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spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years

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Such Thankless Toil

Tybalt stared at the simple wooden cross hanging on his wall. He warmed himself by the fire in his hut. The cold still seeped in through the cracks everywhere throughout the drafty place, and his hands still throbbed from the friction of the wood axe’s handle rubbing against his calluses, clashing with the biting cold of a winter come early to these lands.

Someone approached his humble abode. The sound of the frosted ground outside crunching alerted Tybalt to the person’s nearing, but he felt no need to react. Light steps—someone frail or small or both. Tybalt just continued to hold out his palms in front of the fire, savoring that thrum of the blood pumping through his veins, pushing out the feeling of pins and needles in his digits.

His visitor finally arrived and knocked on the door. Entered without waiting for a response, accompanied by the creak of old metal hinges. Tybalt reared his head to see who had found the courage to visit him here all alone.

A young lad. He froze in his tracks as his gaze wandered from object to object in the hut, but then snapped into place when he locked onto Tybalt’s face.

The boy gasped.

Tybalt grabbed the brown hood from the nearby table and slipped it over his own head. It was harder to see through the eyeholes cut out of its front, but it made it easier to converse with people. It made it easier for them, for it hid his hideous visage.

The young boy backed away a step and almost tripped over the threshold when Tybalt rose from his seat by the fireplace.

“What is it?” he asked the boy. Every baritone word crashed down like strikes of an axe against a log.

The boy swallowed, fighting to overcome his fear, but it visibly still paralyzed him before he mustered enough courage to reply. Tybalt waited patiently, standing still and finding pleasure in the warmth of flames in his back.

“L-Lord Gabriel de Rochefort s-summons you for another task, m-master,” stuttered the boy.

Tybalt tilted his head, pondering those words. He read the fear festering in the boy’s heart and understood his own subtle motions to be only fertilizing that growing dread. Tybalt started nodding, the intensity of it waxing as their exchange spurred him into action.

“You may go. I must sharpen my axe, then I will arrive shortly to do as he bids,” Tybalt replied, gruff and as voluminous as an earthquake.

The boy practically ran away. Barely eked out a word of farewell. The sounds of his fast pace betrayed just how panicked he really was over the sight of Tybalt’s appearance, gaining distance so quickly that he would be back in the village in no time whatsoever.

Tybalt could not blame him. His reaction to seeing his disfigured face was no different from anybody else’s. If anything, Tybalt resented the fool who had failed to mention it to the lad before sending him on his errand.

He kept his hood on, finding the warmth it shed preferable over exposure to the cold air, even in spite of the humidity quickly building with each breath. The large man used a bucket and ladle to splash some water onto his table, placed his whetstone onto it, and sat down there with a massive axe in hand.

Each precise and slow stroke of the blade along the stone’s surface gave him more time to think.

SHHHHINK.

How de Rochefort allowed him to keep the boots from the thief he finished last week. A rare thing to find such good cobbling fit to a size like his.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

How some of the peasants found that a wolf had torn through their livestock several days prior, and Tybalt was the one responsible for clearing out the carcasses from the nearby woods.

SHHHHINK.

How he handled all those diseased corpses in town last year, burning them on a pyre, which Tybalt carried out without posing a single question or uttering a word.

SHHHHINK.

How they all viewed him with derision, but always needed his help. Such thankless wretches. All but the good lord who had pardoned him all those years ago.

SHHHHHHHHINK.

Tybalt tested the blade’s edge against his thumb, careful not to cut himself. Such thankless toil.

One more.

One of these days, he would fail in his tasks, and be put to the axe himself. Subject to the fury of the thankless mob.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHINK.

Death could not be stayed forever. Not even for its chosen agents.

He sampled the blade’s sharpness again.

Good now.

Tybalt threw on a blanket to keep him warm on his march into town. He hoisted the heavy axe onto his shoulder and left the fire burning. With a bit of luck, this would be quick, and warmth still lingering in his hearth upon return.

The time it took to walk from his abode to the town always gave him ample space to fill with thinking. A pious pilgrim once said that too much idle time gave even the most honest men cause to lend the devil their ear, but Tybalt always found that it helped him come to terms with his many frustrations and lingering resentments. To sort them out, and bury them deep, keeping the surface of his mind clear and cleanly.

His wandering took him from the edge of the woods, down muddy paths seldom traveled.

A task always required his full focus. He envisioned the many necks he had severed, the many times he had separated heads from their connected bodies. The crunch of bone, the sprays of blood. No room to register the shock of a leering audience, some whose eyes displayed perverse lust at the spectacle of a public execution. Such impressions always sank in after the fact, for they would only distract him from his work, cost him tiny increments of much-needed precision, precision in which every tiniest fraction of an inch mattered.

Now, he walked along pastures where peasants worked the fields in desperate haste against the winter’s premature arrival. One of them shouted to the other, though far enough away that Tybalt could not decipher his admonishments, only feel the waves of hatred conveyed through incessant swearing.

De Rochefort’s land was a miserable one, filled with miserable people.

Tybalt had no room to consider things like the derangement he saw in the crowds while performing his handiwork. The master would dictate how many strokes he was afforded to end that life, and if he failed, then his head would be next on the chopping block.

Therefore, he had to find focus. To concentrate. To consider the way he bore that axe’s shaft. How to swing with maximum accuracy.

His life depended on it. And who else could take his place? Who would?

The blanket, the heat from his hearth trapped underneath it, and his long walk helped stave off the bitter cold as Tybalt passed through the open gate of the town’s outer wall. A commotion of sounds welcomed him, among others, the rhythmic sharp ringing from the farrier’s anvil some streets away. Many voices chattering away in houses, echoing through the streets. So alive, here, yet so foreign to him these days.

He pushed back every thought until his mind cleared entirely. Kept pressing on until he arrived on the town’s grand square, now devoid of market stands save for those wily enough to trade edible treats to wealthy snobs hailing and visiting from distant lands.

The scent of roasted pig and honey hung heavy in the air, wafting from those stands, though muted somewhat by the smell of frozen mud and wintry cold. Even through his mask, it all filled Tybalt’s nostrils.

Upon the executioner’s stand, Lord de Rochefort awaited, arms crossed. A large horde of town folk had already started to gather around the elevated wooden platform.

Tybalt could also feel their blood lust. Like a cold heat, emanating from the crowd.

Lord de Rochefort’s eyes flashed with recognition and relief when he noticed Tybalt’s arrival. He raised his chin to look down at the tall man while Tybalt ascended the narrow steps up onto the platform, but he gave him a deep nod in recognition and greeting.

“Bring forth that scoundrel, that filth,” commanded de Rochefort in an imperious tone, gesturing at one of his servants to do his bidding.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The lord clapped Tybalt on his shoulder once he arrived by his side on the platform, a living tower standing next to the master of the fiefdom.

“Thank you for your haste,” de Rochefort whispered to him.

Tybalt nodded to him, then surveyed the crowd. Shutting out the cascade of garish colors of their attire, their bodies huddled together in the creeping cold, flush with anticipation for the coming spectacle of carnage.

This was one of his least favorite parts. He knew others would think it odd if he ever shared such an account, but the act of butchering living men only paled in comparison to when all eyes were on him and the people he was tasked with ending. How disgusting it was how they wanted to watch a man die.

It was always these periods of time when he had to wait until all announcements were made, everything decreed. He cared not for their crimes, had no capacity to pity them left over in his heart. Wished not to know how much the common folk dreaded or enjoyed the organized slaughter of their fellow human beings, found no curiosity in seeking any deeper meaning.

He despised having to absorb any such speeches or impressions, because only one piece of proclamation mattered to him: how many swings was allowed.

That many chops into the neck, and no more. Or he would be next. He knew that the previous deathsman, Hadrian, had been lynched by the mob for failing at his final task. When they were riled up, there was little the lord could do to stop them. Little he would do, lest he endanger his own blessed and high-born life.

Such was the executioner’s way.

Noticing how he had lost focus in such thoughts, Tybalt pinched the bridge of his nose through the linen sack mask over his head.

Two men already dragged the criminal up the steps onto the platform with them. Tybalt had missed Lord de Rochefort’s declaration of offenses that had delivered this wretch to the here and now, to lose his head on this very day.

The criminal looked sickly. Black rings under his milky-white eyes, pallid skin. Like he was already dead and the world around him had yet to notice it. Unlike many others, this captive offered no struggle. Never protested, never rebelled against the grip of his captors.

The master held up a hand, all fingers splayed. A lop-sided grin marked his face, knowing these displays did in fact help placate the masses of his unwashed serfs.

“Five swings,” de Rochefort shouted to the crowd, rousing a clipped cheer from them, then shooting Tybalt a glance.

Tybalt nodded.

Five was a normal amount, but the criminal’s neck looked so thin and frail, leaving the seasoned executioner to wonder if he would not manage it in three for a change.

The two militiamen shoved the criminal onto his knees and pressed his head down against the chopping block. Tybalt studied the blood from the previous week still staining the coarse wooden surface where blades had repeatedly hacked into the wood once they cleaved through men’s necks.

Many in the crowd sharply inhaled. Even through his hood, Tybalt could perceive the pleasured anticipation, heavy in some of those intakes of air. He cringed, a sentiment concealed by the hood on his head.

De Rochefort cleared his throat and Tybalt took his position beside the chopping block. All whispers and murmuring in the crowd ceased, a blanket of dead silence draping itself over them.

That sickly wretch just knelt there, head resting sideways against the block, staring blankly past Tybalt’s legs. Like his soul had already escaped the confines of his body, and all that remained here on display was a husk of a human being.

Good, the executioner thought. If he did not fidget, this might be over fast.

Tybalt reared back and raised the axe.

He swung.

THWACK.

The crowd gasped, someone started screaming. As they always did.

The hood concealed Tybalt’s grimace.

Thin and frail and all sickly-looking, but still sturdy as a fresh tree in spring.

Tybalt tilted his head back and forth, observing the results of the first stroke. It had cut into flesh and arteries but barely chopped through the spine. Gurgling sounds erupted from the criminal’s throat, but this was a strange one. He neither tried to scream, nor escape. His body had no fight in it, showed no will to survive. Tybalt had never seen anything like it.

He shrugged that off and raised the axe again, then brought it crashing back down.

THWACK.

More screams. Someone in the crowd covered a child’s eyes.

Finally, the victim started squirming. Twitching. Not resisting—but wracked by wild and weird spasms. It made little sense to the executioner.

The spine was severed, but it felt like he had barely cut through half the neck, and getting all the way through sometimes still proved to be difficult at such a junction. Blood pumped out of the gaping wound which each additional swing would keep widening.

Tybalt’s heart raced. Each blow counted.

He reared back and focused. He did not care about living, but he did not want to die. It was this or death. He could sense the cold and hungry rage swelling in the mob. That twisted place between shock and pleasure, eager to see a man slaughtered but also fearful of the sights and sounds that it delivered.

Fury that should be directed elsewhere to the lord more deserving of it, standing nearby and watching closely as Tybalt ended some poor man’s life—but fury that would find a convenient target in the hideous-faced executioner.

He gritted his teeth. Adjusted his grip. Concentrated.

With all his might, he brought that axe, chopping down again.

THWACK.

Thump.

The head rolled and flopped on the platform’s roughshod boards, having torn itself loose from the final tendrils of flesh and muscles. Thick gobs of blood gushed all over the place.

Tybalt marveled at how little of the splatters he had gotten on himself this time.

Three swings, as he had predicted. He almost felt a little bit of pride swelling in his chest. But his revulsion eclipsed it within seconds, fueled by the overjoyed claps and cheers that erupted from the crowd. While his mind had grown as calloused as his hands from all the woodwork and beheadings, he never stopped finding these crowds repulsive.

Everybody went dead silent once again. Tybalt looked to his lord, who stared wide-eyed at the head he had removed. So did the crowd.

When he followed their gazes to study the face of death in that disembodied head, what he saw paralyzed him as much as it did everybody else. The incomprehensible sight curdled his blood, made his body turn cold—colder than the wintry air could ever render it.

Dozens of insect-like, spidery legs sprouted from the dead criminal’s mangled neck. A patch of blood-drenched greasy hair flapped wildly around as these long black spindly legs managed to get the head standing up straight and those uncountable number of tiny pointy feet found their bearing.

Once one person in the mob started screaming, other shrieks followed.

The head, carried by that gruesome array of legs, still gushing blood from the neck—it skittered off, leaping off the platform, and scooting away through the alleyways with unnaturally abrupt motions. People it passed by ended up scattering in every direction, running away from it in a panic, yelling at the top of their lungs, and crying for their mothers or their God.

The severed head on its tiny monstrous legs had long vanished into the darkness of the alleyways when Tybalt let his gaze sweep across the crowd.

A murderous glint twinkled in all their eyes. A rage that directed itself at him.

Lord de Rochefort took the stage, stepping in front of him.

“The devil took that man’s soul and possessed his body! You witnessed God’s work in our deathsman cleaving his neck in twain, good folk,” the noble shouted. His voice shook, quaking with the fear of a man who knew how dangerously close to getting lynched he himself now rode.

The mob hurled angry shouts and curses at him, but no objects yet. He raised his hands in hopes of quelling their fury, and their volume shrank into upset murmurs. Several people already peeled away from the crowd, seeking the safety of their own four walls. The devil’s many names escaped many sets of lips in baleful utterances.

“Fear not, for we will continue to do God’s work, as the Lord intended,” de Rochefort announced, shaking his hands, now balled into fists, at the end of every word.

Some people in the mob began to nod and vocalize their support. Others shouted for the demon to be slain. All the while, Tybalt’s heart still raced, pounding like a drum in his ears.

Lord de Rochefort turned to him and clapped his hand on his shoulder once more.

He always did that when he expected his loyal executioner’s aid. But this time, he followed that gesture by leaning in close to Tybalt. Unlike the mob, de Rochefort’s eyes were wide not with anger, but with terror alone.

Almost entirely drowned out by the rising ruckus from the excited crowd, the lord hissed a whisper to Tybalt, “You must seek out that foul creature—and slay it.”

Some of them had already returned with pitchforks. One with a lit torch.

Tybalt surveyed their lot and then looked back to the alleyway where the—

The thing, that awful thing—

Wherever that thing was, had skittered off to.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of pursuing it. What if he failed? What if it possessed him next?

He gave Lord de Rochefort a grim nod and turned to leave. He inspected the sharpness of his axe’s blade while he took slow, deliberate steps down the stairs from the platform.

Tybalt felt watched. Felt the many gazes from the crowd, transfixed on him. Burning. Oh, how his masked disfigured countenance drew more looks than the prettiest of faces. The huddled masses spilled away from him, giving him a wide berth as he walked.

He did his best to ignore them and wandered alone into the dim twilight of the alleyways. Where it reeked of feces and vomit. A fitting place for him to wander, to hunt such an abomination. A fitting place for such a foul creature to retreat to. The stench, permeating the air underneath his hood, it reminded him of why he hated his settlement. Resented all these people.

What if he just left the town and wandered into the depths of the woods where beasts dwelt, never to be seen again? Just up and left these wretched saps to their own fates?

Scampering sounds and something clicking, chirping, reached him from several steps away. Tybalt held his axe up high, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness devouring all the nooks and crannies around him. He took cautious steps, a pebble crunching underneath his boot as he swiveled in his search.

The thing was close. Hiding.

He inched forth and paused to the sound of flesh tearing and something meaty, wet, slapping against cobblestone and dirt. Tybalt adjusted the grip of his axe once more.

A thankless toil indeed.

—Submitted by Wratts

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diveronaevents · 4 years

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AUTHOR: Minnie

MENTIONED: HIPPOLYTA, KATHERINE, MERCUTIO, MIRANDA, TYBALT

TRIGGERS: Violence, arson, drug mention

SUMMARY: A Montague drug house, specializing in the synthesization of ambrosia and under the command of MERCUTIO, is burnt to the ground by TYBALT and his team. The Capulets emerge with little useful information, save for the name of the new drug: bacio del mietitore.

MAY 16.

He, alone, is the face of Capulet cruelty. With dark ambition and deep-rooted resentment as the bit and bridle in his mouth to lead him, TYBALT sits in his office. He muses on the family’s losses. He wonders at the whispers he collects from lost souls and hungry mouths in Verona.

Together, it all paints a portrait of blood and flames. It shrieks battle cry upon battle cry until it becomes a song to soothe his — and by extension, the Capulets’ — wounded pride. La Tigre, they call him. La Tigre is finished with lying in wait for the opportune moment to pounce. He will strike, and he will strike now.

In his hands, a mere collection of papers stacked neatly in one file (MIRANDA used a heart paper clip to fasten it together, he notes with a roll of his eyes) becomes a loaded cannon. When pieced together, innocuous intel and harried rumors create an opportunity. TYBALT runs through the file in his hands once more.

Yes, a plan is beginning to take shape. The aftermath of his hand-delivered retribution will cling to the air like smoke, the scent of it imprecating every Montague.

MAY 17

A woman who has learned intimately the price of war, KATHERINE stalks the streets of Verona not like hunter but like prey. She has already lost enough; she cannot stomach another battle of wills and a fight for survival. It is all she can do, after all, to keep trudging forward and hold her head high with her trademark pride.

From roof to roof, she travels across Verona to scope out different areas of MERCUTIO’s territory until she spots it at last: a drug house specializing in synthesizing ambrosia. She sets up camp for the night, and begins taking notes: shift changes, movement of the guards, relationships…

When MERCUTIO shows, she raises an eyebrow and writes in her notepad: Captain visit, 23h. As the list of times grows longer, KATHERINE scratches out the record and scribbles: Captain visits frequently. No pattern.

She narrows her eyes in concentration, heart pounding as she considers its implications. This won’t be as easy as they hoped.

MAY 19, NOON

“It’s simple.” HIPPOLYTA speaks patiently, poised as ever despite the rising flood of irritation at the initiate’s unmasked fear. “Keep MERCUTIO busy tonight. You have all day to find them, and you have all day to form a plan. It doesn’t matter how you do it, so long as they do not leave your sight or communicate with their team.”

Again and again, she repeats her instructions as if she is preaching on a podium before a single lost sheep, a lamb waiting for her deliverance. When at last they hurry away, HIPPOLYTA wonders if she made the correct decision. MERCUTIO is no ordinary captain; they are L’inferno, Verona’s terror in one being. But there is little choice left; each soldier is busy, and her preferred list of initiates are out of pocket.

She heaves a sigh and heads to TYBALT’s office to report progress. The ground they stand on trembles, but they keep moving forward. It is all any of them can do.

MAY 19, 10 PM

A plan set in motion cannot be taken back. The wheel turns, the tides change; and all TYBALT can do is push forward and trust that the team he’s built can rise to his expectations. He will be unrelenting. He will be ferocious. He will be as brilliant and clever and brutal as he was bred to be. It is his talent and his divine, bloodied birthright.

He stands before a house that appears, at first glance, plain and unsuspecting. Modest and in desperate need of exterior renovations, anyone in Verona would walk past it without a second glance. Littered at his feet are the unconscious bodies of the Montague guards. With a cruel snarl turning the corners of his lips, TYBALT makes a motion to KATHERINE. “Get them out of the way. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

As KATHERINE methodically executes each Montague and drags them to a discrete location, TYBALT and HIPPOLYTA enter the house side-by-side. Together, they meander through its halls with confident strides; but it is TYBALT alone who makes the final decision, with HIPPOLYTA’s serious gaze offering neither approval nor disagreement as he announces it to the team.

“KATHERINE and HIPPOLYTA will gather all the intel they find inside the house. Document everything. It is not your call to decide what’s important and what’s not.” Only after the two seasoned Capulets nod does TYBALT turn to the soldier under his command: MIRANDA. A disappointment in nearly every regard, she is shackled to the lowest standing among them. If she survives — for even this, TYBALT doubts — she will never be more useful than she is now.

“You’ll start the fire when I say so. We don’t know if MERCUTIO or another guard will show up, so be on alert for my command.” He doesn’t need to elaborate further. A heavy cloud of trepidation lingers over them; for what is worse, to fail La Tigre or to battle L’Inferno? To incur the wrath of either is to welcome Death with a kiss on the mouth and open desire for calamity.

“Understood?”

HIPPOLYTA, KATHERINE and MIRANDA nod their heads, mirroring his severity — and then they get to work.

MAY 19, 10:40 PM

“How cute of you to pay me a visit, stronzo.”

From behind the house, MERCUTIO appears. As if a phantom summoned by TYBALT’s voracious appetite, or the Grim Reaper enthralled by the scent of more Capulet souls to collect, they approach with the gait of a predator that thrives best in the dark. When their lips curl with anticipation, a shiver runs down MIRANDA’s spine. A few feet away from her, TYBALT stands unfazed and unmoved; as if he knew how the story would unfold.

They have always called one another like this. Hunter and hunter, prey and prey. In horrible harmony, they move in unison in a dance of death and decay, fury and fear.

“Go find the others,” TYBALT orders MIRANDA.

Her eyes dart towards MERCUTIO, who is standing perfectly still in wait of the opportune time to slice TYBALT’s head off his neck. “Are you sure?”

“I’m always sure,” he hisses, to which MIRANDA darts to the front door as nimble and quick as a mouse. MERCUTIO lets her run past them. She is not their mark. The Capulet name makes her an enemy, but she is not theirs to ruin.

Tonight, they are more than a Montague. They are an abandoned boy blossomed into a vile and vengeful man, the sole survivor of another burning. TYBALT’s life is their burden, and his death is their sole demand from the world. In death and in life, TYBALT is theirs; it would be utterly romantic, if not for the river of spilled blood between them.

MERCUTIO cracks the knuckles of their fist as they walk towards him. “I think I’ll take home your head on a platter, coglione. Or maybe pull each of your fingers from its sockets and feed them to stray dogs.”

TYBALT spits out a curse. Of all nights, tonight is the one time he must hold himself back from wrenching open MERCUTIO’s skull and letting their blood stain the pavement. The mission must go smoothly and well, for the Montagues will not miss the death of their most lethal weapon.

Still, he does not let it show as he welcomes his enemy, his rival, his mirror. “You’re dumber than you look if you think you can touch me.”

Inside, MIRANDA sprints through the house in search of HIPPOLYTA and KATHERINE. When at last she finds them, she reports in between pants, “They’re here. MERCUTIO… They’re fighting TYBALT. Back-up might be coming. Watch out.”

Immediately, HIPPOLYTA takes the reins. Smoothly and efficiently, with the grace of a goddess and the authority of a queen, she looks to KATHERINE and MIRANDA with steels in her eyes. “If MERCUTIO is here, then there are others close behind. The two of you keep searching. As soon as you’re finished, start the fire.”

She marches to the entrance, and does not look back.

MAY 19, 10:50 PM

“We’re ready.” KATHERINE speaks quietly, and it seems to amplify the sternness in her voice. Scurrying through the halls of a drug house and rifling through papers for intel, after all, is not where she thrives. Clipped and curt, she is restless to return to the front lines and fight. It is what she does best; it is what she was born for, the conquest of battle and a weapon sitting pretty in her hands.

“You go first.” MIRANDA uncaps the fuel container in her hands and, once KATHERINE is a safe distance away, begins to pour it along the floor, the furniture, the walls... Little by little, she leaves traces of it behind until the fuel container is empty and the two are safe outside the back door. In the distance, they can hear MERCUTIO and TYBALT taunting and cursing at each other, and HIPPOLYTA grunting as she fights the Montagues who’ve come to join them.

MIRANDA pulls a matchbox from her pocket and lights it. “Here goes nothing,” she says to herself before she tosses it into the house and shuts the back door.

The house erupts into flames. MIRANDA and KATHERINE take a moment to watch the fire flicker up against the windows, as the world grows muted and still. On the other side of the house, HIPPOLYTA does not stop fighting as the fire rages on. MERCUTIO strikes TYBALT across the jaw and steps on his chest to quiet the Capulet, giving themself a second to watch the house burn. Their eyes flicker with uncharacteristic grief, a strange sorrow that does not seem to fit their features. It reminds them of a home burned to the ground, long ago. With TYBALT beneath them and the smell of smoke flooding their nostrils, MERCUTIO swears they can hear the sound of children screaming, fathers shouting and a lone wolf of a child crying.

TYBALT watches MERCUTIO all the while, gaze as sharp as ever and hands gripping their ankle tightly. This is almost better than cracking their bones by hand. He feasts on a different breed of pain, basking in it even with his back to the ground.

It is a brief second of silence, but sacred things have a way of making hours out of mere moments. This pause stretches on and on and on. A house burns in the background. Montagues and Capulets alike behold the ways a single match can spark a wildfire that devours without mercy, without regard for loyalties and vengeance at all.

It burns and burns and burns. Everything in its path shudders and falls.

For a momentary lapse of time, they all forget what they have come here to do. Until a piercing shriek shatters the peace of utter chaos and destruction: “KATHERINE!”

In the next split second, MERCUTIO falls to the ground with HIPPOLYTA’s arms around them in a chokehold. The Montague soldiers scatter without their leader’s might to hide behind. TYBALT does not waste the opportunity, running to MIRANDA, whose hands are pressed to her lips with horror. “What happened?” he demands, grabbing her wrist and yanking it away from her mouth.

“She went in. She said she dropped something in the house.”

TYBALT looks to the open door, searching for KATHERINE’s silhouette. When he does not see any sign of her, the tension in his shoulders loosen. “Leave her be.” Releasing his hold on her wrist abruptly, TYBALT begins to walk away. “She’ll survive if she knows how to.”

For a moment, he is satisfied. He will take MERCUTIO as prisoner to the Capulets. He will take what intel they have and understand the new drug the Montagues are rumored to have planned. He will hand Cosimo a pile of gold and treasure, and reap the weight of the crown as his prize.

For a moment.

“I’m going in.” Before TYBALT can turn to order her to stay put, MIRANDA has already run into the burning house. He runs to where she was just a moment ago and searches, again, for a sign of a soldier under his command. Teeth gritted, fists balled up tightly at his sides, TYBALT lets out a low and feral guttural sound.

If he loses two soldiers, then he’s fucked.

It doesn’t help that HIPPOLYTA comes to his side and reports that MERCUTIO has escaped her hold.

The muscles in TYBALT’s jaw flexes. If KATHERINE and MIRANDA make it out alive, he’s going to burn them up himself.

When the two of them emerge from the smoke and the flames, MIRANDA’s arm holding KATHERINE up, TYBALT heaves a sigh of relief despite his temper.

“Don’t think I’m going to let this slide,” he barks at MIRANDA.

She offers him a tired smile, eyes shining bright despite the ashen smudges on her cheeks. “Can’t wait, capitano.”

#diveronadevelopment #arson tw #drug mention tw #violence tw

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bounty-of-apples · 5 years

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Save Our Souls, They're All The Worth We Have Left

Relationships: Tomomi/Canach

Characters: Luna, Ashal, Tomomi, Canach

Tags: Minor Character Death (mentioned)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149831

Summery: At the afterparty of Tomomi and Canach renewing their vows to celebrate 5 years of marriage, Luna gets rather drunk and starts telling stories about her and her brother's adventures.

“He must have been… Well, not much past being a sapling and I remember,” Luna giggles into her drink, her attempts to take a sip disrupted by her laughing, “I found him scrambled up a tree chucking water down at a very unimpressed Stalker who was clawing at the bottom, like a human flicking water at their misbehaving house cat!” She tilts sideways to lean on Ashal as she cracks herself up again, missing and nearly falling off the seat she’s perched crosslegged on – only the quick reactions of her twin saving her from face-planting the floor.

“Alright Luna, that’s probably enough alcohol and embarrassing stories for now.” Tomomi takes her drink from her and steps back as she tries to grab it from him, once more only saved from falling by Ashal’s hug pulling her back. “You’ve drunk enough for three Norns and I think you’ve given my squad plenty material to use against me for one night.”

She slumps back into her seat and pulls a face so childish, one his squad did not expect from her. It looks out of place on their Commander, most of them have only met her a handful of times, and its always been before, during, or after battle when she is high authority.

“Fine…” She drags the word out and sounds as if she’s ready to sulk, until something in her posture changes and her voice drops softer. “What if I tell you about the time he saved my life.”

His squad had started to gather themselves to leave, but she had definitely caught their attention again. They settled back into their places, spread across the floor in-front of her seat like she was a carer getting children ready for bed.

“It must have been, what, six years ago?” She looks up at Tomomi for confirmation, but he says nothing. He’s sat down with his squad and his husband, who’s come to join them after curiosity got the better of him. Tomomi has pressed himself into Canach’s side, seeking comfort from him before the story has even been told. “It was before the Pact had been formed, I was rising in the ranks of Whisper while my brother did the same within the Vigil. I knew what I was going into I wouldn’t be able to manage with just Trahearne, Tybalt, and myself,” Luna’s voice catches on Trahearne’s name and most of the people listening bow their head for a moment in memory of their late Marshal. All except Aurora, who’s gaze snapped up again at the mention of Tybalt – he was an old friend of hers but it had been so long since she had contact from him. “So I contacted Warmaster Laranthir and requested Tomomi and a handful of other soldiers he could spare to accompany us to Claw Island.” Luna reaches out to Ashal sat beside her and grips her twins hand tightly before continuing.

“We made it there in good time. We knew an attack was coming enough of Zhaitan’s spies had been found loitering nearby that we were well aware it was only a matter of time. Watch Commander Talon had become regrettably complacent in his time on Claw Island and didn’t think it was necessary to listen to us. We tried to warn him. We tried to save everyone… There was only a few at first, few enough that the Lionguard didn’t need our help to take them down. We cleared the beach with them anyway, and maybe thats where we went wrong. That fight was over so quickly Talon was even more sure of his decision that Claw Island was incapable of falling. But then came the ships.” Tomomi stands and walks away from the group, choosing to talk to the other members of Dragon’s Watch rather than relive the battle within his sister’s story.

“Built from bone and rot, they rose from the water bringing the stench of death with them. Their catapults bombarded us with corpses. Most of them stood up to fight, but a few just hit the ground and coated the floor in a thin layer of flesh. We fought off as many as we could and managed to sink one or two of the ships but it made no difference. The walls were overrun, we had to fall back. Talon was a stubborn fool who wouldn’t call the retreat, said that Claw Island had stood for nearly a hundred years and how they couldn’t fall. Took a fatal blow before he realised his mistake. I’m not saying he deserved to die, but out of everyone we lost that day, he’s the one I miss the least. A lot of good people could have survived if he’d swallowed his pride.”

“The Lionguard rallied in the courtyard with the few Vigil I’d brought, drawing the attention of most of the undead while Trahearne, Tybalt, Tomomi, and I fought our way around the edges to reach the beacons. At least if we all fell that day, Lion’s Arch would be warned and ready to fight. We made it, and with all the beacons lit we made the foolish mistake of feeling hopeful. With all our remaining forces gathered in the courtyard, it felt like we could fight our way out without having to lose anyone else. There was already so many good soldiers laying dead by our feet. That was when it arrived. We weren’t ready to face one of the dragon’s champions, no one had any idea what it could do. It came from the skies, crushing one of the outer walls as it landed and letting in the undead that were trapped behind it still. But the worst part was its breath. It spewed corruption like it was Zhaitan itself, crippling and blinding our soldiers as we struggled to retreat. And those of us that had already fallen… The corruption wove its way around their corpses and dragged them into servitude. We found ourselves facing people that mere hours before had been our companions.” As she talked, Luna’s glow had faded to a dull, almost sickly colour, which was made all the more obvious by her twin at her side glowing as brightly as any sylvari in the low lighting of the night should be. On hand was still tightly holding onto Ashal, and with the other she had pulled an amulet off from where it hung at her neck and was gently rubbing at the back, a habit anyone who knows her will have seen her do before when she starts to reminisce.

“Those of us who were unaffected did our best to carry the wounded, but it was clear we weren’t going to get to the ships at the rate we were moving, and it did not seem like the winged beast would let us sail even if we did make it. And then… Tybalt stoped and at first I thought he was hurt. But he turned to me and said that he haven't always lived bravely, but he thought he’d like to die that way. He asked me to believe in him. I trusted that bastard so much, he’d been my partner since I joined Whisper and the chaos we’d gotten ourselves into and out of with the other at our back… Of course I believed in him. He turned and he ran back towards the fighting, closed the gates behind him. Last I heard from him was his shout that he wouldn’t let them have us, and the fiercest battle roar any charr would be proud of. I tried to go back for him. Tried to run in after and take him with us, but Tomomi held me tight. He wouldn’t let me go and dragged me back to the ships along with the rest of the survivors, we barely had enough people to fill one ship, let alone the eight moored there.” Luna stands, a little wobbly from the remaining alcohol in her system, but the stance she takes is one they recognise. It’s a far cry from their captain’s sister sat telling embarrassing stories that she had been earlier in the evening, this is now their Commander stood before them once more, ready to address the soldiers that fall under her lead.

“I would have died with Tybalt that day, if Tomomi hadn’t forced me to retreat with them. I’d never have been here to see the Pact be formed, let alone take command beside Marshal Trahearne. But I can’t help wonder what could have been if Watchmaster Talon had listened to us in the first place. If there’s one thing you take from this story, be it that hubris will not only get you killed, but will get everyone around you killed as well. Or perhaps a fate worse than death, should there be dragon’s corruption involved.”

With that final statement closed, she gives a half bow and leaves them, her wolf having moved from where he was resting on the outskirts of the party to take his place by her side once more as she returns to her own tent. The mood is sufficiently brought down and Tomomi’s squad find themselves unwilling to part ways, instead finding comfort in each other’s presences and choosing to move their bedrolls out under the stars so they can all rest together.

Ashal departs not long after they set themselves up, moving off after her sister to see how she’s faring, and leaving Canach alone to think on the story he’d just heard. His husband had never even shared the information that he’d been at that first fateful battle, and it occurs to him now why he goes so quiet and uncomfortable when Aurora mentions her charr friend, the mechanic. Still, these are thoughts for tomorrow, and he sets off to find his husband so they may enjoy the comfort of a long night in each other’s arms and let what tomorrow brings be the problem of the future.

#tyriaslibrary #gw2 fan submission #gw2 sylvari #gw2 writing #tybalt leftpaw #canach #luna #ashal #Tomomi #canach/tomomi #the twins #My writing

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aki-draws-things · 5 years

Note

Hi! Your writing is great and I love it, and I've seen you're looking you're writing prompts, so can I possibly ask for "hiding and injury" with Tybalt & The Cat?

Hello there ~ For a second here I thought Tumblr messed up some asks and such, then I realized you just changed the user name. (At that, I spent like 30 minutes trying to remember what it was. I was like “It was a quote. I’m deadly sure... I just need to remember which.”)

Anyway, let’s get started, shall we? I always love to write of those two brothers~

The first 5 in a row!! I’m actually really proud of it!

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Hiding an InjuryFandom: Romeo et JulietteShip: // Tybalt & The Cat

Tybalt learned, over the years, that coming home wounded was bad, his uncle got angry at him for not being able to avoid his enemies’ blades, for not defending his family better, little it mattered that he may have been alone, or that it was more like an ambush than a proper fight, he was hurt and that meant a failure. And his brother always got worried, it didn’t matter to him that he was eighteen and not a child anymore, he worried nevertheless. Yes, coming home injured was bad, but not exactly avoidable, that’s why he learned to hide them, time after time always better than before. He could fool them all and he was quite proud of that. - He shouldn’t, he knew it already, it was stupid, and yet… -

The fight had been fast, in all truth it was more similar to a brawl, and a stupid one too, Montagues and Capulets didn’t even concern that particular fight, no. Instead a young man dressed in green and brown decided it was the best moment to speak ill of Angelica just because – Well, Tybalt wasn’t sure he heard what he was actually saying, he simply heard the comment he made and it wasn’t nice. - If there was one thing he had learned from both his father and uncle, that would be to fight for his family no matter what. And family, unlike many other could think, meant to the last person of the household. Servants included. Not that the Nurse was a servant, of course. She was much more. -

He felt his knuckles collide with the man’s face, - “Careful, dear kitten, careful of who you’re facing. Don’t waste your skills on some rats just because you want to show them off, save them against dogs.” His brother said once, it was a strange metaphor, but it worked all too well, especially because he called him a cat, even more because that was how Tybalt always called him since he had memory. - and he felt something cold against his side, something ripping his shirt, and his skin. Maybe – Maybe the boy wasn’t just a rat, maybe he deserved some more skills.

What couldn’t be called a real fight was over after not even five minutes, the man crawled away and Tybalt was confident enough he wouldn’t go far before dying; at the same time, though, neither would he if he remained there any longer. The wound was starting to hurt, a no-stopping pulsing pain, and blood oozing slowly down his side.

But he was good at hiding this kind of injuries, he was the best, even. Returning home proved itself to be slower than expected, a hand pressed against the side trying to stop the bleeding, - He could feel it seep through his fingers with every step he took, unstoppable. But he did his best to ignore it. - He blinked to clear his vision as he walked, dark spots dancing before his eyes every now and then.

Everything he needed was already in his room, ointments, bandages, clean towels carefully hidden in the wardrobe, that’s what led him to climb the wall outside his balcony and slip in from there.

It wasn't even the first time he did something like that, actually it was more the times he entered the house from there than the ones he used the front gate, not just when injured. It gave him some kind of safety.

But climbing with an injury and hands slick with blood was harder, somehow he managed not to lose his already weak grip and reached the balcony falling on the bed as soon he was inside. It took him a couple more of minutes to stand and gather everything he needed, he felt like he was swimming, his head forced underwater making him lose any sense of direction. He felt sick at the bare thought of walking. But he had to, how else could he take what he needed?

Grabbing the medical supplies and some water took him longer than expected and when he sat back on the bed he was already exhausted.

"I should... No. No, it's not that bad, I'm just tired. No need to call someone." He thought carefully stripping from the shirt and cleaning the wound. It wasn't large, just deep enough to keep oozing blood even as the pressed the bandages on it and dressed it tight.

His hands were shaking badly when he finally finished, his side felt on fire and he barely had time to push the box under the bed before falling back on the mattress, unconscious.

There was one good thing in all of that, no one would go call him for dinner, he was supposed to be out until late at night, at least that's what he told before going out in the morning, no one would go bother him and he would have all the time to rest and sleep off the pain. Or so he thought.

When he woke up, hours later, in the dead of the night, his side was throbbing painfully, it felt even more on fire than before and he had to grab a basin before throwing up on the bed. It had been only some hours, he told himself as he pushed the basin away on the floor, it was natural the pain was still there. - In a corner of his mind a little voice told him it wasn’t, in fact, natural, but he was too tired to listen to it. -

But the pain was still there when he woke up again, in the morning. He shivered and tried to hide more in the blankets, it wasn't that cold the previous day, it was spring already, and a quite warm one too. It shouldn't feel that cold, nor that sick, nor almost unable to sit on the bed without falling back. Blood seeped through the bandages and on the blankets but he found himself not caring. He felt bad. Really bad. - He looked bad, but his sight was so distorted and dazed he couldn't properly see his own reflection on the mirror. - and worse, he was scared. In no way he could hide something like that, not when death seemed to have warmed up on him, not when he thought he would drop on the floor any time soon. It was just a cut, a little stab on the side, he had had worse, much worse in the past. He couldn't do it alone, no matter how shameful, no matter how angry his uncle would be; he was scared, terrified. Like a child. In all truth he felt like a child, he wanted to cry, to hide, he –

Making up his mind proved to be slower, everything he did was slow, even thinking. Slowly he reached the door, looked outside to make sure the corridor was empty and staggered to the room next to his praying his brother to still be in there.

One knock was enough for the door to open, maybe he was getting ready to go out, maybe he was just passing in front of it, maybe he simply was fast at opening for him.

Fast he was for sure since he grabbed him without even changing expression, he held him up against himself as Tybalt's legs gave out and he slumped against him.

"Run in a little trouble..." He whispered trying to smile and sound as casual as possible, there was something metallic in his mouth.

"Run in a little knife, I would say." There was no amusement in his voice, in contrary, it sounded dark and hollow as he picked him up and carried him back to his room. Dark, yes, but never angry.

"Why my room?" He asked dazed hiding the face against his brother's shoulder in hope to make everything stop spinning, he was already ashamed enough to let his brother see him like that without throwing up on him.

"You have more medical supplies than the whole household, boy." He was angry, Tybalt realized in fear, he didn't call him any of the usual nicknames, that could only mean he was angry.

"I do not..."

"Did you think new bandages and ointments just appeared out of thin air? I know of your little hidden stack. Stop arguing, I'm right." He closed the door with a foot and looked at the bed, the mess of blood on the blankets, and the discharged bandages. - Tybalt was so sure he was furious that he failed to see the desperation in his eyes, the terror settling in at the sight. -

"Let's patch you up, shall we?" He sounded kinder now but in the young Capulet's mind it translated with pity.

Undressing the wound was slow and painful, bandages glued themselves at the broken skin even though the blood was fresh, the skin around was red and hot.

"You should have come to me immediately. Why do you always try to do things on your own? Look at that mess. No, wait... Don't look, it's better." He cleaned the wound with a clean cloth and took out a needle.

"This will hurt a bit." Tybalt looked away.

"I deserve it..." He muttered mostly to himself. Again he didn’t see the Cat’s expression. He wanted to leave the needle aside and hold him, hug him so tight it would hurt, and yes so carefully.

"Bite on this, fine?" He nodded slightly, they both knew it would be useless, he wasn't going to scream anyway. In fact, he resisted one stitch before going limp on the bed, his head falling on the side and eyes closed, it was almost a miracle he resisted until then, he thought he would lose consciousness while still in the corridor. The Cat swallowed and finished the stitches as quickly as he could before dressing up the wound and put everything away until the only sign left that someone had been injured was Tybalt lying unconscious on bloodied blankets.

It was wrong. So, so wrong.

"What a mess..." He whispered before carrying him to an uncomfortable couch and changing the bed, throwing away the blankets and hiding everything that would leave a trace. Anything that had blood on itself.

"You know you can come to me when things happen, kitten." He said fondly putting him back in the bed, half an hour later, and wrapping him in fresh blankets. "I won't get angry if you do. But this... Of course I get angry, my love." He sat on the bed next to him, a hand gently brushing his hair. "I get angry out of fear. I could lose you one day. I could arrive just a moment too late and you would be gone. Don't do it. If you can hear me, - He kissed his forehead, ignoring the heat already rising, he would have time later to worry for that, he would have the rest of the day. - in the name of this love that I bear for you, don't do it. "

***

"Brother...?" He staggered back and turned, eyes wide in fear. Romeo dropped the knife, ran back to Mercutio's body and Benvolio. "Cat... I – I think... - He swallowed and looked up meeting his brother's eyes. A small sod escaped his lips. - I think I run in a little trouble." Since then it became a habit, those words, to lighten things up, Tybalt tried to smile, the blood was drenching his shirt, coming from his mouth, mixing with the tears. The Cat swallowed and grabbed him when he fell, holding him as he laid on the street. Fear settled in, took hold of his heart, threatened to drown him. He swallowed again but still he felt like choking.

"Run in a little knife, I would say." It didn't come out like always, it came out wrong, broken.

"Sorry... - He sobbed. - I'm sorry..."

"Tybs... Kitten… No, don’t be. Everything is okay. - He held him, caressed his face and hair. Tybalt’s head lolled to the side and the world stopped. Just as his chest. - No. No! Tybalt! Tybalt wake up! Wake up. Wake up! Tybalt! No –No!" He grabbed him, shook him, fell on his chest and cried, and screamed, and cursed.

**************

The ending sentence is taken from the Austrian production, because thank you very much, they have this Capulet boy crying over Tybalt and asking him to stand up. And it's just so damn beautiful and tragic and I absolutely love it. Instead of just having Lady Capulet, or sometimes, for a brief moment, Juliet, they have someone who’s actually there, who actually cares and begs. (and who has lines!!! The boy speaks!)

#tybalt capulet #The Cat #le chat #brother's love #protective cat #hurt Tybalt #prompt: hiding an injury #bad things happen bingo #bthb #angst #whump #character death #romeo et Juliette #retj #fanfic #aki writes

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sylvari-bouquet · 5 years

Text

Pressure

Desperation/Hope

The ancient Orrian cathedral of Abaddon that had withstood the pressure of seafloor for years and years was now rapidly crumbling away. The three of them, Nettle, Papaver and Sayeh al' Rajihd, were swimming and running through the maze-like interior, avoiding the falling rocks and collapsing walls that sunk to the depths around them. As Nettle was about to follow Papaver and Sayeh through a doorway, a great quake shook through the room, causing hir to fall off balance. The ceiling above hir cracked as if it were made of glass, and it began to break away. Papaver, alerted by the noise, turned and was about to rush towards Nettle, but they were grabbed and held back by the largos.

Only moments before the ceiling came crashing down, ze felt a familiar tug of Continuum Split and was safely blinked away, as the place were they had been just a seconds ago was now being pummeled with debris. After the dust settled, ze found hirself facing a large mound that had sealed the doorway shut, separating hir from the rest of the party.

"Nettle! Are you alive?" ze could hear Papaver's voice, muffled behind the large pile.

"I'm fine! Considering", ze answered. While not being completely crushed by the rocks, errand pieces had hit Nettle, and hir aquabreather was completely busted. "My breather's in worse shape than I am. You don't happen to still possess any explosives to clear this blockade?"

"Destroying the rocks is too dangerous, you could cause the entire cavern to fall on us", Sayeh's voice intercepted before Papaver could answer, "we could retreat to the Pact's outpost and gather more allies."

"No, that would take too long", Papaver spoke, "we have to find a way past the rocks."

"The earthquake has shifted the currents. If we swim with haste, we may find a detour." Sayeh's voice continued, but Nettle had harder time hearing her words, possibly since she had swam ahead.

"Nettle, wait there! I promise we'll find you!" Papaver's voice also sounded as if it was coming further away.

"As if I could do anything else", Nettle sighed, not knowing if anyone was around to hear hir.

The earthquake had subsided for now, and it seemed that for a moment, the ruins were still holding together, but who knew how long it would last? Nettle had no way of tracking how long the other two had been gone, and moments seemed to melt together, the air itself becoming thicker the longer ze had to wait in this cave-in.

Nettle surveyed the area for anything that could be made use of, but no matter where ze looked, ze only found rubble. How did the room seem so much smaller than moments earlier?

Nettle felt as if the shaking of the temple had entered hirself and ze could not shivering.

They would find a route, they'd come back for hir, right?

All ze could hear was the rush of hir heart, yet ze could not feel nothing, not even hir own hands.

Hir breaths got trapped inside hir throat, was ze already drowning?

They promised. They promised. They promised.

No, it would not be like the last time...

Nails digging deep into hir palms.

Tears welling up, but not giving hirself the permission to cry.

A burning pit inside hir that raged and roared in anguish, ze lashed it all at the one target ze could indentify.

"Where were you?!"

Papaver said nothing, any sort of explanation, or apology, or argument had died on their lips the moment Nettle had burst hir anger at them.

"You promised you'd meet us at the docks, but you never showed up. We had no choice than to go on without you. But we would've needed you here! and in Claw Island! If you had been there, when the Risen attacked, if- if you-" hir voice finally broke under the weight of hir words, yet the inferno inside pushed past it.

“What was more important to you than us?! What was more important that it was worth Tybalt’s life?! Answer me!”

Yet no answers were given.

Trahearne placed a hand on Nettle's shoulder. He had been there, but had not said a thing during hir outburst. The simple yet gentle touch was strangely grounding, and told Nettle so many things that could have not been said with words.

With a shaking breath and a flicker of mesmer magic, Nettle had cleaned, or hidden, hir mess of a face, and gathered an air of being composed around hir. Without looking at Papaver, ze said: "Let's move. We have a city to defend. Everything else will come after."

Nettle was startled by the touch of water hitting hir ankles.

The cavern ze was trapped in had started flooding,

and the sea was rushing in with haste.

There was no sign of the others.

The water reached hir things,

Nettle backed away, until hir back hit the rockslide.

hir hips,

Nettle crossed hir arms around hir, and tried to remember the pressure of Trahearne's hand.

hir chest,

Nettle closed hir eyes

and ze managed to take one last breath

before the water overwhelmed hir.

Another quake shook through the room, this time accompanied with a bright, blinding flash. Ze could barely see a figure approaching and placing a breather to hir face. They swam through the crack, and after what felt like an eternity, they finally reached the surface.

"I promised, didn't I?" Papaver asked with a slight smirk, as the two of them took a breather, having climbed on to a lone islet. Sayeh had swam ahead to alert Pact troops to come and pick them up.

"You could still improve with your timing", Nettle answered.

"Such words of gratitude for your savior! If you still have that much sass, you have enough energy to swim back shore on your own!"

They pretended to shoo Nettle away, but ze grabbed them in a tight hug, and whispered: "thank you, for coming back for me."

Ze heard them answer: "I promise, I won't abandon you again, not when you need me."

#tyriaslibrary #tyriaslibrary event #papaver tag #nettle tag #look at these two disasters slowly building trust after some really rough patches #my writing tag

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thinkingaboutyoungroyals · 6 years

Text

The Perfect Moment (Chapter 3)

Summary: When Cyrus is assigned to create a modern re-telling of “Romeo and Juliet” for English class, he decides to produce a movie. His stars, however, may pose some trouble. Will he finish his movie on time?

If you’d like to be on the tag list, please let me know here or send me a DM or a message! Or, you can also find my story on AO3 and subscribe!

Thank you!

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

The second day of filming passed with no incident and Cyrus grew confident that he would be able to pull this off after all.

So far, they had only filmed mostly basketball scenes, which were the easiest for the whole team to do. Besides, T.J. and Buffy were both completely in their element. There were a few hiccups, due to their chemistry (or lack thereof), but T.J. must have taken Cyrus’ advice since his scenes were going rather well. Buffy still needed a few takes for some of the more “flowery” scenes (her words), but otherwise, it was smooth sailing.

Now, the third day of filming, however, went a little differently.

It started off fine. Everyone showed up on time, dressed and ready. They had studied and knew all their lines and what to do so they had little questions for Cyrus. The props and equipment were all set up, according to his specifications.

And, then, they were ready to film!

“Ready? And… Action!”

The scene was a mock game between the two teams, which was supposed to be the equivalent of Mercutio and Tybalt’s duel. The scene was supposed to end with the Captain of the girls’ team hitting the Captain of the boys’ team with a basketball that injures him and Logan getting angry and shoving her to the ground, which makes Quinn angry, in turn.

The first two takes went well. But, Cyrus was ambitious and wanted a third. He watched with a sharp eye as he moved a bit closer with his camera, zooming in at specific actions.

He was so invested in filming their running feet that all he heard was a “Cyrus, watch out!” before he lifted his head to the voice…

What happened next was a blur. All he knew was excruciating pain marring his face and when he was on his butt on the floor, camera still clutched in one hand as his other hand clutched his nose and tears sprung from his eyes.

“Cyrus! Oh my god!”

A mop of curly hair was beside him in an instant: Buffy. And she looked terrified, which was rare. Buffy was rarely afraid of anything. Was it that bad?

Cyrus tried to talk but all that came out was a groan.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! It was an accident, I swear!” a girl’s voice exclaimed in horror and panic.

Another figure plopped down on the floor beside him. “Underdog! You okay? How many fingers am I holding?”

Cyrus squinted through the tears in his blurry eyes: T.J. He was holding up two blurry fingers.

“Two,” he answered.

There was a breath of relief. “You’re okay.”

“Okay?! He’s bleeding, Kippen!”

That was when Cyrus realized that something warm and wet was dripping from his nose. With a shaky hand, he reached up to touch it and when he looked, his eyes widened in shock. The tips of his fingers were red. That... did not look good.

“Shoot, okay, I’ll take him to the nurse. Driscoll, stay here and take care of things.”

Strong arms firmly wrapped around him, slowly lifting him up to his feet. His vision spun. He was soooo dizzy.

“Are you telling me what to do?!”

“Not now, okay?! Just stay here with everyone else, I got him.”

There was no argument from Buffy after that.

Cyrus’ head was fuzzy but somehow, he managed to walk to the nurse’s office with T.J.’s aid. The taller boy’s fingers were firmly pinching the bridge of Cyrus’ nose and he was glad for the help. He couldn't seem to move his own hands. Was he in shock?

Thankfully, the nurse was still around. She was a nice lady and she knew who Cyrus was, having visited a few times due to an injury from gym class. She took one look at him, declared that he was pale, ushered him in, and made him lie down on one of the beds. As soon as his head hit the pillow, everything turned dark.

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

Cyrus had fainted. He wasn’t good with blood and T.J. was surprised that he had managed not to pass out until they reached the nurse’s office.

“Prop him up,” said the nurse. “Or the blood will go down his throat.”

Panicked, T.J. quickly did just that. He piled two pillows behind Cyrus, still making sure that he was pinching his nose.

The nurse came back with an ice pack and instructed him to press it up against the bridge of the other boy’s nose.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He got hit by a basketball,” T.J. answered, looking worriedly at Cyrus. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

“Well, I need to see if his nose is broken. We’ll wait until the bleeding and swelling stops and I’ll check. He’ll need to go to a doctor if there’s a slight chance that it is broken, but for now, let's let him rest and I’ll let his parents know what happened.”

With that, the nurse excused herself to make the call.

T.J. turned back to the unconscious Cyrus. Even with blood dripping down his nose, he still looked cute.

Shaking his head for thinking such thoughts while his friend was injured, T.J. settled on the edge of the bed so he could continue pressing the ice pack to the injured nose. He really hoped that his friend would be okay. T.J. couldn’t help but feel guilty that he wasn’t able to save him from that basketball.

So, instead, he would stay by Cyrus’ side until he woke up.

Ten minutes passed and the nurse came back to check on him. Taking away the ice pack, she examined his nose. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped and there was no more swelling.

“It’s not broken, thank goodness,” she said, smiling. She took a damp rag she had brought with her and cleaned Cyrus’ nose. “He’s going to be okay. I’ve informed his parents and his father said he would be here in half an hour to pick him up. You can go now, if you want, Mr. Kippen.”

But, T.J. shook his head. “I’ll stay with him until then. Um, I just need to go back to the gym real quick and let everyone else know what happened. If he wakes up before I’m back, can you let him know I’m coming back?”

“Alright, I’ll be here.”

He helped her move Cyrus down on the bed, placing a pillow under his head and another at his side (because Cyrus once mentioned that he liked cuddling something when he was asleep).

“I’ll be back, okay?” he whispered, as he covered him with a blanket and tucked him in.

Then, T.J. ran to the gym.

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

His head was fuzzy and his nose was throbbing.

Those were the first things Cyrus felt when he came to.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and closed them again, quickly, when the bright fluorescent lights came to view.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Opening his eyes again, Cyrus turned his head to see T.J. sitting on a chair next to his bed, looking relieved.

“W-What… happened?” he managed, trying to sit up but failing. “Last thing I remember, you were taking me to the nurse?”

“Yeah… then you fainted.”

“Oh.”

Cyrus blushed in embarrassment. Of course, he did. It explained why he was lying down, blanket up to his chin and a pillow at his side.

“But, the good news is, your nose isn’t broken. And your dad will be here to pick you up soon.” T.J. scooted his chair closer to the bed. “Andi, Buffy, and Jonah were here earlier, but they went back to the gym to help clean up. I told them they can head out when they’re done since I’m staying here with you, but you should text them later so they’re not worried. Oh, and I brought your things.” He pointed to the familiar school bag and stack of books, sitting neatly on another chair opposite the bed Cyrus was on. “I guess it’s safe to say that the shooting for the day is done?”

Cyrus sighed, feeling forlorn. “I’m sorry.”

T.J. furrowed his brows. “Why? You’re the one on a hospital bed, Cyrus. Oh, which reminds me, Ellie said she’s sorry for hitting you with the basketball.”

Cyrus let out a soft chuckle. “I forgive her.” He wriggled a bit to make himself more comfortable. “Just my luck, huh? When I thought that I was finally getting somewhere and achieving big things, something had to go and ruin it.”

“Hey.” T.J. placed a comforting hand on his arm. “This is just a minor setback. You’ll be back on your feet behind the camera in no time, okay? For today, just get some rest.”

Cyrus smiled at how sweet he was being. “Thank you, T.J.”

“Anytime.” The athlete sat back on his seat. “So… what was the first movie you ever made?”

Grateful for the change in subject, Cyrus launched into a story of getting his first camera from his Bubbe when he was in the third grade and filming a short little film about a lonely dinosaur who got lost on his way home and met a lion and a bird and became friends with them. The stars were his favorite Brontosaurus toy and two animal toys that Andi had left and forgotten about from one of their play dates.

T.J. asked questions about the plot, laughed in all the right places, and made Cyrus feel that he was genuinely interested in such a story.

It was a silly one, of course, since he was only 9 at the time. But he was proud of it. His step-father Todd helped him with the editing and his mother kept a copy of that little movie in a CD somewhere in her home.

“I bet if you sell that to Disney or something, they’ll pick it up and make an animated movie!” T.J. exclaimed, sounding excited. “I’ll watch it and I’ll take my kids to watch it! Heck, even if I don't have kids, I’ll still watch it!”

Cyrus chuckled. “Really? You swear on it?”

T.J. placed his right hand on his chest. “I swear on the gods of basketball. I will watch all of your movies.”

“Even the terrible ones?” Cyrus teased.

“Even if they’re terrible, I probably won’t tell you.”

“Hey!”

Laughing for the first time since he woke up, Cyrus felt lighter. He could barely feel the pain on is nose anymore and he could move his body a bit better now.

Slowly, he sat up. T.J. immediately got up from his seat to help him, propping the pillow behind him to support his back.

“Thank you, T.J.”

“No problem.”

“And, not just for helping me out but…” Cyrus’ hands fisted in the blanket. “You always believe in me, even when I don’t believe in myself. So, thank you for that.”

“Cyrus.” T.J. placed a hand over one of his and Cyrus tried really hard not to blush. “You’re amazing, you know that? You are capable of so much more. You just… need a little push and someone to believe in you.” He smiled, patting his hand before pulling back. “I don’t mind being that person. Besides, seeing you working so hard… it makes me want to work hard and be better, too.”

His words made Cyrus’ heart do a backflip in his chest. The heat on his cheeks was overwhelming so he turned away to try and hide it.

“You’re gonna be an awesome filmmaker, Cy. I know it.”

“You… have a way of making me believe you, you know,” Cyrus stated, as casually as he could while trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

He took a peek at T.J. who shrugged. “I’ll keep telling you the same thing until you believe it yourself.”

Cyrus wondered if he could ask the nurse for some ice because his face felt extremely hot at the moment.

Thankfully, by the time his dad arrived to pick him up, Cyrus had calmed down. His dad offered a ride home to T.J. as thanks for keeping him company, but the athlete politely refused.

Cyrus couldn’t help but be a little disappointed about that. He was hoping to spend more time with T.J. He had managed to calm him down and distract him despite his panic.

And he had taken care of Cyrus.

That thought, alone, sent his heart into a frenzy once more.

Tag list:

@lemon-boy-tj @homosexualearthworm @disastrxlogy @new-to-the-phandom @tyrusgoingfast @tj-cyrus @multifandom-bxitch (for some reason, your tag won’t show up? Please lmk if your Tumblr name has changed!) @completelysterling @spike-heels (won’t tag for some reason) @thedampjofangirl @i-am-confussion

#tyrus #tyrus fanfic #tyrus perfect moment

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kallura-icedcoffee · 6 years

Text

golden hour: a new beginning

A/N: This piece connects to my previous collection for Kallura Week 2018, My Favorite Color Is You. You don’t have to have read it necessarily to read this, but it will make a lot more sense if you do. Also thank you to @tybalt-tisk whose comment on that last chapter, At The End of the World With You, inspired the direction I chose to go in to start off this collection.

Rebirth

And if we get separated I’ll find you, just like I did in this life...

“I’m scared.”

Her voice broke and tears streamed down her dirty bruised cheeks. She hadn’t really cried much since all this happened, since the virus broke. She wanted to be strong for him, never wanted to be the weak link between the two of them, never a burden. He brought his free hand over and pulled her face toward his, kissing her temple, then her lips.

“I am too, but you know what? We’re together and where ever we go after this we’ll be together there too. And if we get separated I’ll find you, just like I did in this life.”

She wept and returned his kisses, long and slow and as passionate as she could give considering she could feel herself getting weaker and drifting farther away with each moment.

“I love you Keith. I knew I loved you from the first moment I saw you” she rambled while she knew she was still coherent enough to say it.

“I love you too Mrs. Kogane. You’re all I could’ve asked for.”

He looked into her eyes which were becoming increasingly faded and cloudy. She was going to turn soon. He had seen this before. He rested his forehead against hers.

The mop handle rattled in the door and started to push and crack as the groaning on the end intensified. They were like two sitting ducks, easily seen through the glass windows.

“Damn they sure know how to ruin a romantic moment don’t they?” He smirked.

More shoving, more groaning, more wood bending and cracking.

“I have three bullets in the gun.” She patted the holster at her hip.

“And let those monsters feast on my pretty wife’s body? I would never give them the pleasure.” He pulled a grenade out of his pack and shook it at her.

“You had one left?”

“In case of emergencies. If we go might as well take those assholes with us.”

“You think of everything…” she whispered, closing her eyes and resting her head on his shoulder one final time, squeezing his hand tightly with her last remaining bits of strength.

“Which is funny because you’re supposed to be the brains, I’m just the good looks” he quipped.

She didn’t respond.

The glass in doors gave way and shattered on the floor as the wooden handle finally snapped. The sounds of moans and shuffling feet entered the store as Keith yanked the pin out with his teeth and rolled it at their feet.

“You know Lu,” he closed his eyes, rested his head against hers and waited, “if I had to see the end of the world with anyone, I’m glad it was with y-”

Allura jolted up in bed, sweat soaked strands of hair sticking to her temple, her tank top damp and clinging to her body. She snatched up the water glass on her nightstand, gulping down its contents until there was nothing left.

The dreams were getting more frequent, feeling more real. Flashes of moments with a man she didn’t know, that she’s never met.

When she closed her eyes it was like she was living a million different lives, a million different possibilities…with him.

Sometimes she was a brave paladin escorting a prince to a ball, a princess healing her lover’s wounds, an older businesswoman letting a stranger push her buttons in all the ways that she liked.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Allura asked at the breakfast table.

Alfor was hidden behind a newspaper which ruffled briefly.

“Let me guess, you met a boy” he replied as he reached for his coffee.

“Father I’m serious.”

“I’m not sure my flower, but I think things happen for a reason. So now tell me about this boy.” He lowered the paper from his face with a smile.

“There’s no boy dad!” Her mouth curled into a pout before she quickly shoveled toast into it in irritation.

There was a boy, but she wasn’t about to explain said boy only existed in her head.

Alfor chuckled at his daughter’s stubbornness.

“Will you be joining me for dinner tonight dear or do you have class?” He tried to change the subject.

“No class, work today so I won’t be home until 7.” Allura popped up and began putting her plate in the sink.

She kissed her father’s cheek and rushed out the door.

“You’re late” Shiro stood, leaning against a car with his arms crossed as Allura peddled into the driveway of Shirogane Autobody.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Allura hopped off her bicycle and walked it toward her boss. “I’ve been sleeping like crap lately.

“Studying for finals?” He popped the hood on the car he was working on before strolling over to the tool bench.

“Um…yes…” Her eyes darted nervously.

“Well let me know if you need some time off.”

“No it’s fine.” Allura waved him away.

“All right well then do me a favor and finish up on that motorcycle over there, needs tire replacement. I thought I’d have time to get to it before the client came this afternoon but I’m swamped.” Shiro pointed to the red bike.

Allura nodded while zipping up her jumpsuit, pulling her hair into a ponytail. She yanked her phone out of her bag, slipped earphones into her ear and got to work. Listening to music put her in a zone and she lost track of time. She didn’t notice the figure standing over her as she knelt polishing the bike as she finished up.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks.”

Allura was startled by the sudden sound of another voice and immediately plucked the earphones from her ears, nearly falling over as she did so. She turned and looked up toward the sound and her mouth fell open.

It was him. The literal man of her dreams. Her heart vibrated in her chest.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.” His brow furrowed with the way she was looking at him.

“Uh…It’s fine. Your…y-your bike is ready” she stammered nervously.

He smiled and extended a hand.

“Can I help you up?”

Her hands trembled slightly as her hand approached his and the moment her fingers curled into his, the moment they touched, all her dreams flashed through her and him in rapid succession.

“You should smile more. It’s quite nice when you do.”

“Look I know I stated earlier I didn’t need an escort but, if you don’t have anyone to attend with do you think we could go together? I’m more nervous than I thought.”

“You said it yourself, this may be the only moments we have together for a long time…I miss you.”

“…I just moved in next door. I’m sorry to bother you and I know it’s late but I just had a hankering to bake some cookies and I realize I have like no sugar.”

“You know I’m not so sure about that. I think you like disobeying because then that means you get punished and you enjoy that.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“I am too, but you know what? We’re together and where ever we go after this we’ll be together there too. And if we get separated I’ll find you, just like I did in this life.”

And if we get separated I’ll find you, just like I did in this life.

I’ll find you, just like I did in this life.

I’ll find you…

He stared at her, eyes wide and fearful yet knowing because he saw it all and suddenly the dreams he’d been having lately all started to make sense. A woman with white hair whose face was always obscured from him, a puzzle he couldn’t solve until right at this moment. She held his hand so tightly she thought she might break it, realizing they weren’t dreams, that she was really seeing the person she was meant to be with in every reality, in ever incarnation of themselves.

“K-Keith?” she said, voice shaky and hesitant. She hadn’t known his name when he walked in but she knew it now. She knew everything about him now.

“Allura?” He’s eyes frantically darted about her face. “My god I actually found you…”

Tears began to well in his eyes.

“Hey Altea when you’re done with that motorcycle can you do an oil change on the-”

Shiro approached to see Allura and the customer holding hands. He stared, blinked.

The interruption, the sound of Shiro’s voice, surprised them both and they flinched, letting go of each other’s hands.

And when they let go, the clarity went with it, the memory of a million lives together extinguished like a candle in the wind.

“Am I interrupting something?” Shiro’s brow arched as he wiped his hands on a rag.

The two looked at each other, confused, shrugging.

“What are you talking about?” Allura said.

“Uh,” now it was her boss’ turn to be confused, “nevermind I guess, can you do a brake repair on the Ford when you’re finished here?”

“Mhm, sure thing!”

Shiro left them alone to get back to work.

“So um, if you want to follow me I can get you checked out.” Allura waved him over to the office.

“Thanks.” Keith followed.

Allura stepped behind the desk and pulled his information up on the computer.

“Mr. Kogane?” Allura looked up from the screen.

“Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Kogane, my name is Allura and I hope you’ll be satisfied with the work we did today.”

She flashed him a smile and his heart fluttered a bit. Even in a grease covered jumpsuit she was awfully pretty.

“Keith.”

“Hmm?”

“Mr. Kogane sounds like my dad. Call me Keith.”

He leaned on the counter with a smirk.

“Ok.” She blushed and bit her lip. She was just now noticing how handsome he was. “Nice to meet you Keith.”

He liked the way she said his name in her accent. Maybe he would come by later in the week to get an oil change, even though his bike wasn’t really ready for one. He just suddenly felt like he needed to find another opportunity to see her, to get to know her, though he’d simply chalk it up to a small crush.

But it was more than that…

We’re together and where ever we go after this we’ll be together there too.

(All works for Kallura Month 2018 will also be posted HERE on AO3)

#kallura #kalluramonth2018 #ficsbyKIC

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nocte-argentea · 6 years

Text

Yo yo yo friendos I just wrote a small story about my characters Vesper and Altair escaping from some bandits you should read it

“So, Vess, how exactly are you gonna get us out of this mess?”

“What, have no faith in me? I'm working on a plan as we speak!”

“HEY! You two keep quiet! Unless yer finally ready to give us the info we're lookin' fer!”

Vesper turned her head to look towards bandit who'd spoken, who was guarding the room she and Altair were currently confined in. Gods, she wanted to punch him. Unfortunately, with her and her sylvari companion currently standing back to back with their hands tied to a wooden board above them, she couldn’t indulge in that fantasy. Not yet, anyway. She rolled her eyes, though, since the bandit didn’t even bother to look at them when he yelled to be quiet.

“Oh, I’m terribly, sorry, sir, we were just discussing what to tell you lot. Right, Altair?”

Doing her best to flash Altair a roguish grin, she went back to what she'd been doing with her hands. Damn ropes won’t get themselves off.

“Oh yes, absolutely, you are absolutely right!” Vesper breathed a small sigh of relief. Thank the Gods he got the message to placate the guard. He even made his voice sickly sweet to sway him. The guard, seemingly satisfied by those answers, went quiet. Altair, having learned that regular speaking voices were a no-go, started speaking in hushed whispers.

“Alright, how exactly are we getting out of here? I don't fancy being tortured until we admit that what the tabloids say about Lord Faren are true.”

Vesper forced herself to stifle the laughter that was about to erupt. Kormir knows that would only make things worse. She paused her movements for a quick moment, regarding him coolly.

“Do you truly not have faith in me, mate? You know I’ve gotten us out of stickier situations!”

“Most of the ones that you could be referring to didn’t have a time limit on them. We've got ten, maybe twenty minutes before they come back with torture devices. I’d really prefer not to be skewered today, Vesper.” Altair didn’t even want to imagine what they'd do to him. And by the tree, what would they do to Vesper? That thought alone was enough to nearly bring him to tears.

Not that he'd actually let the bandits see that they had him scared. Or let Vesper see how worried he was about her.

“Give me about fifteen seconds.”

“Fifteen seconds? Vesper, that’s not enough to do anything! What could you possibly-”

He blinked.

When did Vesper get in front of him? And how were her hands free?

“How in the hell-”

“Old trick that Tybalt taught me. First you-”

“Actually, never mind. Could you release me, please?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. I was planning on leaving you here since you didn’t trust me, but since you asked so nicely, I guess I’ll let you go.” Vesper was clearly enjoying herself now, smirking at him while reaching to undo his binds. Once he was free, the next dilemma became apparent.

“Now that that's out of the way, what’s the plan for getting out of here? We need our weapons, and we can’t just walk out through the door without causing a ruckus.” Altair was astounded that the guard hadn’t noticed them yet. Actually, now that he really listened, he swore he heard snoring coming from the direction of the tunnel.

“Well, we can either kill every bandit in this hideout, make a run for it, or disguise ourselves and just walk out. I’m leaning towards the last one, personally.” It was probably their best bet, as well. They were ridiculously outnumbered, and Vesper was certain they'd call in reinforcements if they raised a fuss. Not only that, but from what she'd seen, there’s too many to simply sneak their way out. Espionage is the safest way to go, now.

“So then, we need to look like bandits. I’m assuming we can…relieve the guard of his garments, but that'd only fit me. What about you? And what about when he wakes up?”

Vesper began to respond, but something caught he attention. Footsteps were coming down the hall.

Altair noticed the sounds at this point. Thinking quickly, both of them darted to either side of the door, waiting for their chance.

“Yew idjit, fallin' asleep on guard duty!” a female voice chastised the guard. “What if th' prisoners had-” the new bandit stopped, looking at where their prized captives used to be tied up.

“…escaped?”

Before either of them could raise the alarm, they were swiftly knocked cold by the commander and her lieutenant.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting that. Lets relieve these two of their garb and tie ‘em up like we were.”

One they’d changed clothes and trussed up the bandits, they put out the one torch that was present in the room. It’d be a lot more difficult to tell it wasn’t them if the room was dark.

“Should we put more clothes on them? This feels...odd.” Currently, the former prisoners’ clothing was folded up, hidden within their disguises. It wasn’t noticeable, thankfully, but Vesper felt odd leaving the bandits in just their undergarments.

“Vess, they were going to torture us or possibly kill us. Let them be humiliated.” Altair adjusted his hat and mask, to facilitate speaking. “Now, then let’s get out of here. First stop: the armory.”

The disguises worked like a charm. None of the bandits even spared them a second glance. Thankfully, the armory was easy to find, and soon enough Altair had his greatsword, and Vesper had her rapier and dagger. The only scare they even had while working their way out of the hideout was when someone mentioned ‘the wealth of information the commander must have’ in passing.

When they could finally see the entrance to the cave, Altair could hear an uproar beginning in the deeper parts of the cave, meaning they’d been discovered.

“Alright, Vessie, any ideas now?”

“Stay calm, act natural. When we get out of the cave, run.”

“Just run?”

“Aye, mate, just run. Once we’re on open space or forest, we’re golden.”

They bypassed the cave guards without any issue, and once they were out of sight, they ran straight to the nearest forest, hoping to lose their pursuers in the dense woods. Finally, the sound of angry bandits faded, and the two wayward adventurers got a moment to rest. As they began to change back into their original clothing, with Vesper on one side of a tree and Altair on the other, the thief had a thought.

“Hey, Altair?”

“Yeah, Vess? What’s on your mind? Got a victory speech to share?” Altair said jokingly, feeling much better after getting out of that mess, and much less skewered to boot.

“Maybe later. First, I need to apologize.” That caught Altair off guard.

“It was my fault we got caught. If I hadn’t insisted on looking for treasure near the moa farm, we wouldn’t have gotten in that mess.” It was a false lead that led them there, to boot. She’d led Altair, on a rumor, to search for a treasure that didn’t even exist, and gotten ambushed by bandits in the process.

Altair didn’t know how to respond to this. In all honesty, he’d come to expect danger when treasure hunting with Vess. His mind flashed to a month ago, when the two of them, plus Nocte and Luna, had ended up being chased by a few fire hydras in the Crystal Desert when on a treasure hunt. Technically speaking, that was much more dangerous. So why was she apologizing now?

“It’s water under the bridge, but if you don’t mind my asking, why apologize? I know the risks when coming treasure hunting with you. Also, may I walk around now? Are you decent?”

“Aye, you may. And it’s because I asked you to accompany me here on a false lead that ended up getting us caught.” She waited for Altair to walk around the tree to continue. “See, I wanted you, specifically, to join me…” she paused, leaning her head back against the tree, “because my contact said something about a Dawn being hidden in this cache.”

Oh. The precursor to the legendary greatsword he’d been working on. That explains a lot.

“Vesper, you wanted to help me?” “Of course, you’ve been helping me with my crafts, I wanted to give you a helping hand too!”

Altair, thoroughly flustered at this point, looked away and ran a hand through his hair. “Vesper, you help me and everyone else so much already, you don’t have to do anything else. And I need to apologize, too.”

“Wait, what? You’ve not done anything wrong though!”

“Except that I let my nerves and fear get the best of me and forgot to trust you in the bandit hideout. I should know by now that you’ll do your best do get us out of any sticky situation.”

Vesper went silent at that. She’d not cared about his fear, it was totally natural. She sighed and looked at Altair with her trademark roguish grin. “Wanna say we’re both dumbasses then and move on, mate?”

The sylvari let out a hearty chuckle, before bowing to her. “I’ll accept that for now, but let’s be frank: I have the most common sense out of all of Dragons’ Watch.” He offered his arm, and Vesper hooked her own arm within it.

“Aye, that you do.” The two began the trek towards Divinity’s Reach with a spring in their step and in much higher spirits.

“Oh, by the way, I’m telling the rest of the guild about this misadventure.”

And like that, Vesper’s spirit was shattered.

“WHAT!?”

“Oh, of course! I’m sure that Nocte and Luna would love to hear about how you got us caught and tied up by run-of-the-mill bandits.”

She stared up at the man, who was currently wearing an incredibly smug grin.

“I should’ve left your ass tied up in the bandit hideout.”

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #my writing #vesper aequorea #altair stormrender #if you wanna know what they look like they're on my character page!#also i'm really proud of this lol #i read over it so hopefully i caught all the mistakes

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wishuponasakuracard · 6 years

Text

SyaoSaku Week 07.24 ✿ 紅薔薇 | Benibara (Red Rose): Romance - New Trials Edition

The New Trials of Cardcaptor Sakura by Wish-chan Rating: K+ Summary: Set two years after CCS, this is a fanfic started in Fall 1999 and continues the adventures of the gang against Dark Ones. As S&S seal new forces, they learn secrets about of their parents' past and strive to understand the future. Arc 3, Chapter 41: Star-Crossed - Juliet’s Death (snippet under the cut)

Art by Wish-chan [x]

After the long separation, Romeo and Juliet finally faced each other again. Though it was impossible to retrace exactly where they had left in the script, Syaoran tried his best bet. Skipping over to his line, he said to Sakura “I heard you were engaged to marry Count Paris.” “It was a cover up,” Sakura replied quickly, relieved at Syaoran’s quickness to recover. “I had to agree, so that my parents would stop worrying and watching over me.”

“So, why did you run away from home?” Syaoran asked.

Smiling slightly, Sakura replied, “Isn’t that obvious? Isn’t it the same reason that you returned to Verona from exile?”

Softly, Syaoran asked again, “But why did you wait for me, when I left you without a word?”

“Because you never said farewell to me, so I knew that you will come to me again. I’ve always had faith in you, Romeo. Words are not needed to express oneself. Tears are not necessary in sadness. Laughter is not required for happiness. My point is, faith does not require reason. For nothing is sought for in love, but the fulfillment of a yearning in the heart.” At that moment, Sakura’s eyes flickered.

The audience gasped in anticipation. They wanted to shout, “look behind you,” though they knew it was only a play and nothing could be done.

“Romeo Montague! Do not approach my Juliet, you filthy scoundrel!” Eron, the persistent Count Paris who had regained consciousness cried out, leaped forward, sword out in his hand.

“Romeo!” Sakura called out, sprinting forward, throwing her body in front of Syaoran. The special effect sword sank into her bosom without actually puncturing her. Yet, for the audience, the sword pierced into her heart, and Sakura gave a painful moan as she sank to the ground.

“Juliet!” Carefully, Syaoran spread his cloak out on the floor and laid Sakura’s limp body on it, supporting her head up on his lap. “Juliet, Juliet, Juliet,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Silly, why did you do this? You should have just let me be stabbed. It’s less painful than having you injured, even in any way."

“I’m… okay,” Sakura replied in a faint voice. “It doesn’t hurt; it doesn’t hurt as much as what would have happened if I stood and watched. I’ll be okay in a moment.”

Syaoran glared up at Count Paris with blazing amber eyes. “Paris. You will pay for this!”

“No, Romeo,” Sakura pleaded, grabbing a handful of Syaoran’s shirt with weak hands. “Let him be; he didn’t mean any harm. Have pity on him. He was just as unfortunate victim as any of us. Please, just hold me now and don’t let go of me. I’ll be fine then.”

“But…” Syaoran trailed off as he saw the anguish that Paris was in.

“What have I done?” Paris stare aghast at his bloodied sword, realizing that he has just stabbed his love. “No… No… NO!” Crumbling to his knees, he took the soiled sword and stabbed himself before anyone could stop him. He fell lifeless onto the stage. Despite having been part villain, many audience members felt pity for Count Paris.

“Poor Paris…” Sakura murmured, her ocean green eyes glassy.

“What are you talking about?” Syaoran asked in cracked voice. “Do you have the strength to feel sorry for another person who made you in this condition?”

“Romeo…” Sakura whispered. “Tell my parents I’m sorry for disappointing them.”

Almost amused, Syaoran asked, “Me? Silly, all Capulets hate all Montagues.”

“But I love you,” Sakura replied, softly. “I love you so much, yet why does love have to hurt so?” A trickle of tear fell down her cheek. “Am I being punished for trying to defy the stars?”

“If so, why can’t I be punished instead?” Syaoran said, gently stroking Sakura’s cheek, and wiping away the trickle of tear with his thumb. “But I believe, if indeed we were crossed by stars, I wouldn’t have been able to see you again.” His voice broke. “I survived the duel with Tybalt, I survived exile from Verona, and I survived Count Paris’ challenge, just to see you again. If we were not meant to be, then tell me, why did I survive all these tribulations? Why didn’t I just die then, to end all this pain, instead of being fed more glimpses of hope?”

“Because I wished and wished to the stars to be able to see you one last time, which gave me strength to carry on my life,” Sakura said, smiling faintly.

“We’re going to always be with each other from now on, heedless of what others say. We’re going to live only for ourselves,” Syaoran reassured.

“Did you hear the legend that once the Five Treasures of Verona are gathered, they will grant any wish?” Juliet asked, gazing at the sparkling treasures set on the round table on the center of the stage.

“Let us wish to be together forever and forever, far from our families and Verona, then, in a place where there is no hatred, jealousy, nor bitterness,” Syaoran murmured, clasping Sakura’s hand in his.

With a tiny smile, Sakura said, “Don’t you know? I would rather bring about my destiny with my own hands and through my own actions, then passively sit back and wish for a miracle to occur. I would rather that those treasures had never existed, so that our family feud never began.”

“That’s my Juliet,” Syaoran said. To his alarm, Sakura’s eyes closed. “Juliet!”

“I’m not going to die,” Sakura replied, her eyes yet closed. “So don’t panic.” She clutched her heart. “Romeo,” she called, fainter than ever. She opened her glistening emerald eyes. “I’m so glad you came back… You don’t know how much it meant for me. Now I know, the stars were on my side, after all, because here you are, by my side, holding and watching me with gentle eyes. Rather than meaninglessly living a long, lonely, and dreary life, I would rather die right now, knowing that I am with you.”

In a stretched, far off voice, Syaoran uttered, “Juliet, let’s leave Verona—let’s go to a far off place, where no hatred, scorn or family feud exists, just like we talked about. Wherever you ago, I will follow you; you lead the way.”

Reaching with shaking hands for the dagger tucked in Syaoran’s belt, Sakura grasped it and weakly flung it across the floor. “I’m going to a place where no mortals go to,” she said. “It’s the one place that you can’t follow me to. Taking your own precious life is foolish. For you have to continue to live in this world, even when I’m gone. Live, Romeo, live and tell all of Verona our story, so that such a tragedy would never happen again. Let no couple ever have to be separated by generations of futile family feuds. Let no soul be undermined by the looming shadow of Fate.” In gasps, Sakura added, “And let all lovers have faith and care for each other like we did. Let them realize that love is not controllable by parents, society, or by divinities, but that love has its own soul, wild and free, searching for happiness. The term ‘star-crossed’ should henceforth not have to mean ‘ill-fated by the stars,’ for in true love, there is no such thing as Fate.” Sakura sank back, her breath short. “Our story will become a legend, spread wide across the world, so that we may become timeless heroes.”

The audience remained motionless, staring intensely at the softly lit stage were Juliet lay in the arms of her Romeo. They gulped down the clenched feeling in their throats.

“I promise you your wish will come true,” Syaoran whispered, holding back a choking feeling in his throat. “Juliet?” His voice broke. “I love you. I love you so much, I think my heart will stop. I promise you that our story shall be told, and so it will be, so that nobody would have to suffer as much as we did. But do you think we suffered that much? I don’t know, I think the times I spent with you were the happiest moments of my life—I was so happy, that all the hardships in between when we were apart, seemed trivial. All the while I was in exile, far from family, friends, and home, I kept on thinking, I have to see Juliet again, so with that hope, I lived on. Juliet? Juliet…” Sakura’s eyes shut, and she grew limp in his arms. He continued with his voice quivering the slightest bit, “You’re smiling… We found short, but true happiness in our lifetime—some people never do.” Gently, he brushed back a light brown curl from her forehead, his eyes shining.

One by one, the audience members who had been holding back tears throughout the entire second half of production began to sniffle and dab handkerchiefs to their eyes.

Though she was supposed to be dead, Sakura couldn’t help the corners of her closed eyes from misting; never had she thought that Syaoran would be capable of putting so much emotion into his acting and make her heart wring like this. During rehearsals, she had always thought that the last act was the most comic of all, though it was supposed to be the most touching. Then, she felt a rustle of clothes as Syaoran bent down, over her head.

Her heart from pounding loudly. How could she have forgotten? For the first time, she snapped back to plain old Sakura Kinomoto, not Juliet Capulet. The heat from the bright stage lights, and Syaoran’s arms was suffocating. Why isn’t Syaoran hurrying up? I’m pretty sure he’s about as embarrassed about this as I am, if not more. She clenched her fluttering eyes tighter, expecting a quick peck on her forehead, as Tomoyo had informed Syaoran to do. A lock of Syaoran’s soft hair brushed against her forehead, and his warm breath tickled her cheek. Though she had an urge to sit up, she scolded herself, I can’t open my eyes now! But it was taking so long. Sakura felt a gentle touch on her brows. He had finished with it, and she had hardly noticed. What a relief! It wasn’t as awkward and embarrassing as she expected it to be! How she could relax.

At that moment, she felt a softness press on her lips. She had been caught off guard—her first instinct was to open her eyes and look right up at Syaoran, barely a hair breath away from her, before she recalled once more that she was supposed to be dead and shut them quickly. To her greatest discomfort, she felt her face heat up into a deep blush; she hoped neither Syaoran nor the audience could see how red she was. The kiss seemed to have stopped time. Suddenly, she recalled the fleetingly brief kiss on the train that summer—she had come to the conclusion that she had dreamed it up. At that time, it seemed Syaoran hadn’t been Syaoran; that incident had been so momentous and so instantaneous. Neither of them had acted like anything changed. Yet, it also gave her some sense of relief that her first kiss wasn’t on stage, in front of hundreds of people. But it had been with the same person. Having so many thoughts run through her head, then made her realize that it might signify that the kiss had been extraordinarily long; she could hardly breathe. It seemed as if Syaoran realized this as well. Slowly, his lips parted hers.

Softly, he said, “I love you Juliet.” Sakura’s heart lurched. If his words were for real… But it was only a school play. Yet Syaoran said it so seriously and devotedly, any girl who heard it would believe him. Then, carefully, he lay her on the ground, with her hands clasped on her chest. The lights on them dimmed as it focused on the other side of the stage, where Friar Lawrence and the Capulets had entered.

#syaosakuweek18 #syaosakuweek #benibara #red rose #syaosaku #sakura x syaoran #new trials of cardcaptor sakura #ntccs #cardcaptor sakura #ccs #syaoran li #sakura kinomoto #fanart #fanfiction #wish chan #edit by mez

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band-of-bros · 7 years

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this was inspired by a malec fic that my friend sent me on tumblr that I can no longer find, but sometimes you just need some webgott and a school production of Romeo and Juliet, you feel?

It’s the opening night for Romeo and Juliet, t-minus 75 minutes until the curtain goes up, and Rene just went home with a high fever and stomach bug. Webster doesn’t think he’s ever seen the theater in this much panic, and he was around when they tried to do Sondheim with an incompetent music director. Currently, the girl they have designated as the understudy Juliet is staring at Joseph Liebgott like he is about to murder her, which he just might if this keeps going as badly as it is. The fact of the matter is that she knows absolutely none of the lines or the blocking, and seems to have stage fright on top of it.

“F-for pilgrims--”

“For saints,” Liebgott hisses, loud enough for Webster to hear him from the back. “‘For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch.’ You’re supposed to be over here by now or you’ll push us out of our light.”

“Sorry,” she squeaks, looking on the verge of tears.

“Dear Lord, this is painful,” Webster says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dick nod grimly.

“I didn’t expect her to be perfect, but this…” he trails off, and Webster turns to see him exchange a glance with Nix.

“Isn’t there anyone else we could put up there?” he asks. Dick shakes his head.

“For the first time in our history, we’re low on girls. All of them are already playing a supporting role or multiple ensemble ones. I really thought that she would have taken her role as understudy more seriously than this when I cast her as it,” he says. Webster looks back at the trainwreck onstage. They’re still stuck on the same line, with Liebgott whispering it to her over and over and her repeating it back wrong.

“Is she even processing what she’s saying?” he asks, disgusted.

“Even if we had the technology, I don’t think feeding her lines through bluetooth would work because she’d just mix them up,” Nix says. Webster deflates. He was really hoping that Nix would be able to piece together something like that. As the technical director, he’s very good and using their resources to fix problems.

Liebgott puts his hand up for the next part of the blocking and shakes it a few times when she doesn’t respond. Finally, he grabs her hand and puts it up next to his, palm to palm.

“This is ridiculous!” Webster exclaims. “Even I have the blocking and lines memorized better.”

He must have said that a bit louder than he thought, because suddenly all eyes turn towards him, including those onstage.

“Why don’t you do it, then?” the understudy exclaims, and David is alarmed to see that now she really is crying. “I obviously can’t, so go on Webster, take my place and save the show!” Then she runs offstage.

“Oh dear,” Dick says.

“I’ve got her,” Lipton says, and promptly leaves his spot in the light booth to follow the wayward actress and calm her down.

“Are you happy now?” Liebgott demands from the stage. “It’s your fault if we have to cancel the damn show now!”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” he shoots back, although he really would have prefered for the understudy to not hear his statement.

“Prove it then,” Liebgott challenges.

“Excuse me?” Webster asks.

“If you’ve got the whole fucking play memorized, get up here and prove it.”

Webster looks to Dick, who sighs.

“Might as well. We don’t have any other options right now,” he sighs. Nix raises his eyebrows. Webster sets his jaw and starts marching towards the stage.

“Fine,” he says, climbing onto it.

Webster isn’t worried about proving himself right. As the stage manager for this production, he had to take notes on all of the blocking for the show, and has been there since the beginning of rehearsals. Shakespeare has always come easily to him, and he already read Romeo and Juliet multiple times in 9th grade as part of his literature course. He could say these lines in his sleep.

Getting up on stage, the only thing that mildly concerns him is Liebgott.

When Webster looked at the cast list and saw that Liebgott had gotten Romeo, he thought for sure that Dick had made a mistake. Even though the student-directed productions, such as this one, which Dick put together as his final for his directing class, usually bring in less actors, the department still has plenty of guys who would do well in the role. Liebgott’s fiery temper and devilish smirk made him the obvious choice for Tybalt, but that role had gone to a newcomer named Ronald Speirs, and when questioned Dick just said that he thought Liebgott could bring a different dynamic to Romeo, and that it would be a challenge for him as an actor.

Watching the production develop, Webster couldn’t help but grow to agree. Liebgott’s Romeo is just as love-sick as any other, but he’s more irritated by his heartbreak, and his shift from wanting to make peace with Tybalt to killing him over the death of Mercutio is so believable that Webster’s eyes welled with tears when he watched the scene for the first time. He can be unimaginably tender in the quiet scenes, and he plays off of Babe and Grant so naturally that every Romeo/Mercutio/Benvolio scene is dynamic and engaging.

Webster is also mature enough to admit that his small crush on Liebgott may have grown a bit during production. What can he say? There’s nothing hotter than a good-looking guy who can act.

Webster just hopes that he doesn’t let that get in the way of proving to everyone including Liebgott that he was completely right when he said he knew the blocking and lines.

“Where are we starting?” he asks when he gets onstage. Liebgott smirks, then his expression softens, and he becomes Romeo: enchanted, flirty, and a little bit reverent.

“‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand/This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:/My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand/ To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.’” He takes a step closer, and Webster steps back. He smiles a bit, playing coy.

“‘Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,/Which mannerly devotion shows in this,/For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,/And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,’” he replies. He starts to raise his hand, and Liebgott meets him halfway, pressing their palms together. His hand is warm, and Webster lets himself feel a little of everything that Juliet would: anticipation, excitement, wonder, and a little fear.

“‘Have saints not lips, and holy palmers, too?’” Liebgott asks, then begins to lean in. Webster uses his free hand to bring a finger to his lips, stopping him.

“‘Aye, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.’” Webster steps back, letting their hands drop. Liebgott looks at a loss for words for a moment (which is how Webster knows he’s a good actor, since that look has never crossed Liebgott’s face before the first time they blocked this scene). Webster raises his eyebrows, unimpressed, then moves as if to pass Liebgott, who reaches out and stops him with a hand in his.

“‘O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do./They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’”

Webster looks down at their hands, where Liebgott is gently tracing each of his fingers with his own, then back up at Liebgott’s face. All of his attention is on Webster. He swallows.

“‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.’”

Webster has heard the next line a hundred times, but never this soft, and never when Liebgott’s eyes are flicking down to his lips as he says it.

“‘Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.’” Liebgott leans in again, and this time Webster doesn’t stop him. His breath hitches (if anyone notices he’ll just say he was acting, but it’s not the truth), and he lets his eyes flutter shut as Liebgott’s lips meet his. The kiss is short and chaste, and when Liebgott leans back again he brings a thumb to skirt over Webster’s cheekbone.

“‘Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged,’” Liebgott says softly. Webster has a moment of panic where he is too distracted by everything that just happened to remember the next line, but then Liebgott smiles and it comes rushing back to him. He smiles, too.

“‘Then have my lips the sin that they have took?’” he says lightly, teasingly, fondly. Liebgott’s smile splits into a grin.

“‘Sin from thy lips?’” he laughs. “‘O trespass sweetly urged!/Give me my sin again.’” This time, when Liebgott leans in, Webster meets him halfway. Liebgott’s hands move to cup his neck, and Webster grabs a fistfull of shirt to have something to hang on to. He has never been more upset to have Dick interrupt a scene, but when he and Liebgott finally separate he’s pleased to see that the other boy seems just as reluctant as him.

“Web, go see Shifty in costumes. Tell him you’re going on as Juliet tonight,” Dick says.

“I am?” Webster asks.

“Yes, you are. You know everything and that scene was flawless. We need you.”

“You gonna dress him up like a girl?” Liebgott asks dubiously.

“In Shakespeare’s time, all of the girl characters were just guys in dresses,” Nix chimes in from the back.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dick says. “No need to add the extra hassle of trying to disguise his gender. We’ll stick to the script as written and as rehearsed, so all moments where Juliet is referred to as a girl will remain, but Juliet herself will be a boy. Tell Shifty to get you some pants and a shirt. I’ll make an announcement at notes. Set the stage for the opening and let’s get going.”

Dick claps his hands once and everyone disbands to perform their tasks. Just as he’s about to leave, Webster is stopped by a voice.

“Hey Web, you’re a better kisser than a thought you would be,” Liebgott calls. Webster’s heart rate doubles at the implication that Liebgott has thought about kissing him before, but when he turns around it’s with a smirk on his face, because the other boy really walked into this one.

“Well, Joe,” he says, “you kiss by the book.”

#webgott #my writing: webgott #david webster #joseph liebgott #band of brothers fic #it's 1:44 am but I impulse-wrote this in one sitting so #hope someone enjoys it because I sure did #my writing

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askmicrowaveayem · 7 years

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Boink! The Gaster Brothers Pt. 14

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Dings didn’t wait. He didn’t flinch. He swung at one of the remaining guards with his fist to slam into his head, summoning a long, sharp bone in the other at the same time to stab at one of the points between the plates of armor, right where he was softest. --

The guards crumbled with anguished cries.

Rage slumped on the ground behind the wall of bones, his blaster crumbling.

The rest would be left to his brother.

Not many were left after the blasts, one or two. One went down after being stabbed up through the chest while the next was grabbed while trying to flee, Dings tackling him to the ground and beating his head into the ground before stabbing him as well. He stood among piles of dust blowing away through pieces of armor and cloth, breathing steady and deeply through his helmet. After a cursory look around him to make sure that was the last of them, he dissipated the bones around his brother and walked back to him. “Are you okay?” --

Rage was struggling to sit upright, breathing hard and grimacing, despite having only fired off one blast.

“Fuck,” he said, finally giving up and slumping fully to the ground. “Fuck… shit, I��m… I’m really dizzy…”

Grillby approached slowly, watching the dust billow away and quietly offering a bag of food to the two brothers to help them recover some.

“Thanks.” Dings said, taking the bag of food and rummaging through it to find whatever restored the most, then held it down for his brother to eat. “You shouldn’t have fired that. I could have handled them.” --

Rage didn’t eat. Not yet. Scowling at him.

“I thought you were giving up,” he hissed. “I thought you--!”

“What!?” Dings yelled back, voice livid. “No! Never! I had to get close enough to blast their fucking heads off! How could you ever fucking think I’d turn myself in after all that shit I said?” --

“I don’t know!” Rage said back, straining. “I-I don’t! Fuck you, you’re not allowed to do that to me!”

Grillby stayed nearby, watching them. Watching the dust.

He didn’t know if he should intervene or not.

“...enough…”

He didn’t know if they’d even hear to let him intervene.

Dings’ voice faltered as he suddenly realized what kind of panic he must have just put his brother through. “... I-” Grillby’s voice stopped him and he looked back at the flame.

When his brother turned, so did Rage, still glaring, eyes unfocused with magic-lack. But he looked all the same.

Grillby was surprised they responded as they did, but didn’t waste the opportunity.

“....You haven’t fought together in five years.... Rage is still recovering…. Won’t be able to read each other well yet… it’s fine…”

Dings accepted that and slowly turned to his brother to see if he did as well. “... I’m sorry. I didn’t think about what it would seem to you. But I need to be close range.” He thought back to how they fought together five years ago. “... I can’t do the ranged stuff very well anymore.” --

“You can’t…?” Rage said, sounding confused and concerned, and still rather listless.

He knew his brother said he’d fought up close more often, but… but still.

“... I’ve been fighting with Tybalt.” He explained, knowing his brother would remember him; the close-ranged sword fighter without any magical ability. “My entire way of fighting has changed to be able to stick with him.” --

Rage stiffened, face twisting.

He’d done that.

He’d asked Tybalt to look after Dings.

He’d put Dings closer to danger.

“Fuck, shit, I’m sorry…” he whispered, the most sound he could get out at the moment.

“Sorry for what?” Dings asked, frowning behind his helm. “Tybalt kept me alive that first year. Without him I’d be dead.”

Would he? Would he really have been?

“...put you close to the fight…” Rage managed. “..should’ve stayed far away.”

Grillby nudged Gaster’s hand, trying to remind him of the food.

Dings looked at Grillby, then at the food, and shoved it towards his brother again. “We can argue once you’ve eaten and had a rest.” --

Reluctantly, Rage finally began to eat, quieting down.

Once he had eaten Dings gathered up their things and lifted his brother onto his back to keep on walking to the next village. Hopefully Rage would manage a nap.

Rage was too spiteful and upset still to manage any chatter or conversation as they walked.

He fell into an exhausted, light nap eventually, head knocking on Gaster’s shoulder.

Grillby walked behind, a little slower than he usually went, though it kept up with Gaster’s pace.

He was thinking a lot today.

Dings would have to take one more break before they would eventually settle somewhere for the night. The murder of the other guards didn’t even seem to phase him in the slightest.

They had come to separate him from his brother. So they needed to die. That was all. --

Grillby helped set the camp. Made some food. Checked on the two.

Over the fire, he tried to grab Gaster’s attention while Rage slept, asking, “...what’s your plan…?”

Dings looked at him, then down at his sleeping brother. “... Same as before. I need to finish Rage’s arms. I need to carve the runes in them before we reach the next town, then have them overlayed with metal.” He ate a little of his meal. “After that? … I don’t care.” As long as he was with Rage he really, truly didn’t care what they did. “When he’s well again I’ll leave that up to him.” --

Gaster nodded, eating abit as well, accepting that.

“....do you have an idea what he has planned….?”

Dings shook his head, “He hadn’t said much of future plans. Mostly just worried about recovering right now, I think.” --

Grillby nodded slowly again, and considered his next words even more carefully than usual.

“....I will stay until he is recovered. Then, I may have to part…”

Dings looked surprised. Not hurt, but surprised. They knew they would probably part ways after the escort mission, but… “Why?” --

Grillby looked back the way they’d come. Back where the guards’ dust was still scattering around the woods.

“....I understand your love for your brother…” he said, “...but I do not want to fight my fellow monsters…”

He knew, now. If he stayed with the brothers, he would be forced to. And they would fight for him, if he asked, he was sure, but-- it wasn’t the act of doing the deed himself that was upsetting.

It was not stopping the murder of his brethren. Even when the murderers were his own comrades and friends.

He couldn’t reconcile that.

And so he would leave.

Dings frowned, “... So you’re going to turn yourself in or what?” He didn’t like that idea. --

Grillby shook his head.

“...try to find somewhere to hide out until it settles…. No sense chasing a deserter forever…”

He still didn’t look particularly happy, but… it was Grillby’s life. His decision. A part of him wanted to ask why the lives of those monsters even mattered when they were about to arrest them for doing something like saving his own brother from humans, but… Rage wasn’t Grillby’s brother. He was a friend. He didn’t understand. Eventually, Dings nodded. “Fine. When ya gonna tell Rage?” --

Grillby looked over at him, frowning a little. “...when he recovers a bit more…”

He didn’t want to send Rage into another angry fit like Gaster’s supposed-abandonment had.

This wasn’t an abandonment, he told himself. He was helping them as long as he could.

He just… couldn’t do any more than that.

After another moment Dings nodded. He wouldn’t say anything more about it. Grillby could do what he liked. --

Grillby nodded again and continued the rest of the evening in silence.

Dings would work on carving some of the runes into the wood of his brother’s prosthetic arms by firelight and only stop when he began to tire. Then he would lay down beside his brother and sleep. --

Rage slept through the night, exhausted from the fight, and without Vrinda’s cooking to pull him through, he was trying to recover through rest instead.

Even once morning came, he was slow to rouse.

He’d used far more energy than he had when he was a child overexerting himself.

Dings would help him eat more breakfast before starting off again, taking breaks throughout the day to write in his notebook or give Rage a little more food. He was mad at himself that Rage felt the need to use one of his blasters in his current state. It was because of him. He wouldn’t let it happen again. --

By the time they reached the next village, Rage would be… not quite back to what he’d been after a week of rest. But he was better.

Back to talking with his brother. The last night before the village, he managed to tell a story, if a very short one, half out of desperation to just stay awake a little longer and keep his brother close.

Grillby stayed more subdued the entire time, but dutifully watched over them, doing his best to ease the journey for them both.

Without his brother to talk to at least, Dings had managed to spend that time carving in the runes needed to get his new arms moving, just in time to find a metalworker and get the arms plated to protect them. He also considered getting some home-cooked food for Rage at the tavern. It would heal better than what they had been eating.

As they drew close to the village he was on alert, watching for any royal guards. --

There weren’t any royal guards about, but as they drew closer and into the village, there was a… tension, about.

A palpable one.

Monsters glancing at them and quickly looking away or hurrying off.

Apparently, a squad of royal guardsmen going missing in the woods hadn’t gone unnoticed in this village.

They’d arrived after the news.

… Well. No royal guards. Just frightened civilians, so far. Dings could deal with that. He headed for the local metalworker. --

The smithy was fairly in the middle of town, taking up a large portion of area near the local market.

One of the smiths looked up as they approached, slowing in their hammering and quietly dipping the piece they’d been working on in the water and wiping their hands, giving them his attention.

No hello. No greeting. Dings pulled off the wooden arms from his belt and set them down in front of the smith, voice echoing inside of his helmet. “I need these plated.” --

The smith looked down at the wooden arms and leaned forward to inspect them, turning them over, spying the runes, and keeping his face serious.

“...what kinda plate?”

Dings described what he wanted, light but sturdy metal to mostly protect the wood underneath. Just a cover around every digit and rune, something to give each finger and elbow movement but protect it from any grit, wear over time, or light attacks. --

“It’ll take two weeks to get it all right,” the smith said, and named his price.

Dings nodded, reached for his gold, counted out half the price, and handed it over without a word. … Two weeks in one spot after killing five royal guards. Hm. … He would get Rage a decent meal now rather than later. The longer they stayed inside the town the worse things would get, and he didn’t want to subject his brother to it when he was still recovering. --

The smith watched him go without a word, pocketing the gold, and taking up the arms to set them aside until he could begin work and discuss the strange customer with his fellows.

Rage looked up at him as best he could from his current position.

“...so. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks.” Dings repeated as he headed for the tavern. “You’re getting a decent meal sooner rather than later, just in case.” --

Rage snorted, but despite himself, he looked rather eager.

He hadn’t had anything but the rations for a very long time. He hadn’t even realized how much he missed tavern food until he could smell it from one of the ones they were passing.

Dings walked into the tavern still carrying his frail brother and sat him down at a table against a wall, nestled in a corner. Only one way to come at them. He waved over the barmaid before looking at his brother. “Get whatever you want. As much as you want.”

They probably wouldn’t be able to come back, so Rage would need to make it count. --

Rage gave a bark of a laugh. “Don’t tempt me, I’ll actually do it.”

God. Fuck.

Everything looked and smelled so good.

He leaned closer to his brother.

“You should probably order first. I’ll take a while.”

Dings only ordered one thing. A beer. Rations were enough for him. He didn’t need to heal. --

Rage snorted at him, but turned to the barmaid and…

Just….

Fuck.

He ordered enough for three skeletons.

Dings laughed, the sound echoing through his helmet. “You better fucking eat all that.” His beer, understandably, came first. He reached up and twisted one of the hinges of his helmet so the bottom pulled down rather than the front pulling up in order to still drink with it covering his head and face. --

Rage grinned at him and said, “You haven’t seen what I can pack away at this point.”

His magic reservoir was enormous from so long wielding his blasters. Enormous, and currently drained to the bottom.

He was eating the entire fucking meal. He was determined to.

“You look so weird, drinking like that,” he laughed.

“Rude.” Dings said, but grinned. “Eating around a bunch of loudmouthed soldiers I had to keep it covered somehow.” --

“Changes nothing,” Rage said, grinning back. “You still look like a reverse watering can.”

Dings scoffed, “You should be nicer to me, I’m the one who’s paying for that meal!”

“You should treat your big brother with more respect,” Rage shot back, grinning widely.

“Older.” Dings corrected, grinning. “I’m bigger now.”

He seemed to getting taller by the day. --

“Bullshit,” Rage said, scowling back.

“Little brothers are always little brothers.”

“Remind me to ask you for a piggyback once you’re better.” Dings smiled. --

“Sure, but you’re taking off that heavy armor,” Rage said, huffing back. “That’s hardly fair.”

“Fiiine.” Dings groaned before taking another drink. --

Rage huffed at him and relaxed, waiting for the food to arrive.

When it did Dings would take the utensils and feed his brother as best as he could, giving him a little taste of everything before settling into a routine of just sort of guessing what he wanted and letting him eat. “How do your arms feel?” He asked after awhile. “Once the metal plating is finished it’ll just be waiting until you feel like you can wear the prosthetics I made for you.” --

Sometimes Rage would steer Dings towards one dish or another, and there were several he was content to try to eat on his own, but overall, he let Dings feed him in whichever order ended up happening.

“They don’t hurt anymore,” He said, then paused. “...not like a real injury, anyway. ...Nevermind that, the point is, I think they’re pretty well healed. Now it’s just a matter of building back my strength.”

He nodded over the table of food.

Dings didn’t ask what he meant, but he did frown a little. “... Alright. When they’re done just let me know when you want to give them a go. I’ve already tested them out. They work fine.” --

He nodded.

“Probably as soon as we run away from this town,” he guessed.

They’d probably be running again.

Hopefully they wouldn’t be forced away or refused by the blacksmith before the arms were done.

Dings nodded. “... Think we should camp outside again and only come in for supplies? Hope maybe we can hide away until the arms are finished?” He wasn’t good at plans like this. --

Rage thought a moment.

“....camp out. Stay out of sight. Get all our supplies now, if we can. Two weeks from now, we send Grillby in to pick up the arms and trail him out of sight to offer backup if he needs it.”

“Alright.” Dings said, not arguing or suggesting anything else. “... What do you want to do once we have your arms?” --

“What do you mean?” Rage asked, settling more comfortably now that he could feel the effects of the food.

“After we leave the village. When we have everything we need. Where do you want to go? What do you want to do?” Dings asked. --

He looked down, thinking again, silent for a while.

“...I want to get strong again,” he said after a moment. “Then, I’m going to make them pay.”

Dings nodded after a moment and drank his beer. He didn’t need to know who. He didn’t care. He would do what his brother wanted and help him in whatever needed to be done. --

Rage managed to finish almost the entirety of his order. What was left was easy enough to pack up and carry.

He fell asleep halfway out to the camp, magic reserves finally filling to something that felt… an old sort of familiar.

Made it easier to relax.

Dings took the food that was left and carried Rage to the camp, far enough away that they were hidden. Grillby would get them supplies to last two weeks. Now it was just a matter of waiting. --

It was a long two weeks. A slow two weeks.

Rage recovered strength, much improved from the large meal made with care, rather than the ration packets. By the end of the first week, he was standing steadily on his own. By the second week, he was walking.

He couldn’t climb or run quite like he was used to, but he was well on his way to recovery.

When the two weeks were up, Dings handed Grillby the rest of the gold and told him again what he expected, metal plating covering the runes of his brother’s new arms. Then they would wait. --

Grillby went to the smiths, who seemed surprised to have… someone different picking up the arms than he expected.

He didn’t call the guard. Too confused and uncertain.

Grillby returned to their camp shortly after, arms tied securely on his back.

Dings took them and inspected the work, pleased. “Do you want to try them out?”

Rage looked over, sitting up slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

He was… kind of unsure. But.

He wanted to hold his brother again. These would let him do that.

Dings walked over to him and began to fit them onto his stubs, looping the belted straps around his shoulders and chest to keep them up and making sure the fur-lined insoles where the remains of his arms would stay were comfortable. At first they felt like heavy, dead weight on his shoulders and chest, forcing what was of his arms down and into one position. He couldn’t hope to move them with the stubs of his arms. “Activate your magic like you normally would down your arms.” He instructed. --

He didn’t like the weight. Didn’t like the pull of them. His breath caught short before he activated his magic, jittery.

The runes underneath the metal lit up. It didn’t feel like any other magic Rage had ever used; purely for function rather than offense or defense. The weight of them didn’t strain his magic as much as it felt like it strained his body and after a moment he would be able to feel which rune was where. Just something about it told him ‘this is where you activate your thumb’, ‘this is how you turn your wrist’. The most uncomfortable part would be learning to move the remains of his arms with the prosthetics. --

His eyes widened a bit at… the strange, not-quite sensation of knowing where his limbs were, knowing where his fingers and thumbs were, without being able to feel them. For a long moment he sat back, just staring at his new arms, shocked and confused.

Then, slowly, he began to raise his left arm.

“....This is like having two elbows.”

Dings couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a madman as he watched. He laughed at his brother’s description. “You’ll have to get used to that, sorry.” --

He snorted and let the arm fall back down, grinning up at his brother.

“Yeah. Thanks, Dings.”

‘Thanks’ wasn’t quite the word he needed. But. But still.

“Get over here.”

That was better.

Dings smiled and moved a little closer. “Yeah?” --

Rage leaned forward as soon as Dings was close enough, lifting the two arms clumsily, and wrapping them around Ding’s back.

“I missed you.”

Dings’ eyes widened in surprise and he knelt beside his brother for a few moments before holding him back. “... I missed you too.” --

Grillby looked away, letting the brothers have their moment. Letting them embrace for the first time with Rage’s new arms.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

When he finally did pull away, he was smiling faintly, looking up at his younger brother.

“...we should probably go before the guard’s called on us again.”

“... Yeah.” Dings smiled. “... Do you want to keep them on?” --

He thought a bit, looking down at them.

“...I’ll try to keep them on, yeah. Get used to them.”

He looked a little sheepish.

“....it’s still sort of a weird feeling…”

Dings nodded and helped his brother to his feet, wanting to hold him up so he could get used to the feel of them hanging from his shoulders. “It’ll take awhile.” He knew all too well what it was like adjusting to new magic. --

Rage nodded, trying hard to not make a face.

“Yeah. I should… start now.”

It was how he’d always gotten better with magic.

Just keep doing it. Over and over. Until it was your own.

“Where to?”

Dings looked at Grillby for a moment, wondering if he was going to split with them not of keep on going for awhile. “... I guess the next town? Just keep getting used to your new arms. We should keep moving. Don’t let the guard catch us while you get your strength back up.” Their funds were dwindling, but at least now they had the gold he had stolen from the dead guards from earlier.

He nodded, “That sounds good.”

He turned in the proper direction, ready to go.

Grillby packed his things and made to follow.

He wouldn’t leave them yet. He’d said he’d wait until Rage had recovered.

He was still not nearly in his old health.

Off they went.

Dings would watch his brother closely, try and determine whether or not he was having any sort of discomfort with his new prosthetics, or any more discomfort than what would be assumed already. The wood was heavy, but that was something he would have to get used to. It needed to be heavy to withstand what he did with them. --

He tired quickly, despite his best efforts. The runes may have lightened it for him, but it was still a lot more weight than he was used to carrying around, and he moved slower for it.

Still, he didn’t complain, doing his best to walk alongside his brother and Grillby as if nothing were wrong.

He was determined to make it to the village without having to be carried all over.

Dings wouldn’t offer to carry him, but he would suggest resting once his brother started to huff a little more than usual. Then during their lunch break he would hand his brother something large and easy to hold to eat, so he could attempt to feed himself for the first time in months. --

His hands were shaky, and it was hard to hold the food steady, much less bring it to his mouth without dropping it.

Sometimes some fingers would jerk without his knowing input. Sometimes one hand would be ahead of another. It would take a lot more practice before he would be able to hold something effortlessly or move without thinking hard about it, but--

But he was holding something. He was feeding himself fairly easily, compared to previous attempts.

He was grinning.

Dings smiled as he watched, eating his lunch beside his brother. Struggling or not, he was feeding himself. All three eyes were mostly focused on him as he ate his own food.

It was a happy moment.

His brother would gain control of his arms in the same way he gained control of his eye, through a lot of hard work and tons of effort.

He finished his meal after his brother did, but he’d finished it from start to stop on his own.

He took a moment to rest and savor this.

They didn’t really have a lot of time to spare, and he was still on the mend technically, but…

It was nice to have something definitively going right for once

Dings would let him rest for a little longer, only helping him up to keep on walking once he was sure he was good to move again. Having him walk on his own meant more breaks, but that was alright. It meant Rage was walking on his own. Building up his strength. He let his older brother set the pace. Let him direct where to go. He knew he wanted to make those pay who did this to him, but wasn’t sure how much he wanted to get his strength up before doing the deed.

They stopped staying in one place quite so much. They’d go in and get resources from town, but be moving again before anyone had a chance to alert the royal guard.

A few more weeks passed like that. Stopping at villages. Purchasing supplies, or having Grillby go in their stead. Rage slowly grew more and more accustomed to his prosthetics, using them more and more casually and becoming definitively more comfortable with them than without.

Finally, though.

Finally came a morning when he woke and realized he could summon a blaster and it wouldn’t crumble in front of him.

Dings would keep a close distance to his brother no matter where they were. Whether they were walking through the forest or in a town, he was always within an arm’s distance from Rage. His brother was beginning to get his loud, boisterous nature back and Dings was always the silent protector, stood beside or behind him looking like something straight out of a novel with dark eye lights and heavy armor. He was beginning to have to adjust some of it to account for his growing legs and arms. Now that he wasn’t spending so much magic on the battlefield he was playing catch-up with how tall he should have been. It seemed like every day Rage would have to look up a little bit higher.

When Rage summoned a blaster and it actually stayed, Dings grinned and made sure his brother knew just how excited he was for him. It was as big of a stepping stone forward as walking had been, or growing comfortable with his arms.

Rage took a moment to treat his blaster like he had when he was a child.

He let it rest in his arms. His new arms. Got used to its heft and weight again.

It had changed since he’d last really used it--it did that sometimes. Changed, just slightly.

It’d outgrown its more reptilian origins and become something more mulish, more horse-like on the front lines.

Now, the teeth had melded fully with the rest of the bone, sharpened. The muzzle more pointed and small horns protruding from the back.

He liked it.

It looked like it could bite.

“...I think I’m ready.”

#undertale #RP log #mayem #the gaster brothers #BOINK!#rage #dings #grillby #wartime

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truthofherdreams · 7 years

Note

rosvolio prompt: they're married but still wary of each other (warming up tho). Ros knows by know that Ben isn't a shitbag and defends him to lady capulet (half to spite her but oops she means all the nice things she says)

As dreadful as this whole ordeal is, Rosaline is grateful to no longer be living under Lord Capulet’s roof. Of course, there is the matter of Livia kicking and fussing about living with a Montague – not that Rosaline can blame her sister for it – but it otherwise goes much more smoothly that she would have thought. It would be better, even, if she didn’t have to go through many a supper with her uncle and Lord Montague but, as she learnt, things seldom go her way.

Marrying Benvolio had unexpected perks, though, for her lord husband’s dry wit is a nice reprieve during long evenings with people she does not particularly like. Benvolio cares about politics as much as she does, which is not at all, and busies himself with whispering barbs toward other noblemen into her ear until she stiffs a laughter behind her hand. He always grins at her when it happens, proud and amused, and she slaps his shoulder in answer.

It is one such night, both uncles having retreated to Lord Capulet’s private study for a talk, and Rosaline finds herself sharing the room with her husband as well as Lady Capulet and Livia. Her sister glances her way, as uncomfortable as Rosaline feels, not knowing what to do. She doesn’t need to look at Benvolio to know he must be in quite the same state of mind, never one to hide his disgust for the lady of the house.

(It must have to do with how one night, drunk on wine, they had traded stories about their past and families and learnt that, maybe, they were not as different as they once thought.)

“Livia, is this a new dress?” her aunt asks all of a sudden, startling them all.

Livia’s eyes widen even so slightly as she looks down at her own outfit – the pale green dress she had bought only days ago, after many a day complaining about having nothing to wear. She had somewhat worn Benvolio down until he gave her a few golden coins to spend well, and then had glared at him and snarkily stated that she did not need Montague money. The dress had been bought anyway, and a lecture given about the proper way to thank a family member for his generosity.

“Yes, indeed, my aunt.” Livia preens a little, palms smoothing the wrinkles in her lap. “Benvolio bought it for me. Isn’t it a lovely gift?”

It is a testament to how much they hate their aunt that Livia would be ready to praise the Montague man so openly only to vex the woman. And if the smile Benvolio hides behind his cup of wine is anything to go by, he very well is aware of the fact.

As it is, Lady Capulet turns her deadly stare toward him and clicks her tongue, silent for long second before she finds her words and her venom. “Did he now? Well, I guess those Montagues are good for something after all.” She focuses back on Livia as she adds, “At least he is bringing money to the family, if nothing else.”

Benvolio’s nostrils flare, his hand tightening its grip around the cup of wine until the knuckles turn white, and it is only his will not to start another feud that stops him from opening his mouth. Rosaline, anger rising in her throat, lacks his self-control.

“No need to be harsh, my aunt,” she finds herself saying before she can swallow back the words. “Benvolio has been nothing if kind to us ever since the wedding. Livia and I are most grateful.”

Rosaline is well aware of the three pairs of eyes staring at her – her aunt’s cold stare, Livia’s astonished one and Benvolio’s, unreadable. She finds that focusing on the first one is easiest, for she is used to her aunt’s fits of anger and knows how to navigate such waters. Indeed, Rosaline isn’t surprised when the woman sneers at her.

“’Tis not kindness that had him befriending murderers.”

Benvolio reacts at last, taking a threatening step forward, but Rosaline puts a hand on his arm before he can do anything reckless. She shakes her head, even if she keeps her eyes on her aunt, and he remains still by her side in reply.

“But it was kindness that had Tybalt murdering Mercutio during the Prince’s ball? Why are his actions forgivable in your eyes, but not Romeo’s?” She knows she went too far – the subject of Juliet’s affections and demise still fresh in the lady’s heart – but Rosaline cannot stop the words from rolling on her tongue now. “Or perhaps it was kindness that had you fuelling this feud for decades, and playing the victim at every turn. Or kindness, for turning Livia and I into servant girls. You are far from kind, my aunt, so do not disrespect my husband this way. For when you insult him, it is also our family you insult.”

Livia’s mouth hands open, while her aunt is left sputtering angrily. Benvolio, somewhat, finds her hand, fingers holding her so tightly she is afraid it will leave bruises. Still, it does very little to anchor her anger, for Rosaline takes two step forward and closer to her aunt.

She huffs, before she adds, “And perhaps it is kindness indeed that will stop me from telling you that even an arranged marriage is a better fate that this miserable life you chose for yourself.” She may imagine the incredulous snort of laughter out of Benvolio’s mouth, but she doesn’t take the time to check. Instead, she turns to Livia, and tells her, “Come on, sweet sister. I can no longer stand to being disrespected in such manner. Let’s go home.”

They make it halfway back to their house, in a tense silence, before Rosaline notices that Benvolio never let go of her hand. Livia is staring between the two of them as if seeing them for the first time, and Rosaline forces herself to look away and to ignore how her husband’s thumb is drawing circles against the back of her hand, warm and soothing.

Livia jumps off the carriage as soon as she can, bidding them both a good night before running her way up the stairs and to her bedroom. It leaves Rosaline alone with Benvolio in the entrance hall – her anger has settled down by now, leaving place to horror at her own actions. Surely her lord uncle will not be pleased, and have a lecture prepared for her in the morning. It is this same horror that has he letting go of Benvolio’s hand.

Or at least trying to, for he grabs her hand once more and, with a sharp tug, pulls her toward him. She looks up at him, and her mind settles just in time to understand what is happening.

The kiss is brief but passionate, as Benvolio’s grip on her hip brings her closer to him, as her own fingers grab his shirt for support. It leaves her mindless and breathless for long seconds, before he steps away with a gentle, crooked smile.

“Thank you, dearest wife.”

Rosaline wants to protest – tell him she didn’t do it for him as much as for herself, that she only did it to get on her aunt’s nerves, that she didn’t mean it, that he can shove his gratitude somewhere else – but the words die on her tongue before they can even form. It would be a lie, and Rosaline is tired of pretending to despise him.

So instead she rubs her nose against his, and smiles. “You’re welcome, dearest husband.”

#rosvolio #rosvolio ff #still star crossed #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #otp: my beloved #asks #Anonymous #ff: still star crossed #fanfic

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cookieswriting · 7 years

Text

What Matters - Ch. 4

Rosaline found herself drifting between sleep and waking not long after checking the poultice on Benvolio’s abdomen. His back would need to be checked when the physician and apprentice returned, as she was unable to turn him on her own and unwilling to risk injuring him further. He’d been still for some time, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was in fact still alive. Shaking herself to stay awake, Rosaline took a moment to consider their relationship. So much had changed in the short time since they’d met; where she’d once hated the sight of him, she had since come to rely on his companionship. She’d been so sure of his ill character then, blinded by her hatred for his family’s name, that it had taken some persuading for her to see the goodness in his heart. If ever she’d attempted to apologize for her behavior, Benvolio had laughed, brushed it off, and reminded her that he’d been no better.

The lady was returned to the present when her betrothed began to moan softly. She looked up, checked his bandages once more, and realized that his discomfort was the result of an apparent nightmare. His distress quickly became more pronounced, and Rosaline stood quickly to tend to him. Her hand settled carefully on his bare chest (had his state not been so dire, such would certainly be inappropriate...and enticing in a way she was not yet used to associating with her betrothed), and she pressed down when he started to fight her restraint. “You are safe, dear Montague.” His pulse pounded wildly under her touch.

“Rosaline!” he pleaded, hand coming around her wrist as his steel blue eyes snapped open. Despite his weakness, his fingers were tight and he nearly succeeded in dislodging her. His gaze, full of fear and desperation that stole her breath away, searched the room frantically before meeting her own. In a beat, relief took over and his grip loosened. His hand slid down her wrist to cover her fingers, holding her hand against his chest as if to reassure himself she were real.

“I am here. You are safe…” she hesitated, remembering the look in his eyes. “We are safe.” As he returned to full awareness, Benvolio winced and pressed his free hand to his bandage. His breath continued to shudder, and Rosaline felt tremors begin to wrack his body. She reached up and stroked his jaw, heart aching for his pain and grief, desperate to soothe him. Slowly, his breathing began to even out. “Are you with me?”

Those stunning blue eyes fluttered open, clearer than she’d seen them since before the attack. “Yes, Capulet,” he breathed tiredly. She stilled the hand on his face, allowing it to cradle his jaw. Benvolio leaned into her touch, staring at her as though he were afraid she’d disappear before his eyes.

“Did you see the attack again?”

“No,” he murmured, fingers reflexively tightening over her hand. Rosaline stroked his chest with her thumb, canting her head to the side in silent question. Her betrothed took a slow breath, and she was surprised to see the sheen of tears fill his eyes. As she waited for him to speak, Rosaline wondered if he would be so candid with his emotions were he not in such a weakened state. Benvolio lifted her hand from his chest and slid his fingers between hers, and Rosaline had to fight back tears of her own. She was unsure if she’d be able to bear her betrothed returning to his respectful distance when he was healed and able to leave the safety of her room; the vulnerability he’d shown since initially waking up had created a whole new level in their relationship to which already she felt accustomed.

“I...I dreamt of my cousin, and Mercutio, and Juliet...even Paris, and Tybalt.” He sighed and lifted his free hand from his injury to stroke her arm as he continued. “They all, one by one, fell off a cliff and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Romeo was the last to fall, and he tried to pull you along with him. Finally I could move, and I caught your hand. My cousin too held fast, though, and I lost you as well to the darkness.” A single tear slid down his cheek. Rosaline brushed the tear away, and waited for him to continue. “I would not be able to live with the knowledge that you were lost to this horrible feud because of me. In all of the bloodshed that we've seen in this summer, you are the one who need be spared. You didn't want any of this and yet you were dragged into my disaster. For that I am truly sorry.”

Rosaline gave him a sad smile and shook her head. “It is my fault that you lay here now, wounded as you are. My aunt admitted to hiring men to kill you...and I fear it will not stop. It is you, Benvolio Montague, who has been forced into the middle of a fray you did not choose, who has done no wrong save fight to protect those he loves.”

“You mean fail to protect them,” he retorted, voice laced with a bitter melancholy that frightened her. “I was meant to guard my cousin with my life, had vowed to do the same for Mercutio...the Lord knows how often those two got themselves into trouble...and yet I am the one left breathing.” His eyes dropped in shame. “I cannot count the times I found myself wishing that I had joined them in death in the days...weeks following the tragedies. I was left utterly alone, and had to read my uncle’s blame every time I looked in his eyes.”

Though she was not genuinely surprised by his words, the thought of him following through with his wish twisted her heart. “My dear Benvolio, what happened to all of those we have lost is not to be on your shoulders. I can say with utter certainty that neither Mercutio nor Romeo would wish for you to join them so soon. You will never be alone again so long as there is breath in my lungs,” Rosaline vowed.

Benvolio stared up at her, something akin to awe in his eyes. If asked at a later time, she would swear that there was some force that drew them together until their breath mingled; it certainly wasn’t a conscious decision. When the physician and his apprentice walked in just a beat later, both parties jerked backwards, the Montague with a low groan. Rosaline felt heat rise to her cheeks, and a twinge of disappointment in her belly. She glanced down to her betrothed, and knew when she saw the blush on his own neck that she was not alone in her feelings.

“F-Forgive us, milord, milady. ‘Tis good to see you alert, Sir. Lady Rosaline, I trust, as you did not come to fetch us while we slept, that there were no complications since we last assessed him?”

“No, Sir, I have recently reapplied the poultice to his abdomen, and found no sign of infection or fever.” Benvolio watched her with a slight grin, and Rosaline pointedly did not look at him.

“Excellent. I do not wish to have you turn onto your stomach, Sir Montague, as the effort to turn back over may prove excessive in your current state. If we can position you on your side, the poultice can be applied and left to dry, then you can return to your back if you so choose.” The man in question nodded, preparing himself for impending pain. Rosaline leapt to her feet, hurried around the bed and lowered herself down beside him carefully. When she could not find a comfortable and beneficial position while upright, she laid herself on top of the blankets and settled onto her side next to Benvolio, who was watching her with wide eyes.

“Are you ready, Montague?” she questioned, trying to ignore the twitch in his lips when her voice wavered. He nodded, clenching his jaw and reaching out for her hand. Rosaline took it quickly, nodding over him to the physician and settling her other hand on his shoulder. As the men across from her pushed, she pulled, ensuring that Benvolio need not strain himself and pull at his injuries. He grimaced as she released his shoulder, clearly fighting a moan, and sweat appeared on his brow. Rosaline reached forward and caressed his skin tenderly, eyes trained on his as he clenched them tightly. “The worst is over. Are you ready for them to continue?” He opened his eyes and nodded sharply. She mimicked the gesture to the physician, and returned her focus to her betrothed right away.

“Thank you, Rosaline.”

As the physician worked, Rosaline whispered to him of more peaceful times, of memories she’d shared with Juliet, distracting him from the pain as much as she could. They worked quickly, and Benvolio only flinched a few times before they were finished. “The wound is healing well, I would like to examine it again in a few hours. In the meantime, if you need anything we shall be in the foyer.” Rosaline smiled warmly at him for giving the hurting man privacy now that he was awake...for giving them privacy. The physician bowed to her, and both men took their leave quietly. Benvolio squeezed her hand lightly, bringing her gaze back to him.

“How do you fare?” she whispered, not daring to speak any louder in the minimal space between them. She knew propriety demanded she get up, put space between herself and the man she was engaged to marry, particularly knowing how close she’d come to kissing him before the physician. She knew she should release his hand, stop touching him...but it felt as though if she were to move, breathe, speak too loudly, the moment would shatter, and she was not prepared for that to happen.

“Well enough, my lady.” His voice was low and rough, and make her pulse quicken. He turned his hand just enough to settle his first two fingers over the pulse in her wrist, and his grin was a mix of affection and hunger. She barely had time to ponder the intense shift in their bond before he was overwhelming her with a heated kiss.

She truly should have stopped him the moment their lips touched, and yet...she truly did not care to. In the slightest. Rosaline responded eagerly, shifting closer to him until her elbow unintentionally grazed his wound and Benvolio spasmed. “Oh! Oh, Benvolio, forgive me!” The lady clapped a hand over her mouth and rolled onto her back, turning her head to look at him. His face, twisted in a grimace, was alight with mirth.

“No, my beloved...it is I who needs forgiveness. ‘Tis not appropriate for me to jeopardize your virtue, even if we are betrothed.” He took her hand and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles. “Perhaps it will be best if you have the physicians come in...you look as though you need rest, and I will now be unable to find any myself with you so near.” Rosaline bit her bottom lip, grinned when his eyes fixated on her mouth and he swallowed with difficulty. “Go, Capulet,” he growled. With a light giggle, Rosaline surged forward to press one more kiss to his eager mouth, and then forced herself up and out of the room without another look.

If Cerimon or his apprentice noticed her disheveled appearance, neither commented, for which Rosaline was grateful as she hurried to the nearest empty quarters to attempt sleep. The flutter in her chest and grin on her lips would not cease, and the lady Capulet was sure that she would find no adequate rest until she was wed.

#ssc fanfiction #rosvolio #rosaline x benvolio #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague

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