#at the time I had seen half of the untamed and was vaguely aware of word of honor so I was not prepared for the chaos that matchup unleashe

[bl-bracket]

Horny on Main Round 3: Lan Zhan (The Untamed) vs Wen Kexing (Word of Honor)

[Submitted Reasons Under Cut]

Lan Zhan: "Man realized sex with Wei Wuxian was an option and immediately thought of nothing else for over a decade, instituted an "every day means every day" policy the second he got his horny little hands on him"

Wen Kexing: "this man has a constant stream of consciousness centered entirely around his need to fuck zhou zishu and he will make it everyone’s problem. even when zhou zishu is dressed like a homeless man he’s still spouting poetry about his waist and flexibility and how pretty he is"

[eggytranslations]

Volume 1, Chapter 14-Matchmaker

Content warning: knife

After tonight’s first try of love making, if it were anyone else, they would be extremely tired and cover up with a blanket to sleep, dead to the world. However, Shen Qingxuan had never been a light hearted person, his thoughts had always been heavy. In the past, even if he drank a soothing concoction, his sleep would be troubled. Tonight, his body and mind were both exhausted, tired to the point that he could not even open his eyes, but he still slept shallowly. He only had weird dreams for the entire night—in his dreams, he was being chased and did not know what kinds of evil spirits were behind him, gripping their sharp and shiny knives, wanting to kill him. In his dreams, though, his movement was actually agile, madly running without pause. He was so crazy happy for his own lithe legs that he more or less did not care that there was someone who wanted to kill him. Just as he was feeling happy, the scene suddenly changed. He did not know how he returned to that ice cave from long before. All around him was bone chilling ice. Both of his hands were clinging to a piece of ice, his skin even stuck on it, relying only on that stuck layer of bloody flesh to support his entire body. He knew that as soon as he slipped into there, he would never be able to stand up again; he also dreamed about his mother who seemed to be in his bedroom, holding his newborn younger brother and calling him little darling. He wanted to go over there to pull her away, but the room was pitch black, nothing could be seen. There was only the faint smell of sandalwood coming from his mother and wrapping around them, not dispersing……The whole night was full of these kinds of bizarre and motley dreams. Shen Qingxuan had the night sweats, he could not tell if he was awake or sleeping until even the night sky outside the window had turned a faint white before he fell into a deep sleep as his mind drifted, finally free.

This slumber lasted late into the morning, the sun even moved to high noon, and he had not even woken.

He had never ever been one to overindulge in sleep. His personal maidservant had brought a water basin and toiletries bright and early outside his door. In the past, before the sound of her footsteps had a chance to near the door, the clear sound of the brass bell would ring out. Therefore, she could not help but feel suspicious and also worried about his health. It was really just that, as chronic invalid of many years, if he had anything happen to him, she would not be able to shoulder the responsibility. So she quietly pushed open the doors to his personal wing and entered.

-

The girl joined the Shen family when she was five years old, and originally attended to Mother Shen personally. At the time she joined, she was young and sweet-looking, and also possessed a clever but eloquent tongue. Mother Shen had never taken her for an average servant to order about. When she saw that her own son had become withdrawn after his incident, she sent her to Shen Qingxuan’s quarters, thinking that she could be a companion for him. If there was a child around him to keep him company, perhaps his temperament would improve somewhat. Gradually, the girl grew into her blooming maidenhood. Mother Shen concluded that she would understand the bigger picture, and as a person, she was humble and good-natured, so she got the idea to giver her as a concubine to Shen Qingxuan to have a son or half a daughter. Although they would be born by a slave girl, they would still have the Shen family blood.

This idea of Mother Shen’s was known by everyone in the manor, therefore, as a servant girl, being in this room was not the same as usual.

Shen Qingxuan was also quite aware of his mother’s ideas, however, he really had no impure thoughts towards this girl who had grown up with him. He had also thought of clearing this up before, but could not find a suitable time. Moreover, the girl had attended to him these dozens of years after all, and could be considered a person he was close with, so it would not be good to hurt her feelings. He knew that he was withdrawn, too. He only grew up together with her, as master and servant, and was a little bit more pleasant to her so it was even more impossible for him to hurt her feelings with a hardened heart. So he had always pretended to not know.

The servant girl had not realized Shen Qingxuan’s intention to decline, merely believing it to be Young Master Shen’s thin skin. Plus, as a girl, it was untoward for her to verbalize it, so this matter kept getting put off.

In recent years, Mother Shen would pull the girl for some secret chats, and during their conversations, this matter would be included in the agenda.

Although she would be a concubine, this would also be the first time that Shen Qingxuan’s room would have an additional person, which counted as a happy event. The date was then set for after the year, without any discussion with Shen Qingxuan. But the girl knew in her heart so her words and actions had some added shyness and reservation, which meant there was some more impropriety as well.

-

She pushed open the door. Inside the room, the air was serene, and in the ray of light, some dust floated. It was still, without the sound of people, there were only fragments that were ripped into snowflakes covering the floor, as if it was declaring that inside this room, there had once been a tempestuous ripple. Upon seeing the fragmented pages all over the floor, the servant girl’s heart skipped a beat. After all, Shen Qingxuan may be withdrawn, but he never showed his anger or joy. Something like ripping books would be even more out of the question, and had never happened before.

She gingerly stepped over the fragments towards the bedside. The bed curtains were down, the scene inside vague and not very distinct. One could faintly see that the shape on the bed had no abnormalities. The man on the bed breathed regularly, deep asleep. He was totally unaware of her arrival.

-

The serving girl steadied her mind, reached out her jade-like hands, and raised a corner of the bed curtain. She swept a look inside them out of the corner of her eye, and scarlet immediately surged onto her rosy, oval face like a delicate but dazzling peach blossom during the third month of the year.

That bed was a complete mess. Wrinkles spread out in all directions on the embroidered brocade quilt, marks which were quite obviously wrung up by hands. In the air within the bed curtains, there flowed a scent that was hard to express yet instinctively made one’s face red and heart pound. Even more, the light teal quilt cover had a white stain that was already dry. What happened here before was quite obvious.

The servant girl turned around, wanting to escape, yet she suddenly halted her feet, thinking about this bare and untamed mountain. Moreover, there was only Shen Qingxuan on the bed. How could something so debauched happen? Even if it was a secret affair, this villa did not have any serving girls with prettier appearances than her. After a moment's hesitation, she carefully uncovered the blankets on Shen Qingxuan to check.

Shen Qingxuan did not think that there would be someone who would run into this scene. However, he was careful by nature, and after finishing, he struggled to put on his clothes by himself before he laid back down. His energy was not sufficient and he rarely did this himself, so his clothes were disheveled, but still intact. The serving girl only thought that the young master’s inner robes were inappropriately messy, yet she did not discover any major flaws. Then, with a flushed face, she also pulled up the quilt a little bit around Shen Qingxuan’s legs and peaked out of the corner of her eye. She only saw that the clothing was all on before she immediately put it back down. She thought it was because Shen Qingxuan had become lonely during the night and it was a result of playing with himself. But at the bottom of it all, her heart still had some suspicions. After all, the marks on the bed could not be made easily by a paralytic like Shen Qingxuan.

She really had no way to guess, so she closed the door and withdrew.

-

Shen Qingxuan had no awareness of this. This was the first time in how many years that he had slept so deeply that he did not even feel someone nearing his bed. When he opened his eyes, it was already noon and he could only feel that his body was fatigued and sore. It was a weariness that he had not felt in a very long time. That was a weariness that only came after he went hunting in the wilderness for a whole day with his father when he was a child. It had already been many years since he had experienced this sluggishness in his body and he even felt two parts novelty, as if he had come alive again.

He lay for a moment before he raised his hand to ring the bell for the maidservant. He rested against the head of the bed, using the tea water to clean his eyes, and then dipped into some green salt to rinse his mouth with before he washed his face and ate something. He lay back down on the bed again and closed his eyes while he thoroughly combed through the previous events.

He thought that naughty snake was truly too naughty. He did not know if he was like that by nature or if he was only mischievous like that towards him. If it was his natural disposition then that was that, but if he was only mischievous toward him——Shen Qingxuan’s face flushed red, burrowing into the covers. He had not sent for someone to change the bedding from the previous night, so it was still covered in stains, as if the scent was still there, utterly tantalizing.

He worked himself into a frenzy until he remembered that pair of eyes he had last seen, as cold as an eternal iceberg, letting him simmer in anxiety while he stood lofty and motionless. Thus his mood became dejected and he lay down for a while longer, dazedly wanting to sleep again. May impetuousness be the only thing left in my dreams, and nothing else.

-

When he woke up again on the second day, he recovered most of his energy. He sat back on his wheelchair, bent over the table, reading and painting, his face a picture of calmness, not revealing a thing. The maidservant attentively waited upon him to the side, simply unable to find a trace of a clue.

She did not understand that the Shen family’s eldest son standing in front of her now was no longer the same master from before. Two consecutive days of his body feeling peculiar reminded him at every moment that there had once been a night of debauchery. So debauched it was like a pipe dream. In his dream, he was loose and without shame to the point that even Shen Qingxuan himself did not wish to remember.

However, after a night of restlessness, Shen Qingxuan’s mood clearly recovered. The anxiety and dejection from before disappeared altogether as if washed clean away by that night’s tide of passion like a furious storm. Of course, all his hopes and needs had once been satisfied to the greatest degree. Thus, there was nothing to weigh upon his heart, he could be free of any distracting thoughts again, and peacefully carry on with his mortal life.

When there was no one around him, Shen Qingxuan would also reflect on this earlier agitation and his current tranquility. He could not help but suspect, Could it be from being alone for too long, causing an imbalance of yin and yang that made me repressed to this point? How else could he explain why he received carnal satisfaction and that squirming wild beast in his heart went right back into hiding.

Shen Qingxuan was formally considering the matter of marriage.

-

There was not a man who enjoyed being pressed beneath another man. Shen Qingxuan knew that he was not born as a cut-sleeve. He thought about when he was a young boy and how he had even vaguely admired a distant elder paternal cousin. He did not remember her voice or appearance anymore, but he still remembered as a little six year old, when his papa had joked about setting up a childhood arranged marriage and his embarrassed yet eager feeling—an age of ignorance, young and tender, not knowing anything. Even if they were teased by the adults, it could not equal the immediate delight he felt when he saw her.

At that time, he thought a wife as beautiful as a flower, senior officialdom and nobility would be his life. No matter what happened, his feet would most definitely be on a correct and grand path.

But now the more he walked this path, the more strange it became. Shen Qingxuan could not help but scoff as he thought about how very odd it was. So he had dealings with a yaoguai, alright, and he even touched upon the delight of Longyang, moreover, it was extremely enjoyable.

He was truly happy. Although it was his first time, jarring and out of sorts, it could not compare against his willingness. Even seeing Yi Mo’s face could cause an unlimited happiness and joy.

But it was not like he was foolish, he could not even pretend to be dumb. He could see Yi Mo’s reluctance with just one look. He did not untie his belt. As soon as he sent him to his peak, he withdrew and left, his attitude high above and aloof. Rather than calling it love making, it was much closer to charity.

What’s more, one was human and one was yao, one had intentions and one had none. The distance between their worlds was large enough for him to willingly admit defeat. He was well aware that he did not have the power to bridge this immense chasm. There were some things that even yao were powerless to do, much less humans.

-

Ever since that night, it had been many days since Yi Mo visited again. Shen Qingxuan’s appearance contained a smile, looking with ease through the window at a bright and blooming thicket of flowers and plants in the courtyard while he counted the days in his heart. His birth date was nearly here, and he was about to leave the mountains within the next two days. Every year around this time he had to return to the manor to reunite with his family. Then he will simply return. In the days to come, he will marry a wife and have sons, be his Shen family Eldest Young Master, be a very ordinary, insignificant mortal. And not admire that snake yao he could only see, but never catch up to.

It was also odd that when he thought of this he did not really feel much sadness. There were only some feelings of loss, as if there was an empty place in his heart. Yet he was not sad and not happy, it was like he had resigned to his fate.

Five days later, Shen Qingxuan sat in the horse carriage while the servant boys followed behind, picking some wild foods. His personal maidservant accompanied him, sitting inside the carriage, and the carriage man drove the purplish red horse, shouting. The party of people mightily set off down the mountain. On the way, Shen Qingxuan lifted the door curtain and turned back to look. He only saw that mountain top that towered into the sky get further and further away, further and further away. At last, he only saw the verdant mountain peak, one half of it immersed in the heavens, one half was blocked by the nearby scenery. Shen Qingxuan looked for a very long time before he decisively and resolutely let go of the fabric curtain, sitting properly again, his body following the rolling of the wheels, lightly rocking. The depths of his eyes were as placid as water, still not wavering at all from beginning to end.

-

The Shen family residence had just been renovated last year. The curling eaves, new tiles, and eight zhang tall fire wall were still snow white, although a year had passed. There was not even enough time for the weeds to grow in between the walls, roof, mortar, tiles, and eaves. A picture of cleanliness and splendor. The horse carriage followed the road eastward along the firewall, and then advanced for a moment more before turning to the southern side door with a moon-shaped door arch. A newly painted pair of vermillion doors opened inwards. They were currently wide open, with two lines of neat and well-dressed servant boys and servant girl’s standing next to the doors. At the head, stood the old steward who had come to greet him dressed in a green shirt and robe.

The horse carriage stopped and the maidservant lifted the carriage curtain. Shen Qingxuan sat inside while he cracked a smile at the old steward. Then he extended his hand, resting it on the old man’s shoulder while also calling over two manservants to support him as he got out of the horse carriage and sat on the rattan sedan chair.

There was naturally someone to lead away the carriage horse to feed on fodder. Four servants carried the bamboo sedan with Shen Qingxuan on it, passing who knows how many courtyards, halls, verandas, and passages. They only lowered the bamboo sedan once they arrived at the courtyard entrance of the main hall, and switched to a wheelchair, which was pushed by another servant. The wood wheels rolled over the sleek and cleanly polished pebble-paved path and passed another two courtyards before they finally entered the main hall.

Master Shen as well as the madams and relatives were all waiting in the hall. Only when a corner of Shen Qingxuan’s crescent white robe peeked out from behind the trunk, did they put down their tea cups and go up to greet him.

-

Shen Qingxuan resided in the southern courtyard, and after eating dinner, he passed through the garden before reaching his little building. All the candles had already been lit inside the small, nan wood building and the interior furniture and decor had been completely changed, not dirtied by a speck of dust, twinkling with a clean shine. It was no longer the simple small room of the mountain villa. Instead, it was designed as a multilevel building, and even the bedroom had three doors. The innermost room was, of course, Shen Qingxuan’s, the middle room was where the personal maidservants slept, and the outermost room was for the nighttime maidservant when they needed to boil water to refill the tea.

Shen Qingxuan had become used to a simple lifestyle, and at first, returning home to over-elaborate etiquette was still a little hard to adjust to. He was annoyed internally, however, he did not express it externally. He called for someone to wait on him as he washed up as early as he could, and rested right after he finished.

He woke early the next morning and said his morning greetings to his father and mother. When Shen Qingxuan arrived at Mother Shen’s room, he stayed afterwards and discussed marriage matters with her.

Mother Shen knew early on that he had no desire to take a wife, so she had originally abandoned this idea, thinking that she would just find a maidservant for him and that would be it. Who knew that this time, Shen Qingxuan himself would mention it. In her happiness, she first went in front of the Buddha to burn three sticks of incense, and also kowtowed, saying “Buddha’s blessings” all the while. Then she summoned someone to call for Shen Qingxuan’s second mother, to discuss together the important matter of Shen Qingxuan’s marriage. Which family’s daughter was of a suitable age, which family’s daughter had a suitable temperament, and so on.

Shen Qingxuan only smiled and wrote on the paper, All these decisions are up to you, mother.

The pair of sisters discussed for a moment before Second Yiniang suddenly said, “Xuan’er, that maidservant in your room, have you thought about how you want to deal with her?”

Shen Qingxuan blanked then he immediately knew she was mentioning his own personal maidservant. After thinking for a brief moment, he agreed, writing,

That’s fine, too.

-

Three days later, the matter was finalized. The other party was the young lady of the Wang family in the same city. Her childhood nickname was called Hui Niang. She was just 16 years of age and their families were well-matched in social status.

The Wang family used to be a large and influential family, and although they were already in decline now, at the end of the day, a lean camel is larger than a horse. On top of that, the Wang family principles have always been proper. Young Lady Hui was also a respectable girl from a notable family and they had previously seen her appearance, although it was not one that could sink fish and fell geese, it was still gentle and amiable. Mother Shen then invited a matchmaker to act as an intermediate and immediately sent over betrothal gifts and money. The wedding day was set for next year after mid autumn. As for that maidservant, it would be better to marry her over and add her to the family sooner rather than later, after all, she had been by his side since childhood and long ago accompanied him by his pillow side. Just in case the young lady of the Wang family was someone who could not tolerate others, she could at least have some higher ground and not be bullied.

As for the day to take in the concubine, Mother Shen decided, “Since there will be the festivities of a birthdate, why not add to the happiness.”

The marriage date was then set for the day of Shen Qingxuan’s birth. Use a small sedan to carry that maidservant in through the side door and it would be counted as giving her a minor title.

These words were passed onto Shen Qingxuan, and he remained smiling, still replying with the same sentence, It is all up to mother to decide.

The matter of taking a wife and concubine was thus settled. From beginning to end, Shen Qingxuan did not at all let himself think about that elegant and unmatched person on the mountain again.

~~~~~

……don't look at me TAT, going to stop apologizing about lateness bc i don't want to associate more negative feelings with translation, but just know i feel sad and sorry when i miss deadlines……anyways, please enjoy this (rawdogged-unedited-by-another-pair-of-eyes) chapter. next chapter in three weeks on August 1 (fingers crossed) bc it's super long too………………………

[yandere-daydreams]

Can you please do more bungou stray dogs yandere content? Like a darling that was really sweet until they kidnapped her and is like a caged animal until they start drugging their darling to relax and wear them down. At some point they're just so scared and obedient like a bunny because they dont want to be drugged.

I decided to go with Dazai for this, since he deserves to be a terrible, terrible man every so often, as well as a Darling with an Animal-based Ability, if only to add another layer to the metaphor. Themes are important to me, even if they do get rather… blurry, sometimes.

Title: No Longer Human.

TW: Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, and Imprisonment.

~

You were vaguely aware that your current behavior was, most likely, a coping mechanism.

You were traumatized. You didn’t feel traumatized, nor did you think of yourself as unstable or irrational or anything less than you used to be, but you were aware enough to know that you were probably more effected by Dazai’s fixation than you let yourself believe. You tried not to think about it - all the hours you’d lost, the days you’d spent unconscious or paralyzed or too strung-out to care that you weren’t, but it was inescapable, sometimes. Your captor thought of you as a wild animal, an untamed beast that attacked him because it’d never been trained properly, not because he took it away from its home and stuffed his little white pills down its throat whenever it tried to go back. Behaving was a way to cope. When you behaved, you didn’t get hurt, and you were allowed to decide when you wanted to be awake or asleep or none of the above, as long as your schedule didn’t conflict with Dazai’s.  

When you behaved, you were allowed to be conscious.

That was all you could really ask for, with Dazai as your trainer.

Using your ability, Paws of the Tender Wolf, helped. It was a simple transformation ability, and while you couldn’t use it as it was meant to be used, it was enough to let your mind fall into the simplistic, instinctual world of the wolf you’d become so acquainted with, to let your energy and your strength be sapped by the power it took you to keep in a state of not quite human, but not quite monster, either. It was nice, even if it was all you could do to curl into a tight ball on Dazai’s loveseat and try to forget where you were. There was no point trying to escape, not when you’d already checked and re-checked every possible exit three times that day, only to find every window and door and vent padlocked, or deadbolted, or broken beyond repair in that meticulous, chaotic way Dazai was so good at breaking things. You had to wait for an opening, but waiting was a very hard thing to do with your eyes open.

You didn’t bother lifting your head when you heard the door to Dazai’s flat open, just watching from underneath your eyelashes as he shrugged off his coat and ran a bandaged hand through his hair, whatever bag he might’ve held soon thrown to the side and forgotten as he collapsed onto the seat next to you. He was tired, clearly, but you didn’t bother to try to guess why.

Rather, you picked yourself up, half-hearted stretching before setting yourself down on his lap, straddling him lazily and resting your chin on the dip of his shoulder, melting into him out of habit rather than fondness. Dazai didn’t seem to mind. If he wanted you to love him, he would have to be content with this. “You’re late.”

“It’s been a long day,” He sighed, his hand coming up to idly trace the curve of your back, his exploration ending just before he reached your motionless tail, hanging limply at the base of your spine like a cheap accessory, instead of the natural extension it was supposed to be. Thankfully, he ignored it, choosing to move his inspection to your ears, instead, dark and soft and more agreeably attentive. Dazai rewarded you with a handful of unwelcome strokes, and you did your best not to push him away. “We’ve got a few new detectives, the others’ are getting too close for their own good. One had an ability kind of like yours, did I tell you?”

Atsushi Nakajima. He’d told you dozens of times already, but you just shook your head, letting him ramble on about issues too domestic for such a busy man. If you brought up someone else or indulged the idea of doing so, Dazai would click his tongue and you’d wake up three days later with an awful headache. Listening to him was more bearable, if only slightly.

“That reminds me,” He said, pausing to make sure you were listening. It was the first time he’d done so during your onesided conversation. “I’m going to be gone for a few days, no longer than a week. I don’t want you to starve to death before I come back, so you’re not getting the worst dose you’ve had, but I asked an acquaintance to come over and make sure you’re taking your medicine once a day or so. You’re not going to give him too much trouble, right?”

There was a beat of silence, your mouth going dry as your heart began to drum in your chest. Your tail brushed against the backs of your thighs, searching for a position to express its discontent. “You going to drug me?” You asked, not waiting for an answer before you continued. “But I haven’t attacked you, and I didn’t… I’ve been good--”

“It’s a necessary precaution.” His voice was calm, even, patronizing. If he noticed your distress, he didn’t feel the need to address it, only tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling you forward, pressing his lips against your forehead, letting his touch linger as he spoke. “You are good. You’ve been perfect, and I’m so grateful that you came around, but I don’t want you to revert to bad habits just because I’m leaving you alone.” Abruptly, his tone was akin to that of an apathetic parent, a fatigued caretaker faking sympathy to prevent another temper tantrum. “I’ll bring home a treat, alright? Something nice for my favorite puppy.”

You should’ve approached this rationally. You should’ve collected yourself and seen this as an opportunity, and yet, the thought of the taste of chalk on your tongue, the dizziness and the slurred words and the helplessness, any of it and all of it was enough to set you off, to scrub your mind blank and make it seem like there was only one option, like you had to take the offensive or be forced into submission. You were snarling before you could stop yourself, growling and snapping and lunging for his neck with pointed, protruded canines, dull claws emerging from your knuckles to better dig into his flesh as you threw yourself against him, aiming to rip out his throat or severe his jugular trying. You had to. You couldn’t be tranquilized again, you couldn’t be suppressed into a corner of your mind and stored away. You couldn’t be put to sleep whenever Dazai said the word.

You wouldn’t let him.

You were so determined, but with a flash of blue light and a few muttered profanities, you were disarmed as easily as a raging mouse, thrown back into humanity as your back hit the floor and the sole of Dazai’s shoe planted itself in your diaphram. “Bad dog,” He spat, grinding his heel into your chest, letting his weight render you breathless before he bothered to go on. “Bad dog, bad dog. And just when I thought you’d come around, too.”

He allowed himself one more kick, another scoff before he bothered to regain his oh-so-superior composure with a sigh, a shake of his head and a stare so pitying, you had to be the one to avert your eyes. You ribs throbbed, a deep, bruising pain etching itself into your skin and your muscle and everything beneath it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry about injury, about your familiar physical limitations.

“I thought you’d learned your lesson,” He growled, pawing at the pocket of his vest until he found what he was looking for - a sleek, rectangular case, its contents consisting of a syringe and two vials. You might’ve been able to identify the substance it contained, but Dazai’s grin drew you away, broad and ruthless and cruel. So, so cruel.

More primal than you could ever hope to be.

“I guess we’ll need to try something a little stronger, won’t we, love?”

[eremiss]

WIP Asks: "Reminisce" next

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder,   regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little   snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many   people as you like.

I’m not sure when this one is set yet, definitely post-Dragonsong War and post-Foibles (FFXIVWrite2020.) Maybe post-4.0, depending. This is another Thancred PoV one, where they both open up a little bit about their pasts, him about Sharlayan and Gwen about how she made a living and what made her decide to learn botany and pick up a lance.

I’m really liking this one so far, but I’ve been torn about how the conversation about Gwen’s past should go. I’m not sure if I would rather it be dialogue, or a more vague description of what she’s talking about and his reactions to it. I’m sorta-kinda writing both at once and waiting for one of them to start coming easier and/or take off lol

(this is also where that First Lines snippet came from!)

Part of the WIP and a bit more summary below the cut.

Gwen and Thancred are fairly solidly together by this point, though they’re both still avoiding labels or addressing ‘them’ like the plague lest they upset this good thing they have going on. They’re both dinguses.

Despite that, he still doesn’t know much about her, as Gwen isn’t prone to offer much about herself unless it’s something particularly prudent or useful (”You need to shoot something? Don’t give me a bow, I’m not good with them.”) and even when asked she’s more likely to sort of avoid the question or give half-answers as she’s embarrassed about her past, even with Thancred. She’s very self-conscious about growing up alone and with nothing, struggling to get by and picking up and honing skills out of pure desperation. She’s also just a private person in general and not used to talking about herself, so even when she’s asked 100% judgement-free she’s just not sure what to say.

It can grow to be a bit frustrating, to say the least lol

-

Despite what the Adders’ reports and the increase in Ixali activity seemed to suggest, two days of reconnaissance in the Shroud has yielded little and less. No news is good news in the case of Primals, however, even if it makes the investigation feel a bit tedious.

The Ixali haven’t created any new routes to try and smuggle crystals under the Wailer’s and Adders’ noses, and their old paths have been abandoned since the last time Gwen laid Garuda low. The items stolen in roadside attacks were mostly sundries and foodstuffs bound for Coerthas which, while troubling, isn’t cause for the Scions’ concern. 

None of the travelers and merchants they’ve spoken with over the course of their investigation have been happy about being accosted in the middle of the woods, no matter how politely Gwen and the Adder recruits try to go about it. 

Thancred watches the latest victim of circumstance storm off down the road from his vantage point high in the trees. He lifts a hand to his linkpearl and remarks, “Seems he took offense.”

Gwen shakes her head, casting her gaze around the trees in search of him. “Just a bit. See anyone else?”

Thancred scans the road. “The road is clear, apart from your new acquaintance.”

She passes that on to the Adders, and they have a small discussion he can only assume pertains to what they intend to do next. Given the way things have been going, this investigation will surely be coming to an end soon.

Eventually the recruits salute and depart back up the way the traveler had come. Gwen doesn’t follow.

Thancred waits until they’re yalms away before speaking into the linkpearl. “What’s the word?”

“They’re going to the rendezvous with the other team, then contact the Adders’ Nest.” She tries to spot him in the trees again. And misses him, again. 

“And we get to hold position and await further word?” he drawls.

She nods. Then she remembers they’re speaking over linkpearl, “Yes.”

He sighs at the thought of more bells in the muggy forest. “Wonderful.”

Rather than continue searching the treetops for him, Gwen turns and makes for the bushes on the far side of the road. He watches with mild interest as she wanders through the untamed foliage, ducking out of sight every now and then and gradually wandering further from the road until he’s lost sight of her.

Foraging, if he had to guess. She’s never been a fan of sitting still, and it’s the perfect way to pass the time in a forest. He’s not sure how much she’ll find close to the road, as surely other travelers have already helped themselves to everything convenient.

Gwen has never hidden her skills as a botanist, per say, but she’s a great deal more open about them than she used to be, particularly when it comes to gathering herbs for her own use. Fetching tea leaves for a friend or herbs for a leve is all well and good, but collecting esoteric botanicals for herself is, apparently, a different matter. Perhaps a few too many people have commented about her snacking on dandelions and roots, or balked at the suggestion that they could do the same. 

Thancred winces and shifts on the branch, knowing he ought to count himself amongst the former. He puts that little blunder out of his mind, reminding himself he’d meant no ill will and had only been teasing. Her knowledge of Eorzea’s vegetation is nothing to be embarrassed about, nor is utilizing it as she sees fit, and they’re both well aware of that. She knows more than he does, despite the fact she hadn’t had access to the same extensive education and training.

He idly surveys the road, musing about how she’s rather reluctant to discuss how she learned botany, evasive when asked and quick to direct the conversation elsewhere. He can’t fault her for that, though. Many people consider childhoods spent mired in hardship to be a sore subject, and the two of them are no exceptions. Necessity, desperation and survival are wonderful motivators, but they don’t make for good small talk.

Which is likely also why comments about nibbling on weeds or foraging for odd ingredients are unwelcome; those ‘weeds’ may well have kept her alive. And isn’t that a hell of a thing to admit to? It’s not unlike the fact he’s not embarrassed by his ability to pick locks in seconds, but he recoils from the thought of admitting he’d picked up the skill breaking into homes and shops to steal food.

Eventually her lightly-staticy voice rings in his ear again. “Hungry?”

He’s mostly bored, and tired of the tree bark making an impression in his rear. “I take it you are, if you went looking for a snack.” 

“Just passing time, mostly.” A pause. Communicating when he can’t read her expression or fidgeting is always interesting, and occasionally vexing. “But we’ve been out here a while, so…”

Thancred gets to his feet and peers up and down the road again, straining his eye and searching for the shapes of travelers through the sparse trees. It’s all clear. 

“I don’t suppose you managed to find a wild bakery growing out there?” he asks, stretching his arms and legs in preparation for his descent. 

She laughs as the red of her coat comes into view through the trees. “I’m afraid not.”

He scoffs. “All that time studying botany and you can’t track down fresh bread in the wilderness?”

“Not even a single loaf,” she confesses, her remorseful tone colored with mirth.

“Shameful, honestly. Why did I even bring you along?” He starts climbing back down to the ground, her laugh bubbling warmly in his ear.

 Gwen’s excursion into the woods turned up a handful of roots, weeds and flowers that the average traveler wouldn’t look twice at. Between his survival training and his time in Dravania, particularly before he’d fashioned those obsidian knives, Thancred isn’t so easily perturbed.

They stroll along the road and snack, chatting and keeping an eye out for travelers or signs of movement in the trees. She walks on his left, sparing him the inconvenience of his blindspot. He has to turn his head to see her, though, but doesn’t mention it.

She shows him how to shave the hard skin off the roots, and then stares confusedly when he does it more masterfully than she had. He makes a bit of a show of it, carelessly flipping his hunting knife around in his fingers in a way that always makes her tense and reveling in her silent disapproval.

Gwen asks about Sharlayan and what the time he spent there was like, intent as ever to know more about him and draw out the things he normally keeps hidden. 

He chews, thinks, and decides to oblige her. Mayhap she’ll be convinced to return the favor.

He tells her about the city, the people, and the Studium to start. Then they spend a handful of yalms musing about the growing pains that came with maturing from a Lominsan wharf rat into a Sharlayan scholar. She has some questions, he has some answers --some more open and direct than others. Secrecy and facades are his habit, despite how easy she is to speak to and how well she can coax him out of his shell.

With the scene set, he weaves her a tale about some of his more harrowing lessons with Sharlayan’s masters of stealth and subtlety, sprinkling in a bit of the mischief he’d gotten up to here and there. She makes a good audience, listening attentively and reacting at the right parts. 

He finishes his tale and throws in a flick of his wrist for a bit of flourish, followed by a grandiose half-bow that earns him a laugh and a brief applause.

 They haven’t run into another traveler yet, or seen any suspicious movement in the woods. They turn around and begin making their way back to where they’d parted with the Adders recruits.

“Your turn,” Thancred prompts, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

Gwen cocks her head.

“A story for a story,” he says. “Tell me about yourself.”

-

(((Tangent: This reminded me I also want to write a fic about Gwen studying her ass off post-ARR because and struggling with self-consciousness when she realizes how limited her knowledge is and how little she knows about the fine details and advanced aspects of Aetherology and a dozen other things the Archons all discuss and debate with ease. She doesn’t feel stupid per say, it’s more she’s intimidated and embarrassed at how limited her knowledge is in comparison to them, as well as feeling a bit foolish for being proud of her novice conjury and thaumaturgy, and even her red magic. (Which is ridiculous, obvs.) It’s a bit like being a novice at something and then being humbled, even unintentionally, by an expert. Also a little bit of “being a smart person in a room of smarter people,” kind of feeling. She’s not dumb, but she feels way less smart than she is/thought she was when she’s around the Archons (too much so, even.) There’s also no small amount of envy about them growing up at studying in Sharlayan, and wishing she’d ever had, or would have, the chance to go to school and get/have that same breadth of knowledge. She’s not a very prideful person, but she is/was proud of learning all she did despite her situation, and being reminded of how non-comprehensive her knowledge is kinda stings. She did great, considering her circumstances... and that qualifier has never ceased to be annoying. Some of her self-consciousness also stems from her realizing a great deal of her mastery of red- and black-magic skills has to do with the Echo letting her absorb stuff super quickly, and she almost feels like that was cheating and wonders if she really actually knows it all as well as she thinks, or if the Echo is just...doing it for her, kinda.))) 

[ofgoodmenarchive]

The third in a series of drabbles exploring my Blood Mage!Dorian.

Seasonal/Festive edition with gift-giving and psuedo-ice-skating.

Deathly Courtship

Another restless night spent in a grimy hovel- an especially restless one this time. Dorian was at least thankful his cave was uncharacteristically dry for Ferelden. It would have made the hours of tossing around in his bedding even more insufferable.

He couldn't sleep- painfully alert. Every subtle sound from the wilderness scratched at his insides and the darkness felt not dark enough- agitated by the mildest light.

Whenever he did lose consciousness- or something close- he caught glimpses of the Inquisition camp, as if projected upon his eyelids. He surveyed from above but also lurked its fringes- much closer than he'd dare approach.

The culprit was obvious.

Daylight slivered into his den and Dorian strode outside, unsurprised by what he witnessed.

His shadow was slumped along a rock, boneless-seeming, staring at the Inquisition camp.

  “You've been here all night.” Dorian admonished, flopping to tend the fire. “It kept me awake, you know! And what are you doing lurking around camp? He has his own Spirit, remember?! It might see you!”

It grunted passively, not looking at him.

He rolled his eyes, sparked kindling.

  “You need to learn some patience, is what you need to do.” Leaning back from the flames, Dorian rooted around in his bag. He didn't have anything to really appease his demon but there was salted meat. Not a fantastic breakfast- he was probably still better fed than the refugees.

This time his shadow didn't offer so much as a grunt, intent on watching

Dorian sighed and craned his neck around- below, Lavellan also prepared for the day.

  “There's a way we have to do this, you realise that?” He lectured, cutting meat into chunks. “That's the Southern Chantry down there, or have you forgotten?”

Huffing, Dorian chewed raw flesh and inspected his companion- never moving from it's spot.

  “...If it was up to you,” He considered, shaking his head. “We'd just skulk into his camp one night, sneak into his tent and...”

Trailing off, he furrowed his brow at the creature.

  “Stop that. Stop putting thoughts in my head. We're not doing that.”

His shadow seethed as if in agony, somehow becoming more limp.

  “You're so stupid.” He grumbled, standing. “You saw how he reacted to us. He'll say yes in the moment then be terrified later- as they all are! Because you, my friend...”

He leaned sideways upon the same rock as his demon, frowning at Lavellan and gnashing bloody meat.

  “...come on far too strong.”

It exhaled in dramatic anguish, one with it's perch.

Dorian rolled his eyes again.

  "If I didn't know any better...I'd almost say you're lovesick."

The demon had no comment but it's offense was palpable through their bond. Dorian snickered, continuing to mull over;

  “What we need...is to provide something- a gift, something useful! That's how everyone else slinks into his good graces, no?”

It harrumphed, unconvinced. Dorian ignored this, retrieving his staff.

  “Well we're not doing things your way! You forget we're also betraying the Venatori. They're not going to be happy about that, are they? We're going to need a place in the Inquisition to survive- which we won't get if you can't pace yourself!”

Muttering to himself, Dorian sauntered down the slope, knowing his demon would have no choice but to follow.

  “You're going to have to get used to looking in my mind, too. I can't be talking to myself so bloody much! The Venatori don't care, they just think I'm mad. The Inquisition however, might have something to say about-”

Interrupted by an abrupt crash of bristling fur- a wild wolf. Dorian was tackled and with a snarl, kicked the beast over his head. Positively annoyed, he spun around and crushed its skull with the one upon his staff, spitting-

  “Wolves! Bloody wolves everywhere- I can't even finish a blasted sentence!” He licked red from his weapon without thought. “...Don't the Dalish have some superstitions about wolves? Sort of a whole...guardians of the Beyond, sentinels of death- that sort of thing?”

He blinked towards his shadow- observing neutrally. It shrugged.

  “You know- the Dread Wolf and all that! Fenharel, or whatever!”

It's head tilted, clueless.

  “This is why I make the decisions around here, you know...” Dorian scoffed, peering down at the fallen creature. “In fact...I think I have an idea.”

--

Crisp, morning air welcomed Evallan when he opened his eyes. His room in Haven was warm- intolerably so, for someone acclimatised to sleeping in the cold outdoors. Therefore a window near his bed was always ajar, mountain chill guiding him awake before anyone else.

They'd returned to restock supplies, rest and exchange personnel. Already he craved wilderness- while they traipsed over hills and through caves, it was easy to distract himself.

Suffocating in luxurious sheets, Evallan was acutely aware of how far from home he lay.

He wondered if his brothers were rising for the day- or if they'd become slothful without him to direct. After all, he was the 'Eldest' Lavellan- a title that meant nothing here but that appointed him some vague authority among his people.

Perhaps Villyen- being younger and less focused- would whine to Amrallan for them to sleep in. They might finally climb from their aravel bunks for lunch, then perhaps Amrallan would suggest they adventure somewhere, rather than attend chores...

By this description it was easy to forget Amrallan was actually older than him- Evallan had always been more responsible. He thought of how his brother might handle this 'Herald' predicament, laughing at the idea.

  I will write them again- soon.

For now, he needed to stave off homesickness.

It was too early for serving hands- breakfast wouldn't be prepared yet. That was fine by Evallan- he could only be himself in solitude, and food would do nothing to satiate his cravings.

He craved the freedom of home. Of travelling with his clan, camping in lands too untamed for the shem. Answering to the Creators, and to the wilderness, and nothing else.

This need brought him to the frozen lake, staring wistfully from its edge.

An uncanny sense bothered him- of being observed. This wasn't an unfamiliar feeling- it occurred erratically throughout their time in the Hinterlands. Easily attributed to the Maleficar they'd encountered, he'd become accustomed to dismissing it.

Though he saw no sign of him now- and they were quite a ways from the Hinterlands. Evallan couldn't imagine a purpose in stalking him so far.

  A trick of the mind this time, I think...

He had to confess, a part of him wished otherwise. Evallan found little point of relation between himself and the humans. Therefore, couldn't help but admire a shem mage who lived so wilfully as an outcast. Perhaps he would find common ground with such a man?

On the other hand, Evallan had no guess as to his thoughts. He should be more suspicious. Yet it was difficult not to be sympathetic towards someone who constantly skirted shadows, clearly not wishing to be seen.

Additionally, he tended to discern threats through his Spirit-bond. Lightbringer had voiced no concerns towards the shem's intent, so it was likely not malicious. Evallan trusted her to caution him if that happened to change.

  I see no real sign of him now, in any case...

Indeed the grounds were entirely unpopulated, sky still more dark than light. Glancing around himself to make certain, he then gazed over the ice and considered...

Before hopping from the brittle harbour, skidding upon a smooth surface. He'd been provided heavy, polished boots suitable for a Herald- definitely not meant for this. Evallan wondered if someone would scold him, then reflected how ludicrous it would be if he arrived for breakfast half-drowned.

Deciding to risk these consequences, he slid, kicking feet to gain momentum then straightening, propelled onwards with a giddy laugh. Cool winds lashed at him and he grinned at the wintery invitation, remembering such escapades with his brothers.

Spinning around, he repeated the motion, running until he could simply careen forwards. This time he intended to leap and catch himself- but it had been some time since he'd partaken in something so juvenile. Instead of landing on his feet he met frost on elbows and knees, snorting at his own foolishness. He was lucky the ice held- merely creaking.

Evallan stood and dusted himself off, preparing for another attempt...

Hasty scratches echoed along the ice, gaining his attention. Half-turning, he was assaulted by a pair of large paws and what looked like- veilfire?

His instinct would have been to attack- except the creature wasn't really attacking him. It bounced off and ran a mad circle, panting.

Or at least- it made a sound akin to panting.

Closer examination told him this thing- a wolf- was headless, its neck stitched shut. In place of a skull was a puff of veilfire and it was this that 'panted', billowing with the same cadence as an excited dogs breath.

From what he knew of canine behaviour- which was quite a bit, he was Ferelden- it displayed no aggression. If anything, it was pleased to see him.

  “...Hello, strange friend.” He greeted respectfully, bending to its level. “And where is your master? I do not suppose something as elaborate as you are, comes to be through happy accident.”

The minions 'head' formed a comically large tongue, lolling stupidly.

Evallan rang with mirth.

  “Yes, you are very charming.” He flattered, petting its shoulders. “But that is not what I asked.”

  “Oh, good- he found you!”

A somewhat familiar voice- mostly by the accent. There were not exactly a wealth of Tevinter men among the Inquisition.

Turning, he spied the Maleficar- Dorian Pavus- stood where snow met ice, beaming unreservedly.

Evallan hesitated, voice lost.

Perusing the frozen lake, Dorian inched forward, testing each step. Once confident enough he pushed towards Evallan, in such a way to suggest he'd observed some of the elf's frolicking. There was no time to be embarrassed- the man lost his balance and Evallan instinctively reached out, offering support.

The shem slumped into him with an 'oof', slinging an arm around. Evallan stiffened but allowed it- Dorian was warm, and had a scent like earth and blood. Neither of which he found displeasing.

He grinned upwards, exposing several pairs of sharp teeth;

  “My dear Herald,” Said with exaggerated familiarity. “You left the Hinterlands without saying goodbye- I was absolutely beside myself.”

Evallan blinked at this, not comprehending, awkwardly blushing. He had observed humans to have an odd sense of humour, so attempted to respond in kind.

  “I was...to leave a note on a tree?” He chuckled, tense. “You do not exactly make yourself known.”

  “I do apologise,” Dorian sighed, balancing enough to cling less. “It's not because of you, my Herald- just the company you keep.”

  “They would be suspicious of you, that is true.” He tentatively released the man, seeing him secure on his feet. “But as long as you mean no harm, I would allow none on you.”

The Maleficar roared with laughter, leaving Evallan confused.

  “How awfully noble of you, Herald!”

Slumping to meet his gaze, Evallan still couldn't understand what had amused him.

  “I would assume this is your minion?” He inquired, looking towards the undead wolf- it had been watching in dutiful silence but was quick to roll onto its back, panting again. Chuckling, Evallan crouched to deliver belly-rubs.

  “Do you like it?” Dorian asked, something hopeful in his tone.

Glancing his way, Evallan flashed a smile.

  “Some of the humans would call it unseemly,” He shrugged, continued patting. “But I can tell he is a sweet creature.”

  “He's yours- if you want him.”

Evallan perked a brow, curious.

  “Another method of tracking me, I assume?”

Surprising him- Dorian grinned shamelessly, answering the same way-

  “But of course, my darling Herald, whatever else for?” A laugh rumbled in his chest- it was a pleasing sound. “And to protect you, of course! A loyal companion, who will follow only your order, and be compelled to protect you against any threat.”

Evallan smirked mostly to himself, unfurling but not to his full height- stooping around Dorian's. The creature sat by his heels, leaning into him.

  “Does he have a name?”

  “Fenharel.”

Compelled to splutter in laughter- unable to restrain it- Evallan shook his head.

  “Maker, no! I will not curse the poor beast in such a way.”

Dorian paused, smiling in slow disbelief.

  “So you're going to take him? Did you entirely understand what I just said?”

  “I understood.” He shuffled, somewhat defensive. “But you have saved my people and myself at least once. Therefore, I seem to benefit.”

  “How...pragmatic.” Dorian bore his teeth in another sly grin and Evallan felt incredibly awkward.

Appearing to sense this, the Blood Mage redirected their conversation;

  “So what will you call him, if not Fenharel?”

Evallan regarded the beast for a moment, lowered to stroke its back.

  “Lunis, I think.”

  “Lunis...” Dorian stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That's some...minor Elven god? Something to do with the moon?”

  “Mhm.”

  “Huh...” He tilted his head, feigned a scoff. “Hardly more imposing than 'Fenharel', is it?”

  “If I call him Fenharel-” Evallan choked through mirth. “Any Dalish we encounter will shoot the poor thing on sight!”

  “Well, maybe- but they'll regret it!” Dorian quipped, earning more laughter.

  “Other than to track me...” He questioned- once restraining himself. “Is there a reason you are offering such a generous gift?”

  “Why not?” Dorian shrugged. “From where I'm standing, the Inquisition is the winning horse. I'm just trying to ensure I'm not trampled in the race.”

  “Pragmatic.” He echoed the previous sentiment- then faltered on what to say.

Again catching to his social ineptitude, Dorian bantered;

  “I can't help but notice that sliding around a frozen lake isn't very Herald-like.”

Perhaps he hadn't expected this to fluster him so intensely. Colour burnt his cheeks and a nervous cough erupted from him. Dorian simply observed, smiling in bemusement while Evallan struggled for composure.

  “I, well...” He spewed helplessly for a moment. “I...miss my home, that is all. We tended towards such climates, and would entertain ourselves in foolish ways...”

Dorian nodded, attentive.

  “I have to confess to you, my Herald...it was quite entertaining.” He chortled, teasing and warm. “But I do think I understand.”

  “Yes, of course-” Evallan tried to speak over his unease. “You also find yourself far from home.”

He nodded again but seemed averse to that topic- eyes shifting from Evallan's for the first time.

  “Well, everything always works out...” He said vaguely. “But I should be heading off, I think- I see your fellows beginning to stir...”

It was unfortunate he couldn't invite the Blood Mage to stay, Evallan thought. He might be able to guarantee the man's safety but judging by his skittishness, Dorian wouldn't trust that enough to be comfortable.

  “I do hope you enjoy the gift,” He said in a chipper tone. “Who knows...perhaps you'll give me something in return someday.”

Dragged from his pondering, Evallan lofted a brow, not really thinking of his response;

  “Gifts are not typically given with an expectation.”

  “Aren't they?” Dorian mused, chortling as if to himself. “Well...some of them are in a way, no? Dowries, for example.”

  “I...” He struggled to process what had been said. “...Pardon?”

Which inspired a chuckle from the Tevinter, shaking his head.

  “Just thinking out loud, my darling Herald.” He bowed lowly, with a mock-level of respect. “I must be off- you will take care of our Lunis, I trust.”

  “I will- of course.” He stumbled verbally, not comprehending the exchange.

Dorian just smiled and sauntered back into the shadows, leaving Evallan's heart in his throat.

--

  “I do not know if you should be accepting such...'gifts' from...renegade Blood Mages.” The Seeker admonished, watching as Lunis sped around the Chantry hall- chasing a moth.

  “I sense no ill intent from the man.” Evallan assured, fighting to keep a straight face. “And it is a fine creature.”

  “Does it have a name?” Solas asked from behind his tea-cup, observing warily.

  “The Blood Mage addressed him as 'Fenharel'.”

Solas instantly began choking, spittle flying everywhere. Unable to maintain his facade any longer, Evallan burst into laughter.

  “I know, I know! Do not worry, I told him I would not curse him with such a name. I have called him Lunis.”

  “Yes, far...that is a far more appropriate name, Herald.” The other elf muttered, dabbing tea from his face.

  “I truly cannot fathom...” Cassandra grumbled, leering. “...How you survived the wilderness as a mage child.”

Evallan snorted, genuinely tickled.

  “I had my clan to protect me- and now I have all of you!”

  “A task that will increase in complexity as the days progress, I am certain.” She sighed, not matching his cheer.

[satonthelotuspier]

❄️ Untamed Winter Fest 2019 ❄️

Day 29 - Frozen - 1.8k

Jiang Cheng watched the gently waving fan as it moved hypnotically, still covering the lower half of Nie Huaisang’s face. He wondered if this was the Nie Sect leader’s version of those flesh eating plants that lured in their prey with pretty colours and tempting smells before snapping closed and devouring what was caught.

The thought made him uncomfortable and he tried to banish it as his eyes lifted and travelled a little further up to find those solemn dark eyes watching him watch the fan.

And really now he was looking for it Jiang Cheng wondered how he, how everyone, had missed that underlying tone of cold cunning in their depths.

But perhaps it was just that he could see it now because he knew it was there; people only saw what they wanted to see, nothing in the world was truer than this.

Nie Huaisang had been a consummate strategist, matching Jin Guangyao move for move, year after year, in a hidden game of chess only one of them had been aware they were playing.

While one man acted the benevolent patriarch of the cultivational world the other played the clown in the background, wept and shook his head when pushed to the forefront and cleverly used his prey as his protection.

Jin Guangyao hadn’t ever seen it coming. That was scheming on another level entirely.

Jiang Cheng considered that they’d come a long way from those silly boys who’d met at the Cloud Recesses and spent their days fooling around, drinking, sharing pornographic books, whilst going about their young lives with their seemingly all-consuming worries.

The worries of children.

Life had chewed them up and spit them out since, and while he didn’t think there was a cultivator of their generation that had come through the last several years unscathed Jiang Cheng had closed himself off emotionally in order to survive, his frozen heart refusing to allow any further possibility of hurt.

He wondered if, like himself, Nie Huaisang would give anything to return to those carefree days of innocence, to be surrounded by his family again. He liked to think he’d not be nearly as ill-tempered with Wei Wuxian as he had been, that he’d appreciate that lively, conceited yet warm-hearted brother of his more, that he wouldn’t waste time bickering in front of his sister and instead just be in her calming company and give her all the love she deserved.

Perhaps Nie Huaisang had the same regrets, wishing he’d not spent so much time avoiding Nie Mingjue and instead been more appreciative of the love and care his elder brother held for him.

***

He would be the first to admit the meeting hadn’t held his attention and he had let most of the discussion flow over his head despite Lotus Pier being the host location, it had been a relief as it drew to a conclusion so he could see the other attendees off to their accommodations.

Afterwards, though it was late in the evening, he found himself in the company of the man who most of his thoughts had been on during the conference as they walked leisurely along the walkways and paths along the lake.

“Jiang-xiong was quite preoccupied during the discussion” Nie Huaisang commented, giving him a quick look from the corner of his fox-eyes.

“It’s the same discussions over and over though isn’t it? Patting themselves on the back for seeing through the Chief Cultivator and having a part in bringing him down” he sneered. The discussion was mostly made up of the smaller Sects due to the current political climate. He had heard Lan Xichen of Gusu had retreated into seclusion after Yunping City; the Jin Sect was in complete shambles despite his attempts to help Jin Ling settle things down, and that only left the Nie and Jiang sects of any size, and the smaller sects were full of their own importance.

They strolled on.

As ever Nie Huaisang was elegantly dressed; he’d always had that interest in beautiful fabrics, intricate braids and hair ornaments and beautifully painted fans. His was the soul of a poet or an artist, not a warrior or a diplomat. And look what he had accomplished.

It was another truism that war made murderers out of even the gentlest souls; one just had to find out what one was prepared to go to war for.

“I thought of the past. Of Cloud Recesses” he broke the companionable silence as Nie Huaisang walked on beside him, his closed fan tapping occasionally into the palm of his left hand.

“They were simpler times” it was almost tentative and Jiang Cheng glanced over, but couldn’t read the reason as the fan flipped open and rose into place to hide his expression, “but no less sincere”

“Do you think of it sometimes?” Jiang Cheng asked, curious how close he’d been in his thoughts earlier.

“Sometimes. Rarely. It’s...raw. I haven’t allowed myself to want the things I wanted then for a long time. I was too focussed, too...consumed. And too dead inside”

That Jiang Cheng understood, hadn’t he acknowledged that frozen part of himself that kept him safe, but emotionally separated from the world? Nie Huaisang came to a halt then and turned to face him.

“Perhaps it’s time we looked forward instead, Jiang-xiong. Perhaps now all accounts are settled it’s time to accept that wanting some of those things we wanted as silly little children in the Cloud Recesses is permissible”

Jiang Cheng didn’t think he quite grasped what Nie Huaisang meant, there seemed to be a message for him, especially in those fox-eyes which stared at him over the top of the fan, but it eluded him.

“It’s perhaps time to let ourselves heal” Nie Huaisang touched his arm with the lightest of contacts, then folded his fan and moved off back towards the dwellings with a, “Goodnight, Jiang-xiong”

***

He spent a lot of time with Nie Huaisang over the following days. Jiang Cheng told himself it was because he was the least annoying claimant upon his time. But he did genuinely enjoy their evening walks which became a staple of the conference. Their talk rarely became as deep or personal as on the first evening, but they never lacked for subjects, and neither minded when silence fell between them when there was nothing that needed to be said.

Jiang Cheng being Jiang Cheng did notice that the other had started to act a little more solicitously towards him, there were often small touches or smiles that caught him off guard, and maybe made his pulse speed up a little. Purely through surprise, of course.

He thought it may be due to Nie Huaisang finding someone with a shared history who had suffered similarly, and who he could talk to about it that made the other move towards renewing their friendship, to which Jiang Cheng had no objections.

He was a little sad when the conference ended and it was time for the other sects to go their own ways. Although only due to the impending departure of Nie Huaisang; he’d happily row the boat away from Lotus Pier himself for any of the other Sect heads. He was at the pier most of the day seeing them all off on their separate journeys.

Nie Huaisang took his leave late in the morning, “Thank you for your hospitality Jiang-xiong, I hope to see you again very soon”

“I hope so too” he allowed himself to agree and didn’t miss the warming of the other man’s eyes in response.

***

Over the following days Jiang Cheng didn’t want to admit how empty Lotus Pier had suddenly become. He continued to take the evening constitutionals that had become the norm with Nie Huaisang but they were lonely and left him brooding more often that not.

He did think deeply on Nie Huaisang’s comment of letting themselves heal and what that meant to him, he felt like the message had carried a very important weight for the other man. For himself he considered part of the healing process would be to forgive and let go  as completely as he could of the hatred he had carried for Wei Wuxian in the years since the Burial Mounds. It was something Wei Wuxian had wished for him as well, as he’d informed Jiang Cheng during a time spent trapped in a cave awaiting rescue together.

They both knew it wasn’t going to be easy, there was no magic fix-all. They had hurt each other deeply. But his family was everything to Jiang Cheng, and knowing he’d been naive and childish enough to be manipulated into betraying the man he had always thought of as his brother left a sour taste in his mouth and a cold ache in his chest.

How they were going to get there, however, he had no idea. Perhaps he could start with writing to Wei Wuxian; he thought he might find it more freeing than having to be honest with his words, which Jiang Cheng was under no illusions he’d be terrible at.

He would think the matter over carefully before he committed himself, however, it was a delicate situation and something that should be approached with forethought.

Several days after Nie Huaisang had left for Qinghe a small box was delivered to Lotus Pier. It was carved with the beast-head sigil of the Nie sect so he had no questions over who it was from.

Inside was a jade pendant carved in the shape of a nine-petalled lotus flower. The petal tips had all been limned a delicate shade of purple and beneath the pendant was a silver bell and a matching purple tassel. It was an exquisite piece meant to be worn on his belt. Something told him Nie Huaisang had been the one to make it himself and that same something itched vaguely in the heart he thought frozen solid from years of grief.

Still, it was a lot of time and effort to spend on a gift to a friend. He would have to be sure to write and thank him, perhaps send a gift back, although he was under no illusion he wasn’t an artist like Huaisang; any gift would have to be commissioned by him only and therefore perhaps wouldn’t come across as quite as sincere?

He was just drifting off to sleep that night when something clicked in his head; he shot upright in bed.

Wait, what had Nie Huaisang meant about sincere feelings from their times at Cloud Recesses? About allowing themselves to move forward and heal, and accepting that childhood wants that were still valid?

His pulse sped up.

Was he being courted?

The conversation JC refers to with WWX occured in my Day 13 prompt for reference but it’s not necessary to have read for the above

[seadeepywrites]

When the River Meets the Sea

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 3490 tw: death, violence/gore, body horror

1. Our Souls Will Leave This Land

Fathom isn’t afraid until the moment his Heal spell fails him. Like a sword parrying in a clash of steel, like a rubber ball rebounding off a stone wall, the magic that is supposed to close his wounds slips free of his grasp, reflecting back on him. As the sudden, breathless darkness of necrotic damage leaches his strength, Fathom feels it: a flicker of fear.

Fathom is occasionally anxious and frequently surprised, but true fear like this is vanishingly rare for him. He has faced vampires and corpse-stealing fiends from Hell and suture-scarred fleshy mutants that should never have existed in the first place. He has healed injuries, raised the dead, and climbed out of his own grave. He has walked between planes, traveled backwards through time, and spoken to gods.

Today, for the first time in his several lives and deaths, Fathom considers the idea that Melora’s blessing may not be enough to save him.

The illithid-lich shrieks without sound, and even aware of what’s coming, Fathom can’t stagger out of the way quickly enough. Its psychic scream blasts his mind free of his body, into some hazy place where the real-time consequences of combat don’t seem to matter. Fathom knows, on some level, that he is standing here in front of the illithid and its creations, flat-footed and slump-shouldered. But most of him is absent, drifting through a blurry infinity of vague concepts and disconnected thoughts. Not unlike being extremely high, actually.

Next to Fathom, the eye sockets of a dozen skulls light up with the same eerie green glow that pervades this lair. Their jawbones seem to widen and vibrate with silent laughter — or maybe that’s just Fathom’s vision swimming. Fathom isn’t present enough to be concerned as his soul begins to prise itself from his body, attempting to wriggle free of his flesh like a snake shucking its skin.

It is only the sigil inked across Fathom’s collarbones that prevents it, the Death Ward flaring in one final, desperate attempt to keep Fathom alive. Even when he himself isn’t fully aware of it. Even when blood slips slick over his upper lip and his neck, running like water from his nose and ears. Even when he sees — sees but cannot make himself react — sees the illithid floating down from its dais.

The illithid reaches out toward him with one hand, whispering in its breathy voice. Fathom can’t quite parse the words over the thunderous roar of his pulse crashing in his ears. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? The illithid’s slender tentacles reach out too, impossibly long and serpentine, and wrap themselves around Fathom’s head.

Melora, Fathom thinks. He would say it out loud, if he could. If he could shape his lips to breathe it out, he would want her name to be the last word he says. It is a prayer and it is a plea: Please. Help my friends where I’ve failed. Give them the power to defeat this evil where I cannot.

The only thing in the world that Fathom truly, deeply cares about — the only thing he will ever live and die for — is his goddess. He would go to his death gladly — placidly allow the illithid to drink his brain like so much beef stew — if he could know for sure that he hasn’t disappointed her. But he isn’t sure of that at all, so Fathom’s heart stutters and his blood freezes to ice as the illithid’s tentacles smother him, obscuring his vision.

Melora, he thinks again, with desperation and heartbreak and terror.

And then the pain begins.

**********

2. The Winds of Time

In the darkness, Fathom hears the sound of ocean waves. He knows the Material Plane and several others by now — the Astral Plane, the Feywild, Orthrys, the Plane of Time, and Pandemonium among them. This place is none of those. This is maybe not a place at all but a feeling, a moment between breathing in and breathing out. It holds him like the fuzzy apathy from the illithid's Mind Blast did, but a thousand times more transient, more ineffable.

Fathom is alone here — until he is not.

He learned a long time ago to see beyond the sight of his eyes, to sense beyond the flesh that covers his bones. It’s that ability now that tells him who surrounds him.

First is the clicking of goat hooves and an uncanny chuckle, a presence as mysterious and mercurial as a dream. The glint of sharp teeth smiling, and a shimmer like a heat mirage. Fathom recognizes the unpredictable, long-limbed, goat-eyed Archfey-in-the-form-of-a-man who scraped him off the rocks of the Feywild and brought him back to life the first time. The Entertainer. The Twilight Walker.

Second comes the rustling of midnight-black wings, which bring an endless field of stars in their wake. This void is hers, as is the longbow the halfling wields and every inch of Tanazil's new human body. Fathom has passed through her domain several times now, but only discovered recently that she was once a person like him. A friend of the party's, once, until she sunk into a slumber from which she would never wake. Umbra, the Raven Queen. Keeper of the boundary between life and death.

Fathom actually tastes the third presence in the back of his throat, the sweet and heady burn of alcohol mid-swallow. If he had a face right now, he'd smile, because it's a familiar sensation. It reminds him of the wild nights of carousing he's participated in over the years and, more rarely, the sheer bloody joy of splitting knuckles and breaking furniture in tavern brawls. There's an energy to this presence, careless and defiant. Appropriate for one of the youngest gods, whose reign over his twin domains of strength and luck is just beginning. Cayden, proprietor of the Drunken Sailor until his recent removal from the Material Plane.

Fourth is another brand-new god, one whom the party itself assisted in his ascension. With him comes the clicking of tiny gears and the whisper of sand through an hourglass that now only exists in memory. He is a god of brilliant ideas and science precise enough to navigate through the stained-glass labyrinth of the Plane of Time — and while Fathom respects him, he does not understand him in the slightest. Fathom will keep his own slow thoughts and poor reading comprehension, and leave the worship of this god to the more intellectual party members, like Curt. Fizzlewick, once a gnome artificer who spliced together various realities. Now so much more.

Fifth is the reason they are all here, an overpowering feminine force who is both beautiful and terrible. Like Umbra, her wings would engulf all if Fathom could see them, but he has already witnessed their burning white radiance. He’s got his suspicions about Trox's allegiance, because he's seen the bug man's shell light with the same bleached-bone color. Amidst the chaos, Fathom can hear the thrum of the threads of Fate as they dance between her fingers. If she has a name beyond the mistress of such things, he does not know of it.

Last and most beloved is the taste of salt and the scent of ozone, vast and untamed ever-changing. Fathom's loyalty to her is as boundless as the waters she rules over and as fierce as the violence of the tempest. She has been in every breath he takes since the day he was brought into the world, and he will follow and fight for her long after he leaves it. Melora, goddess of sea and the wilderness. Fathom has pledged himself to her before, and would do it a thousand times again.

There are other gods here too, ones Fathom has heard of from the many faithful he's met in his travels. But these are the ones Fathom knows, the ones Fathom has actually met personally and spoken to. They surround him with their awful, unspeakable power — if Fathom were still alive, this much divine energy in one place would undoubtedly blow him into tiny pieces or melt his eyes right out of his skull.

"Hi," Fathom says, or tries to. "What's up, guys?"

It is Fizzlewick who answers him, voice gleaming gold against the blackness that surrounds them. His words resonate in Fathom's mind, deafening and omnipresent in a way they never were in life. WE ARE WAITING, he says.

Fathom considers this. "Waiting for what?"

WAITING FOR A CHOICE, Fizzlewick says, and does not explain further.

"Aren't you the god of time?" Fathom asks, skeptical.

YES, Fizzlewick replies, and is it just Fathom's imagination, or does he sound a little bit cranky? THAT IS WHY I AM GIVING HIM THE TIME TO CONSIDER IT.

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

Several ideas connect suddenly in Fathom's head, in that lightning-flash and logic-less way he processes concepts:

Curt, invisibility spell broken, screaming himself hoarse in a way Fathom has only heard once before. Although that time he’s been a version of Curt from a future where the illithid had triumphed, and then after the screaming stopped he wasn't Curt at all.

The sound of a vial uncorking. The screaming suddenly cut short.

A gift that Curt was given weeks earlier, when the party visited Fate's domain, in faint disapproval but also in consolation. A promise that the gods had not given up on the young wizard entirely, not yet.

"Huh," Fathom says.

So he settles down to wait in the way he does best: aimless, serene, equivocal. Just vibing. The pain and terror that accompanied his death seem very far away, like faded colors or muted sounds.

At some point, the waiting ends. Was it half a second, or was it forever? It could have been either. Fizzlewick speaks again, and Fathom's soul rouses itself to respond.

HE CHOSE CORRECTLY, Fizzlewick says.

"Cool. So what happens now?"

NOW, Fizzlewick says, I SEND YOU BACK TO HELP MY CHAMPION.

That's new information, actually — that Fizzlewick now has a champion — but it doesn't take a genius to figure out who Fizzlewick's talking about. Which is good, because Fathom definitely isn't one.

The void, the gods, this in-between place — all begin to dissolve, in the same rhythmic way that waves erase footprints in the sand. Instead of divine presence, Fathom becomes aware of a ceaseless wind that carries the whispers of insanity along with it. As the sound of the wind — which somehow, mysteriously, continues to blow indoors and underground — increases, so does another sound: a rapid, clicking whir. Like the hands of a pocket-watch, spinning forward. Or backward. Or both.

Fathom can see again: golden light, bright enough to sear through his closed eyelids. More to the point, he's back in his body, in his deeply cursed plate armor, with his arm made of water and his silver trident at his fingertips.

He is alive, and he's pretty sure his brain is firmly inside his skull, which are both things he never thought he’d experience again.

Fathom's eyes flutter open to a scene that would look really strange if it wasn’t the one he'd been seeing just before his untimely death. Trox and Tanazil are hacking at the illithid, both wielding enormous axes and foaming with berserker's rage. The halfling's elk is there too, rearing up with its wickedly sharp front hooves to contribute to the damage. The giant translucent pods up on the dais seem to have increased in number, which is odd, but it is not the oddest thing here by far.

As Fathom clambers to his feet, he realizes he doesn't just feel alive — he feels great. Better than he ever has in his multiple lives, maybe. The glow that haloed him is already fading, but there is another god's power present here, crashing inside him like thunder and breaking surf. Fathom feels almost limitless. Renewed. Reinvigorated.

"Now that's more like it," he says with satisfaction.

He sends a fragmentary thought through the telepathy rings, just enough to tell the nameless halfling he is alive. Her joy radiates back at him, warm and wonderful.

Then Fathom hefts his shield and his trident, and prepares again to fight.

********** 

3. That Sweet And Final Hour

Melora takes him home. Or rather, Melora takes him back to the only place that has always been there for him, a place that has taken from and given to and blessed and cursed him. Melora takes him back to the place that has always been hers, and now is a little bit Fathom's too.

Melora clasps his hand and pulls him between planes with a lurching tug he has come to recognize, not unlike free fall or the sudden drop of a ship's deck below his feet. And then he is with his goddess on the cliffs of Cherat, in the very spot he once stood and whipped up a storm, looking out over the wind-roughened gray expanse of the sea.

Fathom turns to Melora, unashamed of the tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, breathing deeply. "It's good to be home."

"Yes," Melora says somberly, looking out across the water.

They stand there for a moment side by side, saying nothing because they have said all there is to say already. The world has been saved. The tapestry of Fate has been re-woven. Fathom's friends, the little dysfunctional adventuring party he has kept alive at all costs, have gone their separate ways. Fathom's journey is, in so many ways, all over.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it here," Fathom confesses, scratching idly at his darkness-beard. He shrugs. "But I figured I'd try anyway, you know?"

Melora shakes her head, smiling, her long hair rippling as it shifts against her bare shoulders. "I know," she says plainly. "I wasn't sure you would either."

"That makes three times I've died," Fathom muses. "Can't say I want to make it a habit. That last one really hurt."

Melora winces. "Fixing that was Fizzlewick's doing. I couldn't— There's only so much I could do, when—"

"I know," Fathom says quickly. He isn't sure if a goddess feels things like awkwardness or embarrassment, but that's certainly the image Melora projects when she stumbles over her words like this. It delights him, actually, the thought that he's spent enough time with her now to recognize the habit.

"I'm glad," Melora says, relaxing slightly. "That you survived. Or, well. That you're alive now."

Fathom tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sea breeze mist across his already-damp skin. "That makes two of us," he says. After a moment, he adds, "'Cause now that I've done the save-the-universe thing a couple times, I just want to chill for a bit. And I feel like hanging out on the Material Plane would be weird if I was dead."

"Weird, yes," Melora acknowledges with a nod. "Also sort of forbidden by Umbra and her followers."

"Ha. Wouldn't want Tanazil coming after me. That axe of his is pretty sharp. Though..." Fathom brushes his fingers against the hilt of his trident. "I kind of feel like I could take him."

"Hmm. Maybe." Melora's smile is amused, maybe a little indulgent.

"Curt seemed to think he'd be able to do it," Fathom continues. "But Curt has a pretty big head when it comes to his own powers." He pauses, voice softening. "He made the right choice, though. When it counted."

"That he did." 

Fathom shakes his head, sighing. "Imagine fighting the illithid and all that because it was the right thing to do. A moral compass, or whatever."

Melora makes a little noise of objection.

"What? I know damn well I'm not that selfless."

"And what do you call your help in the whole matter then?"

Fathom stares at her. Surely she is just teasing — surely she must know. "My lady," he says, frowning. "That was all for you."

Melora blinks, a slow sweep of her lashes, her eyes glistening gray-blue-green-black-gold. Then she smiles, reaches across to pat Fathom on the shoulder.

"My champion," she says fondly.

Fathom shuffles his feet and squints out at the water again. There is silence between them for several long minutes, though of course it is never really silent here. The waves hiss and crash, and above their heads gulls screech and circle. The sky is a boundless blue, darkening to slate where clouds encroach at its edges.

Fathom is like a grain of sand on this beach, a tiny part of something much larger. His soul sings with it, with the connection to the land and the sky and the sea. He is suddenly quite certain that if he wanted to, he could step into open air and soar. Could fly upward towards the bright, alluring heat of the sun until his lungs lost their breath. Then he'd tumble downward head over heels to meet the sea under sunlight, and it would welcome him into its salty and eternal embrace.

Melora has entrusted him with part of her domain, and Fathom thinks this is one of the few things he’ll be able to carry with him for the rest of his life. One of the sole responsibilities he'll shoulder and never ever grow tired of, never seek restlessly to move on and walk away. He's left so many people and places behind, but this — this he can keep.

"So," Melora says after some unknown amount of time has passed. "What's next? Mushrooms?"

Fathom tilts his head. "Do you mean going to visit Toad like we planned, or the kind that makes you hallucinate? 'Cause I'm down either way."

"Yes," says his goddess, and offers him her hand again.

**********

4. Epilogue: The Almighty Sea

Fathom Tidechaser lives his life.

He spends two weeks with Tanazil in silent retreat and contemplation, drinking in the richness of the ancient, mossy forest, perfectly at peace. But while it’s a haven of relaxation and redemption for Tanazil, Fathom can’t linger. He’s never been able to settle down, not even for a few months. The power Melora has blessed him with guides him onward like he’s a ship sailing toward the horizon, pointing into the bittersweet unknown.

The halfling and her fey patron are always able to find him no matter where he travels, and it becomes something of a game between them all: to play pranks on Fathom, to get their tricks past his uncanny awareness of his surroundings. He catches them as often as they succeed, and it’s always a joyful reunion. The once-nameless halfling introduces herself these days with the name the Entertainer has given her. It suits her.

Curt turns twenty, which is a surprise to everyone who thought he'd get himself killed long before that. Technically he has, several times, but Fathom figures that any debt Curt built up from Fathom's resurrections was definitely repaid when Curt asked Fizzlewick to revive him. So they are equals now. On an even footing. Fathom has zero interest in the school of magic Curt is establishing on the moon, but he can recognize the bright-eyed whip-smart type of adventurer who would thrive there. He frequently sends Curt new recruits, and along with them his best wishes, but visits rarely.

Fathom travels as he always has. Now, though, he can raise and quiet storms at his command. He can also fly without a spell, skimming over the surface of the ocean for miles until he finds a ship and scares the hell out of its crew by landing on the rigging like a gigantic shiny albatross. When he is addressed as a minor deity, he scoffs, but then he wonders: are the frightened sailors that far off the mark? 

Fathom dies — finally, permanently, for good — at a much younger age than most, but that's hardly surprising. He is powerful enough to face almost any creature on the Material Plane, and several more planes besides, but the one person he can't resurrect is himself. It isn’t a dramatic sacrifice, nor is it a gentle and peaceful passing. It is simply a death — ugly and brutal and fast.

He greets Umbra as a friend, only exchanging a few words with her. Because they both know where he’s going, of course. Melora is one of the few deities with no astral domain, choosing instead to wander the cosmos eternally. So this is less of an ending and more of a transformation — from one way of being to another, like a wave breaking and returning to the water. Fathom’s soul still travels, still soars over the sea, still stirs up storms in thunderous magnificence. 

Fathom Tidechaser dies, and serves his goddess long past his death, until his name is mentioned in the same breath as hers. Things change, as they always do. Fathom dies, but he lives on.

[badsithnocookie]

Defection (3/?)

Eirn knew better than to hope that this would be the end of Idair's objections to her presence - not least because of the this isn't over that the Jedi directed at Gnost-Dural as they were leaving. Whatever else Tau Idair was, though, she was utterly focused on her task, immediately turning to leave and barely waiting for Eirn to follow suit.

'Follow me, Sith. Keep up, and don't wander.' When Idair spoke, it was with the irritation of every exasperated commander assigned an underling they didn't want.

It made Eirn feel like a wayward acolyte, and her first impulse was to challenge it - to assert her strength, her right to be here, and it was an urge that took effort to suppress. Even here - especially here, trailing after a Jedi like a lost puppy.

Idair moved briskly and with purpose, and while Eirn wasn't certain of their purpose, she at least managed to keep pace. Brisk as the Jedi was, though, it still afforded Eirn the chance to glance over their surroundings more thoroughly than when she'd been trailing after Kyo. What she'd thought of as the communications hub seemed to actually be a converted farmyard. Amidst the chaos of alarms and patrols, labourers worked at rows of crops or tended to machinery. This wasn't a base of any kind, Eirn realised, but someone's farmyard, hastily half-converted after the Empire's attack.

Their first port of call was one of the outer buildings, guarded by an armed teenager who looked at Idair with admiration and Eirn with a sort of nervous curiosity, but at least had the sense to keep any comments to themselves. Inside of it, Eirn was less surprised than she might have been to see farming equipment alongside weapon racks, though she knew better than to think she had time to manage anything more than a cursory glance.

'So,' she began, though - trying to break that unpleasant silence with something at least halfway diplomatic, 'I-'

'Here,' Idair just interrupted, thrusting a satchel in Eirn's direction, 'Make yourself useful. Carry these. Don't drop them.'

Which made Eirn examine the satchel warily, of course - tug its fastenings open, and examine its contents, only to wish she hadn't.

'Explosives,' Eirn just managed, slightly stupidly. 'I thought you said there was a perimeter breach?'

Idair wasn't wasting any time - signed something off on a tech panel, before turning to leave, her Sith shadow in tow.

'Ossus is full of buried ruins,' Idair started, as they moved. 'The bugs like to use them to move undetected. We collapse a few tunnels, they have a harder time getting to our people, and the colonists get more time to evacuate.'

'You're evacuating?' Eirn repeated, not feeling any less stupid for it.

(It explained the chaotic energy of the place, though; the bustle of people, hurried and harried, weighed down with as much as they dared to carry. It wasn't the same terrified desperation as Adasta's, but it didn't need to be; there was still death in the air, and Eirn was still taking longer than she might have liked to catch up with it)

'Not my choice,' Idair snorted. 'But we don't have the people to put up the kind of fight the Empire's looking for.'

For a moment, Eirn wondered if that was another reason Idair was less than thrilled to see her; she'd been hoping for an army, and instead all she had was one Sith. One Sith who, at that, had left the Empire specifically to get away from the wars her people kept picking.

'...Which is why Kyo was requesting aid from the Republic,' Eirn realised - half thinking to herself, as she spoke.

'Master Kyo was petitioning the Republic for aid, yes,' Idair replied, sharply. 'And until they get here,' she added, not missing a beat, 'I'm going to keep assuming they won't. Which means buying as much time as I can to get the civilians out of here.'

Which felt unpleasantly familiar, though that was a feeling Eirn decided not to dwell on. Besides which, there were more pressing matters, like the speeders Idair was marching towards. They were parked slightly haphazardly, scuffed and well-worn and likely hadn't seen a professional mechanic in years.

('Take the rear seat,' Idair began, not waiting for any input from the Sith, 'And hold on.' Which did not inspire confidence, and Eirn wondered for a long moment if it was too late to request she return to SIS custody)

-

When Idair finally set the speeder down, it was out at what Eirn had to assume was the furthest reaches of the colony - near the perimeter alarms the Geonosians had tripped. It kept occurring to her that, out here, nobody would ask too many questions if an accident happened - if Ossus's unwelcome ally fell to an untimely demise, and there would be no proof she hadn't brought it on herself. The brusque, impersonal distrust that Idair kept leaking wasn't helping, either; she didn't have the laser-focused hatred of the former Battlemaster, but Eirn wasn't optimistic enough about Jedi to hope this meant Idair wouldn't murder her, given provocation.

Which is why you need to stay on her good side. Or, at the very least, not on her bad one.

Being out on the edges of the colony, past the Republic-issue sentry guns and Jedi banners, didn't do anything to stop that nagging, almost-nostalgic familiarity that Ossus came with. Eirn knew that there was not a single person on this world - Jedi or Sith - who would appreciate the comparison, but it kept making itself, all the same. Craggy, reddish-orange deserts, dotted with the ruins of what had clearly once been a bustling urban centre, all under a wide blue sky. Bluer than Korriban's sky, yes - or at least, the Korriban that Eirn remembered - but that just made the contrast sharper, like an artist's rendition of the Sith homeworld.

(No, she realised, not- Korriban itself, but- the Korriban of her parents' romantic stories. The unexplored ruins and untamed deserts that had resisted all Republic comers on behalf of their children, driven into exile. It was a purely romantic notion, of course; Korriban cared no more for the Sith than it did for any other living creature, but Eirn was nothing if not a born romantic)

-

It wasn't long before they stumbled across the Geonosians.

Eirn had never seen one in person before, though she knew vaguely that they were aliens - insectile, and looked on poorly by the Empire, though that hardly set them apart from other non-humans - or non-Sith. These ones certainly lived up to all the ideas she had in her head about insectoid ugliness - thick, spiked carapaces over segmented bodies, and sharp, drooling mandibles that clicked and chittered in the Ossan sunlight. (Iridescent wings that sparkled in that sunlight, refracting tiny rainbows onto everything around them as they twitched and buzzed)

Idair, of course, did not hesitate - threw herself into battle with a wild abandon that would do any Sith proud, focusing her imposing presence on the enemy, carving through them with the ease that determination and a lightsaber allowed. Eirn, on the other hand, did no such thing, not least because she didn't fancy leaping headfirst into danger while clutching the satchel of explosives. That made her a target, though, and she ended up with her lightsaber drawn anyway - deflecting what shots she could, and attempting to dodge those she couldn't.

The encounter was violent, but brief; modified or no, the Geonosian's carapaces were no match for a lightsaber, and Idair was apparently not in the habit of dragging fights out. Which was fine by Eirn, for the most part, though it meant the moment that when Idair glanced back to her came far sooner than it might have with other Jedi.

'Didn't realise you had a lightsaber.' Idair hadn't extinguished hers, either; wasn't holding it offensively, but was keeping it ready, all the same.

'It's a little hard to be Sith without one,' Eirn just replied, defensively. Probably the wrong thing to say; both because of its tone, and the reminder that she was Sith. The reason, at that, she kept hers lit, in turn; not held defensively, not yet, but kept ready, all the same.

Idair took a moment to process that - glancing up and down over Eirn again, reassessing her. 'I see,' the Jedi replied, eventually - not easing up on Eirn in the slightest.

It went against every one of her instincts, but Eirn made herself extinguish her lightsaber - not least because of the way that keeping it out would have just made her task harder. It was a gesture, she hoped, that Idair would take as some sign of deference - and one that she wouldn't regret, at that.

'Over here,' Idair added, apparently letting the issue go, for now. 'You can see the tunnels they were using,' she added, gesturing with her own lightsaber. 'Couple of grenades should do the trick. Bring down enough rubble to block them, and we can move on.'

Which Eirn could do; which Eirn did, tossing the grenades one at a time, acutely aware of the way Idair watched her every movement. The part of her that was Sith kept insisting that the Jedi was simply watching her for weakness - that Eirn was being assessed, and not simply found wanting - that was a given, after all - but having those weaknesses mapped out, a plan of attack formed, a contingency prepared. It was difficult not to bristle defensively, as though such a thing wouldn't just have aggravated the Jedi, and no matter how she tried to push the feeling down, Eirn could feel the ridges on her neck and spine trying to stand on end, beneath her armour.

Breathe, Illte.

-

The next encounters with the bugs went similarly, Idair taking them apart with a practiced ease that spoke to her experience in dealing with the menace, while Eirn tried very hard not to let the bugs take them both out with a stray shot to the explosives. A part of her worried that Idair might resent it that Eirn was being less aggressive than she was - certainly, the Jedi wasn't above glancing at her sharply when she thought Eirn wouldn't see her, but if Idair had criticisms on that point, she kept them to herself. Indeed, when Idair finally did make conversation, during a particularly long stretch between fights, Eirn rapidly found herself wishing that they could go back to unpleasant silence.

'So tell me something.' It was a statement, not a question; an order, or as close as it seemed Idair would get to giving one. For now, at any rate.

Eirn struggled to repress the urge to sigh to herself; managed it, barely, though it was a contest she knew she'd lose eventually. Here we go.

'How exactly,' Idair added, not waiting for Eirn to respond, 'Does a Sith end up with the Republic? Never mind- here?'

A question for the ages, and one that Eirn hadn't satisfactorily answered for herself. Not for lack of trying, but her ego demanded one that didn't boil down to 'selfish cowardice', and was yet to supply any ideas as to how she might do that.

'That,' Eirn replied, though - sighing, finally, 'Is a long, classified, story.'

At least, the Empire probably considered it classified, and Eirn doubted the Republic felt much differently. Nobody would want to admit that the former Empire's Wrath was a heretic and a traitor - and a coward, attempting desperately to curry favour with Jedi in order to avoid her rightful fate.

'Right.' Idair did not sound convinced; in truth, Eirn didn't blame her. It wasn't an answer that sounded like anything but an excuse to avoid answering, and of the most obvious and cowardly kind.

'Your Warden and I,' Eirn added, 'Have known each other for… a long time.' Which was true, even if they hadn't exactly had common goals, in the beginning. 'She approached me, because she thought I might be able to help.'

Also true, at least if Kyo could be taken at her word. Everything else, Eirn was happy to leave ambiguous - to let Idair fill in the blanks, to fail to correct the Jedi on whatever assumptions she made. Idair did not seem like the kind of Jedi to make positive ones about Sith, but there was always a first time.

'I see,' Idair just replied, still not sounding either convinced or satisfied with the answer. It was all she was going to get, though; Eirn was not in the habit of volunteering her life story, and especially not to Jedi.

'If you don't believe me,' Eirn added, bravado demanding she at least make this addendum, 'You can ask her yourself when we get back.'

Which got her an amused snort from Idair, as though this were the punchline to some joke Eirn was not privy to. 'Trust me,' Idair replied, 'I intend to.'

Which said nothing positive about Idair's impression of Eirn, and the Sith couldn't help but bristle a little at it. It was an unsurprising attitude, given the circumstances, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

'But I wanted to hear it from you, first,' Idair added - giving Eirn another sharp look.

'Yeah, well,' Eirn replied - scowling defensively, even as she tried not to, 'You have.' Which as comebacks went was as childish as they got, and Eirn regretted every syllable of it.

-

'Alright. Last stop.' Idair sounded only marginally happier about their arrival at the final alarm site than Eirn felt, and Eirn suspected it had as much to do with the company as the enemy.

The alarm that had been tripped was visible, here, its mechanism half ripped out of the ground, half still buried in the sandy soil that made up the ground around here. It had been positioned in front of what looked less like a tunnel and more like a cave - a route that the Jedi had monitored, but not thought to close up until now. Or not been able to; if they hadn't been expecting organised assaults, it might be less of a spectacular tactical failure, though Eirn wasn't sure how charitable she was feeling about the Jedi's management of this place.

'The entrance here is bigger,' Idair added - unnecessarily, and Eirn wasn't sure which one of them she was saying this for. 'But there should be smaller tunnels further in. If we can collapse those, that should do it.'

Idair had already taken point, heading inside with a kind of brisk confidence that spoke more of wanting this over than anything else. It was a sentiment that Eirn could understand, and even shared, but that didn't mean she was any more eager to venture into a dark cave they already knew had played host to mutant bugs.

'Jedi,' Eirn murmured, as they walked - stuck for how else she should address Idair, and only certain that now was quite possibly the worst time to ask about it, 'Wait. Can you-'

Idair had paused at her words - seemed about to turn on Eirn when she paused, having sensed- if not exactly what Eirn had, then certainly enough to make her stop. After a moment, though, she just gestured for silence - before continuing down the tunnel, more cautiously than before.

What had caught Eirn's concern - what Eirn hoped Idair had picked up on - was the- presence up ahead, the formless, chaotic hostility that all of the mutated Geonosians had possessed. This, though, was different - was concentrated, as if to a knife point; as if it were poison, brewed in its most virulent form. It promised nothing good, especially when the floor of the tunnel dropped away, opening up to a larger cavern that was lit only by what ambient light made it in this far.

There were outcroppings of rock that offered cover from below, which was just as well - because it was already occupied, by quite possibly the biggest of the mutant Geonosians that Eirn had seen so far. It was mutated horribly, sagging a little under its own weight but no less insectile for its increased size. Eirn had no idea what Malora had hoped to gain by creating these monstrosities, and rather hoped she didn't have to find out.

'Holy mother of-,' Idair whispered, half to herself - some oath or another, cut short in wonder at the spectacle ahead of them. 'That's- a lot of bug.'

At least there only seemed to be the one of them, for now; Eirn didn't like the idea that thought prompted that there might be others of this size, hidden away for the right moment. (Or worse, perhaps, and not for the first time, she remembered other projects, made by other Sith, that she'd had the dubious honour of having to dispose of)

'I'll get its attention,' Eirn started, quietly - setting the explosives satchel down out of sight, for the moment. In a fight, it would only be a liability, and something this big was going to require them both. 'You… hit it while it's distracted.'

Which sounded an awful lot like she was issuing orders, and for a moment, Eirn had forgotten this wasn't her mission - that Idair was in charge, supposedly.

Idair shot her a sharp look for it, too - before considering the idea, and nodding sharply. 'Alright,' she began - apprehensively, as if she didn't trust the Sith not to turn against her, an idea that Eirn couldn't help but be insulted by.

(Because that's the only thing she has to be concerned about. Your ego is as inflated as it is unjustified, Illte.)

'Whenever you're ready,' Idair added - straightening her posture, after a moment, before focusing entirely on the Geonosian.

Right. Giant bugs. You've killed plenty of giant bugs before, Illte. Just be glad this one isn't infused with the Force.

Which wasn't a reassuring thought, and Eirn ended up having to push it firmly to one side. She stood, slowly - made herself stand, making herself a target, but- well, that was the whole idea, wasn't it?

'Hey! Ugly! Up here!' Eirn didn't just shout, either - but projected her voice, pulling on the Force and using it to grab the mutated insect's attention in a way that merely shouting would not have managed.

The insect, in return- roared, or something like it, spewing spittle from its mandibles before hocking something more deliberately in Eirn's direction. Eirn reached out to shield herself, instinctively - projecting a fragment of a shield, just enough to protect herself from the mucus that splattered against the invisible barrier, before dripping unceremoniously to the floor. It was disgusting, but it didn't hiss or spit, which was more than Eirn had been hoping for.

Her attention was all on the giant bug, though - it had to be, as the creature's attention was all on her, in turn. For a moment, it tried to fly - to buzz its wings uselessly, as though they could lift its oversized body off the ground the way its smaller ancestors could. It barely managed to clear the ground, flailing hopelessly for a moment, its legs splaying wildly as it failed to balance and it came crashing back down. None of this was a problem for Eirn - but it was for Idair, who'd looped around and tried to get to the creatures exposed rear.

Idair moved in time, barely - dodged the creature's legs, swiping at them with her lightsaber, expecting that this one would be as vulnerable to it as the smaller ones outside had been. To her surprise, though - and to Eirn's, as well - the creature's chitin resisted her blade, hissing and scoring but failing entirely to break. All it did was irritate the insect, which turned on Idair, swiping angrily with one of its front claws. Idair had her lightsaber up to block the blow before the creature even made it, and it glanced off harmlessly, but that did nothing to deter the mutant bug, and it lunged again for the Jedi, chittering and squealing all the way.

'I'm over here,' Eirn snarled, an attempt to divert the creature's attention back to herself, (the Force tearing at her throat with every word, the pain it caused looping back into the power it generated, self-sustaining at the cost of the Sith who used it the only way she knew how), 'Stupid.'

(the pain was why she used it sparingly; why she shouted, why her words were short and few, was the price she paid for these screams, every time. If there was some other way, she'd never found it; was reduced to her fourteen-year-old self, every time, scared and angry and unable to do anything but lash out at the monster in front of her)

It got the bug's attention, too - the creature whirling back around, not pausing for a moment - letting the momentum carry it as it struck at Eirn, its claws blunt enough that they just bounced off her armour even as they did it no real harm. The blow caught Eirn in the chest, though - hard enough to wind her, hard enough to knock her not just down but through the air, bouncing onto the floor hard enough to force out whatever breath she still had in her. For a moment, the world reeled and sagged, Eirn gasping uselessly for air as she struggled through the pain and shock to pull herself together. She managed it, though - staggered to her feet, forcing air back into her lungs and focus into her mind, grabbing her pain and using it to prop herself upright, if only for a moment.

The mutated Geonosian, though, had lost interest in her - had turned fully on Idair, swiping at the Jedi and succeeding only in catching its claws on her lightsaber again. Its shell resisted the plasma blades, all the same - a result, Eirn could only assume, of Malora's unholy tinkering, and all she could think of for a long moment was the creatures that Tagriss had stitched together in that rotten temple on Ilum.

Eirn tried to breathe in - tried to pull enough breath to shout and just ended up hissing in pain. Pain, though - she could use pain, draw power from it, the only way she knew how. Idair had the creature's attention again, but that just meant its rear was turned to Eirn - the delicate, oversized wings, the powerful arteries that supplied them, the cracks in the creature's unnaturally enhanced armour that gave way to soft, lightsaber-vulnerable flesh. Eirn seized the opportunity and launched herself at the Geonosian's exposed back, aiming to land herself somewhere on the creature's shoulders and missing when one of its oversized wings struck her mid jump, sending her tumbling to one side. She grabbed at the first thing that came to hand, and got a fistful of crushed wing for her trouble - apparently they were fragile enough to crumple under her grasp, even if they could still throw her off if they caught her by surprise.

The bug apparently felt that, too - screeched in pain, reeling backwards in an attempt to shake off its unwanted passenger. Eirn dangled awkwardly for a moment, trying to grapple for a better hold when the wing tore, pulled free by the weight of the Sith hanging from it. That got her another screech of pain from the creature, this one louder, and it spun back to face Eirn, swiping blindly at her in a mixture of pain and rage. Eirn dodged, barely - threw the severed wing at the creature as though it could serve as anything other than momentary distraction. That moment was all she needed, though, to respond with a blow of her own, this one from her lightsaber - enough to hold the insect's attention by itself, with or without the Force.

Idair took the opportunity with gusto, slicing first at the insect's remaining wings with her lightsaber, before leaping up for herself - not the same way Eirn had, but to plunge her lightsaber into the torn, ragged wound that losing its wing had left behind. The creature squealed and screamed again as Idair's lightsaber found its mark, buried in insectile flesh that could not resist it as its chitin could, before it finally began to collapse under its own weight and injuries. Idair extinguished her lightsaber to remove it, letting the creature drop away from underneath her as it slumped forward; Eirn dodged out of the way as best she could, careful as much to avoid being crushed as anything else.

Idair had already relit her saber, though, and wasted no time in jumping onto the half-vanquished insect's carapace, finding some spot near the head where that armour cracked, and drove her saber in - not satisfied until the bug's head was severed, the danger passed, and the last of its death rattles were over.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything; both Jedi and Sith let their wounds catch up with them, wallowed in whatever passed for victory around here before attempting to move on. Idair was the first to move; the first to nudge the insect's corpse with her boot, cautiously watching for some kind of a reaction, and not seeming all that reassured when none came. The Force still hummed through it, of course; even if the creature itself was dead, all things carried bugs and parasites which had their own life, their own power.

'Have there been,' Eirn started, after that moment had passed - after her breath had steadied, 'Many like that?'

'Not this size,' Idair replied, her focus still on the mutated insect. 'Either we got lucky, or Malora's getting desperate.'

Lucky was not the word Eirn would have used, but she let it go; the idea that any Sith was getting desperate was a bad one, but a Sith this deep in alchemical studies would have worse things up their sleeves than giant mutant bugs.

'Besides,' Idair added, 'We still have a job to do here,' she finished, looking to Eirn, finally.

That, at least, Eirn could not argue with.

-

Bringing the tunnel entrance down, after that, felt almost like an afterthought, and Eirn wasn't sorry when Idair declared the task complete. For now, at any rate; Eirn could only assume that there would be further perimeter breaches between now and whenever this world released its grip on her, and that each one would have insects just as ugly and deadly. To say nothing else of whatever else the Empire had brought to Ossus.

What have you let yourself in for, Illte.

[danfanciesphil]

I am *loving* your prompts!! I love the way you capture the boys, Ellen. :) I'd love to see something where they're out of their element (being forced to drive, or camping, or a blackout, or outside of the city, etc) Hope you're having a fabulous Parisian day, lovely!!! :)

Thank you sweetheart! I am enjoying all the practise enormously! Just sorry it’s taking so long. 

Ok so your prompt is a little broad, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve run away with it a bit! Hopefully this is along the lines of what you were looking for. Much love, angel! xxx

Got a prompt for me? Click here! (Please be aware that due to an abundance of prompts, your prompt may take a few days to complete - but thank you all for submitting so far!)

Dan and Phil are indoor people. 

It’s something they really, really appreciate about one another. A basis for their friendship, in a way. And then, later, their relationship. 

Their perfect weekend would probably consist of very similar things - video games, Deliveroo, pyjamas, Netflix, and staying up laughing about stupid memes or playing board games until the wee hours. 

This is how most of their weekends are spent, in fact. 

However, occasionally they are forced outside of their comfort zone. They don’t budge easily, as they are very happy in their socially reclusive, hermit-crab ways, much to their friends’ chagrin. 

Usually, when they have to spend their weekends elsewhere, it’s unavoidable. 

Like this weekend, for example. Caspar Lee is having a birthday. Well, he has one every year, so it’s not exactly unusual. This year however, he’s decided to organise a camping trip. 

In other words, he’s decided to single-handedly create Dan and Phil’s worst nightmare, and invite them to it via a Facebook event. 

When Dan had first seen it, he’d snorted with laughter, showing Phil. Phil also rolled his eyes, amused at the idea of accepting an invitation so hideous to them both, and Dan had moved on with his life. 

He figured he’d whip up some excuse later - feign a fictional conference or event of some sort - and tell Caspar that, regrettably, he and Phil would have to pass. Instead, Dan just forgot about the whole thing, and then it was two days before Caspar’s birthday, and Dan received a text. 

From: CasparTo: Dan13:24pmHey Dan! We’re leavingat 5 on Friday. Are u andPhil driving up? x

From: DanTo: Caspar13:26pmWhat? Driving where? x

From: CasparTo: Dan13:28pmLake District lol Didn’t u read the event? 

Dan’s blood runs cold, and all of a sudden he remembers everything. He jumps up from the sofa, sprinting towards Phil’s room in a sudden panic. 

Phil is sat on his bed eating crisps and scrolling through his laptop; at Dan’s entrance, he looks up, frowning in confusion. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Fuck, Phil we forgot about Caspar’s thing.”

Phil looks confused for a moment, then his eyes grow round and wide. “What?! The camping thing? I thought you said no to that!” 

“I thought I did too!” Dan cries in despair. “I must’ve forgotten.” 

*

That’s how, two and a half days later, Dan finds himself in the passenger seat of a rented Land Rover, watching warily as Phil navigates the rural countryside of Northern England, despite the fact Dan knows for certain that he hasn’t driven a car in years. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Dan asks for the fifth time. 

Phil side-eyes him crossly. “I know you’re a paranoid person, but you’re supposed to have total trust in me, remember?” 

“I do, I do.” Dan lies, turning to look out of his window, trying to find something to distract himself amongst the flat, endless bracken stretching out to meet the greying sky. “How fucking far away is this place, anyway?”

Phil sighs, glancing at the Sat Nav on the dashboard. “It says we’ve got another hour at least.” 

“Ugh,” Dan grunts, lifting his feet up onto the dashboard. 

Phil looks at them in silent disapproval, no doubt thinking about the fact that this car needs to be returned in pristine condition if they want their deposit back. 

“Maybe it’ll be fun,” Phil suggests, shrugging. 

The atmosphere has been pretty tense between them ever since they found out they’d have to go through with this debacle. Camping, in the wilderness, with five other boys. Louise had initially said she’d come along, but has since pulled out due to ‘childcare issues’. 

Dan hates her a little bit for having such a good ‘last minute’ excuse. If he and Phil had a baby, they could’ve weaselled out of this thing too. Dan pauses at this peculiar thought, wondering where on earth it came from. 

If he and Phil were ever planning on adopting a child - which they have absolutely no current plans to do - they probably need to have a better reason than ‘using it as an excuse to get out of socialising’. 

“It’s gonna be so... laddy.” Dan complains, pouting. He fiddles with the knob of the radio, which is only receiving static, as they’re in the middle of effing nowhere. 

“We have alcohol,” Phil reminds him. “That might make it a bit better.” 

Dan nods vaguely, sighing. He has no right to be complaining, he knows, because it’s all his fault they’ve ended up having to do this. He’s the one that forgot to reply to Caspar’s invite. For some reason, Caspar didn’t invite Phil on the event, but neither of them thought much of that. It’s more or less assumed amongst any of their friends that if you invite one of them, you’re gonna get the other too. 

“I hope so.” Dan says, shifting into a position where he thinks he might be able to nap for a while. “If not we can just make out or whatever.” 

Phil chuckles, and it’s the last thing Dan hears for a bit. 

*

Perhaps the most surprising thing about this experience is that Phil seems to adapt to it with an ease that Dan literally could not have foreseen. They’d gone on a mega shop before they left London, packing the boot of their hire truck with a brand new tent, specially designed outdoor cooking utensils, sleeping bags, groundsheets, kindling for the fire... you name it, they bought it. 

Of course, Dan’s main concern was that he and Phil would flail about for hours trying to set up their stuff whilst Joe, Caspar, Josh and the others would whip out those protein enriched muscles and have their tents erected in two seconds flat. 

On the contrary, Phil launches himself into the task, and quite honestly blows the others out of the water with his prowess. 

He and Dan pull up to the spot Caspar had chosen just after the others, and hop out of the car to greet them all. Then, as the others begin unloading, Phil strolls around to the back of the truck, slinging the - heavy, bulky, complicated-looking - tent onto his back, and waltzes over to a spot near where Caspar has begun setting up. He looks over at Dan, stares at him, marvelling really, and calls: “Is here okay?”

Dan nods wordlessly, and Phil gets to work at once. He hammers the pegs, he threads the rods through the frame. He lays the groundsheet and carts the bundles of sleeping stuff through the front entrance. 

Dan just watches him, mouth agape. It’s strange that, despite the length of time he’s known Phil, intimately, the man still utterly astonishes him. 

“Voila!” Phil says after what can only have been fifteen minutes of work. He stands back from the tent, proud, and for good reason. “She’s ready.” 

Before Dan can speak, Joe and Caspar sling their arms around his shoulder, grinning at him. 

“Always pick a man who knows how to use his hands, eh Dan?” Caspar asks, jostling his shoulders. 

“I wonder who wears the trousers in this relationship...” Joe adds on, winking before wandering off towards his half-erected tent. 

Phil walks over to Dan then, smiling nervously. “Is it okay? I can make it a little straighter if you want.”

He’s taken his outer shirt off, and his arms are slightly dewy from the exertion of all the physical activity. His hair is ruffled by the cold, Yorkshire wind, and he’s breathing heavily. In other words, he looks kind of like sex on legs.

Dan stutters on his own breath for a moment before replying. 

“N-no, it’s- I really- you did a good j-job.” He gets out eventually, and Phil beams, clearly pleased. 

Phil pulls Dan towards him, right into his chest, and Dan just sort of melts there, his eyes falling closed as Phil’s thick, bare arms wrap themselves around him. 

He feels Phil press a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re teeth are chattering. Are you cold?” 

Dan hasn’t the heart to tell Phil that he’s just stuttering because he’s overwhelmed by Phil’s Heathcliff-esque ruggedness in the setting of this wild moorland landscape. Instead, he just nods silently, and Phil tells him he’s going to go and find Dan’s jumper in the car. 

*

By the second night, Dan has more or less surrendered himself to the wilderness. At first, having no showers, toilets, or other amenities was a difficult adjustment, but despite being a bit of a princess nowadays, Dan has in fact camped quite a bit in the past. Okay, so maybe camping at Reading Festival isn’t quite the same thing, but it’s still a tent, and sleeping outdoors, and slowly descending into a savage over time. 

They’ve hiked (not Dan’s choice of activity, duh) all day around the beautiful, raw and untamed land of the Lake District. They’ve even climbed a (smallish) mountain, atop which they’d stopped to guzzle the picnic they’d brought along. 

Normally, Dan would’ve hated it, and it certainly wasn’t what he’d call fun, but the views were immense and breathtaking, and there’s something about being here, amongst the undisturbed wilderness, that leaves one with a primitive sense of belonging to something bigger than oneself. 

He tries to explain this to the others, and they all laugh, of course. But it doesn’t matter. Phil squeezes his hand in acknowledgement, showing that he understands, even if it’s only a bit. 

They get back to the camp and crack open the beers, huddling around a campfire in their bedraggled states. None of them look their best in their rain macs, thick woollen jumpers and muddy walking boots, but it doesn’t matter. Nobody is filming them now. They snap a single photo for Caspar’s Instagram, then tuck their phones away. They’re no use out here, anyway. 

Dan is squeezed into one of the camping chairs they’ve brought along, on Phil’s lap. He’s tipsy and his face is pink and warm from the wind burn and the heat of the roaring fire they’ve created. He’s full of soup and hot dogs and marshmallows - camping food - and he’s surprised to find that he’s happy.

Phil’s arms are wrapped around his middle. It feels so safe, here, with him, despite the fact they’re a hundred miles or more from London, in a place they’ve never set foot before now. 

Silly games are played, drunken stories are exchanged, which leads to secrets being told, and a solemn pact that nothing will leave this spot. And then, it’s time for bed. 

Last night, Dan and Phil had slept restlessly, too cold to lift their arms from their sleeping bags let alone cuddle. Dan looks into Phil’s eyes as they extricate themselves from the chair, and he can tell, at once, that the same won’t be said for tonight. 

They stumble through the tent flap, giggling drunkenly, and fall onto one of the sleeping bags - Dan doesn’t remember whose is whose at this point. 

Phil is immediately attacking him with kisses, which makes Dan laugh harder, and he rolls them until Phil’s on top of him, though it’s hard to see what’s happening in the dark. 

They struggle with layers of clothing, pulling and prising at various fabrics in the pitch black, laughing uproariously at the whole affair because it seems so difficult they might as well give up the attempt. 

They don’t, though, and somehow they get there, naked and shuddering as they make love in the narrow confines of their two man tent, the sound of the furious wind whipping against the canvas outside. 

When it’s over, they crawl into one sleeping bag with some difficulty, the heat radiating off their naked bodies at once suffocating and not enough. Dan listens to the steady, fast pace of Phil’s breathing, and traces his lips with one hand. 

“Can’t believe you just Brokeback Mountain’d me,” Dan says, teasing, and Phil laughs.

“Couldn’t help myself.” He confesses, yawning. “Please don’t get murdered with a tyre iron.” 

Dan chuckles. “Fine. If you insist.”

“Home tomorrow.” Phil mutters, sounding sleepy. 

Dan snuggles towards him, more than happy to close his eyes as well after the copious amount of exercise he’s done today. 

“Hm,” Dan agrees. “Maybe you were right, though.”

Phil’s hand is at the base of his skull, his fingers trailing through the short, bristly hairs there. “Hm?” 

“Maybe camping isn’t so bad...” Dan says, feeling awkward about the confession. “Y’know,” he pauses, swallowing his embarrassment as best he can manage. “As long as I’m with you.” 

[satonthelotuspier]

🐰 Untamed Spring Fest 2020 🐰

Day 22 & 23 - Fragrance & Earth

Another double prompt, but they’re all working well together and it’s the only way I’m keeping up!

We all know what happened after Jiang Cheng was taken prisoner by the Wens. But Wei Wuxian sacrificed his golden core for his brother, and that made everything alright. Didn’t it?

This is a pre-fic for a post canon idea I intend to get to (eventuallyTM).

CW for possible triggers: Body Dismophic Disorder, Blood, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Past Torture, Injury

A Golden Core Makes Everything Alright

Jiang Cheng returned to awareness with a violent start. This place smelled of fresh turned, damp earth, and incense, the fragrances of death; of burial and of funerary rites.

It had taken a while, but death had finally caught up with him, then. A shame. As much as he had wished for it after the Wens had captured and tortured him, destroyed his future and his cultivation; he no longer desired it. He had wanted to live, to protect his sister, his brother, and rebuild their sect.

Still, fate was final, and it couldn’t be avoided.

“Jiang-zongzhu” the voice seemed to come from a distance away at first speaking, but as it sounded again it was closer, more clear.

“Jiang Wanyin” finally, at the third attempt, the voice sounded with crystal clarity from nearby, and he forced his eyes open.

His confused, dark gaze met the amber one of Lan Xichen, the First Jade of Lan, and Sect Leader of the Gusu Lan cultivational sect.

Those eyes curved slightly in a relieved smile as Lan Xichen noted his were open and aware.

He wasn’t dead, then?

He glanced around, they were in a tent, probably close to the battlefield, and he was laid out on blankets spread on the ground. The rain from earlier had ensured the battleground was thoroughly churned beneath thousands of feet, and accounted for the strong smell of earth in the air. The smell of incense was from the burner Lan Xichen had placed near his head, no doubt to promote calmness of mind. It smelled of sandalwood, and was a scent he strongly associated with Lan Xichen and his brother, Lan Wangji.

Although whether the other would smell of anything so pleasant at the moment Jiang Cheng wasn’t so convinced; his white robes were covered in blood and gore, and, although he had washed his hands and face clean, he looked exhausted.

This war was taking it’s toll on them all. Undertaking battle on the Jianglian front was gruelling, but Lan Xichen travelled extensively from front to front, assisting where he felt he would be of best use; a symbol of hope in these troubled times.

The strain had begun to show on his face, however; Jiang Cheng remembered the older man as a pleasant, cheerful boy from his time spent at the Cloud Recesses. There was a heavy gravitas to his jade-like features now. Like them all, too young to bear the burdens he was forced to.

He wondered if his own face, always more mercurial than the First Jade of Lan’s, showed similar traces of the weight of responsibility he found himself under.

He had been distracted by the direction of his thoughts, but as they drifted back to the present he had to wonder why he was laid out in the tent of the Lan Sect Leader.

The last thing he remembered was being separated from Wei Wuxian as the tide of battle dragged them apart; the enemy had kept on coming and they fought on and on, wave after wave, until he had thought the blood and tightly focussed rage would drown him as he lashed out with Sandu and Zidian, as destructive and deadly in his own way as Wei Wuxian was in his. He hadn’t tired, he hadn’t weakened; in fact he had felt energised the longer the fight had continued, until he had almost felt like a god, until he thought he might be invincible...until he realised he was losing control of his cultivation.

He had become the equivalent of a living bomb in the middle of the battlefield. The only option he had had was to fight into the middle of the enemy, and away from as many of his allies as he possibly could before he had exploded.

For the second time in his life he had expected death.

He couldn’t remember anything definite from that point; how he had survived the battle; who had brought him away, or how he had ended up in the tent of Lan Xichen. Unless it had been that man who had carried him from the battlefield.

“May I call the physicians, Jiang-zongzhu? I believe you are wounded; I was just about to do so when you started to regain consciousness” Lan Xichen’s tired, yet soothing, voice broke him from his thoughts.

Jiang Cheng’s eyes widened in panic, and he lifted a hand, still covered in blood, to the front of his chest. He was still fully clothed in his robes, and the shameful secret of his weakness in the form of a discipline whip scar was still hidden from view. So too the small, still-pink scar beneath his navel which had appeared after his journey up the celestial mountain to Wei Wuxian’s mother’s Shifu, Baoshan Sanren.

He sat up tentatively, his entire body felt bruised and aching, and there were some sharper, stinging pains that indicated he might have new wounds to deal with. And the now ever-present feeling of something alien sat like a weight behind his lower dantian. The golden core that throbbed and ached constantly, vague but relentless.

“I should find the Jiang sect physician, I’ve taken enough of your time up, Lan-zongzhu” he was about to get to his feet, but a gentle, but firm hand touched his arm.

“Please rest, Jiang-zongzhu, if it must be the Jiang sect physician, then I’ll have them sent for” he disappeared briefly to make his request, then returned to the tent.

He stood just inside the tent flaps, and looked at Jiang Cheng like he wanted to say something but wasn’t entirely sure whether he should, and Jiang Cheng was in no mood for him to dither on it.

“You wish to ask me something?” he prompted, as he began poking and prodding at the various slash marks in his robes, testing to see whether they went deeper and reflected cuts on his body. If he knew where to direct the physician he might yet be able to keep his scars to himself; he didn’t even want the young physician he had recruited before the Sunshot had started in earnest, to know of his shame. If only he and Wei Wuxian could know of that then that was still one too many people for Jiang Cheng’s taste.

The direct question surprised Lan Xichen; he was of course from a sect that valued manners and courteousness; Jiang Cheng had always been more direct in his address, however, still respectful, but much more matter of fact.

“You nearly suffered a qi deviation during the battle, Jiang-zongzhu, I’ve never seen one quite like that, however. I have managed to straighten out your meridians, but...you may need to rest and spend some time in meditation, to avoid another similar event”

He very nearly lost his temper and told the other to mind his own business, but he owed his well being at the moment to this man, and his natural urge was tamped down.

“I thank you, Lan-zongzhu, for your help, and your kind advice” he kept his tone neutral.

In reality he wasn’t entirely sure it had been a qi deviation, in the usual sense of the word. Yes, he had lost control of his qi energies, but he genuinely didn’t think it was due to any fault in the foundation of his cultivation, or any improper practice. He thought it was because the core inside him wasn’t really the one he had formed himself.

Of course, it couldn’t be, Wen Zhuliu, curse him for eternity, had melted that core on the orders of Wen Chao, while he screamed and begged for mercy. He had been shown none.

This new core wasn’t that one; he didn’t know how Baoshan Sanren had formed it, but he knew from the scar how it had been passed to him.

And it didn’t act like his own core. He had suffered the same almost-loss of control in battles previous to this one, when he had called upon his cultivation for extended periods of time. Never quite to the extent of today’s, but he was entirely aware he didn’t have it completely under control yet.

Perhaps it was just the nature of the beast. To be expected. Perhaps it would be better the longer he had it, perhaps man and core would find harmony eventually.

He truly hoped so.

“May I send for Wei-gongzi, Jiang-zongzhu? I think he should be finished arguing with Wangji by now”

That comment forced a half-curl of Jiang Cheng’s mouth, “I thank you for the offer, but no. Please may I beg Lan-zongzhu’s silence on what happened today? If Wei Wuxian asks, if anyone asks, please tell them it was an injury. Morale is important for an army, and Wei Wuxian has enough concerns at the moment”

He could tell from the look in those tired, dark-amber eyes, that Lan Xichen wasn’t comfortable with the request. But he still nodded. Lan Xichen saw the sense of what Jiang Cheng asked him, and he wasn’t a man to break a confidence placed in him. Jiang Cheng was sure of that.

“Very well, Jiang-zongzhu”

Further conversion was halted as the Jiang sect physician, Lei Shirong, arrived, followed by retainers with water, cloths and bandages.

Jiang Cheng looked to the other sect leader again, “May I beg one further kindness, Lan-zongzhu? May I beg you to procure me fresh robes from the train? I’m sorry, I know you must be weary and ready to rest yourself”

“It’s no trouble” the other assured, and left them. Jiang Cheng had done all he could to protect his secret as he submitted to the ministrations of his physician. His physical wounds would heal, whether he ever truly gained control of this alien-feeling golden core turning inside him, remained to be seen.