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phoenixyfriend · 4 years ago

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The “Momma Sturmvoraus was Literally Satan” AU

As requested by @spazzbot. This AU was initially brainstormed on the GG fanworks server almost a year ago. Specifically, on the first day of 2020.

[ID: a truncated discord message by “Miss Nixy, Gay for RoboLadies” posted 01/01/2020. The message reads “I need to sleep but please for the moment consider:” and ends there.]

So. Let’s get to it.

Satan took a human form because why not see what's going on topside, live like a human, and “Oh shit is this pregnancy? This is pregnancy. Fuck, that's a tiny human. Which is now half demon. Am I supposed to take care it? Wonder if retconing this form into that Valois family was a bad idea. They do have SO much money though, I get to live like a queen. I suppose another child shouldn't hurt, it wasn't that bad. Oh, he's cute, this is actually making sense, why humans do all the sinning. Not counting dear Aaronev's murders, of course, those are just evil, but I did search out the worst of the humans to pair myself to...”

This is literally just "Tarvek and Anevka's mom was low-key Satan on a bored “let's be human for a decade or two to see what happens” jaunt, consequences happen because these kids are LITERALLY half-demon and arguably anti-Christs."

Also it's just Very Funny for Tarvek, ineffectual sexy lamp fashion twunk extraordinaire, to be an antichrist

Jeff thinks he’s pretty. Jeff keeps describing features that don’t entirely make sense. (Jeff’s canon name is Karl Thotep but they spent so long unnamed that the server collectively named them Jeff.)

This is not a crossover with anything, btw. Ambiguously Pop Culture Satan just got bored and went to have babies with a serial killer.

They’re just kids! That are vaguely demonic. So. Moreso than the rest of the Valois.

Sometimes "mom" comes back from the dead and visits Anevka and Tarvek to impart Wisdom and possibly magic lessons The rooms always smell faintly of sulfur after that...

They try to put Anevka in the machine but SHE isn't hurt and the MACHINE just melts

So that's the end of that.

It's very awkward for everyone, but the paperwork isn't too bad. It's very easy to write "incidental fire began during late-fugue experimentation, resulted in fire spreading through six rooms and several casualties, including Prince Aaronev Wilhelm Sturmvoraus."

As per @atagotiak, “I feel like if we’re going in any way dimensional weirdness with thing, Tarvek got so good at exploring bc he could just clip through walls.”

With image provided by @thisarenotarealblog:

Tarvek in Paris: My dead mother keeps showing up in my dreams to tell me I need to seduce my way out of my problems and also she looks like Satan. Tarvek's Voltaire-Appointed Therapist: I still don't know what that means. Just like the last five times. Tarvek: I keep telling her that I can’t seduce Colette, if seduction is that important she should get Anevka to do it.

Like he probably wouldn’t say most of that in front of any Voltaire-approved individual, but still.

Tarvek is still very good at self control but there's a Special Edge to his rants.

(Derailed in the moment to me thinking about Anevka in a sfw-but-concerningly-deadly succubus getup, because... yeah.)

Aaronev dies and goes to hell and his dead wife is just there like "hi! Time to be tortured for eternity!" He wasn't a good husband so. He can't exactly sentimentalize his way out.

“In the sexy way?” “... not for you, no.”

Mostly I just want the BULLSHIT that is "Storm Mom was actually just Satan getting bored and going on vacation as a retconned Valois girl, the kids are half-demons and sometimes it Shows."

To clarify: the Satan bit isn't the retcon. Grandma used to have one daughter. Now there are two. (Seffie and Martellus's mother doesn't remember being an only child, but sometimes...)

Satan retconned a new daughter in, which included a Valid Valois Venusian Vestment, so the blood tests play out.

The subtle signs of wrongness would be fun too. Anevka tends to smile a bit too wide and sharp for a human face. Inexplicable uneasiness, here you can’t point at any specific thing that’s wrong but it’s uncomfortable. Uncanny valley prettiness, almost like the porcelain she became in other timelines. Skin isn’t supposed to be that smooth.

My brain's pre-nap contribution at that point was "Satan's pronouns when not pretending to Human are sin/sinself" which is! Certainly a thing.

Tarvek, at some nebulous future point: I mean, your ancestors were monsters, but my dad was a serial killer and my mom was literally Satan, instead of just figuratively like Lucrezia, so. I mean. I kind of get what you're going through.

Per @firebirdeternal: Tarvek and Anevka growing up with "you're allergic to holy water" and not questioning it until a little later because What.

And then they test it and it's like "yeah, no, there's a rash now. That stung. What the fuck."

It INFURIATES Gil in Paris when Tarvek tells him that's a thing, because there's nothing chemically different about Holy water and regular water. But no, this is somehow happening.

It gets logged in medical journals as a Valois genetic thing because, well, Mom was like that too, right?

One time they both go into a church for an Adventure and Gil is very annoyed to find that Tarvek is like. Faintly smoking. It smells like burnt hair in here.

Gil: What smells like burnt hairgel? Tarvek: [glares]

Gil decides that it must be something particular to the church, like a fungus or something in the stone, contaminating the air and water so it only LOOKS like the holiness is what's setting off reactions.

It is not.

Tarvek once got into an argument with someone and ate a slab of raw, completely uncooked meat as a power move.

SVV seems to work perfectly. Everyone is fine. We get the ‘you fight like ducks’ moment.

And then Tarvek bursts into flames, and everyone panics because no they fixed this what the fuck is he still infected with Hogfarb’s oh my god... and then everything settles down and he's perfectly fine. Not a scratch on him, no longer turning funny colors. Completely unharmed. He's in a nicely tailored suit and looks faintly stunned

"I just met my dead mom, who's apparently Satan. She told me that after I died the first time just now, I should be harder to kill later, especially with fire, because now there's more demon and less mortal and guys I think I'm going crazy." "Is that a martini?" Tarvek looks down. "Apparently."

Tarvek starts just. Randomly setting things on fire by glaring too hard and has to tone it down. Meanwhile, Agatha and Gil are having crises about how he's somehow getting PRETTIER.

Is he faintly glowing? Maybe!

Gil handles it by angrily sniping at Tarvek about how of COURSE he's an evil little rat with a background like that.

Tarvek just wants a nap and to forget this ever happened. Many people are sworn to secrecy. It's very awkward.

Still, SVV did something, for handwave-y reasons, and so they're linked now. Gil and Agatha both getting tiny flashes of the same shenanigans.

They get none of the powers. They just keep getting Weird Shit.

Other characters with divine influence are like "Did you.... did you make a pact with a demon?" "What no that's our boyfriend."

Tho tbh I wouldn’t be surprised if a Heterodyne did sign a contract with a demon at some point in exchange for like. Materials. A hundred souls sacrificed in exchange for some succubus blood. Thanks!

Tarvek and Othar: Falling out of CW as in canon. Tarvek: WHAT THE HELL SINCE WHEN DO I HAVE WINGS HIDE THIS BEFORE I GET BOOTED FROM THE LINE FOR THE THRONE

IDK where Anevka is during all this. I think she might have decided to go sleep her way through the courts of the Ice Tsars. Vacation, y'know?

Othar after he's decided to make Tarvek his new Heroic Apprentice: AH, my poor afflicted young friend, it's noble of you to go against the dark nature of your tragic heritage like this. Tarvek: I hate you. I wish I could hate you to death. But you have a point. I shouldn't let my father's blood limit what I strive for in life. Othar: I... I thought your mother was... Tarvek: I know what I said.

Tarvek: Also you can't tell ANYONE about that, I can't have them thinking I'm not actually in line for the Storm King's throne.

He does admittedly have to like. Explain things to Grandma.

Terabithia is Tarvek’s maternal grandmother so this is supremely awkward. That said...

Grandma fondly remembers her pregnancy cravings; bone marrow and sulfur.

"Yeah so, my mother, your daughter, was... maybe actually Satan? But retconned into your life?" "Tarvek, darling, please. I figured that out half a century ago."

TARVEK ACCIDENTALLY FINDS HIM HIMSELF WEIRDLY INTENSE AT CONTRACTS

I mean that honestly just Tracks about Tarvek anyways? But like moreso.

He just. Writes something up and there's things getting signed or shook on and then the person tries to break the contract and either suddenly catch fire or are deeply unlucky for a set amount of time.

And Tarvek's just standing there like "how in the FUCK did I do that?"

Severity of infernal punishment depends on the severity of the breach of contract.

Tarvek finds out that Anevka's been convincing rich people to sign their souls over to her. It's a fun challenge. She keeps them in jars.

They can still remotely pilot their bodies but like. They can't TELL anyone what happened.

Satan: I'm going to go make babies and now everyone else has to deal with the consequences.

Anevka's living up to that whole "princess of hell" vibe. Tarvek's just like "nope nope nope I want the storm throne, not the hell throne, BYE MOM."

Satan's just feeling sinself down in hell like "awwww look at my babies go, aren't they adorable?"

Tarvek: Anevka, what... first off, how did you figure it out? Anevka: Well, I temporarily died when father put me in the machine, and... I can't say that hell kicked me out because they were afraid I'd take over, but mother DID say she'd rather I play about with human governments instead of Hell's. Tarvek: Okay, cool cool cool. What after you planning to DO with all these souls? Anevka: They make for some lovely reading lamps, don't they?

(Anevka absolutely sets herself the goal of acquiring new titles that rival her old ones, or even surpass them. She just black widows her way through Europa.)

I just want someone (probably Snackleford) to ascend, take one look at Tarvek, and run SCREAMING.

Tarvek still needed to be anchored to Higgs, because Tarvek is Baby.

Gil is eventually in a relationship with an Eternal God Queen and the Literal Son of Satan.

Family dinners can include ALL the in-laws if you duck down to hell! - You borrow Bill from... probably heaven, maybe purgatory. - You have Lu and Aaronev and Satan already there, though the first two... well. Aaronev and Lu get invited to dinner but they have to eat by themselves at the kiddy table and nobody talks to them or acknowledges their presence. After all, this is hell, and what better punishment for Lu than to be completely ignored, and for Aaronev to see Lu at her worst and be reminded that he gave everything for this horrible, horrible person who isn't even pretending to care about him anymore. - Zanta and Klaus get invited via portal. - Anevka saunters in with a blood-soaked dress and a complaint about militant demon-hunters refusing to let her go shopping for a new pair of shoes. - Zeetha tagged along with the OT3. (She can't wait to see this situation explode.)

Oh God, Satan is actually second place as far as good parenting goes.

Well, actually, fourth. Because Adam and Lilith. But second as far as bio parents go. 1. Zanta 2. Satan 3. Klaus 4/5. Lu and Aaronev N/A. Bill

Someone (Anevka) decides to stir the pot and invites Von Pinn, Terabithia, Bang.

Bang is basically Gil’s older sister, right? Right.

This is Zanta meeting Bang for the first time! Zanta is just: "It's so nice to meet my husband's adopted daughter." Klaus freezes. Bang freezes. Gil is the only one who is just. "Yeah." Meanwhile Zeetha is crying with laughter off to the side because both of them deserve this. (Zanta would legit love Bang though.)

Agatha: Tarvek, I think DuPree is-- Tarvek: Hitting on my sister? I know. Agatha: On your mom, actually. Tarvek: NO!

Also I do love the idea of like. Nobody tells Bang they're inviting her. She just wakes up in Hell like. "Ah. Yes. Fair enough."

Satan: Oh no no no my dear, you're here as a guest. Besides as well as you'd fit you're not one of mine, you've got other things waiting for you. Bang: Okay, but I love the decor. And is that Cheesecake?

Bang’s family has their own evil god in the novels, but! Bang DID pick on Tarvek a lot in Paris. Satan cares more than Anevka does. Bang might get the sexy punishment.

I feel like the fact that no permanent damage was done and it taught Tarvek a lot of things means Satan isn't gonna be all that upset about it.

And let's be real, if there's a character in GG who could look the literal Christian devil in the eye and be like "Yeah I tortured your kid, what're you going to do about it?" it's Bang.

Even Satan doesn't know what to do or think about Othar.

He sure is here! As Anevka’s arm candy! Nobody knows what to do except Anevka herself, who just wants to be Smug.

(What's that scene from Phineas and Ferb that's the mad scientist trapping the platypus within the rules of polite dining at a fine restaurant? Like he can't make a scene because that would be rude?) (That. Othar would dearly love to start a fight, but it's a Family Dinner. You're only allowed to fight verbally at those.)

(Othar isn't even fighting Satan, he just wants to argue with Klaus.) (And maybe fanboy in Bill's direction a bit).

#Girl Genius #Phoenix Posts #Anevka Sturmvoraus #Tarvek Sturmvoraus #Aaronev Sturmvoraus #Gilgamesh Wulfenbach #Agatha Heterodyne #Lucrezia Mongfish #Othar Tryggvassen #Bangladesh DuPree #Otharnevka #GG OT3

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iknikblackstonevarrick · 4 years ago

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Red Lightning (Part 3)

(Part 1) (Part 2)

---

Lucretia looked through the bars at her friend with grim contemplation.

She had disarmed Lup and moved her from the floor to the thin mattress provided inside her cell, and was now simply waiting for her to wake up, and considering what she would do when she did.

Giving her a similar position to Davenport was out of the question. Redacted or not, the boys would notice the woman’s striking similarity to Taako. She could find something for her in the bowels of the facility, out of sight of the Reclaimers, but even then, the risk-

“Hey?”

Lucretia jumped and struck her staff on the ground in surprise. Lup had risen to her elbows while still prone on the bed, and was looking at Lucretia with decreasing grogginess.

“Are you- in charge here?” she asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, “Cause whatever I did to get in here- okay, I was /definitely/ framed, first of all, and also like super drunk. Like I don’t even remember anything that happened…” she looked to the side, “Basically ever, right now? I must have partied /real/ hard last night but anyways, the point is I’m innocent and also I don’t think you can legally keep me here without telling me what I’m in for.”

Lup was about a foot in front of the bars now, holding her hands out in front of her where she’d been gesturing. Lucretia stared at her.

“You can talk,” she got out flatly.

Lup blinked at her, then snorted. “I- Yeah??” She looked around herself. “Why- Was I that out of it whenever- whatever happened?”

Lucretia stood there, marveling at how she could have taken so much from their Captain unintentionally whilst not inflicting the same on her friend when she intentionally tried to erase her existence. It was a relief, obviously- she hadn’t wanted to reduce Lup to the sound of her own name, but she had expected it, accepted it as a necessity, and planned around it. Now-

She checked the lock on her cell to make sure she hadn’t left it open in her indecision. There would be no moving her from this spot now that she still had her wits about her. As much as it pained Lucretia, she could not allow her friend to roam free if there was any possibility she might resume interfering with her mission.

“What’s happening?” she asked, looking worriedly at Lucretia’s hand as she secured the padlock and then tapped her staff to the ground, reinforcing the magical barriers around the cell as well. “You- you have to tell me what you think I did.”

Lucretia looked levelly into her eyes. “You have done something- horrible. Unspeakable. Even if you… didn’t mean for it to be. What’s done is still done. And you will remain here until- Until I decide those crimes have been repented for.”

Lup opened her mouth to argue. Then, before she could, Lucretia saw some unknown thought enter her eyes, and then some of the light dimmed from them.

She waited, watching the grim, zoned-out look on her friend’s face for only a moment longer before she turned on heel and exited into the elevator.

“Taako?”

Lup blinked, turning to the source of the voice- a halfling man, poking his small head through the bars of the cell next to hers to get a look.

“Nope,” she said flatly.

“Oh, sorry,” the halfling said. “I could have sworn he has that skirt.” He tilted his head. “And that face?”

She sighed. “It’s Lup,” she introduced herself curtly, hoping it would change the subject. She didn’t know who this ‘Taako’ person was, but getting mistaken for a man was one of the few things that could make today worse.

“Oooohh, sorry sorry sorry, cool cool cool,” the halfling man said, nodding. “My name’s Robbie, but my old roommates called me Pringles.”

“Why?” she asked.

Pringles tugged on his shirt collar. “I have a deficiency.”

Lup pursed her lips and let her head fall back onto the stiff pillow. She didn’t know how long she’d been in the pokey, but it couldn’t have been too long, because everything in the room seemed brand new and unused.

“So what’re you in for, Pringles?” she asked.

“Uuh,” he drawled, “Espionage, I guess? Except I didn’t do it, like, intentionally. Maybe an accessory to espionage? A vessel?”

“Huh,” she said. “So you like, accidentally let in a spy?”

“I… guess it was something like that,” he said. “I don’t actually remember most of it. What about you?”

Lup stared at the gray-blue ceiling of her cell.

“I think I killed someone,” she said, still not looking at her cellmate.

“Oh,” Pringles answered, sounding unimpressed. “Well, that’s kinda like, the adventuring MO. Not your fault you ran amok of someone with arrest powers.”

She didn’t even catch his comment about the moon. She continued staring hard at the silvery blue of her cell.

“I think I killed someone I loved.”

Pringles blinked a few times. Then most of his face was no longer visible, it seemed like he’d changed the stance he was standing at.

“Oh,” was all he said. It was a long few moments before she heard him pad quietly over to the bed of his cell and hop on with a creak.

Lup had the same dream every night.

No matter what she did, how she ate, when she slept, however many of her limited options she explored, it was always the same. If she tried trancing, the memory would still play through her head relentlessly, almost more real than if she just went to sleep. If it weren’t for the companionship of her odd but chill jail-mate, she might think she was living the same day over again.

She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was a memory. The only memory she had of anywhere outside this cell. Anywhere /outside/ at all. She wouldn’t know what the sky looked like, blinding blue with puffy white clouds and streaming golden light, without this memory.

She doesn't know why, but she’d expected it to look different.

You were in the sky. The clouds around you were close enough to touch, and the green below you was so, so distant. You could only see it over the silver rails of this- ship. You were on a ship, a boat, by the looks of it. Why was it in the sky?

Every time, before you had the chance to wonder this any further, you locked eyes with the figure sitting on the railing. No, you realized. He wasn’t sitting. He was bent over it at an odd angle, half of him dangling off the edge like he’d just been blown to that point by force.

He was wearing glasses. They were cracked.

You had no idea who this man was, but when you felt his gaze, saw his weathered human face, looked over his faded old blue jeans, you felt like you were home. You felt safe, and loved, and warm.

That warmth boiled over into the heat of panic when you noticed the blood pouring from this man’s stomach. Suddenly it felt like the world was burning around you, and you wanted to go to him, but you couldn’t. Your body felt frozen, your mind felt like it was full of cotton. No. Of static.

You met the man’s gaze again because that’s all you could do. You felt your knees going weak.

The man smiled at you with love and sorrow and-

He fell. He fell all the way over the railing, and you felt yourself moving, felt something warm and wet on your cheek-

And you wake up, gasping, and touch the tears streaming down your face. Every morning. You call it morning because you do not go back to sleep after this, but the fantasy fluorescent lights of your cell have not yet come up.

Every morning, without reprieve, as you lower your hand from your tear-streaked face, you see the smallest strokes of red lightning glowing between your fingers in the darkness.

***

“Where is she?”

Barry Bluejeans looked down at his three best friends in their red nullsuits. He had come here to warn them- to use the cosmoscope this kid had created, to try to explain with visuals instead of words and see if that could get through to them.

But there were only three of them. For whatever reason, Lup hadn’t come along on this mission. At first, he’d assumed she was a part of the party they said they’d been separated from, but now they were reunited, and still no Lup.

He probably should have waited to ask. There was probably a fine explanation- maybe Lucretia had wanted to keep a reclaimer in reserve for if this place went up in crystal? Sure, that made enough sense. He almost moved on to another question, but his nonexistent stomach dropped when he got his answer.

“Who?”

“Taako-” he’d be furrowing his brow if he could. It was immediately apparent to him that this wasn’t a goof. He knew Taako well enough for that.

“Taako, your-” dread was welling up in him. “Your sister. Your sister, Lup, Taako, where is she?”

“Oof,” Taako tilted his head. “Don’t got one of those, buddy. You must have the wrong T-a-a-ko.”

“No,” he said. He floated closer, and Taako raised-

The umbrella. He had Lup’s Umbrastaff with him.

“You have to know,” he said, and he could feel necrotic energy arcing off of him like electricity. “You have to know where- you have to know who she is. She only erases people when they’re-”

And suddenly, his energy calmed. He floated placidly in front of Taako, wide-eyed and weapon drawn.

He felt relieved. And then guilty for it. If Lucretia had erased her, that meant she was dead. But that also meant she was out here somewhere as a lich. Memories intact. Finally.

He melted away from the crystal laboratory and resumed time as he reappeared in his cave. He pulled out a drawer to his desk and filled up an old scrying bowl he used to use to keep tabs on everyone when he didn’t feel safe enough to go outside.

When the image in the bowl came into view, there was no phantasmal, resplendent figure of light and magic. Instead, there was a living mortal figure lying on a bed, sleeping restlessly, what he recognized as energy from her lich form arcing out through her hands in response to whatever Emotion was enveloping her dream.

“Oh,” he said aloud. Not disappointed. Determined.

Zooming out, he could see the bars of a cell, and even further, the outline of the floating headquarters of the Bureau of Balance. He shut the drawer and turned towards the map he had laid out on the desk itself.

The body cooking in his pod wasn't quite done yet. That was fine. He’d prefer not to burn it now, anyways. He’d find his own way up to the Bureau again, holy symbol be damned.

#taz balance #lucretia #lup #barry bluejeans #lup taaco

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invaderdoom78 · 5 years ago

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New Moon Night part 2

“So what’s with all of the guns on the wall in the basement?” Bella asked as they sat down to eat the pizza Peter had ordered for them

“Oh, uh, I hunt vampires”

“Really?” Bella asked

“For a few years now. It’s actually how I met Aro”

“So” Bella started taking a bite of her pizza “is it hard killing vampires?”

“It varies from vampire to vampire,” Peter said “but if I get them in the heart right away with my steak gun that normally takes them out”

“Really?” Bella asked raising an eyebrow “Edward told me that vampires can only be killed by dismemberment and setting their bodies on fire”

“That’s true for some of them but if you use something that’s got witch's magic on it then it’ll kill them regardless of their, I guess, species. I could teach you how to shoot a gun if you want”

“...Yes,” Bella said, well aware that Victoria was still a potential threat to her life “uh, where should we go shoot?”

“There’s a spot out in the desert,” Peter said

“Is that legal?” Bella asked

“No idea,” Peter said taking a drink from his soda “but I’m not the only one who uses the spot”

“Ok,” Bella said ignoring the image of Edward that appeared, telling her not to do it

“You wanna pick out the gun?”

“Sure!”

With their lunch finished the two made their way back down to the basement so Bella could pick out her gun. Now Peter didn’t have the most impressive collection of firearms, a couple of shotguns, a revolver, his steak gun, and a wrangler and because of the small selection he was fully expecting Bella to choose the shotgun, especially since it was the best choice when dealing with vampires, but that wasn’t what she picked.

“Where are you two going?” Aro asked eyeing Peter as he put his shotgun and the wrangler Bella had picked out into their carrying cases

“Out to the desert to shoot some guns,” Peter said

“Did you put on sunscreen?” Aro asked already knowing the answer

“No” Peter scoffed

“Do you remember what happened last time?”

Peter did, he’d taken the twins out to shoot as well and when they got back home almost his entire face was burnt and the twins kept insisting on poking at it until it started peeling.

“It’ll be fine”

“No,” Aro said firmly

“...Fine” Peter gave in after a brief staredown with the vampire, walking over to an end table grabbing two bottles of sunscreen out of the drawer “here Bella” he handed her the smaller one

“Thanks”

Walking over to the hall mirror Bella stood in front of it as she put on the sunscreen, watching as Aro tried to help Peter put the sunscreen on his face while the hunter insisted that he could do it himself.

“There,” Peter asked once Aro was done “you happy now?”

“Very,” Aro said smiling

Turning around Bella held out the bottle of sunscreen she’d been holding and was about to set it onto the coffee table, but Aro stopped her.

“Hold on a minute, dear,” Aro said reaching out to wipe in the small amount of sunscreen she’d missed on her cheek, rubbing it in the rest of the way with a gentleness that she never expected from someone like him

Once they reached the spot in the desert Peter realized that he didn’t have any protective wear for Bella to use, so they had to improvise with a pair of Aro’s big sunglasses to protect her eyes as the vampire covered her ears with his hands and just like he did with Jane, Peter showed the young woman how to hold the Wrangler and where to position her feet before she shot at the five soda cans he’d set up; managing to nick all of them on the side.

“You’re a very good shot, dear,” Aro said resting his hand on her shoulders as Peter took the rest of them out with his shotgun

“My dad used to teach me how to shoot his gun a long time ago, but my mom found out and told him to stop”

“Did he teach you anything else?” Aro asked

“You mean like self-defense?” Bella asked setting down her gun “not really”

“Then allow me to show you,” Aro said

The vampire showed her the basics of self-defense poses, having talked Peter into being the practice dummy.

“Good” Aro praised as Bella delivered an elbow strike to Peters jaw, having enough self-control to stop herself from actually hitting her new uncle

Despite how quickly Bella was picking up on the techniques, it was quickly becoming apparent that training out in the middle of the desert probably wasn’t the best idea as it didn’t take much longer after that for Peter and Bella to become coated in sweat, so much so that it had almost completely soaked through their clothing. It was at this point that Peter decided that they should go home and get changed into something that wasn’t going to stick to their skin, both Peter and Bella hopping into the shower when they got home. Stepping out of the bathroom Peter dried his hair off with a towel as Aro sat on the edge of the bed running a brush through his long hair.

“It seems like Bella has settled in rather well,” Aro said

“Yeah,” Peter said tossing the towel at the hamper by his closet door

“I, overheard the conversation you and Bella had earlier,” Aro said as Peter crawled onto their bed

“I figured you did,” Peter said crawling up behind Aro, peppering the vampire's shoulder and the side of his neck with kisses

“We have laws that have been put into place solely to keep the existence of our kind a secret and it clearly states that vampires are not supposed to let themselves be known to humans”

“So should I be worried?

“If you hadn’t befriended Elizabeth then yes. Being what she is, the people that are associated with her and her family have immunity to our laws. Lest we risk facing a half-demon's wrath”

“Is Bella in danger then?” Peter asked resting his chin on the vampire's shoulder

“That depends,” Aro said taking hold of Peters wrists wrapping his human's arms around his waist leaning back into the embrace

“On what?”

“Whether or not the Cullens have any enemies”

“What about your lot?”

“Well if one of my guards discovers her she will be brought back to Volterra for a trial to determine whether or not she will be turned or executed” he felt Peter tense up behind him “don’t worry darling if it ever does come to that I will make sure that her life is spared and that she has a home in the castle”

“It's a good thing she wants to be turned then”

“You know, you really are so much more caring than you want people to believe” Aro hummed “it's rather sweet actually; you treating Jane and Alec as if they were your own, helping Amy through getting the polluted blood out of her, reassuring your friend Charley that she would be safe. It’s a good thing I was able to snatch you up when I did”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, darling” Aro said nuzzling Peters cheek “just thinking”

Aro untangled himself from Peter's arms and got off the bed.

“Where’re you going?” Peter asked reaching out for the vampire

“The day is still young,” Aro said softly, placing a kiss on Peter's forehead knowing what he wanted

Flopping back onto the bed Peter watched Aro walk out of the room. Groaning Peter forced himself to get off the bed and get dressed before going out to the living room where he saw Bella and Aro sitting on the couch together, the vampire brushing her semi-dry hair. Sitting in front of them was the chest he kept all of his movies in, Bella looking through his collection.

“You have any preferences?” Peter asked taking a seat on the couch with them

“I like Stephen King stuff”

“I have Stephen King, but Lizzy has The Shining and all the IT movies so I’d need to get them from her” Peter said pulling out his phone so he could ask her for the movies

“Oh” Bella started but was interrupted by the front door opening and Lizzy stepping through, holding the DVDs “you don…”

“Here,” Lizzy said tossing the cases to Peter

“Thanks, bitch” Peter said, catching them noticing how Lizzy and Bella were kinda staring at each other “that’s Bella. Bella this is Lizzy”

“Hi,” Bella said

“What’re the kids doing tomorrow?” Peter asked

“I think they’re all off,” Lizzy said, still looking at Bella like she was trying to piece some things together “why?”

“I’m trying to help Bella find a hobby”

“Cool,” Lizzy said giving Aro a two-finger salute before she left

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Aro said standing up

“Oh come on,” Peter said, grabbing the vampire's sleeve “at least watch The Shining or Misery with us. I’m sure you’ll like them”

“Alright” Aro sighed

“I’ll make some popcorn then,” Peter said standing up walking back to the kitchen, waiting for the popcorn to pop when Lizzy texted him

Demon Bitch (Lizzy)

So has Bella shown any interest in vampires?

Yeah she said she wants to be turned

And Aro told me he cant see her thoughts

That makes sense.

One of her great grandparents was either a vampire themselves or one of their parents was a vampire so that’s why she can use her mental ability as a human and why she’s so keen on being turned. The vampire part of her DNA is calling out because of how close she’s become to, who I’m assuming are the Cullens as they’re the only coven I’m aware of that live up in that area of the US. It’ll probably also make the transition and blood lust easier.

You gotta be fucking kidding me

The fuck am I supposed to do with that information

Just thought I’d let you know.

🍑💨

“Ok,” Peter said, slipping the phone back into his pocket “Lizzy’s sending me farts again!”

“You are the one that decided to befriend her” Aro called back from the couch

“You say that like it’s my fault”

“Would you rather her come and do it in the house?”

“No,” Peter said walking back into the living room with popcorn

Aro only stuck around long enough to watch Misery as while he did agree that it was a good adaptation and movie he still preferred the books. It was about midnight when Aro noticed that Peter hadn’t come back to bed yet, so he got up and walked out to the living room, spotting Peter and Bella both asleep on the couch, Peter slumped back into it, head tilted back, Bella slumped against his side.

“Oh” Aro chuckled quietly approaching the piece of furniture

Picking up the remote Aro turned off the TV before gently lifting Bella off of the couch making sure not to wake either as he moved the young woman to her temporary room, tucking her under the covers before back out and doing the same for Peter. The next morning Bella woke up more confused than Peter had, as he was used to it at this point, wondering how she’d ended up in bed when she remembered falling asleep on the couch. Kicking off the blankets Bella changed into her clothes and went out into the kitchen, looking through the fridge to see if she could find anything that she could make for breakfast when Peter came out of his room wearing his sleep pants.

“Morning” Peter yawned getting to work making himself some coffee

“Morning” Bella said, grabbing a carton of eggs “where’s Aro?”

“Taking a shower,” Peter said watching as Bella started cooking some eggs for them

Taking a seat at the counter Peter pulled out his phone, scrolling through it as he waited for the eggs to finish cooking when Aro came out of the bedroom, fully dressed and looking like he was ready to go traveling.

“Where’re you going?” Peter asked, eyeing the vampire

“I have to go back to Italy” Aro sighed grabbing his cloak out of the closet by the door

“For how long?”

“Hopefully not long” Aro said placing one hand on his humans cheek placing a kiss on the other before walking over to Bella “it was wonderful meeting you” he hugged her “take care and maybe we’ll meet again”

“Maybe” Bella said, feeling a bit saddened that the vampire was leaving so early as despite Edwards warnings about him she had grown to enjoy the vampires company

Giving Peter one more kiss Aro stepped out of the house so he could head off for Italy.

“So do you wanna go over to Lizzy’s today?” Peter asked pouring himself another cup of coffee

“Sure” Bella said as Peter grabbed a key out of the bowl by the front door

Aro called several hours after Bella had left.

“Hey” Peter said, answering his phone as he slouched on the couch watching his T.V. “how was the flight?”

“Fine” Aro sighed “though I don’t see why I was needed. This was a simple matter. How is Bella doing?”

“She’s out with Michael and the others”

“Oh good” Aro said, the smile obvious in his voice, “is she getting along with them?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t heard from her since she left” Peter said noticing Bella as she stepped into the house out of the corner of his eye “hey I gotta go Bella just came back”

“Alright, good bye, darling”

“Bye” Peter said, looking at the fading cut on Bella’s cheek “the hell happened?”

“I killed a ghoul and then Eleanor made us dinner. Here” Bella said handing Peter a tupperware container “she told me to give this to you”

“Cool” Peter said taking the container

“What have you been doing?” Alice demanded storming into the living room from the basement door “why haven’t I been able to see you and then all of a sudden I see you being attacked by that thing and now Edward thinks you’re dead!”

“Who the fuck are you and how the fuck did you get into my house!” Peter demanded, mentally going over where he’d hidden the guns on this level of the house, moving so that he was between Bella and Alice

“Alice?” Bella asked confused “what are you doing here?”

“Edwards going to the Volturi!” Alice said, eyebrows furrowed “he wants to die too”

“Realy?” Peter asked looking unamused “he breaks up with her the way he did and his first thought when he thinks she’s dead is to kill himself not, oh I don’t know, call Charlie and ask about it or even come back to investigate it himself?”

“Apparently” Alice shrugged “but we don’t have time to think about it!” Edward plans on revealing himself so the Volturi will kill him”

“Alright” Bella sighed “I’ll help”

“Wot?” Peter asked looking at Bella in disbelief

“Can you wait for me out in the car” Bella said to Alice who did what she was asked

“Ok I get it” Peter said, placing his hands on Bella's shoulders “I get it, but for the love of God don’t take him back. If he really does want to get back together with you make him work for it” he pulled her into a hug “and be careful. I have no idea what might happen over there and Aro can only do so much”

“I will”

“Call me when you get there”

“Ok” Bella said before hurrying out of the house

Bella P.O.V.

I can do this. I thought to myself as Alice tore out of Peters driveway. I can face Edward again and even if something does happen I have Peter to turn to, he knew what I had going through and I had new friends now, ones that I didn’t have to lie to about Edward or werewolves or anything that has happened to me since I got to Forks. And if worse did come I had two options one, I could agree to be turned and live in Voltera with Aro or I could tell them about Lizzy and maybe that would give me some type of immunity, for now, but that option could also bring up some issues with Edward and his family especially considering how hostile the relationship between werewolves and vampires is, I can only imagine that it might be the same with witches and demons and that could create a whole other layer of problems. Either way the next few hours would definitely prove to be interesting.

#jesus christ this took a fucking eternity to finish #peter vincent #aro volturi #bella swan #david tennant #michael sheen #fright night 2011 #twilight #vincturi #vampire x vampire hunter au #ineffable husbands au

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legacyridley · 4 years ago

Text

— LYING IS THE MOST FUN A GIRL CAN HAVE WITHOUT TAKING HER CLOTHES OFF (BUT IT’S BETTER IF YOU DO!)

“I CAN’T RECALL a single amazing thing i have seen first-hand that i didn't immediately reference to a movie or tv show. a fucking commercial. you know the awful singsong of the blasé: seeeen it. i've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: the secondhand experience is always better. the image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore.”

— gillian flynn , gone girl

ooc —

hi there ! i’m shannon, i’m non-binary, my pronouns are she/they and i’m from the united kingdom. you can just call me the ceo of the unhinged rosamund pike cinematic universe, though. or keira knightley’s bitch, because i am, even if i decided against bringing her this time ( still might later ! ) i love morally corrupt women, i’d give my life for them, if one couldn’t tell by . . . uh. frankie.

application —

[ rosamund pike | 40 | she/her | cis woman ] if it isn’t FRANCESCA RIDLEY ! you know, FRANKIE ! they’ve lived in monarda for TWO MONTHS. some people say that they’re CONSCIENTIOUS & CHARMING, but that they can also be PRIVILEGED & AVARICIOUS. last i heard, they were working FREELANCE as a BUSINESSWOMAN ! i’ve also heard the rumor that they’re a WITCH. if you’d ask me, they remind me of BEING BORN WITH THE METALLIC TANG OF A SILVER SPOON IN YOUR MOUTH ( JUST LIKE THE TASTE OF YOUR OLD-MONEY BLOOD ), “MANEATER” BY NELLY FURTADO PLAYING, SLIGHTLY MUFFLED, FROM INSIDE YOUR CAR, LIKE MUSIC FROM A PARTY BATHROOM, & THE NOTION OF A NEW SELF YOU’LL FIND BY THE SHORE ( BUT HOW’S THAT WORKING OUT FOR YOU, HONEY? DO YOU FEEL LOVED? ) ! i wonder what monarda’s got in store for them today!

BASICS —

NAME: francesca legacy ridley ( yes, really. )

AGE: forty ( b. 28 january, 1981 — knightsbridge, london, united kingdom. )

NICKNAMES: frankie , and frankie only.

GENDER: cis female.

ORIENTATIONS: bisexual / biromantic.

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: divorced & single.

NATIONALITY: british-american ( dual. )

ETHNICITY: white ( english. )

LANGUAGES SPOKEN: english, french, german.

OCCUPATION: social media mogul & socialite. ex-sunglasses model.

EDUCATION: institut le rosey & magdalen college, oxford.

PERSONALITY —

ASTROLOGICAL BIG THREE: aquarius sun, scorpio moon, scorpio rising.

MBTI TYPE: entj-a. ( the commander. )

HOGWARTS HOUSE: slytherin ( ravenclaw hatstall. )

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: eight with a seven wing ( the maverick. )

THEME SONG: maneater by nelly furtado.

FAVOURITE SONG: lay all your love on me by abba.

FAVOURITE ALBUM: super trouper by abba (1980)

PET PEEVES: people who don’t say ‘thank you’ when you open the door. back-seat drivers. chewing too loudly. tea that’s too milky. cambridge graduates.

PHOBIAS: trypophobia. hemophobia ( blood ). arachnophobia. coulrophobia ( clowns. )

GUILTY PLEASURES: radio-friendly pop music. sunglasses, still. netflix-binge style sitcoms. kate winslet movies. true crime documentaries. st trinian’s (2007) dir. oliver parker.

ABOUT —

she’s deeply charming but also . . . it’s mostly theatre. ridleys know how to put on a show. ridleys know how to make friends. so meet frankie: #1 flirt, #1 liar, and perfectionist to the nth degree.

oxford graduate from a family of oxford graduates ; if you don’t get what that means for a person, substitute oxford with harvard and you might just about be getting there, right down to the annoying person — the sort of humdrum regular who grinds on francesca’s gears — who says ‘ oh, you went to harvard? say something smart! ’ growing up in a house in london that looks like it is out of a fairytale ( would be, if the city and all its bustle and noise weren’t on the doorstep ) is about as sweet as it sounds, and who could blame one for getting a touch . . . jealous ? well, other than frankie, a product of a private school in switzerland, an oxford college, and a trust fund, who could judge someone for breathing incorrectly, and says things such as ‘ jealousy is a disease, get well soon. ’

HOW DID SHE GET TO HER CURRENT POSITION ? . . .other than her parents’ money and a wealth of connections? well, frankie quickly came to understand something; that every time the older generations catch up to a social media platform, there’s a sudden vacuum as the younger generation work out where to go. and where the audience go is where the influence is, which gains you more connections, more wealth, more influence in places people would never even think to look. do you ever think about what information leaves your hands, and where, when you agree to the terms and conditions? you probably should.

[ NOTE : when i imagine the platform, it’s something fairly twitter-esque, but without the people who use long hashtags and can’t figure out how it works. and more . . . aesthetic, somehow. like pinterest-level aesthetics. i’ll be working it out over time, but i’ve named it spectrum. yes, it’s named after the florence & the machine song, please don’t judge me. it started off as a university project á la the social network ( brilliant bloody movie ) that went onto a massive scale & became trendy and addictive. imagine if mark zuckerberg was a cool, bisexual, female ex-sunglasses model who once married the heir to grovesnor group, made him sign a considerable prenup and then divorced him when he cheated ( there was some full diana revenge dress content ) fifteen years ago, just before her old university idea went mainstream. he regrets it now, doesn’t he ? ]

imagine the kind of assholes who would give their child ‘ legacy ’ as a middle name to remind her of the constant pressure on her shoulders ? welcome to the ridleys, london-born mother & father to francesca ( golden child, with more issues than meets the eye, actually as much of a party girl as her sister but successful ) and roman ( motorbike-obsessed disgrace. ) they’re one of the oldest witch families out there, but — up until frankie & roman — they’ve been able to keep it quiet for their own benefit.

so what does frankie DO with her magic? she always says she specialises in the tempting, though the addictive is perhaps more apt. want to feel so excited about something you’ll never be bored again? want the best trip of your life? frankie’s your gal. and does it have anything to do with how influential spectrum became & how much of an addictive presence she can be? . . . well, that’s for her to know & no one to find out.

AND NOW, THE FINAL QUESTION: why the fuck is london’s premier rich bitch in where she’d consider nowhere, maine ? well, she’s on sort of a self-recreation trip right now. think about tahani in the good place when she tries to step out of the spotlight without actually doing it, except she’s thinking the sea air will cleanse her of a slight... unease coming with the approaching mid-life crisis and having to dye her greys out.

but now she’s in a smaller place than sprawling london, living in that house you look at and think ‘fuck, i’d kill for that view,’ having to associate with people properly rather than being almost a concept of a person . . . what if people tear aside the mask and discover the serpentine nature and the moral rot that lies behind it ?

credits —

template !

#monardaintro #— nothing good starts in a getaway car ( INTRO. )

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mememanufactorum · 5 years ago

Text

Ace Combat Zero quotes

* Feel free to share as you please, no credit needed. Change pronouns or anything else as desired.

“Oh, him? Yeah, I know him.”

“Did you know there are three kinds of aces? Those who seek strength, those who live for pride, and those who can read the tide of battle.”

“It was a cold and snowy day…”

“It’s starting to come down.”

“You’d better have our pay ready and waiting.”

“Be ready to pay up. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“[name], I got a feeling you and I are gonna get along just fine. Buddy.”

“It all started on that snowy day.”

“My first impression was… He had potential.”

“I forgot about my job and read everything I had on hand.”

“We were all on an equal footing, fighting under the same conditions. No affiliations or ranks to hinder us.”

“The only rule of engagement was to survive.”

“We WILL survive, [name].”

“I figured you’d say that. This is gonna cost you extra.”

“Unlike you mercenaries, I fight for a real cause.”

“The ones who survive are those who fight for their convictions.”

“Dead men’s words hold no meaning.”

“Those mercenaries are crazy!”

“He hesitated. A vulnerability that can be exploited.”

“I was certain I would win.”

“We protect the meek and give our lives for honor. But that does not mean that we are generous… Since generosity will cost us our lives.”

“Well, then, let’s have some fun.”

“I figured it was just temporary chaos and it’d be over by the time I got there.”

“Every now and then, guys like that appear on a battlefield. Someone special, y’know?”

“War is something fought on the desk of politicians. As long as they win in the end, that’s all that matters.”

“But for us, it’s a matter of survival. In order to survive, you need to be able to analyze the situation in an instant.”

“Time to hunt some wild dogs.”

“Looks like we were just a couple of decoys.”

“Yo, Buddy, you still alive?”

“Back then, I was bursting with pride.”

“Staying where it was nice and warm wouldn’t accomplish anything.”

“Whatever it may be, the fact remains I was forced to walk a different path in life than the one I had envisioned.”

“They only fight for their own power and fame.”

“[name], let’s do this right. We got the pride it takes to win!”

“They’ve got a reason to fight. This battle’s over.”

“Let’s take care of them.”

“It takes time to admit you lost.”

“[name], you hear those people screaming for freedom? That’s where we come in!”

“It felt like he could see right through me. He was always one step ahead of me.”

“I didn’t feel like I was fighting with a human being.”

“I wanted to end that battle as quickly as possible.”

“It signals peace, but to me, they are the sounds of death.”

“Everyone is a hero and a villain. And no one knows who is the victim and who is the aggressor.”

“And what is ‘peace’?”

“Looks like we live to see another day, [name].”

“Mercenaries like us are disposable to the guys in charge.”

“But in the end, we survived.”

“When are you planning to buy those flowers?”

“Wait around too long and another guy’s gonna steal her away from you, you know.”

“This is no time to talk about my personal life!”

“Yo Buddy, you’ve got everyone fired up and believing in miracles.”

“Right on! Now that’s what I call teamwork!”

“[name], you hear that warm welcome? It’s the sweet sound of victory.”

“Not bad for a group of misfits, huh?”

“Dammit, there’s too many of them! We can’t handle them all!”

“Time to dive into the fireworks!”

“Looks like you’ve still got the touch.”

“It’s happening just as you thought.”

“It’s about time we got out of this dead-end job.”

“Not just yet.”

“They’re attacking without mercy. Do they plan on burning everything?”

“He can’t be human!”

“He’s like a demon…”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I fight for peace. That’s what I’m up here for.”

“While you’re up here ‘fighting for peace,’ tons of blood is being shed on the ground. Some ‘peace,’ kid.”

“And I’m here to put an end to that.”

“You think you can stop the bloodshed by shedding more blood?”

“Flying with all those ideas floating around in your head is gonna get you killed.”

“Anyway, I’d really gone out with a bang this time.”

“It’s a scary thought, but it also makes you feel alive.”

“But it gets pretty lonely up there all by myself.”

“Guess they’ve come to pick on the dead again.”

“This is the worst kind of support we could hope for.”

“Those mercenaries smell of money and death. They’re nothing but vultures… Scavenging for profit through the blood of others.”

“Sorry about the accommodations. It goes with the business. I’m not active during the day.”

“Something unexpected happened.”

“I figured the least I could do was take them down in return.”

“Of course, that was where my luck ran out.”

“Though I guess it’s hard for bad guys like us to die.”

“The real heroes always manage to die first.”

“We live the rest of our lives in hell.”

“But, then again, being alive is proof that we were good.”

“This will be your final lesson.”

“I’ll show him he’s only digging his own grave.”

“What’s important on the battlefield is to let go of hate, to survive, and to adhere to the rules you’ve set for yourself.”

“There was no more need for an old soldier like me.”

“Hatred cannot be the only motivation for war. It only brings about more pointless deaths.”

“I will never overcome that grief.”

“I’ll just look on from here.”

“He was unstoppable.”

“It didn’t matter where the battlefield was, the man had complete trust in his own powers.”

“He was born for battle, a Demon Lord who struck down all opposition.”

“He was born for combat. It was no wonder they called him a Demon Lord.”

“That said, it was hell trying to keep up with him.”

“He was cool-headed and proud. A combat professional.”

“Maybe the man was blessed by the goddess of war.”

“Before long, everyone had taken notice of him.”

“People wanted to burn his image in their memories.”

“Hell, they weren’t the only ones.”

“Learn to accept it, kid. This is war.”

“There’s no mercy in war. It’s a collision of powers.”

“Even war has a set of rules to follow!”

“Damn them all…”

“Nobody knew why they were fighting anymore.”

“All I felt at that point was sadness for the world.”

“You gonna get remarried to your girl?”

“We’re both getting married for the first time!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch up.”

“Nah… I’m just sad.”

“There’s no impossible jobs for us mercenaries!”

“Your fairy godmother’s here, Cinderella.”

“How can you say that after what just happened?”

“Today is your lucky day, [name]. Like your birthday.”

“And you’re here to pull me off in a magical carriage, huh? To hell I suppose…”

“Buddy… I’ve found a reason to fight.”

“This is where we go our separate ways.”

“And I like to play polo. You know, the game with the horses?”

“…Maybe we should get going now.”

“I should be able to do that too.”

“This war should be over already.”

“Why would they do this after all that’s happened?”

“I’m going to put an end to this war.”

“We’ll decide when this war ends… And now is not the time.”

“Today is a day of hope.”

“We have to go into battle.”

“Are they being stupid or is it just part of a plan?”

“The rest is up to you.”

“Our lives might’ve been different.”

“I will never forget his overwhelming power.”

“I returned alive from that battlefield.”

“There’s no meaning there now that he’s gone.”

“He soon passed away, leaving me behind.”

“We were only able to spend a short time together in peace and quiet.”

“But those who hearts are in the sky will always return to the sky.”

“And he died there, never to return to me.”

“It’s an awful place, but the fastest shortcut.”

“Don’t even think about heading back.”

“What are you fighting for?”

“I will eliminate the false hero.”

“You will make a worthy opponent.”

“What are you doing?! The war’s ended long ago!”

“It’s time for a perfect world without restrictions or wars.”

“He’s going to destroy everything!”

“I’ll follow [name] to the end!”

“I thought I was watching magic.”

“I’d never felt fear toward an opponent.”

“The same went for my ideals. I wasn’t afraid to take on even an entire country.”

“But when I was fighting him, something felt different.”

“There’s always a war somewhere and I’m sure he’s on some battlefield somewhere fighting even now.”

“He’ll always have a place to live.”

“Let the victor be justice.”

“I was hoping to meet you under different circumstances.”

“The table is surrounded by politicians who have never placed a foot on the battlefield.”

“It’s a necessary discussion to build a peaceful world.”

“It’s a disgusting squabble on who gets the largest share of the pie and that’s why it needs to end.”

“It is for that duty that we raised the King.”

“Let’s begin.”

“This place is no longer a battlefield.”

“Clashing greed is the cause of all conflict.”

“Style and skill does not matter in battle.”

“We will carry out the new creation of destruction through the power of righteousness.”

“Territories, peoples, authorities… All will be liberated.”

“Neither nations nor nationalities have meaning.”

“We will erase these unnecessary borders.”

“The world will change.”

“He’s not destroying anything unnecessarily.”

“This darkness and that little window are my entire world now.”

“I’m actually rather fond of it.”

“The darkness envelops me in a borderless world, a world with no boundaries.”

“No matter what the desired outcome is, the world can still change as long as people expand their knowledge and desire change.”

“If I’m with you, I know I can do it.”

“I’ll follow your lead.”

“We’re gonna stop it, no matter what.”

“I never want to see that barren land again.”

“We’re gonna be rich!”

“We’re gonna be heroes!”

“I’m gonna propose to her when I get back. I even bought flowers!”

“So, have you found a reason to fight yet?”

“Here comes the snow…”

“Those who survive a long time on the battlefield start to think they’re invincible.”

“I bet you do too, Buddy.”

“Can you see any borders from here? What has borders given us?”

“We’re going to start over from scratch.”

“It’s pretty ironic, Buddy. A couple of dogs like us fighting the last battle.”

“There’s no mercy in war. People live and people die. That’s all there is to it.”

“You fired up? Come shoot me down.”

“It’s time.”

“Too bad, Buddy.”

“This twisted game needs to be reset.”

“You’re the only one who can stop him.”

“I pray for your success.”

“You and I are opposite sides of the same coin.”

“When we face each other, we can finally see our true selves.”

“There may be a resemblance, but we never face the same direction.”

“Fire away, coward!”

“Come on!”

“Come on, let’s go back home.”

“We wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting for you.”

“Maybe this was one path to achieve peace.”

“I should have died that day. But I didn’t.”

“I felt an unbearable sadness when I witnessed that landscape.”

“It may be true that the world has no need of borders. But would getting rid of them really change anything?”

“The world won’t change for the better unless we trust people.”

“Trust is vital in a peaceful world.”

“But that’ll never happen.”

“I want to see for myself what borders really mean and what their volition really is…”

“I may not find what I’m looking for but I still wanna try.”

“Anyway, that’s what I’ve come to believe and I think that’s enough.”

“Yo Buddy. Still alive?”

“And thanks friend. See you again.”

“I was never able to find out what kind of a person he really was.”

“But whenever they talked about him, they always had a slight smile on their faces.”

“That, perhaps, might be my answer.”

#Ace Combat Zero #Ace Combat #roleplay meme #roleplay prompt #rp meme #rp prompt

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theonetheycallhannah · 5 years ago

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A Mage’s Beginning-Part One

Summary: Anathema of Velena is sent by the Brotherhood of Sorcerers to a kingdom already decimated by a mighty beast when she happens upon another. One who saves her life…as she saves his.

Pairing: Geralt/OFC (Anathema of Velena)

Word Count: 5k

Rating/Warnings: M for language, discussion of mature themes and situations, alcohol consumption, violence, and reflection on a particularly shitty childhood that could be triggering. Body image triggers. No smut for now. Also, warning that it’s stupid long and only half done! Wow! I’m super sorry! Anathema is kind of a long winded little witch.

Inspiration: Netflix’s The Witcher, that sweet, sweet Cavill bod, and the chocolatey crunch of his “Geralt voice!” (idk why, but that’s the imagery for me. Lol!) Also, Ana inspired by the badassness of Anya Chalotra as Yen, the powerful vulnerability of Anna Shaffer as Triss, and the poise and grace of MyAnna Brunning as Tissaia…I honestly can’t believe that the name Anathema is a total coincidence now. Especially considering that my name…is Hannah, a version of all of these. It just came to me as a cool name.

Author’s Note: Like most of my OFCs (and honestly, even EFCs), Anathema is loosely based on myself. She reacts how I feel I would (or sometimes hope I would) in her situation. For those of you who read “Shape of Her” you’ll know that I’m chubby. Anathema was, as well, before her transformation, and she talks about what it was like for her as a child and adolescent growing up. For me, this was a deeply personal thing to write about. I don’t usually talk about the effect my weight has always had and continues to have on my mental health. I’m very fortunate that, unlike Anathema, I have loving parents that have never treated me this way. But in an odd way, their “help” and concern for my physical health has created this sort of villainous aspect of them in my mind, and I suppose that comes out in Ana’s mother here. At any rate, I should probably go back to a counselor about it, but that’s tough during a pandemic and with my work hours. So I write about it, and I guess there ends up being a bit of validation for her/me when Geralt shows interest (and maybe takes that further in part two...no spoilers here!). Not that any of it’s completely healthy, but at least it’s kinda cathartic and fun in the moment if you don’t think too hard about it. I hope the monologue doesn’t bog you down and make you lose interest. If it does, just skip it. It won’t hurt my feelings.

Also, I’m sure my spells are total baloney compared to what’s in the books and deffo to what’s in the show. I just wanted to write something down to sort of show the power being expelled by Ana. These are probably way more Hogwarts than Aretuza! Lol!

Tag List: @sunflowersstan @mylittlepartofthegalaxy @mstgsmy @lareinedususpense @geekycanuck and @littlefreya (omg it let me tag you this time, Freya!) I didn’t tag some of you that I tagged before in Shape of Her, just because I didn’t know if that was something you wanted. (basically, if I didn’t get a concrete response one way or the other, or I wasn’t fairly sure you’d want a tag, I didn’t tag you. I still love all of you!) Please let me know if you want to be tagged or if you want me not to tag you in things! I will not be offended! Also, this is not smutty. It’s pre-smut. lol!

Anathema of Velena was a mage of little renown. Powerful enough, but nothing compared to someone such as Yennefer of Vengerberg. She had worked so hard at Aretuza and all Rectoress Tissaia de Vries could manage to tell her most days was “You could not organize a pair of gloves, Ana. How do you expect to be able to control chaos? I’m not even convinced you have any chaos in you.” She turned away, calling the five other girls out of the lightning tower, some of whom had ampules filled with crackling white light. The rest were in various states of injury from singes to limps. Anathema…well, she had nothing. The lightning didn’t come near her. She left the tower without a prize, but filled with shame, uninjured from the typical failed attempt. She didn’t know why it was worse, but it very much was.

It took her years to finally get over that day.

Her first assignment the brotherhood sent her on was, well, it hardly mattered now, because the city, the whole kingdom was now rent by some foul beast. She’d been sent to help. But had arrived too late. She heaved one of her deeper sighs. “Fuck.” She let out audibly. She’d have to make camp. For the third night. At least. Maybe it was the fifth. She wasn’t certain. But it seemed like too long. She dismounted her chestnut mare, Clove, and started to get her supplies down for her modest tent. Modest, meaning that it appeared modest to the casual observer.

Inside, however, when she’d cast her enchantments, it was almost like home, complete with a full bed, soaking tub, fireplace, table, chairs, and a lovely lounge with a settee and chaise. One of her favorite things about Magic was being able to pack heavy while still traveling light. She was even able to bring a small book collection.

She’d just finished setting everything up and was casting the necessary protective enchantments to the perimeter of her site when she heard a rustle in the bushes about twenty yards away. She attempted to remain calm, but was terrified. She carried only a small silver dagger and a steel short sword that she rubbed with a silver infused oil which she made when she came across good silver and decent tallow. It wore off, but the silver oiled blade was a good compromise when you couldn’t carry both silver and steel. What was she, a fucking Witcher? Anyway, she drew her dagger, but conjured a revelatory wall around her so she could see who or what was out there hunting her. She prayed it wasn’t a kikimore. Anything but a kikimore, she thought. Those shits gave her the creeps. Give her an iron toothed wyvern, or the king of dragons, himself. She could conjure in battle against the best of beasts born of magic, but those insects…no.

There came a keening howl unlike anything she’d ever heard. A drowning scream that almost sounded like it was coming from under the water. Then too many pairs of glowing green eyes started appearing from said bushes. They were horrifying lizard-fish people. And they were walking toward her camp. It would be all too soon that they would walk through the invisibility shield as she hadn’t been able to cast any deflective measures yet. They’d breach her camp in minutes if she didn’t act. She prepared to cast a fire spell on them, hoping that would work, when she heard a deep male voice behind her growl an order.

“Get down! Hide!” Pardon me? She thought. This guy didn’t know who he was dealing with.

It appeared though that she didn’t, either.

The voice had come from a very tall and amply muscled horseman. He wore no armor, only a dark linen tunic tucked into leather breeks, and tall black boots. All was weathered and smelled heavily of horse, ale, and sweat. He quickly dismounted in that way that some men do in which they swing their leg over the horse’s head instead of around the rear. This was the way that, even in her terror, made her feel an unfamiliar but pleasant stirring in the pit of her stomach.

His hair, which she had presumed blonde at first, she noted now to be silvery grey, and well past his shoulders. Maybe longer than her own. He grabbed a sword from the large sheath on his saddle and stalked toward the oncoming rabble of sodden predators.

She thought…she might have been mistaken but she was fairly sure he’d grabbed a steel sword. Steel would not be very effective on these monsters, if she had sized them up right. She looked to his saddle, seeing the hilt of another blade there. She stepped toward it and slid it out to reveal that this was precisely what had happened. He’d grabbed the wrong weapon in his haste. Well. He was dead. She grabbed the silver sword, sheathing her dagger, and marching toward the scrum around the well-meaning muscle head.

“Selectum ignitus!” She chanted as she wrought her hand in the corresponding motion. This spell burned only victims she chose, leaving others unharmed. It had only stunned these creatures, but it was enough time to allow her would-be hero to catch a small break from his blunder. His thick neck was still in the spindly clutches of one of the largest fish men, apparently less susceptible to fire than the others. Ana stepped up behind him, and with the silver sword, sliced his head clean off at the neck.

“Here.” She said as she tossed him the weapon, the steel sword somewhere on the forest floor to be found later. “They’re waking back up.”

“Mmm.” He mumbled. Right. He was welcome. All this gratitude was just making her blush.

They fought well together, surprisingly. She with her magic and dagger, and he with his signs and sword. She could feel it when he cast them. She noticed him using Aard, so she started casting more similar spells herself. The skirmish was over in minutes. All of the beasts had fallen and she looked at her newfound comrade, both of them covered in blood and muck.

“That was…fun!” She said, in earnest.

“Hmm.” He responded. As if to say, sure, whatever, freak. And began hovering over the corpses, rummaging in his satchel.

“So…these handsome fellows. I’ve never come across them.” She waited a beat, hoping he’d just answer her, knowing that’s what she meant for him to do. Oh, okay. This wasn’t the kind of guy he was. Fair. “What are they?”

“Drowners. Bigger ones are called drowned dead. They come out of the nearby bodies of water.”

How nice. Surely she wouldn’t have any nightmares about that. She'd heard of drowners, as a coastal dweller, but had been fortunate enough to never see one. Until tonight.

“And…not that it’s my business, but…you’re doing what exactly?”

He sighed. “These remains have a lot of useful potion ingredients. I never waste a kill if I can help it. Ginatz’s Acid doesn’t grow on trees, does it?”

“No tree I’ve ever seen, no.” She laughed. He didn’t. Well. This guy would just be a barrel of fun, it seemed. But he did just try to save her life. She should attempt to repay him that kindness. Even if he failed a bit at first, she didn’t know what she would have done if he hadn’t been there.

“Hey, I have a few more spells to do before my camp is fortified for the night, but then I was going to have some dinner in my tent. I have plenty, if you’d like to join. As a thank you for helping me tonight.”

“Camp?”

“Tempora Portia.” She swept her arm down to create a window in the cloaking spell so he could see her camp in the clearing.

He saw the small tent, that looked as though barely two people could lie down in it, much less sit for a meal.

He eyed her warily. “I think you’ll be lucky enough to eat in there by yourself with just a bowl and a spoon.”

“Ever heard of not judging a book by its cover?” She asked. “Trust me. I have a plump pheasant, some really delicious herbs I got on the way here from Aretuza, and some lovely wine! I’ve been saving it until I got here to share with the court, but…” she looked sheepishly at the ruined city on the hillside. “You’re clearly the only surviving citizen, Sir….”

“Geralt. Just Geralt. I’m not a citizen. I was commissioned to come here, just as you were. Only I was sent by…the neighbors…to eliminate the threat before it reached them, too.”

“Right. Geralt. I’m Anathema of Velena. Nice to meet you, and thank you for saving my life tonight.”

“Anathema, thanks for saving mine. And I guess, I’ll take you up on dinner.”

~~~~~~

She told him to finish his scavenging, and cast a charm onto him and his horse, Roach, to allow them to enter through her custom enchantments.

When she was finished securing her campsite, she went inside her tent to clean up. She conjured lots of warm fragrant water into her copper tub. It would have been more relaxing had she not been covered in the muck of battle. The drowner guts were slimy like fish entrails on her skin and in her hair. She was fairly certain that she also had blood from both her own wounds and Geralt’s spattered across what skin had been exposed during the fight.

She reached for her sponge and a bar of soap that smelled of lilac, one of her favorites, and scrubbed until all of the muck, mud, and blood was gone from her skin and hair.

She felt a telltale shudder come from the perimeter of her camp, indicating that her would-be rescuer and his steed had stepped through them. She had put up sheer modesty curtains somewhat arbitrarily, but today she was glad for them. She had just stepped out of the tub and was fully naked when Geralt entered.

“Erm.” He cleared his throat simultaneously announcing his presence and asking if he could come in. She must applaud him for his excellent communication skills.

“Come on in, I’ll be right there.”

She donned a simple, modest wrap dress that went well beyond the duty of a bath robe and looked infinitely more chic, and piled her damp, dark hair into a messy coil high on her head.

“So glad you could join me. Did you get everything you wanted from the creatures?”

“Everything they could give me. Yes.”

“Good. Well, I’ve not started dinner yet, but it won’t be very long. Why don’t you have a bath? You look like you’ve been riding for weeks with no sleep and you’re caked in the muck of a dozen battles like the one we were just in. I’ll clean and mend your clothes, too.”

“I’m fine thank you.”

“Oh, please? You’ll enjoy dinner so much more if you’re not concerned with how you smell…plus my table isn’t so big that…I couldn’t smell you too.” She giggled. “So as a courtesy to your cook and table mate?”

She looked at him with her doe eyes. Maybe that would work. She loved helping people and making them feel better. She thought he was restraining a smirk. He complied with a grunt and a nod.

“Splendid. I’ll get you some wine, too. I love wine with a bath! Don’t you!?”

“That and silence.” Point taken. She’d let him relax.

He stood in the corner of the bathing alcove as she conjured bath water for him.

“Agua fragra fieretta.” she spoke, and the tub filled with steamy water that smelled like spearmint, cedar, and a hint of lavender. Her own had smelled so different. She hadn’t realized it seemed to change depending on who you were drawing the bath for, never having done so for anyone but herself.

She dug around for a sandalwood soap and a new sponge and set them out for him on the small side table.

“Here you are. I’ll be right back with your penis! I mean, woah. Sorry.” She had turned around at the wrong moment. She knew he’d been taking off his shirt when she was rummaging. But she assumed modesty would mandate that he wait for her to leave before removing his trousers. She had been mistaken. He stood there as naked as the day the midwife pulled him from his mother, hands on his hips just like it was the most blasé thing to ever happen.

“It’s fine. I don’t really think about being shy anymore. Sorry. My clothes are on that stool if you want them. Thanks.”

“Right, great. I’ll be right back with a towel and wine. That’s what I was going to say before. And yeah, then I’ll see what I can do for those clothes.”

She left, procured the wine and a towel, and hurried back, placing the cup audibly on the table so she didn’t have to speak to him. She was so embarrassed. She grabbed his clothes and sat them on the settee for later. She was somehow both glad and disappointed that he did not acknowledge her.

Now, she needed to work on dinner. She’d gotten a lovely pheasant this afternoon with her bow. She’d been gathering fragrant herbs of all kinds along her journey and had traded some of them at market for potatoes, carrots, garlic and pearl onions. She prepped the pheasant, stuffing it with the vegetables, herbs, and some salt and pepper, and rubbed it down on the outside with some olive oil and seasoning. She placed it in her camp oven to cook in the infused oil and its own juices, basting it every so often.

She magically cleaned and mended Geralt’s clothes and tried unsuccessfully not to think about the body that they covered. His arms were as thick as the average man’s legs and his legs were not unlike tree trunks, albeit much more shapely. His chest was monolithic with two great pecs and six well-defined abs. He was also perfectly hairy. No one would confuse him with a bear, but this was definitely no boy. No boy, at all. And Mother Melitele herself would weep at the sight of the cock on this man. Long. At least halfway down his thigh. She didn’t get that good a look, but she thought it was veiny. And it was definitely thick…although she couldn’t compare it to much. To anything, really. Not even the instruments used on her the day she ascended to her current state of perfection. She'd been given powerful herbs to sedate her until the transformation was complete.

She’d arrived at Aretuza a sluggish and overweight wallflower with tiny breasts. When she went over her desires for her new form with the “miracle worker” as she liked to call him, she asked him to upgrade her in every way he could, but to keep her eyes the same shade of green they’d always been. She’d felt that the eyes were too directly attached to the soul and to change them was going too far. The rest, however, was fair game.

And this was her first assignment since her ascension, so she hadn’t been anywhere but her home, which was an unforgiving place, and Aretuza. Little opportunity for romance had presented itself. And she wasn’t even sure how romance would go for her at this point. Were mages adored for their power? Beauty? Or who they were as people independent of those attributes? Was that all she was now? A beautiful magician? She suddenly felt a small pang of regret.

Her eyes shifted involuntarily now to the bath partition. Must have been the movement she caught out of the corner of her eye. Geralt was taking a drink of wine, a very long drink, and when he set the goblet back down, he leaned his head back with a contented sigh. She took the clothes back to the stool when she’d finished, smiled at the scarred, and incredibly heroic man before her, and popped away to finish dinner.

~~~~~~~

She busied herself setting the table with modest candles, and conjuring an extra setting for Geralt. She filled a pitcher with an “agua potum” spell and put her wine vessel out. As she was tabling the pheasant, her eye caught movement again in the “bath room.” Geralt had gotten out of the tub and was drying off. His back was no less impressive than his front and his ass was like a fresh, crisp apple. She’d always loved apples. In her dreamy haze, she'd come too close to the hot camp oven and burned her hand. She let out a whispered but audible “fuck” and brought her hand quickly to her mouth to cool the fire with saliva.

It helped a little, but not much. She continued to prepare as Geralt got dressed and he was out right as dinner was on, wine goblet in hand.

“Smells nice.” He complemented. She was shocked, but still in a lot of pain from the burn.

“It better be the best fucking thing I’ve eaten in ages to make it worth searing the skin off my finger here!” She put her hand to her mouth again, and brought it out, shaking it.

He sat his goblet on the table and went outside, all without a word. She was confused. Wondering how she could have offended him, but honestly, not really caring. She’d tried. She sat down. Exhausted. He came back in with the satchel he’d been wearing and packing with solutions from those corpses.

He walked around the table to kneel in front of her, held out his hand, and raised his eyebrow expectantly. She gave him her injured hand, extending her index finger to indicate the affected area.

“You know, I’ve seen men lose half their faces to fire. This isn’t so bad.” He rifled through the bag for a vial of clear oil with bits of purple floating in it.

“Did they live?” She asked, amused.

“A few.” He smirked, dabbing a small amount of the oil onto his index finger and applying it to hers.

Her relief was instant and evident on her face.

“Wow, that feels so much better. Thank you! What is that?”

“A simple infusion. Oil of lavender. Here.” He gave her the vial.

“Oh I couldn’t.”

“Take it. I make more all the time. It’s damn near free. I’ll show you how, too, so you're prepared for next time. It’s essential for a healer’s kit. Many uses.” These were more words than she’d heard him speak all together since they’d met. She decided not to remark upon it.

“Well thank you. I hope you’re hungry! I think the pheasant is ready to be torn!”

They filled their plates with juicy, savory sections of the bird and large chunks of the vegetables that had become pleasantly tender inside it. Thyme and rosemary, onion and garlic danced off the tongue, complimented by the salt and a dash of ground peppercorn for zest. For once, a meal tasted even better than it had smelled and she had forgotten the terror of the fight with the drowners, the pain of her burn, even the startling sight of the naked man in her tent, and relaxed into the pleasure of a delicious meal.

This is one of the reasons I was fat before, she told herself. And made sure she stopped eating before she'd filled herself to gluttony.

She noticed that her companion was eating…enthusiastically. She was on the verge of saying ravenously, but there was an element of refinement to it that forbade her from using the more savage descriptor. He seldom drank, and most rarely from his water cup. He liked the wine, then. She liked this fellow. Quite a lot. He stabbed large portions onto his fork and put them easily into his wide mouth. But even though he took larger bites, he did take his time in chewing, savoring the succulent food. She appreciated this from him.

"You're going to have to finish the poor bird off. I'm stuffed." she patted her tummy, demure now, as it had never been in her recent memory.

"Hmm." he grunted in protest. This one she couldn't quite translate past general disagreement.

"What?" she prodded.

"We both know you didn't need any help taking down this bird alone. Even with the vegetables. It's all incredible, by the way. Best meal I've had in ages."

"First of all, thank you, I quite liked it too, and secondly, it's called restraint. Ever heard of it?" she sassed him back.

"I've heard of it, yes. Can't say we've ever crossed paths, though." he held her gaze as he drank deeply from his goblet. Was it suddenly warmer in the tent?

"Well, it might be a good idea to seek it out here and there." she said, hiding well the feathers he'd just ruffled. "Food and I have a volatile history. I have to show restraint or all of this is gone." she indicated her physical form. She hadn't truly intended to make him look at her, but he was. He was holding her in his gaze in a way that was utterly alien to her.

"Mmm." he grunted, as if to express his understanding.

"But enough about me. What about you? It's not every day I meet a witcher!"

His amber eyes met hers, inscrutable, but not pleased.

"You knew."

"Of course I knew. I have eyes and ears, and all kinds of senses working. And all of them caught wind of what you were the moment you dismounted your horse."

"And yet you helped me. Fought with me. Saved me."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Most people don't want a witcher around. They'd prefer the monsters we kill. Even when we're summoned to communities, invited, we're a pariah until the job is done. We're seen as the…lesser evil."

"Tell me Geralt. Did you make the choice to become a witcher?"

"No."

"Do you think I made the choice to be a conduit?" This question, he didn't answer. She thought he may not know. She decided then to tell him her story. How she came to be a mage, and the hell she went through to get where she was.

"Do you know what my nickname was as a child? It wasn't anything cute, like a vegetable or fruit or a baked good, or even a cuddly little creature, no. No term of endearment would suit me. I was called 'Rat.' Because you see, as I mentioned, I have a complicated past where food is concerned, and this comes from my youth. When I would sneak into the pantries and steal food. My mother and the staff thought at first there was a large rat, or even a raccoon behind the lost inventory, for at first, I left behind traces and made a mess of things. But after a while, I got good. Covered my tracks. Then mother started blaming the staff. Beating them, then firing most of them. No one seemed to notice how fat I was getting. Me being the middle of five girls. Eldest two sisters already married off to wealthy business men from town and bringing the bratty little grandchildren around, the younger girls learning dance and music, and generally being full of charm. I was in the background. Until one night, mother found me. She was searching the pantry for a tonic for indigestion when she saw me burrowing, trying to hide between sacks of potatoes. She hauled me out and dove for a long wooden spoon on the worktop in the kitchen. She beat me bloody with that spoon. I couldn't sit and could hardly walk for days."

She took a drink from her goblet, fortifying her. She didn't tell this story often. In fact, she hadn’t told anyone but her best friend Codrick, the blacksmith's apprentice. And that had taken many years.

"She started giving me smaller portions at dinner. Insisting that I wouldn't find a husband in my current state and threatening to sell me to a brothel if I didn't marry in good time. I was nearly starving, but still not getting thin fast enough to satisfy her. She made me run around the perimeter of our grounds. If I wasn't back in time, she'd set our wild bull out after me. There were a few times I was nearly gored. But I kept sneaking into the cupboards late at night. They were locked now, but once I told Codrick what was happening, he helped me by forging me a spare key. She kept calling me 'Rat' which was interesting. As if the sneaking and stealing was the more deplorable side of me than my actual size. She never called me 'Pig.' Perhaps because at least pigs had a use. Pigs could be sold or slaughtered for food. Rats were just a nuisance. The last time she caught me, she hauled me into the kitchen and reached for her wooden spoon again. But this time, when she reared back to strike at me, the spoon had turned into a vicious raven. It squalled and flailed and she let go of it, shooing it away. But it didn't relent. It clawed and pecked at her head and face until her hair was patchy and ragged and her face was a bloody mess. One eye was completely gone, the other, likely to be lost. But she could see well enough to tell where the raven landed after it had left her alone. Right beside me, as if it was trying to calm my still quivering form."

"So that was your conduit moment?" Geralt asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes. Lady de Vries showed up at our door not a moment too soon. The Madame from the local brothel had just agreed to my mother's price. There was a rather tense moment where the money had already changed hands and Tissaia had to threaten both women with rather unpleasant repercussions. She was having me and there would be no arguments. Actually, though, the whole experience of being fought over gave me the confidence I needed to confess my true feelings to Codrick and kiss him before we left the town. I'd fancied him for years but never had the guts to tell him."

"I'm sure you have a point to telling me this life story of yours." Geralt said, patiently, but clearly ready for her to wrap it up.

"Right. Sorry. My point is, most of us that are born or imbued with magic have some story like this. I'm certain you're no different. I could go on with horrors at Aretuza, too, just like I'm sure you could with stories of…where was it you were trained? Kaer Morhen?"

He looked at her skeptically.

"Wolf amulet around your neck. School of the Wolf. I thought that was Kaer Morhen."

"Mmhmm." oh, a two syllable grunt. His vocabulary was proving vast.

"Why shun you over a life you didn't choose? And if I have a fucked up past too, and I'm still dealing with that trauma, what right would I have to dismiss you or consider you an unworthy brother in arms? Or dinner companion? Or maybe even travel companion? After all, we fought well together and we don't know what's out there laying waste to the countryside."

"Suppose you're right."

"About which part?" this always happened to her as someone who never shut up. She never knew whether "you're right" was a blanket statement covering an entire monologue, or just certain parts that someone wanted to subscribe to.

"The first part. I'm still not sure about traveling companions. Or mages, if I'm honest. No offense."

"None taken. If it makes you feel better, I'm still very new to being a mage. I don't have any bad mage habits. I'm not even that good of a mage. I had to hand assemble this tent before I spelled it."

"Well, you did a fine job." he chuckled. "It looked…sturdy, from the outside."

"That's what I was going for. And why don't you just…try me for this expedition. I'll sign a contract saying that it's not your fault if I die. Not that anyone would care. Plus, we'll live in luxury every night, and I can make anything taste delicious with bare minimum ingredients."

"Tempting, but won't it be a little…cozy with both of us in here?"

She looked at him, incredulous.

"Remember the part where I'm a mage?" she walked over to the sitting area and contorted her hands toward the wall. "Addendum Sanctorum."

She beckoned him through a new flap in the canvas to a modest, but still accommodating room with a large, plush bed, a few sturdy, simple chairs, a small table, and a bathing area of its own, complete with a stash of sponges, soaps, and towels.

"See? It may not be all of the comforts of home, but it's hardly roughing it compared to the alternative, am I wrong?" She turned to look at him, but he was much closer than she'd expected him to be. She looked directly up into that piercing amber gaze that was unlike any she'd seen before. And he looked so…dangerous. And yet she wasn't afraid. At least not primarily. What she was mostly feeling was desire. She wanted those strong, skilled hands to touch her. She wanted to be held. She hadn't been held since she was a child. And a very young one, at that. She could feel something mutual coursing between them. And that was the thing that terrified her. The thought that he might be hungry for her in that way. He ran his hand along the slope of her temple and cheek down to her chin.

"I don't recall saying I'd mind sharing a cozy space with you, Ana."

TBC in Part Two

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher #netflix #netflix the witcher #geralt x ofc #geralt fanfic #geralt of rivia x ofc #smut to follow #i promise

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diddlesanddoodles · 5 years ago

Text

Dumpling ch. 17

(author’s notes: I’M NOT DEAD!)

Keral sent along his message to Hev the blacksmith informing him of Nenani’s need for a new marker with a servant who came to replenish the wine decanter and deliver a few papers and notes to Maevis. Once a fresh post of tea had been brewed and Keral’s wine glass filled, they got to work.

In no time at all, the number of books being taken down from the shelves were taking over the table and along with them came seemingly endless rolls of parchment upon which Maevis furiously scribbled as many notes and citations as his quill and ink could produce. Keral, for his role, thumbed through various books and whenever he came upon something, he slipped a small piece of parchment in the page and sat it before the magician. The library had taken on an air of solemnity.

However, as was his nature, Jae did not much care for the weight of the room and did his best to keep the mood from sinking any further.

“So a smoke mage,” he wondered aloud to to one in particular, lounging against a stack of books. “What makes a smoke mage so dangerous? Because by the name alone, I think the fellow may have drawn the short end of the magic stick.”

“No mage is inherently dangerous,” Barnaby said. “But we do not know this mage’s intentions and what we do know is that they are violent and not above meaningless killing.��

He was on his second cup of tea and comfortably seated on a cushion close to where Maevis was working. After trying to aide in the research himself and suffering a slight dizzy spell, Maevis all but demanded that the old archivist sit and rest.

“It won’t do to tire yourself, my friend,” the magician had told the human gently in an attempt to mask his worry. “Best rest a while.”

“I am fine,” Barnaby replied with a disregarding wave, but he still lowered himself onto the cushion nonetheless. “Just a bit over excited, mind you. I’ll be right as rain in a bit.”

“Not very nice t’be worryin’ old Meeves now,” Keral added. “He already frets over ya like a hen. Won’t be helpin’ ‘im much to be actin’ fragile, eh? Let us do the heavy liftin’ and if ya remember anything, we’ll write it down.”

Barnaby huffed mildly at being accused of acting fragile, but stayed put and did not refuse Jae when he handed him his tea. Nenani watched with confusion as the two giants worked and fussed and Jae fidgeted. She knew very little of magic and prior to meeting Maevis, she had never seen it used.

“What’s a mage?” she asked.

All at once, she became the focus of the room and she felt her face flush. Perhaps it had been a silly question.

“Well,” Maevis began thoughtfully. “A mage is a person who uses magic.”

“Like the kind of magic you do?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” he replied patiently. “I learned magic from studying it in books and from other magicians. A mage does not learn magic, they are born with it. Sometimes they are called Elementals, because a mage’s magic often times coincides with a particular element.”

“Like fire?” she asked. “Fire mages?”

“Correct,” Maevis replied. “Though it is also important to note that while all Elementals are considered mages, not all mages are Elementals.”

Nenani made a face. “I...I don’t...huh?”

Keral laughed at her as he sat a book down. “Elementals are human, but one of us big folk could be a mage. We just wouldn’t be called an Elemental. Like that Bertol fellow.”

Now it was Maevis’s turn to make a face and Keral released a loud bark of a laugh.

“Oh, come now,” Keral replied. “Don’t y’know Bertol is the greatest prophet who ever lived?”

“Bertol the bumbling buffoon,” Maevis replied dryly, “Is as much a prophet as that tea pot over there and not nearly so useful. And only by the skin of his teeth does he have any right to claim himself a mage.”

Keral grinned, laughing. “Don’t care fer his ramblings either then? Hm. Neither does the King.”

“I would not blame King Warren if he should one day decide to place that idiot in the stockades and conveniently forget him.”

“Who is Bertol?” Nenani asked, glancing between the two giants, feeling more confused than ever. Mages, Elementals, and now prophets?

“Bertol is a Vhasshallan mage,” Maevis replied sourly. “He is thought by many in Vhasshal to hold the gift of foresight. That he can see the future and make predictions based upon his visions. He was the one responsible for the Gold prophecy.”

“Gold…?” she asked, trailing off.

“It’s why Warren’s called the Gold King,” Jae added before biting into a biscuit.

Seeing her confusion, Keral reached for a book sitting on the edge of the table, a smallish black volume with gold lettering, and he flipped it open and began to read. His voice was even and mellow, but the words that sprouted from his lips brought with them a sickening sensation of her guts being pulled and ice dripping down her spine.

“The river runs uphill to the dying songs of the fall of fools and Kings that tear flesh from bone and the crown from the mountain. Water runs red with fire and shall rise when the old blood runs new. The flesh taken will be paid in blood and the dead walls will rise with gold.”

He closed the book with a snap and tilted his head down to regard Nenani with an open expression, but froze, brows drawing together, and he bent down. “Ya alright there lass? Yer a bit pale.”

In depths of her memory, she could feel the cool stone of the catacomb and see the empty hollows that once held eyes of those that had once been a person. Those voices chanting. Her dreams that played out in her mind every night. The smell of smoke, the screams of men dying as the fishing boats burned. A man in black, his face obscured by the skull of a stag. Her Uncle calling to her as he died.

And those words…

“...shall rise when the old blood runs new.”

She felt thick fingers wrap around her shoulders and Kerals voice broke through the fog of her mind. Abruptly she broke free and she was no longer within herself but back at the library. The scent of smoke and ash replaced by that of parchment and ink and tea. And Keral’s body odor.

She met his eyes and was surprised to find her cheeks wet. “I...I don’t know...”

“Oi now, don’t go lettin’ them words scare ya. Yer alright,” he told her quietly. “Nothin’ to be upset about. They’re just words, remember. Besides, it already came to pass. Nothin’ to fear, eh?”

Barnaby and Jae were both studying her with a mixture of expressions from worried to bewildered. Now aware that everyone was intently focusing in on her, Nenani flushed and scrubbed at her cheeks in slight embankment. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

“You’ve had quite a day,” Maevis said, an air of suggestion in his tone. With a gloved hand, he waved behind towards the door just beyond the curtain. “Would you like to have a rest?”

“Best thing t’do would get ya back to th’ kitchens,” Keral added as he rubbed his chin in contemplation. “But if ya showed up without a marker, Farris would have a right apoplexy.”

“Yeah, Hev’s work is good,” said Jae. “But metal working takes time. And it’ll take most of the afternoon for Connor to do the detail work.”

Nenani shook her head. “I’m fine. I don’t need to rest. That poem, er – prophecy. I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t know it was a prophecy.”

Maevis expression of concern shifted into mild disdain. “Yes, well. I wouldn’t put much weight nor worry to those words. The one responsible for that dribble has as much foresight as a week old turnip.”

“First a tea pot and now he’s a turnip,” Jae sniggered. “So which one is he?”

“What has that poor old buggar done to earn your ire, Meeves,” Keral asked. “Didn’t think you had it in ya t’hold a grudge. Even against someone deserving of it.”

Maevis took a moment to take a long and slow breath, placing his folded hands atop the table, and seemed to collect himself.

“Anyone can string together phrases with grandiose words so vague as to be perfectly useless,” Maevis replied, his irritation smoothed over, but still there. “There are many who take themselves for grand prophets and mostly their predictions fall to deaf ears. Bertol has managed to convince people his words are true and by the God’s graces, I haven’t the foggiest inclination as to why they would listen to him, of all people.”

“He had good timing,” Keral offered in response. “Folks were looking for something to cling to. They'll cling to hope if they smell it. Makes ‘em desperate.”

“My meaning, precisely, Keral! Words have power when people make it so. Bertol’s words were hallow and meaningless. Just enough vague enough for opportunistic fiends to take advantage. They see themselves in his words and are convinced that they’re meant to grander things. Bertol’s words are reckless. And therefore, dangerous.”

…………………………………………….

“Tell me master Barnabas,” Keral said with surprise formality. He sat in the same chair, but his glass of wine had been replaced by a cup of tea by Maevis after the ranger had all but drained the pitcher all on his own. Beside him stood a small stack of books. Maevis held his own cup and nursed it. Beside him sat a much more impressive amass of books and tomes.

They had paused their research for a break and Barnaby was looking over the slate he had given to Nenani to draw on, showing her how to hold the chalk and how to use the lines to create an image. Keral had been watching them with an enigmatic expression, though Nenani tried not to let it bother her. Keral had managed to subvert her expectations of what kind of a person he was, but there were occasions she had caught glimpses of something else.

Something that she could not help but feel nervous about. But no one else seemed at all concerned, so Nenani decided she was just being silly.

At hearing his name, Barnaby looked to Keral inquisitively and the ranger continued. “How common was red hair in Silvaara?”

The question was odd. Odd enough to catch the room by surprise and then as a consequence, all eyes turned to Nenani. The only one of them with red hair.

Feeling the weight of their curious eyes, she shrank away from their peering gazes. “What?”

Barnaby turned back to Keral, perplexed. “Not too common. Black or brown is more common, such as young master Jae. I myself had brown hair. When I was young. And had hair. Why?”

“What about the highborns?” Keral asked. “Nobles and the like?”

Barnaby’s eyed widened as understanding struck him. “Oh. Well, red was much more common. A genetic consequence of the blood purity obsession that took over the last decades. Though it was wildly held as truth that those with red hair were born of fire and were more likely to hold the Flower’s blessing.”

Jae watched with mild curiosity and then laughed, eyeing Keral skeptically. “What? You think Nenani’ might be a long lost highborn?”

Keral shrugged. “I get curious. The Hill tribes are all brown and black haired save for the last one Farris picked up from Dornbey. Poor sod had quite the reception when I delivered ‘im to Gregis. It was all m’lord this and m’lord that. Practically swarmed th’fellow. He was already outta his head. Poor bastard.”

“Well,” Barnaby continued, glancing at Nenani. “That was one subject I had hoped to broach with you dear. As Jae may have explained, I am an archivist and I write histories. Whenever a human comes to live here on castle grounds I write down their histories. To persevere what little of Silvaara remains. And after your first visit and all that transpired, I had quite forgotten to ask you about who your parents were as I did not want to upset you any further. And Keral has made a fine point. Your hair color tells me I may be able to find your family history if you can tell me your family name.”

“Family name?” Nenani asked, thinking back. “I don’t think we have one...”

“Oh, nonsense,” Barnaby replied. “Everyone has a family name. We’ll start with your father, then. What was his name? Many families passed down names to the first born sons. I might be able to trace you to a particular family.”

“That’s how I got my name.” Jae added in.

“Hayron,” Nenani said. “Papa’s name was Hayron.”

Barnaby, who had taken up a quill and spare parchment to take notes, paused and he peeked over the top of the parchment with raised eyebrows. “Hayron, you said?”

Nenani nodded. “Yes. My Uncle’s name was Halden.”

He placed the the quill and parchment on his lap and seemed to consider her for a moment as though seeking something in her face. After a long moment, he asked “And you’re mother?”

His tone was quiet and almost...seeking?

“Oira.”

The longing look in his eyes dissipated and he nodded. Almost sadly, as though he was disappointed in her answer. “Oira. Hm. I do not know that name. But I do remember Haryon.”

Nenani blinked. “Huh? You knew Papa?”

“And Halden in some respects, though I cannot recall ever speaking to him very much. He took his duties quite seriously, if I’m remembering correctly. They were junior members of the Thorn Guard.”

“Yes!” Nenani exclaimed excitedly. “He told he once that he was in the Thorn Guard. But I don’t know what that is.”

“Oh, whoa. Thorn guards?” She heard Jae whistle and glanced back at him to find her fellow human grinning. Behind him, Keral was expressionless, but his eyes were sharp and focused and she knew his interest had been peaked.

“Hayron is an old name that is fairly common among the Thorn Guard families. However, I only knew one Hayron with a brother named Halden. They were the sons of Captain Hayier.”

Nenani was quiet a moment. “I remember his sword. It had thrones on it. The one they think killed him.”

Barnaby’s eyes turned sad and empathetic and he sighed. “Your father was a good man. Dedicated to his duty and family. All sons of Thorn Guards were under immense pressure to perform and live up to expectations. Competition for high ranks was fierce and even being the son of the captain was not a guarantee of a rank. He earned his mark. As did his brother. I am sorry to know that fate was not so kind to him in the end.”

“So would that make her a Daelg?” Keral asked suddenly. “Or was it Daeleg? I was never much for studying all them Silvaaran Houses.”

“You had it correct, sir. It is Daelg. Unless there was another pair of brothers named Hayron and Halden in the Thorn Guard,” the archivist replied with a grin. “I would be most confident that you’re family name is Daelg.”

The name did not stir any memories and it felt foreign and odd. However, she was not nearly as curious in regards to the name as the revelation that Barnaby had known her father. She had questions now. So many questions. But mostly, she just wanted to know him more. It seemed forever ago that he died. A whole world away in another time. Another life even.

“So, she is highborn?” Jae asked, glancing between Barnaby and Nenani. “I don’t have to start calling her m’lady do I?”

Keral snorted into his drink and turned away to cough into his elbow.

“No, the Thorn Guards were not nobility,” Barnaby replied, amused. “They were in a caste all their own. Above merchants and below Nobles. Once upon a time, marriage between them and highborns was permitted, but it was almost always for a financial gain or the belief that the two would produce exceptional progeny. However it fell out of favor decades prior to the war and in someways expressly forbidden in the name of blood purity. The King and therefore his court were all obsessed with the idea of pure blood. The more pure the line, the higher chance that they would produce a mage of fire.”

“Fire Mages.” Keral added with a final and disdainful cough to clear the tea from his lungs. “Crazy bunch of inbreds.”

“So,” Jae asked. “Speaking of Mages and all that. What exactly is a smoke mage, then? If that’s what you think might be skulking around the countryside killing Vhasshalans.”

“It is an ancient variety of deviant magic. So rare, there does not seem to be any contemporary sources ever describing the existence of one,” Barnaby replied. “But when I was a lad, I was told that a smoke mage is a fire mage that sinned so greatly that the Gods stripped them of their blessing and their fire and leaving only the smoldering ruin of a person. Cursed to wander the world, creating chaos, and suffering in their wake.”

“Well,” Keral said, standing and stretching out his back. “Smoke mage or not, I’ll be needin’ more to work with than an old folk tale. I appreciate your help lads, but until we know more, the only thing to be done is to be out there scoutin’ and reportin’.”

“You’re going back out?” Jae asked. “You just got back.”

“Not tonight. I’ll be with the boys organizing the routes first. First light tomorrow, perhaps,” Keral regarded the boy with a lopsided grin. “Why? D’ya miss me when I ain’t here to hold yer hand, lad?”

Jae glared at the giant. “No.”

“Yer welcome t’use my room when I’m out if ya be needin’ a place to hold up,” Keral said. “Beats sleepin’ in them moldy tunnels.”

Jae glowered, his cheeks flushed. “No thanks. Your room smells like armpits. Besides, I like the tunnels. You bastards can’t go in after me.”

“Young master Jae,” Barnaby snapped indignantly. “I cannot condone such language. Least of all when a young lady is present.”

“It always amazed me how that for a King’s ward,” Maevis observed with a suppressed grin. “Your decorum lessons never have seemed to find proper purchase.”

“Warren does not keep me around to lick his boot,” Jae quipped with a shrug. “He’s got advisers and the court for that.”

Keral laughed. “Ah, well if ya changed yer mind about the room, the offer stands. Y’know the way in.”

The ranger gave his made his excuses and an apology to Maevis’s for leaving him with all the books to put away, but the magician wave him off.

“Nonsense. You never put them back in their proper place when you do feel inclined to return them, so it matters not. I know you have your duties to perform and would hate to keep you from them. I will let you know if I find anything that might be of use.”

With a grin and a wave, the ranger was gone.

#dumpling #Fantasy Story #Giant/tiny #Magic #Mages

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araingirl · 4 years ago

Text

That’s how they met

“Ding!"

The silver bells rang for the first time after the veneration of the destruction, for the worship of the celebration. Joss-sticks started emanating aromatic smokes, dipped inside the clay pots. The priests flapped the horsehair fly whisks in front of the holy idol. Lamps kindled, flowers discharged the fragrance and ribbons swayed. Sitting in diamond pose, the chocolate-haired girl drummed the strings of the koto. Melodious jingles of hundreds of untold words sprang from the speechless instrument. The priests chorused:

If you are searching for your lover,

Lose yourself, oh crazy, before everything is over.

If you are searching for your lover,

Lose yourself, oh crazy, before everything is over.

The coco-haired princess opened her mouth. The streams of one thousand cataracts originated from her vocal cord, defeating the tunes of the harp-like instrument. Everybody closed their eyes.

The ways to your abode, oh my lord,

Are just the tales of love,

They're just the legends of romance,

The words of River Fuji.

I recite those words, again and again,

It's nothing but your mercy...

Completing his bath, the slate-haired young man was returning to the temple yard. Suddenly, the magical world composed by a feminine tone chimed inside his ears, overthrowing the chirpings of the birds and the whisperings of the airstream. He felt as if someone had poured cold water inside his veins. Flurries fought against the wetness of his smoky bangs and made them blow. Spellbound, the prince started progressing to the temple. He entered the sanctuary building from the right side. Sitting down on the agate ground, he folded one of his knees and kept another laying horizontally. Propping his head against a flower-wrapped column, he drowned to the river of tunes.

The owner of the honeyed tone continued:

Coming to your reverence, the world is still,

But I'm weightless, because your wishes are guarding me.

But where there is no wish, the life is a desert.

Yet, desert is a flower to me,

As I've lost myself, I've lost myself...

No, the owner of the anonymous songs! You haven't lost yourself. It's I who...who have got lost completely. Your voice is divine; it is the constant truth of the world. I...I can portray you by your tone. I...I cannot see you but paint an image of you on the canvas of my heart. The image is like a starry night; it is embracing me but I cannot hug it back.

Oh tunes! The tunes springing from an unknown voice! You've claimed the seat of my familiarities without being familiar. How perfect you are! You've blossomed like a flower on my arid heart of restlessness...but how strange! You didn't let the waterless land tremble a bit. You didn't melt it, just left it flowered.

The final tune escaped from the instrument as the guy opened his eyes. Not waiting there for a single moment, he descended the stairs. The chocolate-haired girl looked back, noticing the white scarf swaying in the airstream. Her heart skipped a beat, thunderbolts entered her spine. Jolted, she stood up. Leaving her cousins and relatives, she ran downstairs with her lithe feet. Stretching her left arm, she yelled:

"Wait!"

The lord of love became satisfied with her. He turned to her, accepting her wish. Then...

Everything came to a standstill. Wind stopped blowing, birds ceased singing. Flowers looked at them, baffled. His amethysts imprisoned her rubies in their prison without touching them. Both the guard and the prisoner got lost in each other. He appeared from the flowery vines just like the moon, removing all the clouds of the nightly sky.

She gazed at him. The eyelashes of her didn't touch her cheeks. Who was standing in front of her? His hair was two-toned, just representing the skies of sunshine and rainclouds...no no, the skies of days and nights. His face was bright...what? The moon beneath the clouds? The orbs...they were just like purple lotuses growing in any translucent pond, floating under the twin racy icy-blue bows, the thick peaks rising a bit in surprise and slim corners dissolving with the fairness of his skin. Did the surface of moon have ponds? If it had and lotuses grew there, it wouldn't be less similar to the face of the Russian. His scarf was still dancing, winking at her with its invisible eyes. Droplets of the water of river Fuji were still trickling down from his bangs. Broad round shoulders bore the invisible weight of his valor, blue-veined throat had the white twirling scarf at its bottom, keeping the slightly curvy Adam's apple over it. Though it was a sunny day, the brunette felt as if it had been raining in front of her. Even in the rain, the appealing moon was there. There was so much peace on his face that it could even cool the fire. Obvious it was because the one who had to handle the fire always had to remain cool.

Flashback:

A forest. To be clearer, a lane inside a forest. Trees and bushes were by both sides of it, getting mixed with the daylight, embodying an unparalleled combination of light and shadow. In the narrow lane, there was a white horse. On it, a man was sitting, looking back. His hair was two-toned, just like the clouds before rain. His complexion was reminding them about the mixture of milk and turmeric paste. Beneath his fixed eyebrows, there were his eyes, looking like abloom lotuses floating on the surface of a clear pond. He was wearing a pair of comfy baggy trousers, tucked inside his boots and a full-sleeved black top, with purple and grey linings. The upper garment wasn't loose at all, clearly exposing his biceps, triceps and broad shoulders. The white scarf wrapped around his neck was seeming to blow.

Every stroke, every line, every touch of the brushes and colors in the picture was more than perfect. That was ethereal.

Flash forward:

Before her eyes, the creepy jungle of her dream appeared. But it wasn't eerie anymore. The savior was standing there, facing her. It wasn't a dream. It was more than that. It was reality. That was ethereal, so was it.

The moon should have smiled at her. But...why was it seeming baffled?

Perhaps, she didn't know that his amethyst orbs were fulfilling their thirst, quenching the elixir showered by her rubies. The temple, the garden, the instruments-everything disappeared. He found himself in the same jungle where he had roamed in his dreams before twelve years. Her feet were playing tabors there. Her chocolate tresses were playing hide and seek with the air. Her hair was tied into a loose bun. She was wearing a yellow kimono painted with magenta andrika symbols, supported by a broad magenta belt which created a bow behind her back. A pair of kite-shaped fuchsia earrings were dangling from her earlobes, rimmed with gold. Azaleas and golden daisies were tucked inside her hair, over her right ear.

He had seen her before. In the dawns of the late autumn, in the ingratiating nights of the spring.

Flashback:

He was running. His fair feet were smiting the surface of mother earth recklessly. But he couldn't catch her. He was sweating and wheezing. His lungs were craving for oxygen. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stand and rest for a sole second. In front of him, she was also running. But she wasn't panting. She wasn't exhausted. The echoes of her laughter were like the aftershocks of ever-flowing cataracts, rolling down from the crests of high, higher and highest mountains of the world. With her every step on the ground, green grasses were growing. Little but colorful flowers were being upstretched and peeking at the sky. With her slight touch, a leafless tree started growing green leaves. Birds sat on it and began to tweet.

"Wait!" He yelled, "Stop!"

As she heard him, she stopped and turned back at his figurine. Seeing her standing, he also quitted running and stood motionlessly. Her chocolate-colored hair was touching her waist. In the tempo of ever-dancing squall, her auburn locks were also boogying. A pair of irreplaceable rubies were observing him very carefully, situated at the sockets of her eyes. The complexion of her skin reminded the slate-haired boy of the mixture of milk and honey. The rays of sunshine fell on her skin and the succession of those protoderm cells shimmered like solitaires.

He couldn't utter a single word. He silently kept watching her without closing his eyes for once. Every single hair on his body got straightened. He felt warm despite standing on the veneer of his own motherland. In front of her sharp scrutiny, he couldn't stand anymore.

Flash forward:

They both felt like the trees whose roots went deep inside the soil. That's why, they couldn't move, nor their orbs. Eyes felt contented getting the treasury of eyes. From the magical streets of their visions, they found each other's ways towards the spiritual realms of each other's hearts. The color of blood started spreading across their cheeks. Getting the hint, again the birds started singing, flying around them. Flowers bloomed and leaves danced. Bumblebees played their flutes. Nature borrowed the color of love...

"Princess!"

Hearing the familiar masculine voice, the chocolate-haired girl gasped, struggling to emerge from the imaginary world. Her vision met the red-haired Russian who was standing behind his cousin. Startled, the dual-haired prince also turned back.

"Greetings, princess..." He spoke, "Can you recognize me? We met in the refugee camp of sage Dickenson, remember?"

Smiling, the brunette nodded. The redhead continued, "You were willing to meet my cousin. Well, he's my cousin, Kai Alexander Hiwatari. He banned the culture of sacrificing the childless widows in Russia, killed Katherine as well as her force and freed lady Kincaid from the spells of Boris Balkov. Kai, she's Hilary Tachibana, the princess of Japan. She's the one for whom the dwellers of the camp were so calm and relaxed. We used to eat the delicious foods cooked by her."

Like a humble vine, the brunette bowed. Slowly bending down a bit, the phoenix-prince took her right hand and placed a tender kiss on its back, reddening her more. The redhead rolled his eyes at that.

Except his mother and mother-like figures, for the first time, he had lowered his head before a lady.

"Returning from the camp..." Hilary started, "I was feeling worried."

Kai flinched inaudibly. Was he hearing the truth? Had someone been really worrying for him?

"Hilary didn't enjoy a single wink of sleep at that night, prince Hiwatari," Someone's voice could be heard, "Only after getting the news of your victory, she sighed in relief."

Both the boys and the girl looked back. There was the dual-haired princess of Spain standing with a bright smile all over her face.

"Greetings, the princes of Russia," She spoke, bowing, "I'm Julia Fernandez, the princess of Spain and the maternal cousin of Hilary."

"Greetings, princess Fernandez," The redhead glanced at her, "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, prince..."

"Valkov." Tala finished, "My name is Tala Valkov."

Julia looked at the redhead, narrowing her eyes. How red his hair was! Did someone put fire on his head?

"I mean... I was getting worried for everyone," The brunette cleared her throat, flushing, "But when I got to know the news of Katherine's death, I felt relieved. Thank you so much for saving my motherland, prince."

"The pleasure is mine," Kai responded, "The victory of truth is inevitable, princess."

"I know..." The Japanese princess nodded, "Specially when the representatives of truth are fearless and skilled."

The tiny praise sprinkled vermillion on the moon-like face of the slate-haired prince. Smirking, he lowered his gazes. His amethysts roamed over her lily feet. Her nails were shot and pink, pouring cold water in his eyes.

"Anyways," Tala interrupted, "Kai, I came here with a view to informing you that His Majesty of Hayashi Tachibana has called sage Dickenson to his place. Sir Dickenson has decided to take us with him. So, let's go. See you, princess."

"See you too, prince." Hilary smiled. Leering back, the redhead almost dragged his cousin towards the palace. Before leaving, the phoenix-prince didn't forget to look at the chocolate-haired girl. Blushingly, the auburn-haired princess moved back to the temple.

.....................................................................

One of the most magnificent KaiXHilary moments from my KaiHil story “Kingdom”. Don’t forget to read and review it :P

#beyblade #kaihiwatari #hilarytachibana #hiromitachibana #KaiXHilary #kaihil #kingdom

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notapaladin · 4 years ago

Text

and when we come home in victory

me: i should write something with teomitl pining while he’s away on campaign!

me remembering that military history makes my eyes glaze over: ............heavy on the pining, light on the campaign.

ANYWAY. Here is some HQ Pine, wherein Teomitl finds a warm welcome home from the battlefield. Also on AO3!

It’s official. I liked war much more when I was just a warrior, and not Tizoc’s Master of the House of Darts. Teomitl honestly wasn’t sure which was worse—the campaign itself, which this year was mostly over rocky ground that all seemed to have a personal grudge against his sandals (not to mention his men’s ankles; there had been a score of injuries already), or the pre-battle meetings where they went over their strategies. At least the meetings were under a tent so he wasn’t slowly roasting alive in his regalia, but the fact that he had to deal with the entire war council and his incompetent brother made him boil with rage anyway.

“We can meet them in pitched battle here—”

“Not until the Texcocan forces catch up, we can’t.”

“Are you doubting our valor?”

That was Tizoc, querulous, and Teomitl took a deep breath before he was tempted to jump in with anything stupid. The valor of our army? No one here would doubt that. Yours in particular? I don’t think you ever had any.

“It’s a simple matter of numbers, my lord—”

“—Not to mention the terrain—”

“I understand you are eager to meet them after what they did to our merchants, my lord, but if we wait but a week, we will be able to push on into their city directly...”

Tizoc was speaking again. Teomitl willed the words to flow over him like water, hearing the shape of them but not dwelling on whatever stupidity was actually coming out of the man’s mouth. It was harder than he expected; there was a lot of stupidity to filter out. Not for the first time, he wondered if Acatl had the same urge to murder Tizoc or the war council every time they spoke. He doubted it. Acatl is reasonable. Rational. Even-tempered. He doesn’t even want to go against the Revered Speaker who tried to have him killed.

“—do you think, Teomitl-tzin?”

Itamatl. Despite himself, he liked Itamatl. Or at least, liked him more than the rest of them, which wasn’t saying much. At least the man was honest. And hates Tizoc even more than I do. There’s something reassuring about that. He shifted on his haunches to get a better look at the map they’d laid out with stones in the dirt, frowning down at the symbols of their campaign. “We wait. Our war-priests are already in place; when the rest of our allies arrive, we’ll take the field.”

“I suppose we can’t expect them to defeat the enemy for us. Magic is simply no match for honest strength.”

One day, I’m going to gut you like a fish. He closed his eyes briefly, all the acknowledgement he would give Tizoc’s words. It also spared him the sight of the man’s face; he was smirking as though he’d made a hilarious joke, and Teomitl yearned for violence. Acatl dragged you back into the Fifth World. I’m sure he could take you out again. The mental image sent the faintest of tremors down his spine—Acatl covered in blood that wasn’t his own, the dust of Mictlan swirling around him, his bones gleaming white under the spell-blackened shell of his skin. His priest in battle was a sight that could have stricken a finely-tuned mix of awe and fear into a stone, never mind a man with functioning eyes. And the idea of him smiting Tizoc down...well. That was a thought that could warm him on the coldest nights.

He shook his head lightly to clear it. Now wasn’t the time to linger over dreams that could never come to pass as long as Acatl stayed the honest, rational man he’d taken into his heart. Tizoc was declaring their strategy meeting over, and he would have time to think (about the war, he reminded himself) on the march.

Soon enough, they were on the move again. Teomitl found himself more or less in step with his nephew Moctezuma, letting the idle chatter of his group of fellow warriors wash over him. Most were nobles, Eagle Warriors born with the advantages of their fathers’ ranks, and some part of him worried over Moctezuma associating with them; the boy was arrogant enough without help. Still, walking with them was better than being in his own head; if he focused over the thunder of marching men, he could pick up snatches of their conversations.

Maybe more than snatches. “—don’t know if you’ve seen Cempoxochitl, but—“ One of the men made hand gestures suggesting a voluptuous figure, to general chuckles.

Ah. Sacred courtesans. Teomitl thought, briefly, about warning them about the likes of Xiloxoch, but it wasn’t his place. He kept his gaze on the road ahead, but the man bringing up Cempoxochitl had apparently started a spirited debate as each one championed their favorite—this woman had the loveliest eyes, this woman had the sweetest voice. He thought he could feel Mihmatini rolling her eyes from here. As strained as their relationship had been for a while, they were now something like friends again, and she had no patience for empty flattery. Tell me something real you like about me, Teomitl, she’d say, or keep your mouth shut.

Another man shook his head. “They’re lovely enough to look at, but nobody can compete with my wife back home.”

“Oh no, now you’ve started it, Ozomatli.”

“Enough about your wife! You’ve been married five years; the bloom should be off the rose by now!”

“It renews itself every time I see her face. Ask your uncle, boy—he’s a married man too, he’ll tell you!” The man—Cipactli, Teomitl thought, a proven warrior with six captives under his belt—was warming to his subject now with grand gestures. “When there’s someone waiting at home for you, it gives you the strength to fight on. Doesn’t matter what she looks like; it matters that she believes in you.” He paused. “Of course, great tits don’t hurt.”

“Ugh.” Moctezuma rolled his eyes theatrically, casting a sidelong glance at him. “At least you’re sensible about it, Uncle.”

Sensible. Right. “Hm.” He thought of thick hair tumbling in loose waves, a body as slender as a deer’s, and forcibly steered his eyes back to their surroundings. He didn’t feel particularly sensible at the moment; if Moctezuma could hear his thoughts, he’d probably be horrified. My wife is Guardian of the Duality, but I look at her brother and...gods, I wish he were here. Mihmatini was strong and lovely, but he wanted dust and cool moonlight, not a riot of flowers. He spared a moment to thank Xochipilli that at least Neutemoc was a good bit further back in the column of warriors; they weren’t especially close, but the man’s fraternal intuition for his siblings’...suitors was well-honed. He was sure that, for a man like him, one look would give him away.

Behind him, the debate continued.

“And where’s that leave us single men, then?”

“Why, when you come back a hero, you can have as many women as you want! They’ll line up at the gate for us!”

“They’ll line up at Teomitl-tzin’s first, I’m sure.”

He sucked in a breath at being roped into the conversation. “I am well satisfied with one wife, thank you.” It was even true.

The men made noises that suggested a ribald comment or two was incoming, but then Moctezuma broke in with, “How could he not be? Mihmatini-tzin is the Guardian,” and that turned the topic away from women and towards magic, which while less helpful—magic would always make him think of Acatl, of patient lessons and a steady gaze—at least meant he wouldn’t need to discipline them for potentially disrespecting his wife. He could tolerate that.

Eventually the path through the mountains stretched down into a valley, and they all had to watch where they put their feet. He held out an arm to stop Moctezuma skidding on the gravel underfoot—gravel that might once have been smooth stones before generations of warriors had passed this way—and as he did so he caught another part of the conversations going on around him. He could barely make it out, never mind figure out who had said it, but the words still made him stiffen.

“...good thing Neutemoc’s brother is a priest, or we’d stand no chance!”

For a moment, he had to squeeze his eyes shut. Good. They see it too. He is diligent and honest and beautiful; if he were free to court, to marry, if he were not a priest…

Teomitl had spent a lot of time thinking about what might have happened if Acatl hadn’t become a priest. He would surely be a loyal and devoted husband, a wonderful father to the dozen or so children he clearly wanted. He deserved that. He deserved a hundred children to spoil. And we never would have met. Or else I might have passed him in the streets or in the markets and not known him; he would have been a stranger to me. The idea made him shudder, even as a hot little voice whispered in his mind that a man with no vow of chastity might be...well. He might have stood a chance, then.

(Maybe I do anyway, came the next desperate thought. Maybe—he held my hand on the temple steps, and he looked at me like—)

“We’re here!”

The beginnings of their camp stretched out below him, and Teomitl exhaled at the sight. There was suddenly no room in his head anymore for Acatl; now was the time for preparing for war, and he would have no other goal than spreading the glory of the Empire. When he returned—and he would return, he refused to entertain the possibility of falling here—then he would think about his heart again. Not before.

He marched down into the valley, one hand on his sword hilt, and felt the presence of his army behind him.

The poets said that war was glory. War was the flowery death, the place where eagles fell and princes turned to dust. It was where blood was spilled and the gods were honored.

It was also muddy, screaming chaos. The poets somehow never mentioned that part. Even at the fore of the fighting, with enemies on all sides, it was difficult for him to keep his bearings; his men had looked to him for instructions at first, but it had long since descended into a melee. His feathered headdress was crushed and tattered, and he was bleeding from a dozen different places. He ignored the pain and the fatigue, because giving in would mean his death. (If not on the field, then on the sacrifice stone—and what a sacrifice, to send the Master of the House of Darts to the Sun!) All his focus was on simply surviving the next moment, and the next. (Turn—club that man with the flat of his sword—keep moving, keep moving—dodge that axe—)

Finally, he cleared a space around him, and there was a moment to breathe. His side protested as he took a deep breath, blinking the sweat and blood from his eyes. He thought the blood probably wasn’t his; a head wound seemed like the sort of thing he’d remember, and his helmet seemed intact. But then the stinging along his scalp made itself known—not serious, but just painful enough to be annoying—and he realized it wasn’t; the blow that had sheared off most of the decorative quetzal feathers had cracked it badly.

His grip on his sword hilt tightened. I won’t retreat. Not now, not when we’re so close.

“Forward!”

He didn’t need to look to see whether his warriors were following him; he could feel their presence as surely as he could feel his own limbs. While every man fought for his own captives, it was still easier to take them when you had your allies close at hand. Arrows whistled overhead as he charged into the next knot of foes, calling on Chalchiuhtlicue’s power as he ran; it rose like a tide in him, spilling over in jade light and the smell of sun-warmed water, and they quailed in instinctive fear. He couldn’t control them—that was something that required lengthy focus, and he wasn’t reckless enough to try it on a battlefield—but he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was hold them a moment, just long enough to force them to their knees. Ah, Acatl-tzin, see how well you’ve taught me!

The rest of the day became a bit of a blur after that. He was aware of more feinted blows, more screaming, more chanting from the assembled war-priests as blood and light warred for supremacy. At one point he turned just in time to see Moctezuma cut down a man that had been about to swing at his blind spot, and managed a grateful smile before his attention was diverted back to his own new opponent.

And then, suddenly, there were no more to fight. Teomitl looked up from the man he’d cracked across the head—he’d live, he hadn’t been hit that hard—and realized the day’s combat was over, and they had won. Tizoc and his regalia were unfortunately untouched, but he noted that Itamatl had acquitted himself very well, with half a dozen incapacitated or slain enemy warriors by his feet. They would have plenty of captives to feed the gods with.

Even though there were those of his own men who would never rise again. He turned and saw Ozomatli crumpled nearby, blood still steaming where it ran from the gaping wound in his chest. He closed his eyes on a long exhale, feeling unaccountably drained. All unbidden, the words he’d heard Acatl chant a thousand times rang through his mind. They weren’t the right ones for slain warriors—his comrades would be in the Sun’s Heaven—but they felt right. “We leave this earth,” he whispered. This world of jade and flowers. The quetzal feathers, the silver. Down in the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the cedar trees…

At some point, he had fallen for Acatl with all the speed and grace of a sacrifice down the temple steps. Now, with the man’s words ringing in his head, it felt as though he’d hit every last one on the way down. It paralyzed him for the space of a heartbeat, a small eternity in which he missed Acatl like a lost limb—but then he shook himself, breathing again. Soon. Soon, when I return, I’ll tell you. I promise.

“Soon” turned out to be months later, most of it spent on the march. By the time their victorious army had made it back into Tenochtitlan—strolling proudly, for all that they were footsore and in some cases still nursing injuries—Teomitl had almost forgotten his determination to speak to Acatl. He was dusty, hungry, very much wanted a steam bath, and was not looking forward in the least to another interminably long ceremony led by a Revered Speaker unstained by honest battle (not to mention a voice like a sick dog.)

And then he saw him. Acatl stood in his full regalia with the other High Priests and the Guardian (and she was very definitely the Guardian in her feathered cloak, not Mihmatini); next to him, the rest of their surroundings seemed to fade away. Teomitl was no longer conscious of his aching body or tattered feather suit, nor even of the nauseating tones of Tizoc’s and Quenami’s voices. There was only Acatl, gazing at him across the distance separating them with an expression he couldn’t name.

He hasn’t changed, he thought in wonder. Four months had felt like an eternity, but Acatl was the same as ever—still lean and somber, still visibly uncomfortable under the weight of his glorious headdress and feathered cloak, with no new scars that he could see. It must have been peaceful in Tenochtitlan while we were gone, then. Good. I hope the most interesting thing he had to go through was funeral arrangements. He’d missed him more with every death, found the litanies for the dead running through his mind even when all was calm. It had gotten worse when they’d burned the bodies of their slain comrades, when he could almost hear Acatl’s voice in his ear.

Their eyes met. He couldn’t quite swallow a gasp. Acatl was looking at him like—like—

(Not like the temple steps. He’d been soft and tender then, almost awestruck as their fingers entwined; when he’d vowed to call him by name always, Teomitl’s heart had spilled over into his veins with the rush of adoration he’d felt. No, this look only lasted a moment, but it was...deeper. Almost—gods, almost hungrier.)

He had to look away, face burning, and try to ignore the heated thought of Maybe this isn’t a fool’s hope, after all.

There was, of course, a grand banquet to welcome the army home. He didn’t dare leave early; Tizoc was volatile even while celebrating the victory his army had won for him, and it would be easier later if he played the part of the dutiful general now.

He hated banquets. No amount of delicious food could make up for the company. He was seated at the same mat as his least favorite members of the war council; Acatl, sitting in between Quenami and Acamapichtli and visibly trying to pretend both of them didn’t exist, looked as miserable as he felt. (Devastating in his regalia, yes, but miserable; admittedly, it was probably because of the regalia.) He was barely even picking at the really quite excellent roasted duck in front of him, which was just wrong; Acatl loved a good meal, one of the few pleasures he allowed himself, and a palace banquet ought to have been a joy instead of a trial. It was enough to make him want to stage a kidnapping—to spirit him away to a street vendor, or to his own courtyard, or to anywhere surrounded by family.

Teomitl found himself wistfully remembering meals at Neutemoc’s house, with Necalli excitedly badgering him for all the stories of his latest campaign while Mazatl climbed all over her uncles’ laps (he would absolutely never forget the first time she’d called him Uncle; it was engraved on his heart right next to each of Acatl’s hard-won smiles) and Ollin—who was starting to walk now and had to be carefully watched—toddled carefully around the table. There were still manners, of course, but there was also laughter and teasing. No hidden knives in the dark. Acatl and Mihmatini loved their family and were loved in return. When I am Revered Speaker, he decided, I will see about banning the most useless noblemen from my victory banquets. I can start with Moctezuma’s insufferable friends and work my way up.

At least Mihmatini was next to him, radiant in jade and feathers with her face painted in intricate blue designs. This close, the magical connection between them felt a little like sitting comfortably next to a friendly brazier. When she nudged him with a companionable murmur of, “Glad you’re back,” he found himself smiling.

“So am I.”

They’d somehow reached an accord after that utter disaster in the courtyard. Of course she had been furious, but then—desperate, holding out his heart in his hands—he had told her the truth. That even though Tizoc was incompetent and worthless and paranoid, had insulted his loved ones in a thousand different ways, he could have grit his teeth and borne that. It would have killed him, but he could have borne that. But then he and his toady had tried to have Acatl executed, and from then on there had been no other path Teomitl could take. After that, she had been...well…

Well, she’d still been furious, but it hadn’t been nearly as vitriolic. When she’d looked at him for a long, singularly uncomfortable moment, nodded, and said that regicide was in that case an entirely appropriate response even if his timing drastically needed work, he’d known it would all work itself out.

“We missed you, you know.”

He knew who she was including in that we, and he busied himself with finishing his cup of maguey sap before responding. (Unfortunately, his wife had turned out to be highly perceptive and capable of drawing accurate conclusions from his stated motivations. Though he’d been prepared to take it to his grave, she hadn’t given him the chance.) “The coronation war took longer than this.”

She nodded. “Still. Acatl and I were...concerned.” Her eyes flickered towards Tizoc’s gilded screen. “A lot can happen in war.”

He’d spent a lot of time pondering that essential fact, mostly while trying to talk himself out of being the thing that happened to Tizoc. He’d promised Acatl he would wait for his reign to be stable, after all, and he would not disappoint him again. Now, all that simmering fury felt much farther away. “None of it happened to me, and you saw how many captives we took.”

“Mm.” She took a delicate bite of turkey. “I also saw the way you looked during the welcome speeches. Life is short, Teomitl. It’s better to take the flowers and the jade where you can.”

Her gaze slid pointedly towards Acatl’s seat, and Teomitl took a slow breath. Suddenly the perfumes and other rich scents of the banquets were almost too much, and he found himself craving the dry, stretched emptiness of Mictlan. It would help him focus. Because Mihmatini was right, she’d always been right—life was short, and death could come at any time, and he’d spent four months thinking of the things he wanted to do before it caught him. His reign had to wait, but in the meantime...

He remembered the way Acatl had looked at him.

“I will.”

It still took a frankly disgustingly long time for him to disengage himself from the victory banquet. There were more courses, and more speeches, and then Itamatl and a few other councilmembers wanted to talk to him, and then he almost got into a fight with a nobleman who’d made a comment about one of the sisters he actually liked…

By the time he changed out of his finery, washed the paint from his face, and escaped the palace, the full moon had risen high in the sky. It would provide enough light for him to make it to Acatl’s house; if he knew his former teacher as well as he thought he did, the man would still be awake. (He thought briefly of checking the temple instead, and dismissed it; after several hours of dealing with his fellow High Priests, surely even Acatl would want to relax.)

He was in luck. Acatl was at home; when he laid a hand on the entrance-curtain and called his name, there was only a moment’s pause before the voice he’d longed for responded. “Teomitl?”

He wished he’d brought food. Good food, the kind that meant Acatl could relax while eating. There was a particular soft, satisfied look the man got when he was enjoying his meal, and he wanted to see it properly. But he’d only brought himself, and it would have to do. He was also starting to wish he’d prepared some kind of speech. “...I thought...it’s been a while, Acatl-tzin.”

A noise from inside, like an indrawn breath. “It has. Come in?”

He went in. Acatl had to have just been washing his face in the basin; a few wet strands of hair coiled loosely around his face, and the sight briefly stole the air from his lungs. “I…” I want to comb your hair out for you. I want to wrap my arms around you and never let you go. Leaving you felt like losing my own right hand.

“I missed you.”

It was inadequate. He knew it was inadequate even as he said it; missing simply couldn’t describe the ache under his breastbone, the comforting recollection of how Acatl’s voice sounded when he chanted his hymns for the dead. It made him sound juvenile. Weak. Hardly the sort of man who deserved the regard—maybe even the love—of the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. (He pushed back the thought that whispered that maybe he wanted to be weak for Acatl, that maybe he’d enjoy being taken care of for once. It wouldn’t help him now.)

Acatl flushed anyway, with a soft smile that went straight to his heart. “I missed you, too. I prayed for your success, you know.”

He couldn’t stop the teasing smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. He was on more familiar ground here. (Besides, if Acatl kept blushing at him he was definitely going to do something stupid, like forgo using words entirely in favor of kissing him breathless.) “Were you worried, Acatl? You spend too much time doing that, it’s bad for your health.”

Acatl huffed at that just as he knew he would, all offended dignity. “You risk death on the battlefield to bring glory to the Empire. I think I’m entitled to worry! Especially...well.” He made a face that suggested without words that he wouldn’t have trusted Tizoc to lead his way across the plaza on a quiet day, never mind direct an army in the field.

Teomitl thrilled at the sight—at the reminder, after everything, that Acatl not only believed he’d be a better ruler but was actually comfortable expressing it. It had taken him long enough. When I am Revered Speaker, I will honor you above all other men, your temple above all other temples. Let Quenami choke on that. Feeling bold, he stepped forward. Acatl’s house wasn’t large; a few more steps, and they could touch. He didn’t dare close the distance yet. It was enough to be here, gazing into Acatl’s dark eyes. “...Thank you.” Thank you for worrying. For caring. For believing in me. For praying to gods who are not your patron to keep me safe. I love you so much.

“—Teomitl, I—“

“I wanted to tell you—“

They’d spoken at the same time; Acatl mutely gestured for him to go ahead. He felt his face burn and had to drop his gaze to the floor. If I lose my nerve now...no. He should hear this. He took a step forward, and another. Just within arm’s reach, but far enough that Acatl could step back if his words or presence proved unwelcome. “I thought of you while I was on campaign. Every day.” Every night, too. Maybe especially then. My mat was so lonely. “Whenever I saw death, I thought of you and your hymns. I—“ Acatl’s loose fingers twitched; before he could think better of it, he reached out and wrapped his hand around them. They were still a little cool and damp from the water, but that didn’t matter. He could feel Acatl’s pulse all the way in his fingertips, a racing heartbeat carrying warm blood to his extremities, and the unfamiliar feeling of the scars under his palm made him itch to learn the shape of them all.

He had to take another breath before he could continue. “I missed you so much.”

“...Teomitl.” He sounded awestruck. Teomitl was afraid to lift his head. If he did, he’d have to see the expression on Acatl’s face, and he honestly wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. But Acatl wasn’t pulling his hand away, and it gave him the strength to keep talking.

“While we were on the march, one of the warriors said that having someone believing in you back home, someone you love...that’s what gives you the strength to keep fighting.” He was sure Cipactli was warm in his beloved Malinalli’s arms right now; he prayed wordlessly that he’d be so lucky. His heart felt like it had lodged itself in his throat. “I—that’s not just Mihmatini, for me.”

He was pretty sure Acatl wasn’t breathing. He was finding it a bit difficult himself. The hand in his had gone slack, trembling a little in his grip.

Even when Acatl found his voice, there was a barely-suppressed tremor running through it. “...What...what are you saying?”

“I’m.” He swallowed hard. “I’m saying, Acatl…” The next breath felt like it was burning his lungs, fire dancing across his skin. I have to tell him. Even if he rejects me—even if he rejects me, I have to tell him the truth. No more hiding.

“I love you. As one man loves another.”

Acatl was silent. Horribly, agonizingly silent. Teomitl felt his heart crack in half as their joined hands separated, fingers slipping out of his as though they’d never been there in the first place. He couldn’t move. He didn’t think he’d ever move again. Even his face felt frozen—a good thing, in this case, because the Duality knew he was afraid of what his own expression might betray.

Finally, some noise betrayed Acatl’s reaction—a slightly strangled huff, followed by an incredulous, “Really?!”

He made himself look up, facing Acatl’s wide eyes head-on. He looked...stunned, Teomitl registered. Almost but not quite horrified, as though the idea that Teomitl could be in love with him had never even crossed his mind. Acatl, gods, how could anyone not love you? How is this a surprise? But apparently it was, and if he hadn’t been paralyzed by shame and grief he might have screamed. “I—” He didn’t know what he was going to say. An apology, maybe.

And then Acatl stepped forward, set his hands on Teomitl’s waist, and pulled him into his arms. He had a moment to think Oh, and then Acatl’s mouth was on his and he wasn’t thinking anything at all.

(Later—much later, when they were flushed and breathless and he was finally fulfilling his dream of running his fingers through the man’s hair—Acatl’s murmur of “Welcome home,” made him melt all over again.)

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #paladin writes stuff

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leahxx129 · 5 years ago

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The Last Descendant (Sam Winchester x Reader) pt.5/Final Chapter

Disclaimer: Tumblr is being weird again so if you’re using the app, the ‘Keep Reading’ cut off line may not be visible inspite of the fact that I always insert one.

Hi everyone! I originally planned on posting this on Friday but your girl is a busy bee and had some personal stuff to take care of. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy the final part to this story, I had lots of fun writing it.

Summary to pt.5: You’ve managed to win a battle against Michael in the woods, but the war is not over just yet. He’s powerful - more than anyone you’ve ever encountered - but you also have some aces up your sleeve.

Warnings: slight cursing, character death

Word count: 2.140-ish

PART 1. PART 2. PART 3. PART 4.

As the angels have disappeared, the force holding you flat against the trees dissipates, causing you all to fall to your knees. The first thing you realize when you get up is that there’s only three of you left – Kaia’s taken off without prior notice. Your blood runs cold for a minute but then you find the spear in the tall grass where you threw it. Sam makes sure everyone is well enough to travel and following Jody’s suggestion, you drive to her place.

It’s already dark when you pull up in her driveway. Neither you nor Sam have said a single word throughout the ride and as the engine dies, you feel an urge to change this.

“Sam...” you put a hand on his thigh “I’m gonna do everything I can in order to replicate the spear and we’ll get him back, okay? I promise.”

He puts his large one over yours and squeezes it.

“I know, Y/N. Now, let’s get inside and take a look at your wound.”

The interior of Jody’s house reminds you of your childhood home, and a sense of nostalgia washes over you, mixed with hope that one day even you can have something like this. Maybe with Sam. Who knows?

“Alright, the guest room is ready.” Jody informs you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “A bathroom opens directly from it, clean towels can be found in the cabinet. And if you’re hungry there’s food in the fridge, knock yourself out.”

“Thanks, Jody.”

“As for you, Sam, I’m sorry, but I don’t have any more guest rooms, so you’re stuck with the couch.” she pouts.

“It’s okay, uhm, we’re kind of used to sleeping together.” Sam flashes an awkward smile.

Jody appears startled for a second but soon regaines composure.

“In that case, excuse me for a second. I need to prepare another set of pillows in the guest room.”

When everything’s all set you decide to scrub off the combination of dirt, blood and sweat that’s defiling your body. Usually you shower with an almost boiling hot water, but this time you must settle for medium temperature as the scars and bruises don’t really appreciate the heat. You nearly punch Sam in the face when he pulls the floral shower curtain open, but realizing it’s him, you’re able to stop yourself in time.

“God, Sam, do not do that again! I ain’t the screaming kind of scared, I’m the might-break-your-nose kind of scared.”

“Noted!” he smiles, stepping into the bathtub.

You don’t question what he’s doing in there with you. Maybe for the first time ever in your life, you let someone else take control of a situation, and to much of your surprise, you discover it’s not that bad. He gently cleanses every inch of your body, with special attention to the scars.

“You know, I really think your shoulder could use a couple of stitches.” he whispers. You can hear a little worry in his tone.

“Nah, I’ve had worse I didn’t patch up and I’m still around.” you reply, swiping aside a wet strand of hair that was sticking to his forehead and you kiss him softly.

When you’re all finished, you dress up in the clothes Jody left you on the foot of the bed and pick up the spear from the corner of the room.

“Whoah, what are you doing?” Sam asks incredulously.

“Well, what does it look like I’m doing?” he opens his mouth to speak but you continue “You know what, don’t answer that. I’m gonna go to the garage and try to replicate this.”

“No, you’re not. Look, sweetheart, let’s be sensible here. You haven’t slept in a long time and I can assure you that the world’s not gonna end in those few hours when you do. I talked to Cas and he was able to track down Michael in Missouri. If anything happens, we’ll know firsthand. You need to be strong both mentally and phyisically to do what you’re about to… you know I’m right, so don’t fight it!” he delivers a lecture while taking the weapon out of your hand.

You pull a face but give in to his reasoning anyway. This time you manage to get three full hours of sleep before the nightmares start tainting your subconscious. Terrifying images you haven’t seen in a long time flood your mind, and you successfully wake the whole house up with your screams. You can hear Sam’s soothing vocie and Jody’s nervous inquiries about your well-being before you fully come around.

“I’m…I’m alright. I’m fine, really.” you stutter unconvincingly while running a hand through your hair. “Uhm, Jody?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you please show me your garage? I’ll collect the tools from Sam’s car and get right down to work.”

The weapon contains an ancient magic you’ve never encountered before, or even anything similar to it. The runes carved into the shaft belong to a language uknown to you, making your job all the more difficult. Nevertheless, you try your best, as always. First, you recreate the shape of the spear and its head, then join the two together. Replicating the runes requires the most time – you only realize just how much when the first lights of morning illuminate the garage and Sam brings you breakfast. You take a few bites of your toast and drink your coffee in one gulp.

“Okay, so here goes everything…” you mutter as you begin performing a spell, which should transfer some of the magic from the original weapon into the replica. The incantation you recite next supposedly enhances the transferred magic.

“It looks like the same to me.” Sam states when you show them your work.

“Yeah, and it also possesses that creepy vibe the original one does.” Jody nods in agreement.

“Good. Hopefully, it’ll work just as well, too. Let’s visit Missouri and kick some archangel ass, shall we?” you propose.

You must give it to Michael – he has exceptionally good taste. Both the exterior and interior of the building he chose as temporary residence radiates elegance. You meet up with Cas and a boy in the underground parking lot. You furrow your brows.

“Who’s the kid?” you glance between Sam and the angel, the latter moving infront of the boy as you speak.

“Uhm, his name is Jack. Also, he happens to be the son of satan.” Cas replies.

Out of reflex, you touch the side of your overknee boots looking for your knife but ease off almost immediately and extend an arm towards the boy. Cas eyes you with suspicion.

“Don’t worry, Castiel, I’m not gonna attcak him.”

He seems hesitant but eventually steps aside, allowing you to shake Jack’s hand.

“I’m Y/N. Y/N Colt.”

His eyes widen.

“Colt? Are you related to Samuel Colt?” your nod sends him over the edge “Oh, wow! This is soo cool! I’m Jack! You must have some awesome stories to tell! When this is over, could you tell me all of them?”

“I’d absolutely love to, Jack!” you smile at his child-like enthusiasm, doubting that a sweet kid like him could be related to the Devil himself.

“Alright, I think we should go over the plan one more time.” Sam changes the subject.

You talk everything over one last time - including the intel on the monsters Sam got from a friend named Garth - and enter the elevator that takes you to the top floor. You feel like the tension could be cut with a knife.

An empty, silent hall welcomes you as you exit.

“Michael is the only one I can sense.” Cas whispers.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.” you whisper back.

You all take feather light steps until you reach a double-winged door and Cas nods, confirming the archangel’s location. Sam kicks in the door in a blink of an eye. A well-dressed Michael is staring out the window, holding a glass of some probably expensive booze.

“Welcome!” he greets, turning to your direction. “Well, well, well… what do we have here? The Three Muskateers? If so, I have to admit, Y/N, you are the loveliest d’Artagnan I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

“Oh my God, just cut the crap or else I’m gonna vomit!” the words slip out before you could think them through.

As a result, Michael’s face hardens even more and he extends an arm in the height where your neck would be, casting an invisible force that pulls you straight into his grip.

Sam yells out your name in desperation.

“Oh, don’t worry, Samuel. I am not going to snap her pretty little neck. Although, my fingers may leave a bruise.” Michael exclaims innocently then averts his gaze back to you.

You find it hard not to try stripping his fingers from your neck with both hands, but there’s no other way. One hand is on his but with the other one you sign three behind your back – the catcher singal for a slider in baseball. Sam catches on, takes the spear out of Castiel’s trenchcoat and throws it to you. But before you could sink the tip in Michael’s body, he snatches the weapon and breaks it in half with one hand.

“Did you honestly believe it was going to be that easy to take me down?” he asks with utter disbelief. “The way you underestimate me is quite offensive.”

“Let her go, Michael.” Jack speaks up.

“I don’t think so, child. In fact, here’s what’s going to happen!” he looks right into your eyes “I am going to kill all of them – in which order, that’s your call – and then I will release my monster army on this city with you by my side. I think this vessel is handsome enough, you’ll grow used to him, darling.”

“Yeah, he may be handsome… but I kinda have a thing for his brother, asshole!”

Before he can react, you stab him in the chest with the knife from your boots. He looks down at the shaft smiling but it soon fades into an expression of sheer panic. He lets go of you and tries to pull the weapon out.

“Did you honestly believe we didn’t have a plan B? The way you underestimate us is quite offensive...” you retort.

“What’s happening?! I demand to know!” he bellows, confused.

“I upgraded my favorite blade a little. Now it has the magic of the spear from that other dimension, too. You like it?”

He screams out in agony while his whole body is lighting up with a blue-ish white blaze. You take a couple of steps back and bump into Sam, who envelopes you in a shielding embrace. Cas and Jack try to cover their eyes as the brightness has risen to an extent that’s almost blinding. Michael’s shrieking finally dies out with a huge energy explosion that busts out all the windows in the suite.

He is gone and the only thing he left behind is a very much so bleeding Dean Winchester on the floor.

Dean is slowly opening his eyes. The fluorescent neon lights, the white walls and the beeping of machines tip him off regarding his whereabouts – he’s in a hospital. He tries to rip the needle out of his arm, but Sam prevents him from doing so.

“Hey, no! Stop!”

“Sam? Wha- what happened? Where am I?”

“Uhm, long story short, Y/N killed Michael and injured you in the process, so you are in a private clinic in Missouri.”

“Private clinic? You know damn well we can’t afford that stuff!”

“You may not be able to, but I can.” you appear in the door with two cups of coffee, one of which you hand to Sam while sitting down on a chair next to him.

“Uhm, we appreciate the offer, really, but we can’t accept it.” Dean says in protest without a beat.

“Hey… I almost killed you, I believe this is the least I can do.”

There’s a stare-down between the brothers and Dean’s the one to break the connection first.

“Alright, thank you.” he mumbles eventually, then checks his bandage by looking down the inside of his hospital robe.

“Uhm, question. Based on the place of the wound, how am I not dead right now?”

“Well, I know how to stab someone without killing them... Which is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever said to anyone, so let’s pretend it never left my mouth, please.”

Both men chuckle lightly, and you feel a little heat rise to your cheeks.

“Hot, feisty and funny? Sam, you better not mess this up or I’ll snatch her right out of your hands.” Dean comments jokingly and this time, it’s your turn to laugh and Sam’s to blush.

“Don’t worry about that, Dean…” he intertwines his fingers with yours “I won’t. I kinda have a thing for her…”

#sam winchester x reader #Sam Winchester #reader #sam x reader #SPN #spnfic #supernatural #fanfic #series #final chapter

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gideongrace · 6 years ago

Text

So there are big, scary-ass demons after us, thanks for that.

// i'd hunt your heart to the ends of the earth - part one - part two //

// Here you go, @billyhargrovens. ☺️☺️☺️

And thanks to human muse @klayr-de-gall for the help with the ideas for this! Seriously, you're the best. //

The demons are slimy, oozing, messy little things that come slip-sliding their way under the door just as Billy puts the finishing touches on the re-enforcement spell on his lucky axe, the one infused with the metal from a holy cross and dipped in holy water as it cooled.

And he definitely winds up needing it because the little fuckers get everywhere, they're roaring, loud and unbearable and Steve keeps trying to get in on the action and Billy keeps herding him onto the top of his desk - it's the only thing in the room with any protection magic (it's got protection sigils carved into the legs) and as such it's the only thing the demons can't touch - but Steve keeps jumping off and trying to go for a weapon and…

Billy is tired. He does not have the time to keep fighting this endless litany of slimy, green little bastards and also to sit Steve down and tell him which weapons are safe for him to touch and which will get someone like him, someone with no magic, killed.

Which is why he winds up whistling loudly to get Steve's attention after slicing a slimy green fucker in half and almost taking Steve's head off with it. "Hey!" he shouts as Steve spins around to face him. "I told you, stay on the desk, so stay on the desk, fuckwit!"

"But, I -" Steve starts, reaching out for literally the worst thing he could touch - the big, fat handled angel sword at the far end of the collection on the wall, the one Billy can't even touch without gloves because it's meant for a particular type of soul, a pure type of energy Billy very much does not possess but he also couldn't resist buying it when he saw it in that shop in Glasgow because how often does one come across a real, actual honest-to-god angel blade, anyway?

"Desk, now," Billy demands, swinging his axe in the direction of his desk and glaring at Steve. "Won't be any good helping you fix your shit if you're dead."

Steve rolls his eyes but does as he's told (not that Billy expects it to last) and then the horde of slime beasts at Billy's feet starts roaring at him like he isn't paying them enough attention and Billy swings his attention, and his axe, back towards them.

And they've all got their little mouths open, showcasing the kind of pitch black dark hole that if you stared into it for too long, you'd lose yourself and Billy can feel the migraine building in his temples, he can feel it. And god, today sucks.

"Alright," he grunts, "Time to die, you little beasties." He swings his axe wide, catching most of them somewhere in the middle of their gooey, goopy bodies then he swings it back, catching them in what would be the head if they had heads, if they weren't such quaking, quivering, formless little things.

They scream in uniform terror and evaporate, leaving behind, as these sorts of things tend to do, the scent of burnt ozone and rotten leaves and Billy turns to Steve, watches in horror as he steps off the desk with this wide-eyed look like he's enraptured. Like he's…

Oh, shit. He is enraptured, he has that soft, floaty look on his face like people always do when a magical artifact is calling out to them, taunting them, wrapping them up in their magic. But that shouldn't be happening, Billy doesn't have anything that works like that.

Unless…

Billy races forward, puts his hand over Steve's to yank him back, but he's too late, Steve's hand makes contact with that big, fat-handled for-purest-of-souls-only motherfucking angel blade and Billy breathes in sharply, closes his eyes and waits for destruction.

It doesn't come.

Billy waits a solid five seconds, waiting to be escorted to wherever the fuck they're going to send him, for whatever angel gets assigned to this last part of his case and for the yelling to start about how he had an illegal, unlicensed angel blade in his possession and it got him killed and worse got a regular, uninvolved, unmagical human being killed, but…

There's nothing. The world keeps spinning and Billy keeps breathing so he cracks an eye open to see Steve standing just in front of him with a hand on the sword and there's this golden glow pouring out from the sword and into Steve, flowing into his veins, travelling up, up, up his arm and swirling, swirling, swirling before it reaches his heart and lights that up so brightly Billy can see it shining through Steve's thin, threadbare t-shirt and Billy's mesmerized by it, watches as Steve's heart beats and the glow spreads through his entire body, lighting him up from the inside out and it's beautiful, Steve is beautiful, but -

"Oh, fuck." Billy takes a few good steps back and drops his hands to his sides, the tip of his axe hitting the scarred hardwood of the floor with a solid thunk. "Oh, fuck," he says again.

Steve picks up the sword like it belongs to him, like it's always belonged to him (and maybe it has, maybe it was meant to, which, oh, fuck) and he turns to Billy and looks at him like, "What?"

"So not only did you make a deal with a demon," Billy says, his free hand going up over his eyes because he just can't take looking at any of this right now, thank you very much, "not only did you make a deal with a big, scary-ass motherfucker of a demon with lackeys and too much time on their hands for vengeance, but you have -" Billy peeks out between his fingers just enough to make sure he's really seeing what he's seeing, and unfortunately he very much is, "-you have one of the purest souls I've ever seen. Which further explains why whatever demon it is you made a deal with wants you so badly."

"Okay, what? I have, what?" Steve asks, his tone a mix of confused and somehow angry, like being told you have a pure soul is some kind of an insult, or something.

"Look at your hand," Billy says, his own hand slipping back down to his side. He starts hunting around the office for his cigarettes and finds them in his top left drawer along with his phone and his wallet, which he figures he's going to need, things going like they are.

Steve, meanwhile, just raises his free hand to his face and stares at it long and hard like he's trying to decode one of those stupid hidden image drawings and failing miserably. "I don't get it," he says. "What am I looking for?"

"And you can't even see it," Billy says incredulously as he sticks a cigarette between his lips but doesn't light it. He needs to find his trenchcoat. And his shoes. "Fucking fantastic," he says around the cigarette. "Shit."

"Well, whatever," Steve says, the light from his veins and the sword lighting him up even more ethereally than the light from the hallway could have ever dreamed of. "Thanks for dealing with the demon for me, I guess." He leans the blade of the sword against his shoulder almost like he's forgotten he's holding it, like it's just a part of him and always has been. Which, shit.

"Did you not hear me earlier?" Billy asks, lighting up his cigarette with the lighter from his pocket. "That was a lackey. Your shit isn't fixed yet, not even close. And now this shit with the sword just makes it even worse," he says all at once, like it's all one big word all mashed together. He sighs then, taking a long drag on his cigarette and letting the smoke burn in his lungs before letting it out slow.

He looks over at Steve and his golden heart, his glowing golden-brown eyes, his beautiful skin marred by demon's blood and he sighs. Steve is absolutely gonna be the death of him, he can already tell.

"Okay, so the sword…"

"The sword was made by angels and it should have killed us both when you touched it," Billy says as he grabs his trenchcoat off the chair behind his desk and slips it on.

"Ki-killed…" Steve breathes.

"Yes, pretty boy, killed. As in we should be dead right now."

Billy spots his shoes by the door at the same time Steve does and one of Steve's eyebrows quirks up. He's at the door and snatching them up before Billy can manage it. "Are you going somewhere?" he asks accusingly.

"No, I'm not," Billy says. "But we are. We're going to go talk to my friend Robin." He snatches his shoes out of Steve's hand and shoves his feet into them roughly.

"Why?"

"Because I can't deal with all your shit all by myself."

#i'd hunt your heart to the ends of the earth #gideonwrites #stranger things #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington

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ashes-and-ashes · 6 years ago

Text

Just One More Minute

(Just a little something I found in my drafts. I think the title already indicates it’s going to be angsty. Shrug.)

Just one more minute, he whispers to himself, standing on the wooden platform between stations on a rainy autumn day. He’s 11, his eyes fastened to the metal clock hanging on the side, watching the minute hand tick down to the hour, anxiously waiting for the white smoke and the hissing and the scarlet train pulling up on the rails. There are people all around him, their voices blurring into one another, chattering is odd of his head but Sirius ignores them, eyes still glued to the clock. Beside him, he feels a tug on his shoulder, Regulus’ anxious eyes staring into his own. “Siri,” he whispers. “You’ll come back, right? You won’t leave me with mother?”

“Of course not,” Sirius says impatiently; he’s far too excited to pay his brother much attention. He stands on his tiptoes, one eye on the hands of the clock, watching and waiting for the red train to take him away.

“Just one more minute,” he grumbles, turning over in the bed. The sheets are warm, deliciously so, soft and fluffy and Sirius feels like he could sink into the blankets. He’s not used to this, being woken a gentle tap or a light shake, is far too used to his mother’s screams and shouts and occasionally glass shattering against the wall. He takes a deep breath, the scent of clean cotton filling his nose.

“You said that 10 minutes ago,” Remus says, and hits him with the pillow. “You’re 12. No 12-year-old sleeps that much!”

“This one does,” Sirius mutters and he closes his eyes again, ignoring the pillow being slapped across his face. “Go away.”

Remus ignores him, finally resorting to yanking all the blankets off the bed, exposing Sirius’ skin to the cold air and Sirius sits up. “Oh, for God’s sakes,” he grumbles and launches himself forward, tackling Remus out of the bed and onto the floor. His head hits the back of the wall, his legs thrown over Remus and he can’t stop laughing as he smacks him over and over again with the pillow.

“Just one more minute!” Sirius calls. He’s 13 now, balanced on his broomstick, the air cold and clear as he swooped through the goalposts. The sun was setting, shining just above the Ravenclaw tower, casting spiky shadows all over the Quidditch Pitch.

Beside him, James lets out a yell as he flips himself over, weaving in and out around Sirius, trailing huge loops in the air. Sirius smirks and joins him, spiraling in huge arches and swooping into a dive. “Look at me, Remus!”

“You’re 18 minutes past curfew,” Remus informs him; his lips are turned up in a smile though, his eyes bright even in the darkening sky. “You’re going to give us detention.”

James flips him off and spirals back up, hair streaming behind him and Peter squawks. “You’ll kill yourself!”

“Doubtful,” James yells; he’s so high up that his words barely carry back down. “Shut up will you, Wormy!”

Peter blushes and looks down; Remus catches Sirius’ eyes and smirks. “Are you planning on killing yourself anytime soon?”

“Nah,” says Sirius; he’s lost in Remus’ eyes, the shifting colors, the way they seemed to glow even in the darkness. “I’m gonna live forever.”

“Just one more minute,” he calls; he’s bent over against the wall, the map lying on his legs. It’s his pride and joy - he knows every crease, every tear in the paper, loves the way the lines spiral across the parchment and unfold to the edges.

There were three things he loved at Hogwarts; his friends, the map and Remus.

Sirius bends back down over the paper, ignoring the banging on the door; he has his wand out, tip to the parchment, delicately tracing over the capillary of passageways, the lifeblood of the castle. “Give me a minute!”

“You’ve been in there for an hour,” says Remus; he’s got his mouth pressed up against the keyhole, his voice carrying through the room. “You need to study.”

Sirius stands, throwing his hair over his shoulders in mock anger; he can just barely catch the copper gleam of Remus’ eyes through the cracks in the door. “Homework can wait. I’m making a miracle.”

Remus sighs, leaning against the wood; it let out a pitiful creak. “Some miracle. It’s a plain old map.”

Sirius shakes his head, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Just you wait, Moons. Just you wait.”

Just one more minute, he thinks. Let me survive one more minute.

He’s curled up in the floor, the stone cool against his cheek, eyes screwed firmly shut. There’s the taste of blood in his mouth; he knows he’s bitten through his lip, blood running down his chin in steady streams, into the already large puddle around his body. His back burns, so fiercely that it brings tears to his eyes. The Hall still rings with his screams; he had tried to muffle it at first, letting blood flow instead of noise, but it was too much. He had cried out after the 5th Crucio and screamed after the 10th - his mother was resentless and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk for days.

He’s on his side now, curled up, what was left of his button down shirt now stained a dark red. Last time his mother had almost cut open his stomach, and so he had kicked his legs up to protect his torso. It was in vain though - all she had done was stack his unprotected back, burning it and cutting it and tearing it open until he had almost passed out.

He blinks rapidly now, fingers clenched on the floor, trying but failing to rise and bracing himself for the next round of pain.

Let me survive one more minute, he thinks, as he pain hits again. Please. Just one more minute.

Just one more minute he thinks, over and over again like a mantra, like some long-forgotten spell. One more minute.

He can hear the howling, coming from the Shack, can see the faint bursts of light trickling through the trees and Sirius sprints even faster.

Goddamn me, he thinks. I’m an idiot.

Because he was. He had let Snape bait him and curse him, had let himself be so caught up with rage and now he had spilled Remus’ secret. Now Snape was in the Shack and Remus was the Wolf and Sirius was desperately sprinting on legs that barely worked and he wanted to punch something but there was no time. He gritted his teeth, waves of pain shooting up his legs; there was still dark magic in his bloodstream, he could feel it. The world was swimming around him, making everything blurry but he didn’t care - Sirius followed the screaming as he headed into the forest.

“Just one more minute,” he says, Remus’ lips on his own. They were lying in bed together, the last day before school ended, Remus’ hands impossibly soft from where they rested on his hip. His hair was lighter, streaks of sun-bleached blond running through them like bits of gold and Sirius ran his hands through them.

“We’re going to be late,” Remus mumbles and Sirius presses him closer, tangling his legs through Remus’. “It’s fine. Classes are over anyways.”

Remus lets out a small yawn, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re a bad influence,” he mutters, his hair shifting due to his soft breaths. “It’s a wonder we’re all not expelled because of you.”

“I’m a star,” Sirius says and Remus laughs, burying his face into Sirius’ neck. “Be careful,” he said. “Stars are lovely and all, Sirius, but remember. They burn bright and then they explode and die.”

Sirius just shrugs, pulling Remus over him. “Better go out with a bang,” he smirks, and moves to cover Remus’ lips with his own.

“Just one more minute,” he hisses, his hands pressed to the steadily growing stain that was spreading across the bandage. “Please. One more minute.”

He can feel Remus’ heartbeat underneath his hands, the normally steady pulse now threads and weak and Sirius curses. “You idiot,” he hisses. “Absolute idiot.”

Remus gives him a weak smile from where he’s sprawled on the floor. His hand is covered in blood, the grip form where it was wrapped around Sirius’ wrist. “I love you,” he croaks.

“Don’t - “ Sirius begins, but it’s too late; with a small exhale Remus closes his eyes.

Sirius swears, redoubling his efforts, trying not to think about the way Remus’ body stiffened and went cold. “Please,” he whispered, and he didn’t know if he was praying or pleading or begging. “Please. Just one more minute.”

Just one more minute.

He’s huddled in the corner of his cell, his eyes tracking the motions of the Dementors gliding in the corridor around him. The air is bitterly, terribly cold, his clothing damp from the water dripping from the ceiling. There’s the taste of metal in his mouth, his hands sore and aching from where he’s slammed them against the wall countless of times; Sirius ignores the pain as he watches through the bars of his cell.

He’s numb now - even he can tell, lost in the haze of sea water and stone. His heart echoes slowly in his chest, his head pounding and his eyes heavy but he can’t fall asleep. Because that’s when the nightmares start, dark and realistic, the nightmares of Remus dying, over and over again. And he’d rather die, rather be tortured and cut and beaten, rather have his body ripped apart then see Remus dead.

So Sirius stares at the wall, fighting sleep, fighting the numbness and the despair with everything he has. Just one more minute. Stay awake for one more minute.

Just one more minute.

He knows he’s going to die.

The Veil whispers to him, soft and ghostly, filling his head with hundreds of images. He can see them, hovering just below his conscience, all the people who he had killed for and fought for and now would die for; Marlene and Dorcas and Fabian and Gideon, Benjy and Cardoc and Mary. And he can see them as well; the redness of Lily’s hair, the glint of James’ glasses, the locket gleaming at the base of Regulus’ throat. And above him is Remus, hand outstretched, still so beautiful even after all these years. He’s shouting something, his face terrified and by God, all Sirius wants to do is take that hand, pull himself up, let himself be with Remus.

It’s all he’s ever wanted, at the end of all this - the chance to live with Remus, to be with him, the ordinary trappings of an ordinary life. He’s already suffered so much, has gone through hell and back and God all Sirius wants to do is be with the boy he loved.

Please, he thinks, he begs, to the God he knows will not answer. Please. Give me one more minute. Let me at least say goodbye.

But he’s falling, backwards, into a pit that seemed to stretch on forever, and Sirius knows his time has run out.

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