you here?” She paused, adding quickly, “I mean, I know why you’re here-here, but why are you in the swamp?” No one, certainly not anyone in her group, would have come here willingly. Not with the rain, the undead and the threat of strange beacons in the dark.

Vincent tilted his head to the side and for a moment it felt like his gaze was boring straight through her. As though he could truly see her, Rosalind, not the Herald of Andraste. Her cheeks flushed and her heart thumped in her chest but she didn’t drop her gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Here, among the undead and the peat, this man sat before her and it felt like nothing else seemed to matter in that moment.

Maker, what a lovely man he is.

“I was looking for you.” Her heart hammered with an odd uncertainty at the intimacy in his words. Cassandra’s warning to be careful echoed though as Roz swallowed hard.

“Me?!” But her alarm was short-lived, realizing a half-second after she’d spoken that he obviously hadn’t been looking for her; rather, he had been seeking the mark and the woman behind it. Her silly fantasies that had cropped up effortlessly were wiped from her brain, flushed now more out of embarrassment than pleasure.

Silly, foolish, of course he seeks the mark, not you, you dolt.

Shifting along the log, gaining her composure again, she stared at the fire to collect herself, adding her own magic into the mix.

“Herald of Andraste, you have made quite the commotion in the world.” If he had noticed her strange shift, he said nothing of it. “I almost wouldn’t believe it unless I’d seen it with my own eyes,” and his tone dipped, low and soft, “but you can heal the sky. How does that work?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Roz murmured with a small sigh. That was the mystery of it all: more than just how she had gotten the mark, but the why continued to plague her.

As if it knew they were speaking about it, the mark sizzled in a sharp contrast of green against the warm firelight. Roz gave a soft hiss, a frown creasing her brow as she fought off the sudden wince that followed. Instead, she clenched her hand into a fist, all but willing to light to stop. It does with an abruptness as Roz adjusts her gaze back to the lowlight around them.

Vincent watched her, curious and almost concerned by the looks of it. “Does it hurt?” He asked gently. Roz shrugged in an attempt to look nonchalant.

“Sometimes. It’s more of a sting these days, annoying but not terribly painful.”

Roz rarely talked about how the mark was affecting her and very few people asked. Josephine had often shown concern and sympathy when they were together in Haven but everyone else seemed to comment in passing and were far more intrigued in how it worked and how useful it would be to them and the world around her, not for her, the person. The shift in tone and the soft gaze across the fire felt odd to her as she busied herself with the folds of her shirt, gently warming the fabric to continue to keep herself dry.

As if sensing the discomfort, Vincent didn’t seek to fill the silence or push the subject. Roz was grateful for that as she glanced back up to him, watching him shift before the fire. It was only through subtly watching a moment that she caught the half-wince, the little grimace when he moved.

“Are you hurt?”

Vincent, for all intents and purposes, tried to wave it off without fussing. “Just a few scratches, nothing serious. I’ve lived through worse.”

Roz scooted over towards him, a frown on her face as she reached out. Gently, gravely, she asked, “May I? I can help.” There was a moment, a longer pause before Vincent gave a sharp nod.  

Despite her training, healing had never come quite as easily. Yes, she could find ways to use blood and make it work in her favor, but the healing arts were stiff even after practicing for the last few weeks on the road. The magic within her stuttered awkwardly a moment as her hands reached out, resting along his clothed chest. He took in a sharp breath, eyes wide and apologies fell from her lips.

“Sorry, sorry, I know, healing isn’t my strength but I’m getting better at it.” Letting the cool, blue magic wash over Vincent, Roz tried not to linger in silence long. “Give me an herb garden and I can create a poultice for almost anything. Or tea, I can do tea, too,” She gave a nervous little laugh, pulling her hands away when she was finished. “This is just a necessity of traveling, I suppose. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Vincent murmured, looking oddly winded, eyes fixed still so intently on her. The crackle of the fire was the only noise between them for a long moment as Roz shifted away again, aware how close she had gotten to him.

“So,” She tucked a leg beneath her, adjusting to sit as comfortably with a little distance between them, “you’re a mage? I saw what you did, with the lightning and your axes.” He nodded and Roz continued, asking the questions that burned from within. “But you use martial weapons as a focus? How did you learn to control it?”

Her teaching had always told her a mage outside the circle as dangerous, an apostate without any clear control or careful watch on their powers that could leave them open to hurting themselves or others. And the fear of possession and abominations had often been spread as a tale of caution for all who lived within the circle walls. Yet she had watched him during the fight, impressed with the strange mix of physical combat strength that blended with magic that crackled and fizzed in the air around them. There had been control and power without either outweighing the other and that had surprised her more than anything.

“A spirit of Patience taught me to use this gift.”

Her shocked silence followed this statement and he glanced at her with genuine confusion. “What? Is that not how you lowlanders do it?”

“Hardly,” Roz gave an incredulous laugh, half-curious, half-hysterical at the notion that anyone would willingly taken on possession when they were taught from an early age just what a demon might do. “You’re talking about being possessed. That’s a dangerous thing to us.”

Yet you have offered the same. Hypocrite.

The voice at the back of her mind was bitter and judging and she ran her hands along her arms where she knew scars remained from the rebellion. It was the only way to stay safe, she reminded herself, the only way she could ensure they made it to the conclave alive. Regardless of what had happened, she had done what she needed to survive. No one knew this, but Roz wasn’t going to divulge anything to her companions, not even this strange and handsome Avvar.

“Mages are a conduit to the gods, Lass,” Vincent interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward, “it’s a sacred duty we perform when we use our gifts. Spirits help us learn to channel that.”

“Don’t let anyone from the Chantry hear you saying that. Or a Circle mage, for that matter.” Roz shook her head, her magic flittering to stoke the fire once again. “I didn’t learn how to use my magic from spirits, that’s for certain.”

“How old were you when you began to learn with your gift?” Vincent asked and Roz realized he meant that genuinely. Magic to him was a gift, something that hadn’t been tucked away in a tower for years at a time and feared. It was simple and extraordinary and a lump rose in her throat fast. She swallowed against the sudden emotion, dropping her gaze away, afraid she might cry if she thought about living that life too hard.

“I was six when I came into my abilities. I accidentally lit my older brother’s eyebrows on fire.” That had been a sight - Matthew with no eyebrows, smoke floating in the air and the pair of them caught between amazement and, after a moment, horror at what had happened. “He was fine but my mother and father were swift to do what we necessary.”

“Necessary?”

Roz nodded. “Within a week, I was packed and off to Ostwick Circle with Templars to accompany me.” Her memories from home often felt fuzzy, a piece of a life she couldn’t quite grasp. Now and then she missed it, the sensation of home but that had faded with time when her family had ceased communications with the Circle. “I miss Matthew the most. I hope his eyebrows grew back in properly.” The comment was light but her heart did have a certain ache when she tried to picture her big brother, uncertain these days if they shared the same eye color or whether their laugh sounded the same.

“You didn’t stay with your family? Why?” Vincent looked horrified when she glanced up again, his own brow creased deeply with a glower of someone who hadn’t grown up in her world. “You were a child, you shouldn’t have been taken from them.”

“Magic exists to serve man,” Roz recited by heart, “never to rule over him.” When he looked even more bewildered, she went on. “Mages are inherently dangerous with magic and must be watched. Whether you believe it or not doesn’t really matter; we have been taught we need to stay locked away for the safety of ourselves and others.”

“That’s backwards thinking,” Vincent voiced and Roz couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. Bitterness prevailed in her tone though as she stared at the fire again.

“Perhaps, but like I said, it doesn’t matter.” The fire had begun in Kirkwall and now it spread across Thedas with a force that almost gave Roz hope for true, real change for all of them. Alderis had given her hope for such a thing; he paid for it, but that flame still burned brightly within her chest.

“Change had to come with a battering ram and we’re still picking up the pieces.” Uncertainty still remained and Roz could feel it whenever they’ve visited with folks across the map. “I hope to build something better than before with those pieces. Not everything was broken, but enough of it needs to be destroyed completely.”

“A lofty goal,” Vincent murmured with a little nod of his head. Roz shook her head, closing her eyes with a small yawn.

“Yes, and one I doubt will come easily.”

“Then I pray the Lady will guide you to your goal.” Genuine was a hard thing to find these days, especially among those who tried to wriggle their way closer to Roz. But that’s exactly what she saw when she gazed over at Vincent. Her heart thumped again in her chest when he smiled at her and she prayed to Andraste Herself that he didn’t notice the flush that reappeared along her neck.

“Well, first I need to rescue my soldiers.” It was better to change topics, she thought, careful not to lean in too closely as she added, “What can you tell me about the castle in the swamp?” It wouldn’t hurt, she told herself, to enjoy being around him for a moment. Even if he were to leave them in the morning, his help had been a necessity. It didn’t hurt either that his smile gave Roz butterflies.

It’s a harmless daydream. I doubt I’ll see him again after this.