#because him dying allowed it to sort of be severed like the pale tree is and make just. salad-ish salads. like malyck | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

imaginaryelle · 4 years

Link

Thanks to @morphia-writes for beta help, and to @miyuki4s for all the brainstorming help that went into this chapter!

An excerpt:

There are some things Lan Wangji cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

Read on tumblr under the cut!

It takes more than one day for a sect leader to prepare for the sort of journey they’re planning. Not because of the journey itself, Wei Ying is quick to point out, but because of all the things he has to make sure are done beforehand.

“Wen Qing is locking me in my study today,” he says over breakfast on the first day, “but Sizhui, Xiuying and Weixin are meeting with a tailor for new clothes and you should go.”

As he has been wearing borrowed or stolen clothes for several days now, Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to protest. He has no desire to wear extra infirmary underlayers while traveling, and the plain black outer layer Wen Qionglin had brought to his door was clearly intended to fit as many people as possible. Commissioning something new, or at least something altered to fit properly, is only reasonable.

Wei Ying insists that he’s already paid for the service, which Lan Wangji can only thank him for; he has no funds of his own, or reputation to call on.

“Get something you like,” Wei Ying tells him, even as Wen Qing looms over his shoulder. “Anything you want is fine.”

Lan Wangji assumes this event will take place within Yiling-Wei’s walls, as was generally the case in Cloud Recesses, but instead he finds himself following Wen Sizhui, Zhou Xiuying and Liu Weixin through a town that looks much more prosperous than the Yiling he visited thirteen years ago, and is almost certainly louder and more crowded than he remembers.

That impression may be influenced by his company. Certainly he had felt there were entirely too many people in the street when he was surrounded by onlookers with a toddler clutching at his leg, but if anything their small group draws even more attention now.

Everyone seems to know Wen Sizhui. There are street hawkers and shop owners who greet him by name, and press freshly steamed baozi and sticks of hawthorn candy into his hands, and it is clear from their comments that the townspeople of Yiling are close to their Sect in a way that is certainly not true of Cloud Recesses and Caiyi, or Jinlingtai and Lanling. One merchant is so insistent on thanking them for some past service that all four of them end up holding packages of lotus root, despite the fact that Lan Wangji can have had nothing to do with solving the woman’s problems.

The pattern continues inside the tailor’s shop—the young Wei cultivators are being fitted with new black outer yi and trousers designed to the Jiang Clan’s specifications for the upcoming archery tournament, but they are all clearly well-known to the staff. And Lan Wangji has come with the Sect Leader’s express instructions. And also the offer of his purse.

“Wei-zongzhu said you might prefer these,” one of the tailor’s assistants says, his hands full of fine-woven cream and blue fabrics, “but we do have other colors, of course.”

None of the fabrics on display are the shining, pure white of Gusu-Lan, but there is sun-bleached silk and cloud-white cotton and pale wool woven thinner than paper. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says, or how he responds: he is fussed over, and measured, and prodded. Silk and wool and brocade are draped over his shoulders and held up to his face for comparisons of shade and texture, and he leaves the shop—it is much later in the afternoon than he expected—with the black robe he arrived in newly altered and a sash of summerweight wool dyed the blue of a pale spring morning tied around his waist. Travel clothes, he is assured, will be delivered in the next few days.

He could not bring himself to commission a forehead ribbon, in any color; he is already quite certain these new robes will exceed any budget or social standing Liang Feihong could expect to claim. Wei Ying seems unconcerned.

“It’s a gift,” he insists after dinner. “Besides, you’re still a cultivator, and you’re traveling with a sect leader. It’d be weird if you looked like a fisherman.”

Lan Wangji is certain there are several measures of difference between the dress of a fisherman, a rogue cultivator, and the fabrics that were held before his face today.

“Look at this map with me,” Wei Ying says, the topic apparently closed. “I’m trying to figure out which roads are least likely to be blocked by mudslides. Wen Qing says if I get on a boat during the spring rains she’ll kill me now to save herself the trouble of burying me later.”

Lan Wangji may not have any formal responsibilities at Yiling-Wei, but Wen Qing makes it clear that she expects marked improvement in his spiritual power before he leaves her area of influence. He is given a list of meditation exercises and a schedule of daily training sessions for sword and unarmed work with her apprentices on hand to monitor his condition.

This is not a hardship. He had already planned to dedicate most of his time to this task, and the Wei cultivators have a unique style—not quite Yunmeng-Jiang, but not Qishan-Wen either. Wei Ying, of course, is the most practiced in it, and his version does not even involve a sword; Suibian is distinctly absent from their training sessions, but this does not seem to affect Wei Ying’s efficacy. Twice Lan Wangji is not fast enough to avoid the touch of a talisman to his shoulder, or his core.

He takes no actual damage from them—Wei Ying is careful in his craft, and these were written specifically for this purpose, but the failure drives him to train harder, even against other sparring opponents, until whatever apprentice is observing him steps in and orders a rest.

He spends this enforced downtime reading theory texts from Wen Qing’s library or at his guqin, picking out simple practice scores and more complex Lan melodies in the hope of re-training both his fingers and his core in the delicate language required for performing Inquiry. He works outside, in the scattered gardens, whenever the weather allows. A few hours spent alone in his shuttered room during a sudden storm proves detrimental to his focus, no matter how many handstands he does, or what other meditation techniques he tries. It is better to be out in the open air, where he can breathe more easily.

“Lan Zhan!” On the afternoon of the third day Wei Ying leans around the mulberry tree on the other side of a plot dedicated largely to cooking herbs. He looks around as if he thinks they’re being watched, and then all but runs over to crouch next to Lan Wangji. “I want to show you something,” he whispers. He tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Come on, quick!”

“Something” turns out to be the paddock, where a 2-day-old foal is taking in the outside world for the first time under his mother’s watchful eyes. Wei Ying drapes himself over the fence and watches them both with a rapt expression Lan Wangji has never seen him wear before. Zhou Xiuying is also in attendance, alongside her wife—Feng Xinyi—who he learns is the one of the Wei Sect’s grooms.

“Xiaoying and Heitu are just one pasture over, if you wanted to meet them,” she says, which is how Lan Wangji learns that Wei Ying intends to travel by mule.

“Do you know how hard it is to feed a horse?” he says as they walk through tall grass flushed green with the rains. “Have you ever tried to train a horse for night hunting? In a Yunmeng summer? The heat is terrible for them. I think the only reason Jiang Cheng still has horses is his grandmother sent a whole caravan of grooms and breeding stock from Meishan when the war ended.” He produces two apples from his sleeve and holds one out to the nearest mule and the other to Lan Wangji. “Mules are better,” he says, his tone flippant as he pets Xiaoying’s long nose. “And almost as impressive.”

Xiaoying and Heitu are undeniably beautiful animals; good conformation, clearly healthy, and their dark bay coats shine red in the sunlight. And Lan Wangji knows that he will not be able to travel by sword for some time yet. Not alone. He cannot expect Wei Ying to transport them both, and walking will be too slow. Riding makes sense.

“Little Shadow?” he asks, of Wei Ying’s mount. “And … Black Rabbit?” They are hardly the sorts of names he is accustomed to hearing for a cultivator’s steed. There is little sense of speed, or power, or even luck in these names. Wei Ying shrugs.

“Xiaoying used to lie in the grass and pretend to be dead. Sizhui tripped over her all the time, and then she’d follow him for hours. And Heitu likes to jump, she hopped all over the place as a filly--ah! Lan Zhan!” He grins, gleeful, mischief in his face. “Do you remember the rabbits I gave you, all those years ago? And now I can give you another one! A bigger one!” Wei Ying laughs, just as he had laughed in Cloud Recesses, depositing two rabbits on the floor of the library, some sort of gift and joke and torment all in one, Lan Wangji had been sure.

Lan Wangji hadn’t known what to do then, with the boy who refused to leave him alone, who insisted on teasing him at every opportunity. Now, he stares at Wei Ying’s hands, at long sleeves pulled back to reveal his wrists, at his lips, and he knows what he wants to do.

He steps closer to Heitu, offers her his hands in a bowl instead of reaching out beyond her.

“I remember,” he says. It’s possible that his brother allowed his pets to stay, after his death.

Unlikely. But possible.

Heitu snuffles at his hands, all warm breath and soft nose in a way that is, in some small semblance, reminiscent of the soft warmth of his rabbits. She bears nothing like their fragility, but she takes the apple he offers delicately, and he keeps his fingers well clear of her teeth. Wei Ying strokes Xiaoying’s face and talks sweetly at her until she takes his sleeve in her mouth, at which point he switches over to annoyed admonishments. Lan Wangji has just stepped nearer to help him when Wen Qionglin appears at Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Qing-jie wants to know if you finished that letter to Ouyang-zongzhu yet,” he says.

Wei Ying jerks, and there’s a sound of tearing cloth. He sighs.

“Feng-shimei told you to stop keeping food in your sleeves,” Wen Qionglin notes, even as he distracts Xiaoying with a hand on her neck. She drops Wei Ying’s sleeve and nudges her nose into Wen Qionglin’s chest. Both animals seem accustomed to his presence.

“I took it out as soon as we got here,” Wei Ying grumbles. “I wouldn’t have torn anything if I wasn’t surprised.” He sticks his fingers through the tear in his sleeve and wiggles them. The look on his face can only be described as a pout.

“I can fix it for you—” Wen Qionglin actually looks worried. Wei Ying just sighs and flaps his sleeve.

“I’ll fix it,” he says. “Why should you fix it? It’s fine.” He frowns at Xiaoying for a moment, then leans into Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“I really can’t recommend becoming a sect leader,” he says, low-voiced, as if this will affect Wen Qionglin’s hearing. “The number of letters you have to respond to is too much work. I don��t think Ouyang-zongzhu even reads them, he just sends some new complaint every few weeks, as if I can control the weather, or the river, or how sleepy his cultivators get when they’re on tower duty.”

Lan Wangji has never heard his brother or his uncle make similar complaints, but they are Lans; they would not say such a thing even if it were true.

“Did you not choose the position?” he asks.

Wei Ying’s face scrunches up with displeasure. He shakes his head, though whether it is denial or dismissal is impossible to determine.

“I better get back to it,” he says instead of answering the question. “Before Wen Qing tells the kitchens to put radish in my food again.”

He sighs, and waves aside Lan Wangji’s bow. “I’ll see you both at dinner,” he says, and Wen Qionglin nods. Lan Wangji watches Wei Ying walk back up the hill towards the main compound until Heitu seems to take offense to his distraction and knocks her head against his shoulder, huffing at him.

“Does Liang-gongzi know how to ride?” Wen Qionglin asks. It’s a fair question: Lan Wangji does not actually know if Liang Feihong was trained in riding. He prevaricates. What is true for him is just as likely to be true for Liang Feihong as not.

“It has been a long time.”

“Would you like to practice?” Wen Qionglin asks, and Lan Wangji agrees without hesitation. Practice, and especially practice in caring for his mount without servants to help, can only improve the upcoming journey.

Wen Qionglin shows him to the tack room, and he manages to brush and saddle Heitu with a minimum of fuss. The main difference between outfitting a horse and a mule, he finds, is that Heitu’s tack includes two belly cinches, there is an extra strap that goes under her tail to stop the saddle moving too far forward, and he has to be especially gentle with her long ears while placing the bridle. Xiaoying is the more mischievous of the pair, Wen Qionglin tells him, and has to be watched carefully so she doesn’t puff out her stomach and make the cinches too loose.

Riding is initially awkward, but after a few slow circuits of the paddock he finds his seat and is able to push Heitu faster without losing his balance too badly. She takes direction well, has a steady, comfortable gait, and doesn’t startle as easily as some horses he’s ridden. He will almost certainly be sore later, especially without a dependable supply of spiritual power to speed healing, but the wind in his face and the simple pleasures of riding are more than worth that discomfort. He turns back toward the stables when they have both worked up a light sweat and sees Feng Xinyi speaking with Wen Qionglin. She smiles as he approaches, but doesn’t stay.

“I should get back to the little one,” she says. “But I’m glad to know Heitu will have a rider who knows what he’s doing.”

Wen Qionglin leads Heitu to a water trough and pets her cheek until Feng Xinyi is out of earshot.

“Wei-zongzhu trusts you,” he says. As if this is a fact.

Lan Wangji stares back at him. Wen Qionglin does not breathe, and he does not blink. He stands perfectly, unnaturally still, and waits. Apparently some response is required.

He settles on, “I trust him, also.”

Wen Qionglin watches him for a moment longer, and then nods. Then he says, “If he truly needs help, I will know. No matter where he is. And I am very fast.”

Oh.

This is probably intended as a threat.

Lan Wangji slides off Heitu’s back, so that they are eye to eye.

“I mean him no harm,” he says. In his current state of spiritual power it’s almost reassuring to know that someone else is concerned for Wei Ying's welfare. It should not be at all surprising, but he finds he is often surprised by Wen Qionglin, who has continued to move and talk and physically reside with his family for over a decade when everything Lan Wangji has been taught says he should not even exist.

Those same teachings would object to his own new existence as well; they are, both of them, supposed to be long dead.

“I will not let him come to harm,” he says, “if I can help it.”

He worries for a moment that this will be too revealing, but Wen Qionglin does not question him further. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of the loyalty Wei Ying can inspire, under the right circumstances.

“I will show you where to find the saddle bags and travel rations,” Wen Qionglin decides, and he doesn’t speak of anything but Xiaoying and Heitu’s care and habits for the rest of the afternoon.

The evening before their planned departure, Wen Qing summons Lan Wangji once more to her study. Wei Ying arrives partway through her examination of his meridians and, surprisingly, sits quietly beside her desk until she’s finished. When she nods he joins them both behind the privacy screen and produces two cloth-wrapped packages—in one, two coiled lengths of red silk string, and in the other a pale jade carving of an endless panchang knot.

“Our hope is to give your spiritual power a new path through your meridians,” Wen Qing tells him as she inspects the strings. “One that minimizes the curse’s influence.” She blocks the meridians at his shoulder with her needles, and then ties one string to his arm, above the curse mark, and the other below it, each secured with a cloverleaf knot and sealed with a touch of spiritual power.

Wei Ying leans in close and presses two fingers to the talisman over the curse mark, but doesn’t touch either the silk or the jade. He keeps his silence. Lan Wangji watches his face and cannot read his thoughts.

“Just making sure this doesn’t interrupt us,” he says when he sees Lan Wangji watching. He holds up a second talisman in his other hand. “Wouldn’t want to have to start over in the middle.”

It’s a reasonable precaution: Tying the new charm is a long process, a progression of knots that covers most of his forearm. The jade panchang knot is tied in just above the curse mark, and another panchang knot of red silk tied below the wound. Wen Qing and Wei Ying both study it closely, and then she removes her needles and takes his wrist again, walking him through a slow meditation, cycling spiritual power through his body.

The flow of power is smoother, though it does perhaps take a little more time than he expects.

Wei Ying removes his fingers with a nod and a sigh. Wen Qing smiles, satisfied.

“The talisman will still need to be reapplied regularly,” she says, “but these charms together should be enough to minimize the curse’s effect on your meridians, so your core can begin to heal.”

It has already begun. He can feel the difference.

“Thank you.” The words seem inadequate, but he has little else to offer. Even this, she waves aside.

“I’m sure you don’t need my guidance for the proper exercises, but I do have many more theory texts, if you wish to read them.”

“We can bring some along,” Wei Ying promises. “Most of the best ones, we have more than one copy.”

Lan Wangji thinks of the library—of the many books that bear the same hand. Some copied by Wen Qing. Some by Wei Ying. Others in a clear, steady hand he doesn’t recognize. Of the single bound copy of the Lan Clan rules he’d found next to a copy of the Wen principles, and the books that he doubts his brother knows exist, copies of texts that were available to guest disciples studying at Cloud Recesses.

He wonders if his brother knew, when he was rebuilding the Library Pavilion, just how exact Wei Ying’s memory can be.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Get some sleep,” Wen Qing says. “Both of you.” She stares hard at Wei Ying. “I’m not going to be the one dragging you out of your rooms in the morning. It’s no matter to me if you miss traveling during the coolest part of the day.”

Traveling with Wei Ying, and only with Wei Ying, is different from traveling alone, or with other Lan disciples, and different again from his memories of travel during the Sunshot Campaign. Then, Wei Ying had shifted through moods like ripples in water, sometimes predictable but more often not. A laugh like a clash of swords, a glare that pierced like needles. More than once Lan Wangji had found him alone but for the poor company the dead might provide, brooding under a shadow that seemed to cling to him even on the clearest of days. And then he would turn and ask if Lan Wangji knew this or that song, or if he wanted to spar, or if he’d eaten because surely it must be time for the next meal by now, and Lan Wangji would push aside his concern until hours later, when Wei Ying was just as likely to pull a prank as get in a fight with an ally. A fight with Lan Wangji himself, more often than not.

But that was the war. Decades ago, now, for everyone but Lan Wangji himself.

Now, Wei Ying laughs with more humor, and the cant of his eyes is merely sly rather than cutting. He grumbles through his breakfast and morning tea. He bickers with Xiaoying while saddling her and slouches through the morning hours until some unknown precondition is met, and then he begins talking aloud about whatever is on his mind at the moment: the weather, which continues to be wet, with cool mornings and steamy afternoons, or theories on their two investigations, or tales of past night hunts, which quickly shift into stories of Wen Sizhui, or Jiang Wanyin and Jin Rulan, and from there to the other members of Yiling-Wei, and Yunmeng-Jiang, and Lanling-Jin. Once, when they stop and take shelter under a half-repaired watchtower to wait out a storm, Wei Ying says, “Ah, Lan Zhan, do you remember that week we had rain every day, in Gusu?” and he speaks of Lan Xichen, and the Lan Sect, and what little he knows of its current status.

Cloud Recesses has been rebuilt, reportedly exactly as it was before the Wens attacked. Lan Qiren still teaches, and Lan Wangji feels a swell of relief to know his uncle still breathes. The Sect still hosts a year-long seminar for young disciples of any sect, every few years. Wen Sizhui, Liu Weixin and Zhou Xiuying have attended it, and returned with reports of young Lan cultivators who Wen Sizhui described as friendly, Liu Weixin called unbearably rigid, and Zhou Xiuying pronounced worthy sparring opponents. Lan Xichen has, unsurprisingly, built a widely-spoken reputation for even-mindedness that Lan Wangji knows he himself could never hope to match.

There is no bitterness to any of Wei Ying’s tales. No mention of hardship or enmity, over a span of more than a decade that Lan Wangji knows cannot have been easy, especially near its start. But then, Lan Wangji has long known that Wei Ying lies more easily than he tells the truth, omits more than he ever says openly. Even when he was living among the Mass Graves, quite obviously short on food, the only hardship Wei Ying would admit to was a lack of visitors, and news.

Still, there are some things he cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

He turns away. Steps outside. Rekindles the fire for breakfast.

During the long afternoon of the fourth day, after they have shared a quick lunch beside a clear-flowing stream and are letting Xiaoying and Heitu forage their own meal, Wei Ying draws out Chenqing and plays songs that seem to be purely for personal entertainment; there is no spiritual power behind them at all. Some, Lan Wangji recognizes as common to drinking houses and inns. Others he doesn’t recognize at all. He is considering unwrapping the guqin when Wei Ying’s somewhat random little melodies turn suddenly familiar.

Not just familiar.

Every note is etched into Lan Wangji’s soul.

Wei Ying catches him staring. He’s not certain what expression his own face is making, but Wei Ying looks suddenly defensive. His hands drop to his lap, wrapping around Chenqing as if Lan Wangji will try to tear the flute away from him.

“What?”

“You remember.” Lan Wangji shouldn’t be surprised—Wei Ying has remembered enough of his brief time at Cloud Recesses to reproduce the Lan Sect’s rules and three different treatises, and that’s only what Lan Wangji found. But it had been only once, in the Xuanwu’s cave. That song has only ever had an audience of one.

Wei Ying frowns at him.

“What ...” his eyebrows rise high on his forehead, his mouth forming a perfect circle. “Lan Zhan.” He leans forward, suddenly eager. “Lan Zhan, you know this song?”

Of course he knows it. How could he not?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying continues. “No one knows this song. How do you know it? Is it a Lan Clan song? What’s its name?”

Words stick in Lan Wangji’s throat. Wei Ying doesn’t remember. Not really. He looks away. At the play of light on water. The swirl of shadowy fish, underneath.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, moving closer. “I can never remember where I heard it, and no one ever recognizes it. How do you know it?”

No one ever recognizes it, he says. Which means Wei Ying has been playing it. For other people. For thirteen years. And he doesn’t know.

Lan Wangji swallows back his foolish hopes. The words he might have said.

“I wrote it,” he admits, to the low rush of the spring and the whisper of reeds in the light breeze.

“What?”

When he risks a glance back, Wei Ying is staring. He looks utterly shocked.

“What do you mean, you wrote it?”

Lan Wangji does not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not if Wei Ying doesn’t remember something so important.

At least, it had been important to Lan Wangji.

“We should keep moving,” he says, and stands. Heitu is drinking from the stream, but she only flicks her ears when he touches her shoulder, and doesn’t offer any more protest than a shift of her weight as he unties her hobble and mounts.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying is frowning at him.

“We are wasting daylight,” Lan Wangji tells him. It’s true enough. This break is no shorter than any other.

Wei Ying grumbles. Retrieves his things.

“What’s its name?” he asks as he settles on Xiaoying.

I have already told you. Lan Wangji locks the words behind his teeth. Wei Ying does not speak of the soul bond, never broaches the topic of their battle with the Xuanwu or anything else from their lives that occurred after he left Cloud Recesses months before any other disciple, does not remember this, despite Lan Wangji telling him, despite his clear memory of the music itself and his perfect recall of texts long burnt to ashes.

“Think about it.” He says instead, and urges Heitu into a quicker pace, too fast for easy conversation.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying calls after him, but Lan Wangji does not look back.

When Wei Ying catches up he speaks of other things, and does not mention the song again.

Notes:

For the curious, Xiaoying and Heitu are named as references to famous horses from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. 絶影 (sometimes translated as "Suppressing Shadow" or "Shadow Runner") was one of the horses of Cao Cao, head of the state of Wei. He famously kept running despite taking three arrows, and thus saved his rider from enemies. 赤兔 (Red Hare) was described as "the best of horses" and within the tale people considered him to be too good for his original master. After that master died he was given to a new, more virtuous hero (Guan Yu, sometimes described as an ideal incarnation of loyalty and righteousness), who he was extremely loyal to.

(on to part 11)

#wangxian #mo dao zu shi #lan wangji #wei wuxian #mdzs #mdzs fic #wangxian fic #role reversal soulmate au #turnabout verse #alex writes #the yearning goes on #as ever

38 notes · View notes

love-and-monsters · 4 years

Text

Wyvern Prince 13

Hope you’re all hanging in there with the quarantine. Enjoy some more Wyvern Prince in the meantime!

F human X M wyvern, 3027 words

You rose early in the morning and spent a while preparing yourself before you took Davrakoss’ breakfast to him. He was, naturally, still asleep. “Good morning,” you said as you pulled the curtains aside. “You have a meeting with the Queen and her council today about the coming winter and potential hunting allowances.”

He stirred and woke slowly and rather unhappily. You were just happy he seemed too cold and sleepy to talk. It made it easier when you didn’t have to respond to him. Unfortunately, after bathing and getting dressed, he seemed a lot more willing to engage in conversation.

“I hope you’re feeling well this morning,” he said as he sat down to eat. “You seemed a little flustered when you left yesterday.” His brows were pinched with concern. The fact that it seemed genuine rather than just polite made your stomach do an unsettling twist.

“I am fine. I am sorry if I worried you,” you said. Davrakoss looked at you for a moment with his piercing gaze. You smiled and went back to fixing his bed.

He rose after finishing his breakfast and began to prepare to head down to the meeting. You headed over to help him gather his things, but he waved a hand at you dismissively. “Please, don’t bother. I’ve lived in the castle for long enough, I know my way around.” You hesitated, but he pulled the documents away from you and smiled gently. “Finish up here and take a little break. I’ll be all right on my own.”

You dipped your head in a small bow. “If you’re sure.”

With a wave, he was out the door. Given all your practice, you were able to straighten up and clean the room before Davrakoss was back. As you were just straightening up the last book of shelves, you noticed something unusual. It was the closet that you’d noticed when you were first cleaning his room. You’d glanced at it every time you cleaned his room, but it was always locked and sealed with a small chain. It was too far above your pay grade to snoop, not that you really thought you could get into it.

But today was different because the chain wasn’t secured and the lock was loose. The door was still closed securely, but you could have opened it if you wanted.

You hesitated. Part of you was overcome with an immediate surge of curiosity. You did want to know what he was keeping in there. But there was also the likely chance that he had unintentionally left it unlocked and snooping where you didn’t belong was a very quick way to lose your job. Or worse. It was better to leave it alone, you decided. If he wanted you to do anything in there, he would ask.

He returned a little after lunch, looking slightly ruffled, but in an astoundingly good mood. “Did the meeting go well?” you asked as he stacked his books on the table, humming a strange song.

“Oh, the meeting went all right. Not as well as I hoped, but I suppose it could have gone worse.” He shrugged. “The queen wasn’t pleased that I insisted no humans should be allowed to hunt in wyvern lands, but we need to eat too, and we can’t survive on stored grain.”

“I’m glad it went well, then,” you said. “Is there anything else you need me for?”

He shook his head. “No, I think that’s all for today. You can have the rest of the day off if you wish.”

“Are you sure?” you asked. “If there’s anything else you might need-” He cut you off with a wave of his hand.

“No, I’ll be all right on my own. But thank you.” His smiled was particularly warm as he looked at you. “Go on.”

You bowed and exited the room. With your schedule abruptly open, you took a longer-than-usual lunch before returning to your room.

There was an envelope sitting on your bed when you entered. You paused, looking at it uncertainly. It was a slightly off-white color and there was no wax seal or any identification from a sender on it. That was a mild relief- any sort of letter from the royal court would have the sender’s seal and name on it.

You approached the bed and delicately picked it up. It was heavier than you were expecting and there was a bulge in the bottom that wasn’t caused by a simple letter. You undid the flap and opened the envelope.

A necklace fell onto your open palm. It was heavy, and a large emerald pendant shaped like a tree hung from a golden chain. Instinctively, you dropped it onto your bed. Shit.

You looked back at the envelope, but there was no writing, no note, nothing you could use to identify the sender. You looked back at the necklace. It wasn’t a necklace you had seen before, so you didn’t think it was stolen from any of the nobles you worked closely with, but then where? There was no way any of the other servants could have bought it. The chain itself would have taken at least a few months to purchase, and that price would pale in comparison to the price of the pendant itself.

Where the hell did it come from? The envelope suggested it had been left there for you deliberately. Was it intended for someone else? Even if the deliverer had gotten the room wrong, it still would have been intended for another servant. But if you tried to find the recipient and no one else knew, you would certainly be suspected of stealing it. And if someone searched your room and found the necklace, there would be trouble.

After a few moments of considering your options, you shifted your bed a few feet and pried up one of the floorboards. You wrapped the necklace in a scrap cloth and stowed it and the envelope in the floor. It wouldn’t escape a particularly thorough search, but it would at least keep the necklace from prying eyes in the meantime.

It was difficult to sleep that night. You couldn’t stop thinking about the necklace. Frequently, you got out of bed to check that it was still there and you weren’t sure whether you wanted to find it or not. Part of you was sure that it was some attempt at framing you for thievery, but you weren’t sure why. You’d never upset anyone enough that much, had you?

Leaving your room in the morning sparked a whole new host of worries- it was very unlikely any one would find the necklace where you hid it, but you were still terrified that you’d be dragged out and accused of stealing or hiding precious jewels regardless. Your hands shook when you took Davrakoss’ breakfast tray and you stopped several times on the stairs to compose yourself.

He was awake when you entered and apparently hadn’t slept much better than you, if his slightly disheveled state was any indication. When he caught sight of you, he grinned- then frowned, then looked a little confused. You set the tray down and bowed to him, but he kept staring at you as though trying to pluck a thought out of your head.

“Is there something I can do for you?” you asked. He blinked and looked away, then back at you.

“I suppose there isn’t,” he said. He sat down and started to eat, but you were very aware that he was still looking at you. Whenever you tried to catch his gaze again, he would look away, but the tingling feeling of someone’s eyes on the back of your neck would start up again the instant you looked away.

The closet, you noticed, was unlocked again, although you certainly didn’t dare to snoop when Davrakoss was in the room. He seemed to be in a dismal mood as well. He ate only a small portion of his meal and paced restlessly. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?” you asked.

He looked at you for a moment, then gave a forced smile. “I’m all right. I just, ah…” He grabbed a book from the table. “I need to go to the library and look over a few books.”

“Would you like me to assist?” you asked. Davrakoss took a hasty step back toward the door, waving a hand at you.

“No, no, I’ll be quite fine on my own! You can just, ah, stay here. And clean. When you’re done, you can go. I’ll send someone to fetch you if I need you again.” He turned on his heel and was out the door before you could even respond.

It was odd, to say the least. But at least it was easier for you. Not being around him made things easier, at least a little bit.

You returned to your room once you’d cleaned the room as thoroughly as you could. It was pleasant to have some time on your own. You had a needlepoint piece you’d been dying to work on.

It was a pleasant few free hours, but eventually, another servant knocked on your door. “Davrakoss requests that you go to his room.” You put your needlepoint away and headed up the tower.

He wasn’t in his room. Instead, there was a note sitting on the table.

Sara,

I’m afraid I am a bit occupied at the moment. If you would organize the books and my notes together, that would be a great help for me.

Yours,

Davrakoss.

You looked over the stacks of books and notes on the shelf and let out a low sigh. This was going to take a while.

Davrakoss returned before you were halfway through sorting the books. He walked immediately to the bed and collapsed, sinking back into the plush sheets. Despite this exhaustion, there was a peaceful smile on his face.

“Everything all right, sire?” you asked. He smiled at you with such affection in his eyes that your heart pounded.

“Davrakoss,” he corrected. “And yes, I think it is.” He stood up, leaving his books on the bed. “I can help you with that, if you like.”

“That’s not necessary,” you said as Davrakoss walked up beside you. He was close enough that your shoulders were brushing. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“Nonsense. I should at least know how you’re organizing things.” His hand brushed against yours as he reached for a book on the shelf you had just placed back.

“I can just show you,” you said, carefully stepping away from him. He frowned, but allowed you to set the books back on the shelf with no further interference. His gaze tingled along the back of your neck.

You moved to pick the books up off the bed, but Davrakoss hurriedly blocked them with his body. “Never mind those,” he said gently, ushering you away. “I can handle those by myself.” You dropped the subject. If a noble didn’t want you to look at something, it was best not to look.

“If you wish. Would you like me to bring you dinner?” you asked. Davrakoss shook his head.

“No, no. I’m all right. You can head back to your room. I’ll be fine for the rest of the night.” He gave you a tight smile. You bowed hurriedly and left the room.

There was something waiting for you when you returned to your room. A bolt of deep green fabric lay across the bed. Intricate golden designs were stitched across its length. Your fingers trembled as you gently touched it. It would have taken ages to stitch all the designs across it. It would have been expensive. More expensive than something a servant should own.

You felt cold. Hurriedly, you stowed the fabric under your bed, careful to lay it somewhere it wouldn’t be dirtied. That would only add to your trouble if anyone found it.

Someone was clearly trying to set you up for something. And if they’d visited two days in a row, they would probably visit again. You would just need to catch them.

It was, as it turned out, not terribly difficult to slip away from your duties for an hour or so. Davrakoss left you alone again with an excuse about a private meeting. You were pretty sure he didn’t mean what private meetings among nobles often meant, but you decided not to question him much, just in case he did. You didn’t want to know.

After you were sure Davrakoss had left and wasn’t going to come back and see you gone, you slipped out of his room and headed back to your quarters. There were few other servants around, and all that were there were occupied with their own duties. You walked slowly and unhurriedly toward your room, trying not to look suspicious.

As you stepped into the hall of the servant’s quarters, you saw the hem of a cloak swish out of sight into your room

You took two steps toward your room and froze. Problem: you didn’t know what to do next. If they were armed, they could just kill you. Even if they weren’t, they were taller than you, maybe stronger. Could you follow them unnoticed? Maybe. But you would need to go before they-

The cloaked figure stepped out of your room, saw you standing in the hallway and stopped dead.

If you weren’t already still, the sight of the figure would have startled you into freezing. You recognized the deep green, slightly shimmering cloak wrapped around their shoulders and the wisps of pale blond hair that poked out from under their hood.

Davrakoss shook back his hood. “Sara? What are you doing here?”

You were torn between apologizing and demanding to know why he was in your room. He at least had enough decency to look ashamed. “I apologize for abandoning my duties, sire. I only wanted to see who has been leaving certain items in my room,” you said. The truth seemed like a safe bet.

Apparently it was the right call, because a smile spread over Davrakoss’ face and he gave a quiet laugh. “I know when I’ve been caught,” he said and stepped aside with a gesture for you to enter your room.

You did so, a little uncertainly, and there was an envelope on your bed. This one was significantly more lumpy than the first. A little apprehensive, you picked it up and opened it.

A large, polished green gem fell out onto the bed, as well as a particularly large chunk of what you assumed was solid gold. You glanced back at Davrakoss, who was standing in the doorway, looking at you with an expression of hopeful anticipation.

“Do you like them?” he asked. You looked down at the precious jewel and metal half covered in the sheets of your bed, then looked back at Davrakoss.

“You gave these to me?” you clarified. He nodded. You looked between the gifts and him again. “Why?”

Davrakoss shifted his weight, tail twitching close to his body. “May I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the bed. You nodded and he crossed the room to perch carefully on the edge of your bed. He gestured for you to sit with him and you did so.

“Wyverns typically have large collections of objects we find particularly appealing. They could be as simple as a particularly pretty stone or a nice plant to a work of art. Each horde means something to each wyvern and if you look through the horde, you will know much about the wyvern who has curated it. It is made out of items we have either particular memories associated with or have taken a liking to. Hordes are typically guarded particularly well. It is considered a great embarrassment to have an item from a horde stolen, and managing to steal an item from a horde gives an impressive bargaining chip for the thief.”

Something clicked in your mind. “Your horde is in the locked closet.”

“Yes.” You felt quite glad you had never actually looked inside. You had the impression that could be considered an insult. Davrakoss shifted his weight and licked his lips. “My horde is, I suppose, fairly classic. I like precious metals, gems, particularly nice pieces of craftmanship. I have a few swords, I think, and one or two paintings.” He grinned to himself, then focused again. “But hordes are important to many aspects of our culture, such as we have, anyway. When one wyvern is trying to woo another, it is common to give them gifts from their horde. It’s supposed to be symbolic- if a wyvern’s horde is a representation of their heart, then to give a portion of it to someone, then…” He trailed off. “I suppose the metaphor is rather obvious.”

The shock of his words was so great that you felt as though you’d been temporarily separated from your body. His words echoed in your head like he was speaking from the other end of a tunnel. “You’ve been leaving these gifts for me?” you said, trying to entirely wrap your head around it. “Because you’re trying to woo me?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Is it working?”

You felt a little bit like you were about to faint. The prince of the wyverns was sitting on your bed, offering you jewelry, expensive fabrics, hunks of gold and gems and telling you he wanted to woo you. It felt a little bit like you were experiencing a very strange dream.

“You don’t have to answer right away,” Davrakoss said. He stood up. “Take the rest of the day off. Think it over. I know this is probably a lot.” He reached down and took your hand in his. Gently, he lifted it to his mouth, brushing his lips against your knuckles. “Good night, Sara. I will see you tomorrow.” His eyes glowed, warm and gentle. A smile graced his lips and he turned and left the room.

You sat on your bed for a while, turning Davrakoss’ gift over and over in your hands.

#exophilia #wyvern prince #wyvern #wyvern boyfriend #monster boyfriend #monster lover #monster x human

140 notes · View notes

tiny-smallest · 4 years

Text

a test of heart c1: deal

Rating: G Characters: The Prince, The Princess, The Witch Warnings: none Description: After the Witch strips his princess of everything as he looks on and weeps, the prince's grief as he sobs over his love's unconscious body gives way to rage. In his fury he makes a deal with the Witch on behalf of his beloved.

Can he overcome the hurdles of her challenge, or will he fail?

Also on AO3!

—

aka: The Witch is kind of a giant asshole and while the story never vindicates her she gets no kind of comeuppance at all, and whether or not the prince's parents do is also up in the air, so I will take a hammer and lightly fix the canon

—

He must been sobbing for at least four hours. The grass might have been properly watered with his tears as a substitute for rain if not for the salt in them.

She, of course, had left soon after the wolf's body had slumped softly to the forest floor in unconsciousness. What happened now was of no consequence to her; she had done her half of the deal, and now it was time to set out to use the influx of magic from that deal to fix what these two cretins had done to her forest.

It was somewhat on the grueling side, even for her. The blaze had thankfully not leveled the whole thing, but it had touched a not-insignificant portion of it, including literally all of her most frequented areas. It was with much grumbling that she set about fixing it. How could two young idiots cause so much damage?

She coaxed the grass to grow again, freshening the soil first before bringing forth the undergrowth, then bringing the trees back to life. Area by area, she repaired the forest, satisfied as the woodland monsters tentatively began to return to their haunts. The Witch liked them no more than any other person who lived in the forest, but their absence meant the local ecosystem was out of sync. Rather bad for someone who lived there.

Lived here. Right. She would have to reconstruct her home, too. And without everything inside-

She grit her teeth. Well. That project had to start sooner or later.

She hadn't expected company when she returned to the site of her home, though. That was a surprise. Of course, she expected the wolf to still be out cold--she would have to toss her somewhere later--but the huddled form of the human was nearly a full-blown shock.

His wails and sobs had weakened to soft weeping, but his arms remained around the unconscious wolf's neck, his tears sliding down his pale, wan, tearstained face onto the grass below.

"Could you stop that?" she asked idly as she turned her back on him to survey the ruins of her cabin. "I just brought that grass back to life, thank you."

He made a choking noise and then dead silence.

She fixed some of the rocks meant to be outside the cabin as she spoke. "You know, I'd run if I were you. She's not going to remember you when she eventually wakes up and you're a tasty snack to her. There's no point in staying."

Silence for a moment and then, hm. He actually spoke. A hoarse, numb whisper; she halted in her construction to listen to it, surprised he spoke at all. "And go back to what? She is the only love I have ever known."

"That sounds very much like not my problem, but it's equally not my problem if you wait around until she eats you." She materialized a wooden sign for the front of her house. "... Unless it happens on my front lawn, I suppose. I'm sure your guts and bones would be of decent quality to use in my potions, but I don't care to extract them from the ground or from her maw, and I hardly have time to bother with that sort of thing when I have an entire cottage to reconstruct. So if you could leave, I would appreciate it."

Another choking noise.

She paused for a moment before shrugging and was just about to disintegrate one of the blackened beams of rubble when she heard it.

"You."

The fire in that voice, like the hissing of an impending inferno, could not possibly have come from the small, weak thing bent over the wolf's body, but when she turned to see what new annoyance had manifested in her forest, she found herself staring into the burning eyes of the prince whose sight she had just restored, smoldering beneath his bangs.

It was such a shock she forgot how to breathe for a moment. The wind ruffled their hair and clothing, time standing still.

"What." She didn't know what this was the start of but it was best to shut it down as quickly as possible.

Even her iciest voice didn't extinguish those eyes. He sat back from his hunched position and would have looked quite ridiculous as he stood, with his dirty, battered feet, filthy, ragged nightclothes, short stature and soft face... if not for those eyes.

"You took our happiness. Why?" His fists clenched. Adorable.

"Well, the inferno, for starters." Idiot. "But it wasn't like she deserved to keep all of those things anyway."

His teeth bared. "You're wrong."

Her head jerked back. "Excuse me?"

"Yes, she lied to me. It hurt. But she was right; I wouldn't have accepted her aid if I'd known her true identity; I would've been too scared. I stand here today with healed eyes because she lied. It was wrong, but there wasn't a right choice to make. The forest fire was entirely my fault because I was the one who refused her help even when it made sense to, putting my feelings above the safety of the whole woods, and so I dropped the lantern when I fell! But despite fire being her greatest fear she came for me! Me, who had yelled at her! And yet you call her selfish!"

The witch beheld the small human and his trembling fists, his burning eyes, and a laugh erupted from her throat. There was a rush of wingflaps from above. "Oh you are rich, human! You think any of that was selflessness? She did it because she wanted to keep you! Her happiness mattered to her more than anything else!"

"Then why did she not keep me blind."

A pit lodged itself in her gut, freezing her from the inside out. She looked at him.

"She could have. She could have kept her memories and her human form, and turned down the deal, and walked away with me. I wanted her to, even. I begged her to! You were there! But she refused to even try to take it back. Righting her wrong, even if it was accidental, was what mattered most to her- because- because I mattered most to her."

The Witch snorted, shaking the ice from her heart and smacking the black beam to disintegrate it into dust. "Fairytale nonsense. Go home and cry to your mother about it."

"Did you ever tell the truth."

The ice returned.

Slowly, she turned back around. The prince's eyes were green, she realized somewhere in her mind. Summer green. Summer forest green.

She hated them.

"What."

"You mocked her earlier, asking if she became more honest when she apologized. Then you taunted her with her mistakes. She would've agreed to the deal without all that nonsense manipulation you did; you did it to be cruel. Or maybe, since you think so little of her, you thought she really wouldn't do it without you pushing her. But did you ever become more honest?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The girl. Witch..."

He was not going there.

"Did she ever learn who murdered her brother?"

"THAT. IS ENOUGH." The space between her hands gathered dark magic to throw at him, to shut him up, shut him up forever-

"I'm going to take that as a no, because if you had told her the truth, you'd have delighted in throwing that in my face." His look was near placid now, watching her. Truly, the moron must not care if he died. "And on top of that, you were even more selfish still. It was your deeds that got her killed. You let her believe you weren't as terrible as the stories made you out to be, didn't you? Surely you didn't actually rip families apart as payment for the wishes they asked out of desperation and necessity rather than greed. Surely it wasn't you who separated lovers, parents from children, siblings, the elderly from their families."

"THEY ASKED FOR IT!" She threw. Her aim was off, still shaky because she was tired, of course, from all that bullshit earlier. He watched the tree explode several feet away from him, and she cursed.

"Allow me to recap." He began to tick points off on his fingers. "You demanded lives for the price of your help for the wounded, sick, dying, the poor. You killed her brother. You divulged none of this to her so she could make informed choices, and so she stayed, and you grew to love her. Your behavior changed to accommodate for the feelings you felt for her and what she taught you, but still, you never told her the truth. She died for that truth from people rightfully angry at your cruelty, and wrongfully too quick to action where it concerned her. And then- then-"

His face scrunched with disgust.

"Then, instead of allowing her rest, and allowing her to be with her brother, whose soul I assume was released accidentally in the rampage, you kept her. You bottled her in a jar, because you, Witch, were the one who was too selfish to let go.

Not my princess."

She pointed a finger wrapped in dark magic at him. "Give me a reason," she breathed, "why I shouldn't blow your pretty little head from your shoulders."

"Because I'm right. And you know that. And you hate it. And killing me won't prove me wrong; it'll just make me dead."

The steel in his eyes didn't waver. Didn't look away. Didn't blink.

"And then you'll have to live with the echoes of my words for the rest of your probably-immortality."

Her hand trembled. If she'd had the magic to spare, she would have transformed into the beast again, stomped him into the earth, left a red smear all over the grass near his precious little princess-

His princess. His wolf, rather.

Her face split into a truly terrible smile that peeked through the mask a little with its intensity. The laugh that tore from her throat was much louder this time, cracked and high-pitched, manic. She wrapped her arms around herself and shook with the force of it while he stood and watched.

"All- all right," she wheezed, wiping one of her many eyes as it subsided. "All right, little prince- If you are so sure in your righteousness, then how about a little wager?"

"What sort."

She picked up her staff, clearing her throat to steady herself. "I'll alter my conditions," she said sweetly with a wave of her stick. "She is still a wolf beast, but! This can change."

"Go on." Still his expression remained the same. Her fingers tightened on her staff, the previous mirth from earlier starting to vanish. "It will take you some time to leave the forest," she said flatly. "I estimate about a week, and perhaps a week more to deal with whatever is waiting for you back where you came from, given your earlier comments. Given that, I allow you one month from tonight. I will return her memories to her, locked deep inside her head. You have one month to coax them to the surface. Should she recover her memories and accept your feelings, my price for healing your eyes will be forfeit. She will regain her shapeshifting abilities, she will keep her recovered memories, but she will not get back her singing voice."

"That is fair. It was part of an earlier deal." Show some damned emotion, brat! Wasn't her voice what you loved to begin with!? "What if I fail."

Her grin returned. "I claim your soul. She will be given her memories back, if only to languish about how her sacrifice failed."

She saw the shift in his eyes. A spike of pain- was that fear? Ah, that felt good.

His mouth pressed into a grim line. "I'll do it."

Well, well. "So be it."

She waved her staff over the body of the sleeping wolf, watching the light gather around her, swirling upwards like light met smoke.

"It is done."

The prince nodded and reached down to smooth some of the fur from his beloved's face before straightening and turning to leave.

"Remember. One month."

"One month," he echoed back at her before turning around again.

She watched his form disappear into the darkness of night, letting out a low cackle when he was out of sight, looking back down at the sleeping wolf.

"Silly girl. He might think he wants this right now, but that will fade in time once he is back where he came from. Humans and monsters were never meant to be friends. Whether he attempts to see this through to save his own skin or dismisses it as empty threats, your sacrifice will be for nothing."

She couldn't wait.

#the liar princess and the blind prince #the liar princess #the blind prince #tlpatbp princess #tlpatbp prince #the witch #tlpatbp witch #i have no idea what tags to use HEYO #my writing #did all this but can't finish my thesis why yes i am aware i suck #maybe now i can get back to work

14 notes · View notes

ofgoodmenarchive · 4 years

Link

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

Trust Fall

“Careful with him-” Dorian grunted, shifting Lavellan's weight to a new pair of arms. “He's lighter than he looks- but his stature is still rather cumbersome.”

Noting his advice, the healers were cautious with their new patient, trying their best not to leave any limbs dragging. Dorian had carried him through the fort and now deposited his lifeless form at whatever passed for a surgeon's station. Hopefully their abilities surpassed the low expectation he had of this Southern, backwater hovel.

Released from his charge, he collapsed in exhaustion, back-against-wall, vaguely overhearing scraps of dialogue from within. Not even a gasp was allowed before his insides wrenched painfully, as if a small inferno struggled for escape.

Dorian jerked forward with a hiss and Desire sprung from it's host, swaying and dizzied.

“For-the love-of-!” Though he squinted in displeasure, his shadow barely offered a glance before slipping through the door- after Lavellan.

With a groan he slouched into brick, not having the stamina to protest.

Paw-pads echoed softly through the hall- Lunis' dropped into his lap a second later.

“Oof!” Sighing wearily, he pet the dog. “Yes, yes, that's a good boy...”

For a short time he sat and lamented the whole blasted affair. Not that there was anything to do for it- even if he could convince his Desire to abandon it's attraction, Thedas would be in disarray without its Herald. Then how would Dorian continue his much-favoured lifestyle of roaming, drinking and pleasuring?

Still- he was irritated. Drained of energy and lacking immediate options- Lavellan was in no shape to sustain him in any manner. If he couldn't locate a butcher for some meat or blood or some such, he'd be reduced to hunting vermin in the cellars. Not a favoured meal by any stretch.

“I SAID- NO!!” A familiar voice barked out, brimming with panic- “DO NOT TOUCH ME!- THE BLOOD MAGE! I SAID- FETCH- THE- BLOOD MAGE!!”

Jostling practically out of his robes, Dorian and Lunis swerved to face the door in tandem. It flew ajar, revealing a servant who had led them into the property, pale-faced and obviously shaken.

“L-Lord-um?” He struggled to address, a whirl of smashed glass and incoherent Dalish warring behind.

“Pavus.”

“Y-yes, ah, Lord Pavus- the Herald, he- no one can get near him! He's asking for you...”

For a second he didn't think he heard right- why would Lavellan ask for him? Just some hours prior the man had been undecided on whether or not to gut him like a 'Tevinter pig'!

Back on his feet, Dorian sprinted inside, where he was met by a trio of petrified healers, recoiling from the Herald. With radiant blade unleashed he stood in a corner, a cot toppled near him, along with a mess of fractured potions and poultices.

If the healers looked scared- Lavellan looked more-so; in his wide-eyed, snarling terror he'd chosen 'fight' over 'flight', the feral warping of his face ensuring to all that he would strike them down without hesitation.

“Herald- I'm here!” Dorian situated himself between the healers and Lavellan, arms outstretched. “You can put that down! No one's going to touch you!”

Wordlessly, that rabid gaze flit between Dorian and the servants over his shoulder. Following the motion, he understood.

One of the healers looked dreadfully familiar- though last they'd met, his features had been significantly bloodied.

Granted- in the future they'd visited, that man had likely been corrupted in some manner, enslaved by Venatori. Obviously Lavellan couldn't be expected to digest such a nuance, not with his wounds- the physical and mental- so sorely fresh.

Dorian recognised immediately that everyone in that room would have to leave.

“OUT!” He bellowed, whirling upon them. “All of you OUT!”

They hurried to obey, door slamming at their departure.

Lavellan bucked against the thrown cot, swearing in garbled Dalish as his weapon clattered, whatever adrenaline had willed his muscles to grip now absent.

“I'm going to need to take a look at your arm.” Dorian said slowly, not yet approaching. “Will you allow me, my dear Herald?”

He was briefly sized up but soon offered a nod and Dorian was permitted to close the space between them. First he righted the cot, gently guiding Lavellan to relax upon it. All the while he was stiff as tree-bark, despite yielding to hands that steadied him.

“...You know...” He decided to mention, thinking it might help. “Those men in the future- they were enthralled, influenced by the Venatori...”

“I do not care.” Lavellan answered solidly, glowering at the floor.

“...You've never been through any sort of torture before, have you?”

To this no reply was given- which said enough. It occurred to Dorian that as intimidating and firm as the Herald might appear, he'd probably lived an uneventful, idyllic life before coming into his namesake. That would fit in with what little of his upbringing he'd shared previously.

The poor fool was likely terrorised out of his wits. It was miraculous that he could speak in full sentences at all, or could come to such simplistic reasoning as 'Blood Mage saved me, therefore safe'.

A testament to how hardy he was under all that blood and matted hair, Dorian thought. Discarding such admiration for now, he honed in on the Herald's injuries. Asides from his anchor-bearing arm, he seemed only scraped and bruised- if not awfully malnourished.

“Alright, just hold still...” He cooed, unwinding bandages from the mutilated limb. “I'll try to be gentle...”

Muscles flinched but didn't recoil, Lavellan remaining in stony quiet. With the wrappings cast aside Dorian was able to properly inspect the damage; flesh terribly scarred, covered in stitches, marred by old stitches that had been removed, then replaced anew. Incisions on top of incisions on top of incisions, malformed dents and whirls creating a mess that barely resembled a shoulder-blade anymore.

It occurred to Dorian with some dismay and horror that they'd simply begun yanking out muscles and ligaments when nothing else bore fruit. It was no wonder Lavellan could hardly move his arm- it was a wonder he could at all, let alone to threaten healers with a magical blade.

“...You're actually missing pieces of your arm and shoulder, I assume you're aware?”

Lavellan merely issued a grunt.

“...Alright, well, just sit tight.”

Turning away from his patient, Dorian perused what alchemical resources had been unharmed by the minor Dalish rampage. A well-mixed regenerative potion could regrow the vacant flesh overtime, though his arm would never work as well as it used to. With some of Dorian's own abilities to manipulate the process, there would be a better chance at adequate recovery- and a speedier one, which he imagined was important.

He began picking out chemicals and mingling them together, explaining as he did;

“...I'm mixing a potion for you. It should numb most of the pain and eventually mend some damage- but I must inform you, my Herald...the destruction is severe. The best I- or anyone can do...is to prevent you from being crippled entirely...”

He noted that Lavellan's mouth twitched- the mildest of spasms. Asides from that the elf said nothing and made no eye contact, his expression a wooden mask.

With a tired exhale Dorian sat before him, potion in one hand while the other raised, curling to poise against a ring he always wore.

“Do you trust me?” He inquired meaningfully, eyes pinning to the elf's face until he found it in himself to meet Dorian's gaze.

Mutely, Lavellan nodded.

“Then trust me when I say this is for your own good, and won't benefit me in anyway.” It would, in fact, only add to his weariness, after such a long day with nothing to 'eat'.

The Herald continued to view him in expectant silence.

Tugging at a concealed hinge, Dorian pulled it apart from his ring and swiped the blade along his fingers, red instantly oozing from the slit. An old trick he'd acquired if he ever needed to utilise blood and no one else's was handy. Today, his blood in specific was precisely what he required.

Lavellan did not cease his observation but nor did he react- merely watching.

Dorian proceeded to dribble his life-force into the potion, squeezing until minor injuries clotted. He then swirled the bottle, allowing his vital liquids to assimilate with other ingredients, until the contents were dyed pinkish.

“Drink up, Herald.” He held out the end result and was a little alarmed by how it was simply removed from his hand and sipped, barely afforded a second look.

“You need to drink the whole thing.” He directed.

“It tastes metallic.” Lavellan pointed out, flat.

“Well, yes,” Dorian snorted. “That's because there's blood in it.”

Shrugging with his able shoulder, Lavellan gulped down the rest, wincing slightly at what had to be a peculiar and sharp taste.

“It should stop hurting so much soon- and you might start feeling more relaxed.”

Though his chin bobbed in acknowledgement, still the elf had nothing to add.

“Well...let's have them bring a tub in here, hrm? I'm sure you'd like to attend to your hygiene, after being stuck in a kennel for Maker-knows how long.”

Not waiting for a verbal response- there had been few thus far- he strode off to the exit and was thankful to spot that same servant, idling for any sort of command.

“Have a tub filled and brought here, will you? Just because we're in Ferelden doesn't mean he should go about smelling of dog- and have one filled for me too! Elsewhere, wherever.”

When he turned back towards the room, Lavellan was regarding him strangely.

“...Something the matter?”

“You are leaving?” The elf mumbled, the strangeness of his gaze increasing.

“Well- for a few moments...we both need a bath- and you're already caked in enough dirt for two.”

Lavellan appeared to battle with something internally, shoulders hunching, teeth gnawing a lip.

Eventually, he found his voice- as small as it was.

“I do not trust the people here.”

“I...” Dorian faltered, not predicting this. “Well, they're your people, my Herald...”

“Are they?” He mumbled sourly, withdrawing further into himself.

“...Alright, wait just a moment-” Sticking his head passed the door-frame, Dorian called. “Lunis! Where in the void did you-”

Feet scampered by, the loyal wolf almost shoving him aside in its haste to enter and pounce upon its master, who snorted with a hint of cheer, embracing the overgrown pup to his chest.

“There you go! See, Lunis will look after you.”

The creature snarled in agreement, wriggling merrily in Lavellan's grasp.

“Very well...” He said into Lunis' fur, very quietly. “...You may go.”

“Why, thank you so much for the permission!” Dorian chuckled, rolling his eyes as he departed to locate wherever his own tub was being prepared.

On his way he felt Desire glaring at him as they walked- and needn't wonder why.

“Yes, yes, I'm being terribly decent- I know you can't stand it.” He huffed, trying to dismiss his shadow. “But he's just so...pathetic right now. It's not especially attractive!”

Desire glared harder.

“I know it's attractive to you- but that's because there's something wrong with you- more than usual!”

Waving the demon off, he tried to ignore how several bystanders were oddly spectating what appeared to be signs of madness.

Washing up swiftly, Dorian meandered to the kitchens, searching for anything that might sustain him in the meantime- blood, bits of fresh meat, anything. He did manage to come about a few scraps and was then prepared to watch over Lavellan.

He was surprised to catch sounds of laughter on his approach- subdued as they were. Sauntering into the room he found Lavellan sitting in a tub- with the bloody dog, of course! Southerners and their bloody dogs! Dorian was beginning to regret and resent his own gift, watching as a nude Herald covered the beast in suds and cackled as it flailed about, spraying bubbles everywhere.

“...You know, the whole point of the bath was for you to smell less of dog...”

Lavellan blinked at that, Lunis panting contently alongside.

“What is wrong with the smell of dog...?”

“...You're certainly Ferelden, I'll give you that.” Eye-rolling along with his snark, he picked a towel that had been laid out with a fresh set of clothes, waving it to gain the Herald's attention. Obliging him, Lavellan clambered out and stumbled into the fabric, allowing Dorian to fold it around his wet frame.

He couldn't help but notice that even in his tumultuous state, the elf's body-heat sky-rocketed at any brief touch. Leashing himself was a trial- fairly sure that if his hand or mouth happened to slip, Lavellan would be more than receptive to the comfort.

Which was exactly the problem- he couldn't have recovered much of his sense yet. Dorian found he loathed the idea of adding more stimulation to what had to be frazzled, overworked nerves.

They should at least get one nights rest before he started thinking of anything like that...

“Here...” He said awkwardly, patting through the towel. “Do you need help getting dressed?”

“I think I can manage.” Cheeks blushed, the elf slipped passed to reach his clothes and Dorian faced the sodden wolf, submerged happily in soapy water.

“...I'm not drying you,” He pouted, still juggling his resentment. “The bath wasn't meant for you anyway!”

With a mournful howl Lunis leapt from the tub, scrambling to brush soaked fur onto Dorian's robes.

“What?! Stop that! Bad dog!!” He near-wailed, feeling truly assaulted while stumbling around the room, wolf at his heels and Lavellan snickering.

“Now we all smell of dog, so there is no reason to complain.” He quipped, voice muffled by the shirt he was wrestling onto his torso.

“Ugh!” Completely disagreeable, Dorian stormed for the other end of the room and flopped onto a mattress.

Soon Lavellan climbed onto the one opposite, accompanied by trotting paw-pads. Lunis hopped onto his same cot, curling against the Herald's chest, who appeared soothed by utilising the beast as a large, rumbling pillow.

Dorian again underwent a pang of envy- then annoyance, as he considered how ludicrous it was that he now longed for the placement of a dog.

He imagined Desire echoed the sentiment; his last memory before slumber was of a dark silhouette perched by the Herald's bed, staring intently.

4 notes · View notes

sweetscentences · 5 years

Text

Small Changes: Chapter 3

On AO3 here. Thanks for being patient with me formatting this for tumblr <3

The sun set, and Rosinante was getting worried. Law hadn’t come back yet. Rosinante knew that Law could handle himself, knew he told him to take as long as he needed. But an old paranoia was creeping up on Rosinante. It didn’t help that this was the longest he’d been separated from Law in over half a year.

Garp dragged him down to the docks to watch the sunset when Rosinante’s anxiety started to grate on him. But the sun finished sinking below the horizon, and there wasn’t any sign of Law. Rosinante gnawed, absentmindedly, on one of his nails.

Garp smacked his hand from his mouth and hauled him to his feet. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Rosinante asked, but followed after Garp.

“My grandsons stay with me when I visit. We’re going to go grab them.” There was an uncharacteristically soft smile on Garp’s face. “Besides, they know those woods better than anyone. Maybe they’ve seen your brat.”

Rosinante wasn’t sure if he would describe Law as any sort of brat, let alone his. He mellowed out while they traveled together- partly because he was dying, partly because he had someone to care about. But even when he first joined the Donquixote Pirates Rosinante would have described him as a homicidal little shit before he called him a brat.

He didn’t bother nitpicking though. Garp considered anyone younger than him a brat, and Rosinante…

Lying was his livelihood. Sometimes, it came easier than breathing. But calling Law his son was the easiest lie he ever told.

The best lies were the ones a person desperately wanted to be true.

Garp lead them through the forest confidently, even though they quickly deviated from the path. Before too long, they arrived at the base of a massive tree. A treehouse the size of a small cottage was braced in its branches, and the sound of young voices floated down from it.

Young voices cursing. In Northern. Garp shot Rosinante a look.

“What are they saying?” he asked, just as Law’s voice reached them. He was slowly working through the pronunciation of a particularly graphic threat involving ice picks and vital organs.

Rosinante heard it many times after he dragged Law away from the Donquixote Pirates. Back then, Law actually following through wasn’t out of the question.

Rosinante thought it best not to share that much. “Nothing good,” he said simply.

Garp looked like he might press for more information, when loud laughter from above them distracted him. Garp’s soft smile turned into something sharp.

“You brats!” he bellowed. Silence fell immediately, and three boys poked their heads out of the treehouse’s window. There was a mix of horror and excitement on their young faces.

“Hi Gramps!” the smallest one, with a straw hat balanced on his head, called cheerfully. Rosinante had seen that hat before, on wanted posters. Which meant this must be Luffy- Garp’s grandson who had been charmed by Red-Haired Shanks.

“Hey Gramps,” the only blonde of the group said with a wave. Garp regaled Rosinante with enough stories about his boys that evening for him to know this was Sabo- a street rat from the other side of the island who often served as a ringleader in the boys’ schemes.

Which meant the last boy, grinning sharply down at them, had to be Portgas D. Ace. Rosinante wasn’t sure how Garp handled two boys who inherited the will of D. He barely managed with one.

Then Rosinante remembered Garp was a D. himself. No wonder he wore Sengoku out so easily.

“Hey. Gramps.” Ace’s voice was more a challenge than a greeting. “Go fuck yourself.”

Rosinante fought the urge to choke on his own tongue. Garp’s face went red. Even if he couldn’t understand the words, Ace’s tone and smug grin were painfully clear.

Rosinante was distracted from Garp starting a tirade by a figure making their way down the treehouse’s ladder.

It seemed Luffy noticed the same thing. “Be careful, Torao!”

Rosinante’s hands twitched with the effort of keeping them by his sides. Law wouldn’t appreciate Rosinante stepping up to help him. Wouldn’t appreciate being coddled, even if Rosinante could see his legs shaking. But he wasn’t going to grab Law, not when he didn’t know if his touch would be welcome.

When he didn’t know if his presence would be welcome.

A few agonizing minutes later, Law was on solid ground and staring up at Rosinante. He scratched a faded pale patch on one of his arms- the only nervous tic Rosinante ever saw from him.

Neither of them knew what to say.

Law settled on saying nothing at all, instead taking a deep breath and opening his arms to Rosinante. He didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees and pulling Law into a fierce hug. Law’s arms wound around his neck, and his head tucked against the hollow of Rosinante’s throat.

Law trembled slightly, but Rosinante didn’t acknowledge it. His hands were shaking too, after all.

There were so many ways he could have lost Law. To Doflamingo. To the Amber Lead. To the fact that he was a Marine.

(There were so many ways he could still lose Law.)

“I knew for awhile,” Law admitted, his voice muffled by Rosinante’s shirt and the rounded shape of Northern. Garp somehow made his way into the treehouse to give them space, but Rosinante taught Law to be wary of prying ears. “I knew back on Minion. But I wanted to pretend I didn’t.”

“I wanted to pretend too,” Rosinante said, holding Law a bit tighter. The fact that Law allowed it, that he squeezed Rosinante back, told Rosinante more than words could.

“There are things I need to tell you,” he said. “About how I grew up. About being a Marine.” He hoped, desperately, that his birth as a noble wouldn’t be what drove Law away from him. He felt Law tense in his arms, and ran a careful hand up and down his back.

“Nothing like that,” he promised. “Never anything like that.”

For all that Rosinante had done for the Navy, lying and killing alike, there was never anything comparable to Flevance. He would die before aiding a genocide. Would die before killing children.

Law relaxed again with a shaky exhale. Nodded. His arms loosened a bit, and Rosinante took that as his cue to let go. Law stepped out of his arms, but didn’t go far.

“I meant to come back sooner,” he said. “I got distracted.”

Rosinante shook his head. “I told you to take as long as you needed.” He smiled at the treehouse, where Garp was herding his grandsons down the ladder, keeping a tight grip on Luffy. “It looks like you made some friends.”

Law shrugged and scratched his arm again. “They’re weird, but funny. Luffy ate a Devil Fruit too.”

“Oh.” Rosinante sat back and watched Garp try to corral his other two grandsons as Luffy wrapped strangely long arms around his neck. That explained some of Garp’s worry over the boys, as well as his resentment of Shanks. A Devil Fruit wasn’t likely to end up in a village as small as Foosha without a pirate’s involvement.

Garp successfully caught Ace and Sabo in something that looked half like a hug and half like a wrestling move. He straightened out and marched towards Rosinante as the boys resigned themselves to their fates and slouched against his chest.

“Let’s head back into town. Something tells me the boys haven’t eaten yet.”

Apparently food was the magic word with Garp’s grandsons, who burst into an intimidating round of cheers. Law shot Rosinante a helplessly confused look. Rosinante couldn’t help but throw his head back and laugh.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Law took hearing about Rosinante’s past better than he hoped. He half expected his childhood as a noble to be the final straw for Law. Instead, Law told him he couldn’t help where he was born, and that he didn’t act like a ‘complete bastard,’ so it didn’t matter.

They both knew it mattered.

Law traced the scars on Rosinante’s hands and arms with careful fingers and burning eyes. Rosinante wouldn’t be able to tell him they hadn’t hurt. Law understood the body far too well to believe that. Rosinante resolved, then, to never tell Law about his knees. Law would worry over them, over him, far too much. But there wouldn’t be anything he could do. Every doctor Sengoku took Rosinante to said the same thing: they healed wrong when he was too young, and his body developed around the mangled parts. Any surgery would be more risk than it was worth.

It wasn’t so bad, in the temperate East Blue. They didn’t ache or lock up the way they did in the Northern cold.

After a few minutes of cataloguing the wounds on Rosinante’s arms and grinding his teeth, Law softened.

“That language you whisper in sometimes,” he said. “What is it?”

Rosinante was surprised Law noticed. He either had incredibly sharp ears, or he wasn’t asleep half the times Rosinante thought he was.

Sadly, Rosinante was certain it was the latter.

“It’s the language of Marie Geoise,” Rosinante sighed. “The language of my family.”

All his family but Senoku, that was. Sengoku and now Law.

“Even Doflamingo?”

Rosinante tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Even Doffy.”

Law stared down at his lap. His hands squeezed Rosinante’s.

“Will you teach it to me?”

Rosinante’s eyes widened. An old taboo stole the breath from his lungs.

To the Celestial Dragons, teaching a commoner the Holy Tongue would have been the greatest sacrilege. A betrayal like no other. One so severe that even Rosinante’s parents never did it.

But Rosinante hadn’t been a Celestial Dragon in a very long time.

“I’d be happy to,” he breathed.

Law released his hand, only to shuffle closer and lean against his side. He even let Rosinante wrap an arm around him.

After that, Law took the news of Sengoku’s visit significantly worse.

He shut down, briefly, his breath catching and his hands curling into fists. He didn’t look up at Rosinante when he told him he needed to leave. Told him that Luffy and his brothers invited him to go fishing, and that he would be back after sundown.

It seemed he was trying to handle his anger, his grief, without lashing out. Rosinante wouldn’t stop him. Instead, he did his best to stay busy around Makino’s bar on the off chance that Law came back early and needed him.

It was a bit before midnight when Law returned, creeping into their room and pressing himself wordlessly against Rosinante’s side.

For awhile, the only sounds were the rumbling chatter of the bar below and the cricket song from outside.

After a few minutes, Law spoke. “He’s the Fleet Admiral.”

“He didn’t know.”

“How?” Law snarled, an old, familiar anger sharpening his voice. “How could the Fleet Admiral not know?”

“Because the government is corrupt and cruel,” Rosinante said. It wouldn’t be good to lie to Law here. Not again. Not about this. “There are people in power who know what Sengoku would never approve of, so they do it behind his back. They do it, and they burn records, and send bribes so he doesn’t find out.”

Few people knew how little Sengoku actually controlled. So much of what he did was standing as a figure-head.

Law made a pained sound. Covered his face with his hands and ducked his head to his chest. Rosinante pressed on anyway.

“I spoke to Garp about it. Sengoku tried to run an internal investigation, but with the ruling family dead there was no one to fund it. Not that they ever would have.”

He took a shaking breath. Reminded himself that not knowing would only hurt Law more.

“There were only a few, vague records left. As far as Sengoku could tell, all the others were burned.”

That, it seemed, was too much for Law. He started sobbing, curling in on himself and Rosinante’s side as Rosinante dragged him into his lap and against his chest.

“So that’s all it took?” Law hiccuped, one of his hands twisting to grab Rosinante’s shirt. Anchoring himself against Rosinante. “A few burnt papers and it- it never happened?! We never happened?!”

He made a sound like a dying animal, pressing his face against Rosinante’s chest and quickly soaking his shirt with tears.

Rosinante didn’t try to hush him, didn’t offer any meaningless platitudes. Law would never accept them, in the same way he would never accept pity.

“It happened. Nothing can change that,” Rosinante growled, fighting to keep his voice steady. He was angry, so soul-burningly angry about what Law was forced to endure.

It was the same anger he wielded as a weapon, when he wasn’t much older than Law. The same anger that drove him to burn the hospitals that turned Law away, that made Law cry.

The anger he wished he didn’t have. The anger he shared with Doflamingo.

“The people who did it will be punished. In this life or the next.”

Rosinante didn’t believe in fate as an unknowable, intangible force. He believed in fate as something that was made, something resting in a person’s hands. Something that depended on the strength of a person’s will.

Law was the most strong-willed person he’d ever met.

“What if I don’t believe in another life?” Law asked, breathless and horrible.

This was dangerous territory, Rosinante knew. But he promised himself he wouldn’t lie to Law again.

“Then we work to see them punished in this one.”

Law stilled for a moment. Took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I won’t ever be a Marine,” he said.

Rosinante ran a hand through Law’s wild hair. He didn’t take his hat when he left that morning.

“I wouldn’t ever ask you to be one,” Rosinante told him. He meant it too.

He knew Sengoku would want Law to join the Marines. Rosinante would make sure he never brought it up in front of Law.

Sengoku wouldn’t like it. He would think Rosinante was encouraging Law to be a pirate through inaction. But Rosinante didn’t think he was being that passive. Law would be whatever he wanted to be. Rosinante would watch over him as long as he wanted it.

Sengoku would just have to make peace with his grandson being a pirate.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rosinante sent Law off to Ace, Sabo, and Luffy’s treehouse the moment he spotted Sengoku’s ship on the horizon. (Apparently Law had been sparring with the boys. They showed their bruises off to Rosinante and Garp proudly. Law was a far gentler teacher than his were.) Law didn’t hesitate or complain, he only grabbed his hat, gave Rosinante a quick hug, and waved to Makino as he swept out of the bar. He wasn’t comfortable being around Navy ships. Wasn’t even comfortable seeing them.

Rosinante watched the ship approach from his window over Makino’s bar. When it docked in the harbor, he slipped out of the bar’s back door and into the woods, silencing himself as he went.

He trusted Sengoku, and he trusted Garp, but he didn’t trust the men Sengoku would be bringing. Not implicitly.

Not again.

He settled himself down on a fallen log and braced his head in his hands. His Observation Haki was good enough to cover the village and the nearby coast. He could recognize Law, a bright spot a few miles away, moving with Garp’s boys. Sengoku and Garp were forceful presences, making their way through the town to the woods. Closer and closer to Rosinante.

It was only a few minutes before Rosinante heard their voices.

“If this were anyone but you, I would be suspicious, Garp,” Sengoku said, his voice tense. The sound of it made a pit grow in Rosinante’s stomach.

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Garp laughed.

“It’s simply a fact. You don’t have a scheming bone in your body,” Sengoku told him. “It’s a wonder where your son came from.”

With that they walked into a clearing, and Rosinante’s line of sight.

Sengoku looked tired. He had clearly lost weight, and there were bruise-dark shadows under his steely eyes. Rosinante never thought of him as an aging man. He held himself too proudly for that. But now his features were haggard and worn- grief etched into every line of his face Rosinante never noticed before. Garp held up a hand to stop him, and he nearly stumbled.

Rosinante ignored the way his hands shook. Ignored the way his stomach rolled. Ignored the horrible, choking lump in his throat. He let his bubble of silence grow to cover the clearing.

“Garp, what are you-“

Sengoku’s eyes landed on Rosinante.

His mouth dropped open.

Rosinante was up and crossing the clearing before either of them could blink, dragging Sengoku into a smothering hug.

“I’m sorry,” Rosinante said, and Sengoku’s arms snapped around him like a vice.

Sengoku held him bruisingly tight. It sent twinges of pain through Rosinante’s still healing wounds, made his ribs ache. He didn’t care. Sengoku had thought he was dead, and now he was crying against Rosinante’s shoulder.

Rosinante had never seen him cry before.

“How?” Sengoku asked, his voice shaking as much as his body.

“I don’t know,” Rosinante told him, just shy of hysterical. “I thought- I knew I was…” he took a deep, heaving breath. Pushed the thought of dying out of his mind. “Law saved me. I don’t know how.”

He knew, generally, that Law saved his life using his Devil Fruit, but he still refused to share any details. Just like he refused to tell Rosinante how he healed himself.

Law told him about Flevance. He wouldn’t say anything about this.

Rosinante wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If it was bad enough for Law to keep it from him, he didn’t know if he could stomach it.

“Doffy has spies in the Marines,” Rosinante said, before Sengoku could press about Law. There would be time for that later. He pulled back just enough to look Sengoku in the eye, but didn’t let go of him. “I don’t know how many, but at least one is a Lieutenant called Vergo.”

Sengoku’s teary eyes hardened. “Vergo? You’re certain?”

Rosinante wasn’t going to tell Sengoku any details. Wasn’t going to tell him how he was beaten. How many times he was shot. Wasn’t going to tell him how certain he was of his own death.

Instead he said, “he’s Doffy’s man through and through.”

“He’s been following me around lately, insisting on ‘supporting me through my grief’,” Sengoku snarled. Rosinante’s blood ran cold.

Sengoku saw the fear in his eyes and softened. One of his hands came up to cradle the back of Rosinante’s neck- a familiar gesture from a time that Sengoku’s hands dwarfed his.

“I haven’t let him anywhere near me,” Sengoku promised, and Rosinante could breathe again.

“He’s probably waiting to see if I’ll get in contact with you,” he said. “...Which means Doffy isn’t sure I’m dead.”

That was a terrifying thought.

Rosinante knew it would happen sooner or later. Knew that Doflamingo wouldn’t be able to write off his disappearing corpse as the work of wild animals for long. He was too paranoid for that.

But still, imagining Doflamingo tearing through North Blue looking for him, looking for Law, leaving his dog to follow at Sengoku’s heels…

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Rosinante said.

Sengoku laughed- a sharp, waterlogged sound. He cradled Rosinante’s face in his shaking, calloused hands. “You? I’m the one whose son has come back from the dead.”

Rosinante made a noise embarrassingly close to a sob. “I never meant for you to think I was dead,” he promised. “But it wasn’t safe to contact you. I needed-“

“You were looking out for more than just yourself,” Sengoku cut him off, idly brushing a tear from Rosinante’s cheek. “You were looking out for that boy. The one with the Amber Lead.”

“He doesn’t have it anymore,” Rosinante said, finally stepping out of Sengoku’s hold.

“The Devil Fruit?” Sengoku asked, his expression serious.

Rosinante nodded, trying not to tense too much. This would be the moment that decided if he would go back to the Marines, or be forced to run from two powers.

He didn’t want to lose a father again. But he would do it, he would walk away, if it meant saving Law’s life.

Sengoku sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He ground his teeth. Rosinante held his breath.

“We could spin it in Rosinante’s favor.”

Garp’s voice was an unexpected shock. Rosinante had half-forgotten he was there. Sengoku had too, if his widening eyes were any indication.

“What do you mean?” Sengoku asked, unexpectedly eager. The fact that he was entertaining the idea at all...

“The Donquixote Pirates stole the Devil Fruit,” Garp said, spreading his hands. “How could we know which member did it? Commander Rosinante had reason to believe he was compromised, so he escaped and took the kid and the Devil Fruit with him.”

None of it was even really a lie- Garp simply moved some things out of order. It could work, Rosinante realized, if people didn’t dig too deeply. There was only one problem.

“How do we explain the boy eating the Devil Fruit?” Sengoku asked, frowning the way he always did when he was deep in thought.

Garp grinned. “An accident!” he laughed. “The brat was too sick to realize what he was eating.”

Rosinante’s eye twitched.

Sengoku glowered at Garp. “Who would believe someone ate a Devil Fruit by accident?”

“My grandson did it,” Garp said with a shrug.

“Is your grandson an idiot?” Sengoku snapped. Rosinante burst out laughing as Garp’s face reddened.

“It could work,” he said, before Garp could start a fight. He didn’t think Foosha Village could survive one of Sengoku and Garp’s brawls. “Late stage Amber Lead poisoning can cause hallucinations. Who could know that it didn’t for Law?”

It was hard to mention that fact so casually. There was more than one time Law tugged at Rosinante, asking him to describe the world around them so he could be sure the poisoning hadn’t reached his brain. His mind was all he had, towards the end. He was so afraid of losing it.

Garp grinned, triumphantly spreading his hands. “There we go! An easy solution.”

Sengoku closed his eyes in a lightly pained expression. Rosinante chewed on his lower lip.

“I wonder if we even need to say that much,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Sengoku asked, his voice stern.

He was speaking as the Fleet Admiral, then. Not as Rosinante’s father.

Rosinante straightened up. “I took a sick child and a Devil Fruit away from the Donquixote Pirates. I was caught, and in that confrontation the Devil Fruit was lost. What more do I need to say?”

He didn’t want the Navy focused on Law. He didn’t want anyone in power focused on Law. It wouldn’t lead to anything good.

If it came out that Law was a survivor of Flevance…

(A memory came to Rosinante’s mind of the Ohara incident. Of a little girl’s face on wanted posters.)

“Does anyone but you know that Law had Amber Lead specifically?” he asked Sengoku.

Sengoku’s shoulders slouched. “I doubt it,” he said, dropping the authority in his voice. “Piecing together the boy’s origin was… difficult, to say the least. It’s unlikely anyone will investigate him to the degree I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought he might be the answer to what happened to you.”

Rosinante’s mouth went dry. His heart stuttered.

Sengoku smiled thinly. “If nothing else, it seems I was right about that,” he said. “I never recorded anything I found about the boy. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Sengoku closed his eyes and took a deep breath, grounding himself the way he taught Rosinante to.

“Could he keep up a lie you told him under scrutiny?” Sengoku asked.

Rosinante’s mind came to a screeching halt. He could barely believe Sengoku was considering this. That he was planning for it. Rosinante did his best to gather himself, and focus on the matter at hand.

“Easily,” he told Sengoku.

He decided to leave out the fact that Law would take any opportunity he could to spit in the government’s face. Lying would be nothing for him.

“What’s the plan, then?” Garp asked, a rarely heard seriousness in his voice.

“We’ll deal with Vergo first,” Sengoku said with a nod. “We’ll try to bring any other spies down with him. We can spin Rosinante not checking in as intentional rather than him going AWOL. The boy…” he trailed off with a sigh. “We’ll work the boy into it.”

“Law won’t go into Marine custody.” Rosinante decided now was as good a time as ever to bring that up.

“Why not?” Sengoku asked, his voice sharp. That commanding bark never intimidated Rosinante as much as it did Sengoku’s troops.

(Maybe it was because none of them ever found Sengoku sprawled out on their living room floor, singing nonsense songs to his pet goat as he fed her treats. That kind of thing softened one’s image of a man.)

“Flevance,” Rosinante said simply. “It’s a minor miracle that Law forgave me for telling him I wasn’t a Marine. Another miracle that he agreed to be civil with you.”

“Civil?” Sengoku asked.

Garp cut in. “Means the kid won’t pull a knife on you.”

Sengoku stared Garp down. “Did he pull one on you?”

“Nah,” Garp said. “Only ‘cause he didn’t have a knife to pull. But your kid gave him one the other day.”

Sengoku shot Rosinante a look. He raised his hands in defense. “I’m not leaving him unarmed when Doffy’s after him.”

“How many years has Doflamingo spent grooming him?” Sengoku asked, and Rosinante grit his teeth. “How sure are you that he won’t go back to him?”

“I’m very sure,” Rosinante hissed, his voice hard as he rolled his shoulders back and straightened up.

(Like a cobra rising to strike, Doflamingo laughed, once.)

He might not have been certain a few months ago, but any good will, any tolerance Law had for Doflamingo died when he shot Rosinante. He was probably higher than the average Marine on Law’s shit list, at this point.

Sengoku had never quite figured out how to deal with Rosinante when he was angry.

“I didn’t mean to… doubt either of you,” he said. The lie was so bad he flinched as he said it.

But Rosinante recognized the intention, and forced himself to let it go. “Just… just don’t say anything like that around Law.”

“I won’t.”

Garp grinned. “This is going to be a disaster, isn’t it?”

Rosinante sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to admit out loud that Garp was certainly right.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Garp was mostly right.

Predictably, Sengoku had no idea how to act around Law.

Even more predictably, Law hated Sengoku on principle.

Rosinante was sure the only reason he didn’t bolt or try to attack Sengoku was because he attached himself to Rosinante’s side. He was intent on keeping his promise to be civil. Rosinante wouldn’t admit it out loud, Law would smack him if he did, but it was painfully endearing.

To Rosinante, at least. Sengoku looked just as ready to run as Law did.

The meeting was agonizingly awkward and stilted. Thankfully, Garp brought Luffy to ease some of the tension. He was currently chatting Sengoku’s ear off in barely passable Grand, telling him a story about almost being eaten by crocodiles.

Rosinante hoped it was just a story, but considering the alarmingly proud look on Garp’s face, it wasn’t.

Luffy was simultaneously providing a distraction for Law, having offered Law his hand when everyone settled in Makino’s closed bar. Law was carefully experimenting with seeing how far he could stretch Luffy’s fingers, and trying to feel the rubbery bones beneath the skin. He was clearly having a wonderful time with it, if the grin crawling across his face was any indication.

The light in his eyes visibly unsettled Garp and Sengoku. Rosinante knew Law noticed this, and was fairly sure he was playing it up.

“Luffy-ya, do you bleed?” he asked. Sengoku looked at him sharply. Luffy barely paused in his storytelling.

“Just if I get cut!” he chirped, before launching into another story of almost getting eaten- this time by a large wildcat.

Law only hummed, stretching Luffy’s skin and holding it up to the light to see the veins running below the surface.

Rosinante leaned down and whispered to Law in Flevean, “don’t be creepy on purpose.”

“It’s not on purpose. I’m just curious,” Law said, which was a weak defense, seeing as he stared Sengoku down every time he asked Luffy a strange question.

Rosinante raised an eyebrow at him. Law caved, and heaved the most put-upon sigh Rosinante ever heard.

“Hey, old man,” he called to Sengoku, which was hardly polite but definitely better than however Law was thinking of him. Sengoku’s eye twitched a bit at the disrespect, but thankfully he didn’t say anything about it.

“You raised Cora, right?” Law asked.

If Sengoku was confused by the name, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded. “I took him in when he was young.”

Law stared at him for an uncomfortably long minute. Even Luffy fell silent to watch.

“Then thanks,” Law said.

Rosinante wouldn’t have been able to stop his smile if he tried.

“I should thank you as well,” Sengoku told him, his lips twitching. “It’s my understanding that you saved his life.”

Law nodded, shifting in a way that made it clear he was uncomfortable. Not with the praise, Rosinante knew, but with the reminder.

“I’m a doctor,” he said, simply, and went back to playing with Luffy’s hand.

Rosinante shot Sengoku an approving look, both to thank him and to keep from pushing his luck. Luffy helped that as well, poking at Sengoku and asking him if he’d ever seen a Sea King. Garp took over answering that, tugging Luffy out of Sengoku’s personal space before he could start climbing on him.

“Are you doing alright?” Rosinante asked Law.

Law shrugged. “I don't like this. Or him. But I get to kill two birds with one stone.”

Rosinante did not get a chance to ask what, exactly, Law meant by that.

“Luffy-ya,” he called, waiting till he had the other boy, and everyone else’s, attention. “Does this hurt?”

He brutally bent one of Luffy’s fingers until it touched the back of his hand.

“No,” Luffy said, oblivious to the horrified adults around him. “Should it?”

“Yes.” Law smiled, all bared teeth. “Do your bones break?”

“I don’t think so,” Luffy shrugged. Law lit up.

Before anyone could stop him, Law braced Luffy’s arm and twisted his hand completely around. It was a clear, practiced movement that would break any other person’s wrist. Luffy laughed.

“Can you move your fingers?” Law asked, briefly meeting Sengoku’s horrified stare.

“Yup!” Luffy chirping, obligingly wiggling each one.

“That’s fascinating,” Law muttered. Luffy grinned at him, as if he understood the compliment. It absolutely was a compliment, coming from Law.

Law pinned Luffy’s wrist down and continued twisting it, like he was turning a corkscrew. Luffy went back to his conversation with Garp.

Rosinante looked at Sengoku. He was staring at Law, one eye twitching, with a concentration similar to when he was putting together a puzzle.

A slightly disturbing puzzle, in this case.

“Cora, do you have a notebook?” Law asked, finally letting Luffy go and watching his wrist spin back into place with an almost manic fascination. His fingers twitched lightly.

Rosinante knew all about Law’s hobby of small animal dissection. If it were anyone else Rosinante would find it unpleasant, but Law got so excited when he talked about veins, and nerves, and the way tendons strung a body together. It was a good thing Law had enough manners not to ask if he could cut Luffy open. Rosinante wasn’t sure Luffy was sensible enough to refuse.

There was a small notebook and a pen in Rosinante’s pocket. He pulled them out and handed them to Law, who started writing frantic notes.

“Is this… normal? For him?” Sengoku asked, watching Law write.

Rosinante wished he could tell him it wasn’t.

“Pretty much.”

It was better not to tell Sengoku this display was tame by Law’s standards.

But Law’s curiosity was satisfied. Sengoku was deeply unnerved. Two birds with one stone indeed.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The boy is certainly… unsettling,” Sengoku said, staring up at the windows over Makino’s bar. Law went to bed hours ago, and Garp left with Luffy not long after. After that, Rosinante and Sengoku settled behind the bar, passing a flask of rum back and forth.

Rosinante looked at Sengoku, accepting the flask when he was offered it. He would wait to be offended. Sengoku might have a point beyond insulting Law.

He could almost see why some people thought Law was unsettling, but he didn’t agree. Law was too easily flustered, too easily riled. Too fascinated by the most surprising things. Too genuine in his rage and his joy. Too small. Rosinante struggled to see him as anything other than endearing.

“But he’s your son.”

Rosinante struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. “I don’t think he sees me as a father. I don’t think he could.”

From what he told Rosinante, Law’s father was an incredible man. A man that Law loved and admired. A man he had, at one point, wanted to be like. It wasn’t Rosinante’s place to compare himself to him.

“It’s obvious that he loves you,” Sengoku said. He snatched the flask from Rosinante before he could knock the rest of the rum back in an impressive display of self-pity.

(He knew Rosinante’s habits well. Half the reason they ever drank together was so Sengoku could be sure he didn’t drink too much.)

“He does.” Rosinante meant to agree, but the fear crawling up his throat turned the words into a question.

Sengoku knew Rosinante well enough not to call it out. Instead he stood and grabbed Rosinante’s arms to haul him to his feet, and into a hug. Rosinante melted into the embrace. He clung to Sengoku like he did as a child. It was difficult, now that he was taller than Sengoku, but they managed.

“I have a week in Foosha,” Sengoku said, his voice rough and unsteady.

Rosinante swallowed a sob. Nodded against Sengoku’s shoulder.

“We can make a plan in that time.” Sengoku squeezed Rosinante sharply, then pulled back just enough to cup Rosinante’s face in his calloused hands. Tears ran tracks down his face, even as his lips curved up.

“You’re alive.”

Rosinante hiccupped. He tried to bite down the feeling rushing up his throat before he remembered this was Sengoku. This was his father. Rosinante sobbed. He clung to Sengoku and wailed, breaking down in a way he hadn’t since he was a child. Since the first time Sengoku made him feel safe.

It had been too much.

Everything with Doflamingo. Living when he should have died. Law drifting every day between death and life. It was too much.

It was all too much.

Sengoku was steady as ever, holding Rosinante upright. Running a hand over Rosinante’s back, a hand through his hair. Taking clear, long breaths that were easy to match. Easy to fall into rhythm with, even if Rosinante’s chest rattled as he did.

Sengoku didn’t try to soothe him. To hush him, or promise everything would be well. It would only set Rosinante off again if he tried. Instead, he held Rosinante close for as long as it took his grief to run dry. For as long as it took him to gather the pieces of himself together.

When he straightened up, his hands stayed- balled tightly in the fabric of Sengoku’s coat.

Sengoku was wearing a smile Rosinante had never seen- the smallest tilt to his lips, his eyes pained and warm all at once. Rosinante untangled his hands from Sengoku’s coat, squeezing his shoulders before letting his arms fall to his sides.

Sengoku reached up to wipe the last tears from Rosinante’s face.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. Rosinante could only nod and watch him leave, too choked up to speak.

Rosinante stood alone in the dark for a long time, breathing deeply and grounding himself as best as he could.

Once he felt he wasn’t about to start crying again, he slipped back inside. He made a bubble of silence around himself as he snuck into his and Law’s room. There was barely enough moonlight spilling in from the window for Rosinante to see where he was going. He used the small washbasin by his bedside to clean the makeup from his face.

He knew he should regret the tattoos. But instead he found, time and time again, that he didn’t. They were a reminder of something wonderful just as much as they were a reminder of something awful.

There was a rustling sound behind Rosinante. He turned to find Law sitting up in his bed.

“Cora?” he asked, his voice thick with exhaustion.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Rosinante said, stepping forward to ruffle Law’s hair.

He lazily slapped Rosinante’s hand away. “I was already awake. Mostly.”

Rosinante hoped Law would sleep better once he was cured, but he didn’t really expect it. Amber Lead was far from the only thing that plagued him.

“Insomnia again?”

Law didn’t answer. Instead he ducked his head, his clenched fists twisting the bedsheets.

“Law?” Rosinante prodded, kneeling by his bedside.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Cora,” Law snapped, so sharp that Rosinante flinched back.

“Wh-”

“You’re an idiot.” His voice was a hiss- sharp and cold. “You’re an idiot who’s so used to his Devil Fruit he can’t tell how damn loud his voice is.”

Rosinante’s mouth went dry. He took a shuddering breath.

He almost didn’t notice Law start to cry; his shoulders shaking, his small chest heaving.

“I already said we’re family, didn’t I?”

Rosinante’s body moved before his mind could catch up, opening his arms for Law to fall into.

“I’m sorry,” Rosinante breathed, as Law’s arms wound around his neck. “I’m sorry for not listening.”

“Just don’t do it again,” Law snarled, but the sound was softened by the way he clung to Rosinante.

He let himself relax into the hug. Let himself trust that Law wasn’t going anywhere. Wouldn’t be lost to him in the night- to sickness or to Doflamingo.

“I love you, Law.”

Law’s hold tightened.

Rosinante had a son.

#mine #halfway through yall!#small changes fic #this chapter is about 6.5k words #donquixote corazon #donquixote rosinante #donquixote rocinante #god what if i just started tagging him as clown man to save myself the trouble #one piece #one piece fic #trafalgar law #monkey d. garp #monkey d. luffy #sengoku #must a story have a 'plot'?#is it not enough to string together found family scenes in various locations?#because i think it is

23 notes · View notes

ishouldbewritingblog · 5 years

Text

In the Forest Nobody Can Hear Your Horse Getting Stolen

Fall had crept in early on the back of a bitter east wind. In the forest, the leaves were dying, turning red and gold as they fell; down to spread across the dark earth like a king’s mantle as the naked branches twisted upwards to caress the void.

Deep within the clutches of this forest was a clearing, floating like an island amidst the ocean of trees. A tall man on an enormous wild-eyed black horse rode into the clearing, leaving a trail of shattered leaves in his wake. Even though dusk would not fall for several more hours, above the treetops the pale sun was waning, and a chill had taken over the air.

The man swung down from the saddle and stretched the stiffness from his limbs, massaging the knots from his back with a dig of his knuckles. He stretched once more and tethered his horse to a low-hanging branch, before settling down on the hard ground with his back against an oak tree, wineskin in hand.

As he raised it to his lips, his attention was captured by a whisper of movement from overhead. There was no wind and it was too deliberately stifled to be a tree-dwelling creature like a squirrel. Something was up there, looking down, watching and trying not to be heard.

The man pretended to drink, and with his other hand reached for the dagger at his belt, listening intently. He slipped the danger into his hand and very quickly leapt to his feet, wineskin discarded, scanning the trees above. There was indeed a watcher, but it was only a small boy, no more than five or six years old, perched in the highest branches. He was frozen in place, staring down owlishly as his small fingers nestled among the bare twigs.

The man looked at him, bemused. ‘How did you get up there little man?’ he called up at last.

‘I climbed,’ the boy replied, his tone indicating this was an incredibly stupid question.

‘Alright then lad, who do you belong to?’

The boy frowned, his nose wrinkling comically, ‘My Mam says I’m not allowed to talk to strange folk.’

‘Where is your mam? She can’t have left you all alone in the forest.’

‘I’m waiting here until she gets back. She went to kill a bad man, but she’ll be back soon. It isn’t safe on the ground, there’s wolves and bandits and things that hide behind trees,’ the boy said seriously. He paused, apparently in deep thought, ‘you aren’t a bad man are you?’ asked, ‘only if you are, she might kill you too.’

‘Your man kills a lot of bad men then, does she?’ the man said, a note of humour in his voice.

The boy stared down at him, ‘yesss,’ he said finally, ‘but she says even though killing is wrong, it’s alright the way she does it, because there’s a lot more bad men than good in the world and someone needs to even things out.’

The man bent and scooped up the fallen wineskin. Quite a lot of it had spilled, but there was some left, so he tipped it to his lips and took a long draught. He looked back to the boy, really looking at him this time, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Now,’ he muttered half to himself, staring intently at the boy’s features, ‘where have I seen your face before…’ He locked eyes with the boy. ‘I think perhaps you should climb on down lad, and let me take a better look at you,’ he said firmly.

But the boy was no longer looking at him, his eyes had shifted to a point just over the man’s shoulder. The man tensed and began to turn, reaching again for his knife. But, as fast as he was, it wasn’t fast enough. A burst of pain flowered up across the back of his skull, and as his vision clouded over he slowly crumpled to his knees. How long the darkness kept him, he did not know, but after a time consciousness embraced him with a familiar voice.

‘What did I tell you about talking to people, Liam,’ it said sharply.

‘Sooorrrry mam,’ the boy said, ‘but he talked to me first.’

The man opened his eyes, the woman standing over him was short-to-middling height, with a wheat-coloured braid pinned up at the back of her head and a pair of grey eyes which sparkled with mistrust. She was also holding his dagger.

She was much leaner than the last time he had seen her. Her face had grown sharp and there was something new in her eyes, something he wasn’t sure he liked.

“Just because someone talks to you doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous,” she said to the boy in exasperated tones.

The man winced at the pain in his head. ‘I hear a bad man needs killing,’ he said conversationally, eyeing the blade in her hand.’

The woman looked down at him, ‘not anymore,’ she said curtly. His eyes were drawn inexorably, down to the fingers wrapped around the blade’s hilt. They were rough and calloused, with flecks of red still clinging here and there to the skin around the nails.

‘Untie me,’ he said, ‘I swear on my mother’s life to do you no harm,’ his eyes flicked towards the boy, ‘to either of you.’

‘I’m sure you have the most pure of intentions,’ she said sardonically, ‘but you’ll forgive me for showing a healthy amount of scepticism when it comes to the safety of my boy.’

‘But he isn’t your boy, now is he.’ The man grinned, ‘Shall we drop this charade of pretending not to recognise one another.’

The woman glared at him. ‘Liam,’ she said, ‘go and stand over there,’ she pointed at the other side of the clearing.

‘But,’ he started to say.

‘No buts, buts are for goats and you are not a goat. Now go but stay where I can see you.’

The boy gave an enormous sigh and plodded off.

‘It took me a moment,’ the man said, watching him go, ‘but I recognise the boy too. He has his father’s look about him. There are a lot of people looking for him. Dangerous people.’

‘They won’t find us,’ she said, ‘it’s been four years and he was only a baby when I took him.’

The man laughed, ‘but I found you.’

‘You did,’ she conceded, ‘but entirely by accident, and look at you now, trussed up like a chicken. You’ve lost your touch old man, you never even heard me creeping up on you.’ She prodded the wineskin with her toe. ‘The man I knew would never have let his guard down so foolishly.’

‘Next time you might not be so lucky. It might be an army instead of one tired man,’ he said, ‘and I may have gone to seed a bit, but I’m hardly old, you wound me.’

She shrugged, ‘if they find me, they find me. We all die one day, and I’d as soon do it fighting for something that matters than when I’m so ancient my wits have forsaken me.’

He laughed without humour, ‘That’s the kind of thing only the young and the foolish say. Besides, they won’t kill you if you give yourself up. Last I heard, you’re still far too valuable to be summarily executed, despite your treachery.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t be my life that would be forfeit, but my freedom and besides, it isn’t my life I’m worried about.’ She crossed her arms, ‘If I surrender, do you suppose they will let him live. They would cut his throat in front of me, and you know it. If it costs me my life to keep him safe, so be it.’

The man shifted against his bonds, ‘how easily you throw away everything your father built, and for what? For the blood of a man who would have been your family’s ruin. My brother was wrong about you, a pretty, empty-headed fool he called you.’ He looked at her again, as though seeing her properly for the first time and his mouth curved into a smile. ‘But that’s exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it. The rest of us spend our lives scheming, plotting and killing our way to the top of the dung-hill, but you were always playing a different sort of game.’

‘If I’m throwing away my future,’ the woman said, ‘then what are you doing. Your hair hasn’t been trimmed in weeks and your beard is decidedly unkempt. Your clothes have been mended more than once, and very poorly I might add. And, you’re riding alone. Tell me, what is a Lord-Commander without any men to command? If I had to hazard a guess, I would say I’m not the only one running away from something.’

Behind them, the horse, who up until now had been unconcernedly cropping the grass around it, began to shift nervously.

‘Liam,’ the woman called, ‘come back here. Now,’ a note of, not worry, but perhaps in the region of concern had entered her voice.

She turned back to the man, ‘If you say anything to him about any of this, I swear I will cut you from ear to ear and leave you for the crows.’.

Liam came bounding over, ‘you’ve been talking FOREVER,’ he said, ‘I’m bored and hungry and…’

‘We’re leaving now,’ she said, ‘something’s coming.’

The boy face crumpled up, ‘is it the wolves?’ he asked, ‘or the other things,’ the way he said other things, suggested that whatever they were, they were far worse than wolves.

She knelt down and looked him in the eyes, ‘you don’t need to worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll be long gone before they get here, and what do I always say?’

‘Nothing can hurt me when you’re there,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ she stood up and ruffled his hair. Her eyes turned to the man, and she began to walk towards him, knife in hand.

‘I thought you only killed bad men,’ he said.

She raised an eyebrow, ‘and you really think you aren’t one. Besides, my personal moral code regarding theft and larceny are slightly more ambiguous.’

She bent down and reached into his cloak, cutting away the purse he had concealed there. She tossed it from one hand to the other, ‘Thank you my lord, for your generous contribution, I’m sure your brother would be thrilled to know how you’re spending the family silver these days.’

She walked over to the horse. It snorted warily at her. Rearing up its front legs as she drew near.

‘He bites,’ the man said helpfully, ‘and he doesn’t care for strangers at all.’

The woman ignored to him. She spoke to the horse in a calm, low voice, and with one hand reached into her pocket and pulled something out. She held it out on an open palm. The horse sniffed wearily at it and then with more enthusiasm before it bent its head down and delicately nipped it up. She repeated the process, and at the same time, brought her other hand up and pressed it softly against the horse’s neck, running it carefully up and down its side, still talking in an even and reassuring tone. It shied a little at first, but apparently became accustomed to her voice and touch and settled.

‘Sugar cubes,’ the man said disbelievingly, ‘you’re on the run, miles from anywhere, and you have sugar cubes in your pocket!’

‘It makes horse stealing so much easier,’ the woman said, ‘maybe you should consider it.’

‘I have the strangest feeling I’ll be seeing you again before too long,’ the man said, watching as she hoisted the boy up onto the saddle and then vaulted on after him, ‘I look forward to have a little chat about how rude it is to accost and rob old friends.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ she said, ‘and at least I still won’t have to marry your odious brother.’ She gripped the reins, ‘I’m sure you’re resourceful enough to figure out how to free yourself before the wolves find you.’ And with that they were away, galloping out of the clearing and into the forest.

The king’s brother watched them go – the woman who could have been queen, and the prince who should have been dead, and he then set about trying to reach the dagger she had left stuck into the ground just beyond his feet. Somewhere in a proximity entirely closer than he would have liked, a wolf began to howl.

#short fiction #fantasy #my fiction #my writing #short story #exerpt from a story I'll probably never write #writing #the forest #kings and queens #royalty #on the run

6 notes · View notes

waltzofevil · 6 years

Text

heavenly yard

Waltz of Evil, page 110-125

The bat's wings always had a particular shape; as they were much thinner than his fellows' and unnaturally streamlined, they looked almost like they were farming sickles. A scientist who had witnessed this bat by chance in Lucifenia’s southern region gave him the name of “Sickle”. In reality, that bat's true name was something entirely different, but, for convenience he decided to call himself Sickle from then on.

Sickle was the only bat of his kind that existed in this world. Strictly speaking he was, in truth, not a bat at all, but there was no one but himself who knew that. So as it was no real inconvenience to him should he be mistaken for a bat by the humans, there was no need for Sickle to try and amend what he was recognized as. And there wasn't really any means for him to.

Sickle had eyes that allowed him to glimpse to the farthest corners of the world, no matter where he was in it. He would flap his two sickles and no matter how many hours or days he continued to fly he would never grow tired.

Why was that?

To make this as plain as possible, it was because he was the god that created this world. He had chosen this body in order to easily observe this world that he had created.

Sickle was a being who was furnished with omnipotent ability as an "observer", but on the other hand, despite him being a god he had become unable to interfere in the world.

That was a "Rule" that he had himself laid down when he made the world. What sort of path would this world, the "Third Period", take without its Creator's intervention, how would it come to ruin? He wanted to see that for himself.

There existed no one in this world who knew that Sickle was the Creator, and a true god.

However, when humans didn't know of the existence of gods, they would just end up idly wandering the world, having lost their own way.

He figured that even if he let them to their own devices, the humans would sooner or later end up making amongst themselves their own "false" gods, and so around the beginning of history he thought he ought to prepare some easier to understand "gods" for them--so thinking, Sickle decided to deploy his compatriots from the "Second Period" as "temporary gods" in his own world.

“Levia” was a beautiful woman from the Second Period who bore pale skin and hair. Her twin younger brother “Behemo” was as beautiful as she was, but those two were a brother and sister that had been on extremely bad terms for a while now. Sickle had unified them, transforming their body into the twin-headed dragon, “LeviaBehemo”.　

Were they angry about being made one with someone that they hated? Or had they despised being made into an ugly dragon? At any rate they were dissatisfied with their treatment, and went around destroying the still newly made world.

With no other recourse, Sickle dropped several of the Second Period's "relics" to the new world, and sealed LeviaBehemo inside one of them. Eventually a number of people gathered around the "relics" and founded a new country there, "Levianta". A short while after that, Levianta ended up reigning over the whole world.

There being the incident with LeviaBehemo, Sickle decided to not give the next "God" he arranged any freedom right from the start. "Held" was, originally, a calm and prudent man, but even so Sickle made him into the form of a tree that could not move, giving him only the duties of watching over all living things outside of humans and to keep an eye on LeviaBehemo.

After the world’s Creation was mostly finished, Sickle finally changed his own form into that of a bat, and descended down to the “Third Period” as an observer. Whatever would happen to the new world from then on became an unfathomable mystery to himself as well.

He didn't rightly know how much time had gone by since back then, but eventually about over five hundred years had passed since humanity had begun to measure their own history under the "Evillious Chronicle" calendar.

Sickle had thought that the human's need for "temporary gods" would only be at the beginning, and so when he'd arranged for LeviaBehemo and Held's existence he'd set a time limit on them. When that time came they would be released from the world, and then, most certainly, return to their old home.

Held had actually followed that fate; after leaving a successor, he handed down his responsibilities. Around now he was probably back to his old form, and relaxing in his old home--the "Heavenly Yard".

What hadn't gone as expected for Sickle was LeviaBehemo. They yet continued to remain in the world. Though even saying that, it wasn’t any longer as their dragon form, nor their old human-esque forms. It was as simple, invisible spirits. There wasn't a lot that LeviaBehemo could do in the world at that point, but on the contrary what drew Sickle's anxiety there was the sorceress who served as their divine host.

--Elluka Clockworker--

A castaway who continued to disregard the rule of “Time” that Sickle had established.

Having now left from the purview of Held's watch, what sort of actions would she take in the world from now on, what would she accomplish?

He suspected Elluka herself didn't know that.

Perhaps the other castaway--that "red cat"--had some idea. At any rate, a big change would likely occur soon.

Elluka, the red cat, and that spirit of Held's. Gumillia.

He thought that one of them must hold the key.

As little more than an observer now Sickle had no way to see the future, but on the other hand he was the world's Creator. He was able to conjecture from that point easily enough.

LeviaBehemo was, after all, not a being that was able to continue going against the Rules of the world. Their return to the "heavenly yard" was surely imminent. And if that wasn't what they wanted, then they would surely cause something to avoid their fate.

At each turning point in time, the people of this world would display interesting shows for Sickle

They had been going around quite noisily lately in particular, so Sickle hadn't gotten bored with it.

There was the earlier mayhem in Levianta, called the "New Four Horsemen Incident". And even further back the Lucifenian Revolution, and the war in the island of Marlon.

There hadn't been any major acts these past forty years, but it seemed a great many people were dying in the east. In order to watch more closely Sickle had today come to the eastern nation of "Jakoku".

First he spotted a lone, red headed old woman.

Though she was clad in clothing dirtied with soot and a peculiar monkey mask, it was simple for Sickle to see through to her true identity. She couldn’t fool his eyes by wearing a mask. He had seen this old woman from time to time in the midst of several uproars that had happened in the west. At that time she'd been much younger, at one point wielding a mop and yet another time wielding a giant sword.

The old woman was sitting in a small chair that had been left in the vicinity of a bridge. She looked to be waiting for someone. The road before her on which she sat rolled into a slope, and on a nearby post was written in small letters the name "Enbizaka". A young person ascended the slope. The fearless looking young man with a katana affixed to his left hip walked up to the old woman and stopped before her. The two of them gazed at each other in silence for a while, but then eventually the old woman stood without a sound, brought out a small parcel from her pocket, and handed it to the young man.

The young man opened the parcel and checked what was inside. He brought out two pairs of scissors from within, each different in size and shape. One had blades that were long and large, a type often used in the west, and the other one was small enough to be held neatly in the palm of one's hand, a sort that was mainstream in the country they were in then. The young man closed the parcel and wordlessly nodded, quickly leaving again.

Sickle knew this young man well--or to be more accurate, he knew well his face.

Every time he looked at his face and long purple hair, Sickle was reminded of that foolish and pitiful duke of Asmodean.

His descendants would from then on always be caught up in and bound to the "Vessels of Deadly Sin". That might have been "fate", and perhaps for that family it might have been a "curse".

The old woman didn't leave even after the young man had left. Naturally, Sickle knew the reason why.

She likely intended to contend for her final battle. A battle with a being that she had once admired and called "Big Sis", who had now been changed into a servant of "malice".

He could see her foe approach from the other end of the bridge. Her figure, with a patchwork red cat plushy riding on her shoulders, was something that both Sickle and the old woman had become well accustomed to.

The old woman and "malice" exchanged a few words, and then the duel began.

--No, this wasn’t a “duel”, it would be more accurate to say it was a “slaughter”.

The old woman, with not a scrap of the power that she'd held in her glory days, had had no chance of ever winning against the yet youthful "malice".

When everything was over, left remaining there was a smiling young woman, and burned cinders that had once been an old woman.

As the "malice" was leaving, she suddenly looked up at the sky. By doing so, she and Sickle's eyes met.

There was no way she would figure out Sickle's true identity. He was certain that no one existed in this world who would be allowed that.

Yes, not even "Held" and "LeviaBehemo".

…However, he could feel an immeasurable hatred from her gaze.

Strong feelings that one was unlikely to hold towards a common bat.

…But in the end, she did nothing about Sickle, and after dropping her eyes back to the ground she calmly left.

There were no other humans around her.

The old woman's death was not liable to be something many people talked about.

--But nonetheless, the creator of this world, Sickle, merely observed

Those last moments of the strong-armed warrior, Chartette Langley.

Jakoku was currently in the midst of a large conflict.

Several people vying for the country's throne were each having their pawns wage war, and stealing each other's lives.

In the center of the battlefield he could see that purple-haired young man. He was much more skilled than any of the others around him, and his katana cut down his foes one by one.

In a different era perhaps he would have been called a homicidal devil.

But after the battle was over he would probably be called a hero.

That was the way things were.

Sickle would not die.　

His role would be completely finished when the world had greeted its end.

In other words, when it became the new "heavenly yard".

Until then, he continued to aimlessly fly around, only enjoying the recreation that continued to occur in the world.

The grave rule-breaking that LeviaBehemo had committed was a problem, but Sickle had no way to deal with it. As such, Sickle ended up viewing said rule-breaking and the events that occurred because of it as spice that added flavor to the world.

You could say that the "Vessels of Deadly Sin" were what embodied that spice. The Vessels of Deadly Sin had caused various events up to that point, but perhaps the most deeply interesting was that of the existence of "Banica Conchita".

Not even her servants, who had birthed the "Vessels of Deadly Sin", could have been able to imagine her final act, or the variant that said act caused.

Thinking about it with common sense, a "D♯" acting as a "B♭"--or to put it in this world's words, a "human" acting as a "demon"--should have been impossible. But she had carried that out.

This was revolutionary. The scale of it was quite unlike what Banica's descendant had caused--it was something that completely turned the world on its head.

It seemed she wanted to become the Master of the Graveyard. It was a little doubtful if Banica truly understood the meaning of that, but in any case one part of her pair of servants had already fallen into her clutches.

Her servants showed little resistance towards that to begin with. Perhaps due to the passage of time, it seemed that they had forgotten the significance of their own existence. That was likely their limitations as being nothing more than low-quality copies created by humans.

At any rate, it seemed the day when Banica would fulfill her main goal was near. As it seemed she had no intention of getting proactively involved in the disturbances occurring in Jakoku, the wineglass merely gave off a dull shine in the hands of "malice".

Sickle blinked several times, and the battle of Jakoku had reached its end. After watching over the scene of the new king pledging an oath before his people, Sickle left Jakoku and flew up into the far sky.

There were beings that caught his eye other than Banica. One of them was "Michaela", who had been chosen as Held's successor. She was yet little more than a sprout for now, but what would Held have Michaela do when she finally grew into a large tree?

Humans didn't need "prepared gods" anymore. Held must have known that too. It was hard to imagine that he'd left Michaela in his place out of some treachery.

Was it to watch over LeviaBehemo? The other spirit doing that was more than enough.

It would be fastest to ask the man himself--With that thought in mind, Sickle headed for his own homeland, where Held was likely to be.

Heads of golden rice covered its entire surface.

Growing it to this point upon such rotten land had taken an extremely long time.

Having gone back to his home of the "heavenly yard", Sickle was no longer a bat. He had returned to a human form, as he had once before.

With the two sickles he held in his hands he reaped the weeds that had entered into his field of vision. He felt if he didn't tend to it properly, the carpet of rice would return to the original wasteland in an instant.

A single man was standing in wait in the center of the rice field, as though he had been expecting Sickle's return. It had been a long time since Sickle had seen him in the form he had then. His elegant green hair had been the model Sickle used when making the Elphe people.

The man was the first to speak up.

"Seems you still favor farming as always."

His old sounding way of speaking, something that didn't suit his youthful features, had also gone unchanged from before.

Though Sickle returned a forced smile, he didn't lose his grim expression. He wasn't angry or anything, that was just how his face was naturally.

"There's no real point in farming in an ended world."

Even Sickle couldn't help losing his temper a little at the words that the other man continued to speak.

"This is not an 'ended world', Held. This is the land that everyone will return to once they have finished their lives in the 'Third Period', the 'heavenly yard'."

Despite Sickle's objection, Held shook his head, mouth closed. "'Everyone', huh?...Why doesn't it occur to you that your way of thinking on that infuriated Levia?"

"You're referring to my leaving the 'hellish yard' alone without using it?"

"It's quite understandable that she'd be angry at having her duties as 'master of the hellish yard' disregarded."

"In all honesty, what do you think about it?"

"…I still think even now that we need some screening. The end result of letting good and evil mix was the end of the 'Second Period', after all."

“I see. An opinion suitable for the ‘Master of the Court’.”

"At the very least you ought to have quarantined the 'HER's."

"Despite that you did obey the role I gave to you in the end. So then I don't know why you made Michaela into your successor."

“…”

Held didn't reply for a moment, saying nothing, but then abruptly pointed to the sky and uttered, "You yourself are plotting something too, are you not?"

Floating beyond where Held was pointing was a large "black box", clearly at odds with the fields of rice.

It seemed that during Sickle's absence Held had peeked inside the box.

"Why is 'he' here?"

"…Didn't I just tell you? This is the place where everyone will return."

"You did. But it seems to me that you're treating him differently from all the others."

“It’s because that boy is ‘irregular’.”

“…’Irregular’?”

"Beings like, for example, Elluka Clockworker and Banica Conchita are extremely fascinating, but fundamentally they were born according to the world's Rules. But he transcends them. By all rights he shouldn't have ever come into this scenario, and yet for some reason he has appeared. He is the sole figure in the world that is outside the purview of my creation."

"So you are isolating him because he doesn't fit your will? You wish to deny his existence?"

"No. In fact it's the opposite."

Sickle held his hand out towards the black box. When he did it slowly began to drop down to the rice plains that stretched on below it.

"This discussion is over. If you aren't going to explain things to me regarding Michaela, then I have no intention of talking to you any further."

“I understand. This is the world you made. So you should do as you want,” Held said, vanishing from Sickle’s field of vision.

Going to the trouble of coming back had turned out to be a fool's errand, but he didn't mind that. Sickle decided to enjoy the mystery without knowing the answer of how the seed that Held had planted in his world would grow.

The black box had come very close to the ground. In the center of the box was a small keyhole. Sickle was the only one who could open the lock.

Since he had come back, he might as well go see how "he" was doing--With that in mind, Sickle inserted the golden key into the keyhole. The box gradually opened from the top, and soon a golden haired boy was exposed as being inside.

Right now he was asleep, lying down at the bottom of the box. Sickle had indulged him by allowing him to intervene on the world below several times, but the backlash from that must have exhausted him.

But as he was exposed to the sunlight he eventually, slowly, opened his eyes, sat up, and looked up at Sickle.

Sickle smiled, and said to him:

"How are you feeling, Allen?"

read more of my retold fairytales here

2K notes · View notes

asimbelmyne · 7 years

Text

A Forget-Me-Not in the Fork in the Road

Fandom: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi

Pairing: Kylo Ren/Rey

A03 Link

Summary: He'd wait at the fork in the road almost everyday, tethering his horse to an old apple tree beyond the fence row, biding his time until he'd catch a glimpse of her hair in the distance, the swish of her pale dress, or the dying echo of her voice on the breeze, taunting his ears. She didn't expect anything less.

A/N: For SilverNyte, who wondered when I'd try my hand at something lengthier. This is my first attempt at a multi-chaptered story in a very, very long time. It won't be terribly long because I lack the patience required for such things, but my fondness for Reylo should keep me going. I'd like to thank everyone for giving me the courage to continue writing! Thank you for embarking on this journey with me. I hope that you'll love it as much as I will!

Few people could boast of having heard Rey sing, and she was desperate to keep it that way. Her voice was soft and lilting, taking flight like a bird in search of the sky, ascending beyond sight until her body felt as empty as a cage. She sang for herself, crafting stories out of thin air, allowing each phrase to slip from her tongue like honey, thick with a sweetness so enthralling she often felt compelled to carry on out of sheer delight. Hoarse from overuse, she'd trip over her melodies, bypassing barbed notes as though they were nothing more than pebbles, musical obstacles that required little consideration. Rey's voice had become her constant companion, a tool she'd utilize as often as possible in the company of her own ears, imagining a life for herself she'd never lead. Her world had never been anything but grey, a kaleidoscope of subdued tones that reminded her of Plutt's steely eyes and pert lips, his voice a listless rumble in the cacophony of his cotton mill, drowning out every strained syllable he'd scream at her. His words had always been meaningless, floating in the space above her head like snow, hungry for something other than harsh words, bruised hands, and bloody lips, spilling across her shoulders in an attempt to linger there, weighing her down. Plutt embodied everything Rey hadn't been able to achieve on her own. She had been working for him for as long as she could remember, and it had begun to show.

He had never been a considerate man, callous where he should have been empathetic, abusing the lives of those he'd taken under his wing for the sake of a few more bucks. Many had fallen ill in the time she had spent there, lungs full of cotton, hearts full of sorrow, and faces the colour of ash, greyer than Plutt's standards. Rey sang in spite of it all. She sang to muffle the sounds of their suffering, Plutt's uninspired cruelty, and the ache that had found its way into her heart, quelling her voice and everything she'd woven into it. She didn't know how to move beyond his blissful ignorance without ruining herself in the process. She hated his heartlessness, how he lived according to his own set of rules, ignoring his responsibilities as an administrator under the assumption that he'd risen above them, a king in his own right, presiding over a world as white as the cotton he coveted so much. Rey's hatred for him burned hotter than any flame she'd managed to kindle on her own, yet she hated herself for having to rely on him. Plutt had never made much of an effort to disguise his satisfaction with her displeasure, and she hated him all the more for it. He had spent hours sabotaging her work in the name of pride, taking advantage of everything she'd accomplished in an effort to line his pockets with silver she'd never see. She had spent most of her life handling a workload too large for one person alone, a brand Plutt had intentionally seared across her skin, embodying everything he felt she owed to him. Rey belonged to Plutt, but in name only. He had yet to take away her voice.

Rey paused, leaning down to pluck a flower from its place in the middle of the road, defying all odds in its determination to survive. She understood its resilience more than she cared to admit. The flower was blue, a forget-me-not that seemed too small inside of her hand, curling in on itself in an attempt to whither away. She brought it up to her eyes, sad that she had stunted its growth, yet happy that life continued to persist in the face of adversity, mirroring everything she had been forced to experience on Plutt's behalf. With nimble fingers, Rey tucked the flower into her hair, securing it in place as carefully as she could manage without some sort of ribbon, hoping that it wouldn't slip and fall away before she could enjoy it. Pretty things had a habit of dying on her.

Rey looked up when she was finished, almost resigned, making her way towards a fork in the road a few yards ahead. She had grown to hate that fork more than Plutt, more than cotton, and more than anything else she had come to associate with him. Few people could boast of having heard her sing, but Benjamin Solo was not one of them. He had caught her in the act more than once, determined to hear her voice again, but she refused to entertain his desires out of sheer indignation alone. He was aristocratic and wealthy, the nephew of Luke Skywalker and the son of Lady Organa, a family rich in land and in name. He had decided to neglect his familial pursuits in an effort to pave his own way in life, allowing the weight of his ambition to take hold of almost everything he had once held dear. He was cold and entitled, lonely for a man who had often boasted of his connections in the company of better people, yet relatable in a way she was reluctant to acknowledge. She hated his eyes in particular. They were a deep brown in colour, the sheen of wet leaves in autumn after it had rained, saturated with feelings he refused to voice in the presence of anyone but himself. He thought her presumptuous, she was sure, but their acquaintance continued to persevere, strengthening over time like a fine wine, giving her small glimpses into the soul of the man he had hidden away. He should have known better, but he didn't seem to care a great deal about class. He'd wait at the fork in the road almost everyday, tethering his horse to an old apple tree beyond the fence row, biding his time until he'd catch a glimpse of her hair in the distance, the swish of her pale dress, or the dying echo of her voice on the breeze, taunting his ears. She didn't expect anything less.

She rounded the corner and there he was, leaning against the fence row, apple in hand. He had taken a bite out of it and was chewing thoughtfully, maintaining eye contact until she began to feel uncomfortable. He liked the fire in her eyes, how she'd straiten like a bowstring under his gaze, refusing to look away until his hold on her had vanished. She hated the severity of it, ignoring the magnitude of his presence in favour of other things, like the apple in his hand or the way her dress felt against her skin, scratchy and hot in afternoon sun, sticking to her legs instead of falling strait. It was a game she had never taken joy in, yet she continued to participate out of necessity rather than obligation, waiting for the day he'd finally let her walk home in peace. She took another step forward, ignoring how his eyes flitted across her face in curiosity, trailing down her neck, into the folds of her hair, and across the curves of her body. His eyes lingered in places they had no right to, but she had grown accustomed to his impropriety, especially in moments like this. When they were alone, living beyond the boundaries their social class had made between them, they had never been anything but themselves. He was impish and she was impassioned, arguing until her throat had gone dry, unafraid to voice her opinions in the presence of a man she considered beneath her notice. He must have thought her crazy at some point, but he had never brought it up. They were similar in some ways, yet completely different in others. He continued to linger and she continued to show up at the fork in the road without fail. She didn't want to know why.

"You've forgotten something," he told her, taking another bite out of his apple.

Rey narrowed her eyes, folding her fingers into the fabric of her dress in an attempt to stifle the scream making its way up her throat. The juice from his apple dribbled down his chin and he wiped it away with his other hand, watching the way her nose scrunched up in distaste, an obvious indicator of her feelings towards him.

"Ah, yes. I should have turned left instead of right," she said, ignoring how his eyes seemed to light up in amusement. "You're such a gentleman."

"That's a little harsh, even for you."

"Honesty hurts," she said, frowning as he tossed his apple into the bushes.

He turned around to face her, reaching out to touch her cheek, hooking his fingers under her chin so that he could look into her eyes. Her pupils widened in distress, mimicking her state of mind. She had never been this close to him before. His eyes were darker than she had originally thought, glinting in the space between them like a lacquer, the tint of soil, bark, and gravel after a rainstorm, rough, callous, and coarse. He continued to look at her until she had turned a different colour beneath his hands, flushing a dusky red in the afternoon light, staining the skin below his fingers like an apple, one he hadn't thrown away just yet. He looked resigned, stoic when he should have been rude, content to simply stare into her eyes instead of resuming their feud, memorizing every line and curve for his own perverse purposes. She wished he'd move away, remembering their roles in life and how inappropriate he had become in the span of a few minutes, ignoring every rule decorum had drilled into his brain. He had always been insistent, demanding her attention more than once in their shared history, but this was different. For the first time since meeting him, she was afraid of what he could do. He'd never hurt her, but the weight of his fingers on her skin spoke of a desire so restrained she could barely breathe without choking, meeting his eyes in silent admonition, praying he'd see reason.

"Since we're being honest, I sometimes wonder how much it would take to break you," he said, running his fingers along the length of her jaw, curling a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "I don't know whether you're brave or stupid half the time, but you're something else."

His fingers brushed against the shell of her ear and she cringed, trying to ignore how she felt as he threaded his fingers through her hair. He smelled as sweet as the apple he had tossed away, a strange contrast that made her shiver in anticipation, wishing he'd relinquish his hold on her yet again. They were always coming together like this, drawn to one another like gravity, waiting for the inevitable collide. The way he touched her had become dangerous. She watched with bated breath as he leaned in a little closer, carding his fingers through her hair until he found the forget-me-not she'd placed in there earlier, shifting his hands so that he was holding it in front of her face, inches from her mouth. The amusement in his eyes was a palpable thing. She could feel it in the space he'd made between them, brushing against her skin as fervently as his breath, bombarding her with an onslaught of anger she could barely contain. He had the audacity to smile in response. The sight of it took her breath away.

"You owe me a song," he said, twirling the flower between his thumb and forefinger, refusing to break eye contact. "You keep forgetting."

Her mouth fell open and he laughed, tucking the flower behind his own ear in mockery of its previous location.

"My voice is of little concern to you," she stated coldly, reaching out to retrieve what he'd so rudely taken, but he grabbed her wrist in retaliation, hard enough to elicit a gasp, but loose enough to cause little pain.

"I expect no less from you at this point, but one day you'll crack. You know as well as I do that I always get what I want. You're no different."

"Ha! I'll never belong to you, or to anyone for that matter. I'm beyond your reach."

"Tell that to Unkar Plutt," he said, gripping her wrist a little tighter.

A part of her heart seemed to freeze in her chest, chilling her to the bone. His position in life had given him a great deal of power over others, requiring little effort on his part, but he had gone too far this time, crossing the line she'd made between them so long ago. Plutt saw value in almost everything. She had lived according to his rules for most of her life, acting under the assumption that she'd always return to his white world, a world where machinery mirrored her place in life. Ben was offering her freedom, freedom in the guise of a gilded cage. To forego one form of slavery in exchange for another was cruel, and she hated him for it. A life at his side would require too much sacrifice, destroying everything she had fought for in the span of a heartbeat, spoiling her sense of self. His reasons for wanting her were entirely selfish, yet not unwarranted. He had found something in her that he had lost within himself, something he craved for, and something she'd never completely understand. His feelings for her were complicated, bursting from behind his eyes like a forest fire, hot, intense, and scalding, but not as shallow as he had lead her to believe. He wore his anger like a mask, hiding behind false pretences in an attempt to distance himself from how he really felt, pretending that she was an object instead of a person out of shame, out of guilt, and out of frustration. They had spent so much time with one another that he could hardly say otherwise. He didn't care about her voice, as lovely as it was. He had wanted her and only her from the very start and she knew exactly why.

"You need to leave," she said, trying to tug her wrist from his grasp.

He released his hold on her, slipping the forget-me-not into the front of her dress as slowly as possible, gauging her reaction. His fingers strayed over her bodice hesitantly, as if he were afraid of what he could do if she'd let him, but he moved away instead, reaching for the reins of his horse. He pulled himself onto his saddle and began to ride away, leaving her standing beside the apple tree like a druid, frozen in place. His eyes continued to torment her long after he had gone, a dark smudge beyond the fork in the road that had started it all, ruining any hope of remaining true to the people they had been before their encounter. He had changed her.

Rey's hand shook as she grasped the flower like a lifeline, nearly crushing it.

Somehow she'd endure.

#rey #ben solo #kylo ren #rey x kylo ren #reylo trash #historial au #star wars #Star Wars Fic #the last jedi #star wars fanfic #fanfiction #A03 #reylo #reylo fic #in process

3 notes · View notes

gremma-appreciation · 7 years

Text

"Russet-Tinged Remembrance"

(Okay, so I am trying to do a writing with a color focus: browns in various shades a hues, to be more specific. It’s a new sort of experiment, and though it definitely turned out sad, angsty, and introspective, I hope it still works. This takes place in season one, after Graham’s death, but before Mary Margaret’s arrest. I have Emma starting to wonder about the strange circumstances of Graham’s passing, because it has never made sense to me that she didn’t, but other than that, I think it could fit into accepted canon as a missing scene.)

By @snowbellewells

Most people see brown as dull, plain, the color of dirt, dust, and dying leaves, almost a non-color, so bland as to hold little interest. It is the shade of late Autumn, when the outside world pales and prepares for the winter’s own forgotten sleep. No umber or sienna can carry the heat and intensity of those blazing reds, simmering oranges, and bright golds in the leaves that fall around her, swishing about her booted feet and crackling mildly to cushion her steps. Still, though most would deem the color cold and bleak, it offers its own warmth to swell within her chest.

Emma Swan draws in an unsteady breath, her arms unfurling from where they had wrapped around her middle protectively in order to shakily trace over the sandstone edges of the grave marker she has stopped in front of, trembling throughout her limbs as she looks at the blocky letters of his name carved into the buff and beige flecked monument.

There’s a reason she comes here as rarely as possible, only enough to see that it is properly tended, that she avoids this peacefully quiet spot as though some terror or sickness lingers instead of the intended calm surrender. It isn’t right that this Gould be his resting place, that this should be how he is remembered. No matter how nice they have made its surroundings look, the headstone is still cold and lifeless where he was always warm; kind eyes, open heart, and friendly smiles - acceptance where others had offered judgement or turned her away. He had welcomed her and provided a place and a reason to stay. Hope had shone in the deep gaze that stared out of his tanned face covered with nutmeg scruff, as if he knew all too well what it was to grasp with both hands at a chance to belong.

She kneels before his grave, picking up the dried and withered offering of flowers left there last, which nearly disintegrates in her hands as she moves it aside to place her bunch of daisies, marigolds, and black-eyed Susans at the stone’s base. The dust from the forgotten tribute, brown as the acorn hulls also scattered across the ground at her feet, almost makes the tears she has stubbornly held in escape in a flood. Biting the inside of her cheek for several long seconds and blinking furiously until her control returns, Emma blows out a harsh breath before whispering to no one except the missing sheriff who had made her his deputy and a part of something here in this town. She hopes blindly that somehow, some way, wherever he is, Graham knows what that meant to her.

“This isn’t fair,” she presses, bowing her head for a moment, her fingers clenching against dirt clods and blades of scraggly grass, somehow seeing once more those fawn-colored curls of his that she should have run her fingers through, that single tear trembling on his cheek and the way his wide, grateful eyes had been luminous with more unshed as he’d thanked her just before…

If she’d only known, she would have kissed him sooner, promised to believe him, held him closer. But how could she have known there were only seconds left between them? Shaking the images away fiercely, Emma runs her hand under her nose, sniffling even as she bites out through clenched teeth, “This isn’t what you deserve, Graham! You know that… don’t you?”

She crouches at the farthest corner of the town cemetery, picturesque with a weeping willow arching over his single plot. It feels as if this whole pocket of their odd little town has gone sepia-colored, muted like an old photograph holding nothing but memories. Still, this spot is lonely and forgotten, not nearly enough. There should be constant wreaths and flowers, a day of remembrance for what he had sacrificed; all he had suffered simply because he would not murder Snow White - and because in the end he had chosen his freedom over a comfortable continued life bound in slavery. The single bouquets left by herself, sometimes with Henry beside her solemn and sad and carrying his own unique gifts for the man he’d known, are all she ever sees here for their sheriff. Those few tokens brown and fade all too quickly and are far from sufficient. Emma finds that truth falling her now - more than she can rightly explain.

The sky looks as strange and morbid as she feels when she rises from her knees; still lingering uncertainly, waiting in the hush of early evening for she knows not what. She has more to say before she goes - though it will never be the words she had wished to speak. They had been robbed of so many conversations and sweet moments: sipping cocoas with whipped cream and cinnamon, playing darts at the Rabbit Hole, spinning on their identically rickety desk chairs until their heads spun and their laughter was giddy on long, uneventful nights at the station - the chances to know more joys instead of solitary pain. She was just getting to know him. She had begun to tear a few bricks from her wall to let him in.

Pressing her lips together, Emma once more struggles to calm her own beating heart, to bring the fruitless rage and maddening sense of loss back under control. Too late, too late, too late… she had missed her chance, and more tragically, so had he. “I haven’t forgotten you,” she murmurs softly, a promise to a ghost that vanishes in the tawny, bronzed-hued light of the setting sun. “And I won’t…not ever.”

When she leaves the cemetery, Emma cannot quite make herself return to the loft and Mary Margaret’s company. The other woman, kind, compassionate, and infinitely willing to listen and offer comfort, has been a godsend of a roommate- and if Henry is to be believed, Emma’s mind adds with the barest huff of disbelieving humor, her long lost mother besides - but she has no way of understanding the tangle within Emma’s mind. She knows how cagily guarded she is, that she can be prickly and difficult to know. The gentle schoolteacher’s nature is so sweet and hopeful that it feels impossible to explain to the other woman how she survived her late teens by stealing, that she gave Henry up for adoption because she had been wrongfully serving someone else’s jail sentence, and that the reason she kept people out was because that person who had let her go to prison for his crime had also been the first soul in this world to ever tell her she was loved, just before he callously left her behind. How could she even begin to explain to Mary Margaret that she was beginning to suspect Henry may be right - as crazy, far fetched, and unbelievable as it sounds - and Regina did somehow take Graham’s life? It made no sense for someone as young and healthy as he had been to simply drop dead of a heart attack. If she admitted to entertaining Graham’s belief that his heart had not been in his chest at all, and that the mayor had somehow held it in her possession to crush it when he ended their association, they would lock her up and throw away the key.

So instead she heads to the only place she can think of where she can mourn to herself in relative peace. The station is the last place she had seen him alive and it is where he had fallen. Logically, Emma thinks as she walks through the door into its falsely bright, fluorescent lit interior, this place should upset her. Yet the safety, the comradery she’d felt with him, possibly even a bit of his presence, if only in her mind, lingers here and it makes the small office area seem welcoming. Taking a seat behind her desk and running her hand over the smooth surface, Emma closes her eyes and allows the play of gold-tinted happy scenes to flow behind her lids. The beige and brown stodgy and old-fashioned deputy’s uniform Graham had first offered and tried to get her to wear and the playful poking at his traditionalism she had offered in return, the playful way his eyes had danced as he flipped open a box of fresh doughnuts in a bribe to switch shifts with a bear claw, even the mocking way he had baited her while cuffing her and bringing her in when she’d been accused of stealing Archie’s files, and lastly, the lingering amber glow that had suffused her body as he had cared for the cut on her brow that final night, the tender perfection of his strong hands as they cupped her face and his lips tasting hers, treasuring her as if she were precious in a way she had never experienced before. The coffee-scented, stale air of the station ensconces her with her fleetingly limited bits of times they’d shared, and Emma sinks into it, relishing the fragments of a genuinely good man she has left to hold.

And if before she goes to sleep curling up on the cot in the back cell, she takes down the chocolate-dark coat of leather worn soft, which had been his and still hangs in its place on the hall tree in the corner, strokes her fingers lovingly over the red material at its collar, slips his arms into the top-long sleeves and wraps it around herself, aching for the embers of his pleasant heat through the chilly night hours - well, no one needs to know but her.

#gremma #graham humbert #emma swan #ouat #sheriff graham #gremma appreciation #gremma appreciation july event #submission #fic #fic angst #fic canon

4 notes · View notes

haprilona · 8 years

Text

Descendit Lunaticus, Chapter 4

Title: Descendit Lunaticus

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Genre: Hurt/comfort Rating: M Note: This is a ‘music fic’. Each musical note symbol ( ♫ ) links to a FFXV song that adds to the mood and reading experience. You’re not required to listen to the links while reading, but I highly recommend it! This story was written mostly for the sake of playing with the atmosphere and mood, not for the plot.

I recommend you read this in AO3 as it has drawings, correct formatting etc. to enhance the reading experience. Characters: Noctis Lucis Caelum, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Prompto Argentum, Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amiticia, Aranea Highwind, Iris Amicitia Relationships: Noctis/Lunafreya, Ignis/Aranea, Prompto/Cindy Word count: 19049 Summary: When Ardyn makes Noctis choose between the Crystal and his friends, Noctis chooses his friends out of brotherly love and dooms the world. A decade later Noctis is no longer the Chosen King fighting to reclaim his throne, but a common hunter whose only purpose in life is his friends and protecting the remaining Lucian civilians from the horrors of the eternal night. One day he is reunited with someone he thought was forever out of his reach, but not in a manner he would’ve wanted.

Also at AO3 & FF.net

♫

Noctis sat back and watched Prompto set up his modified Drillbreaker on an elemental deposit. He covered his ears and watched as the drill sprung alive with the revving of its engine. It dug into the elemental-rich earth and drained it of its energy, similar to how his Engine Blade harvested said force from slain daemons and beasts. Next to the drill were several metal barrels meant for the harvested fuel.

The driller wore large yellow earmuffs that shielded his hearing from the loud buzzing. They were covered in doodles made with a thick tipped marker: a chocobo, a curvy monkey covered in grease – a reference to Cindy, he presumed – and the main cast from King’s Knight to name a few. Even his newly gifted garage overalls had been decorated with random inked phrases and doodles. Clearly his friend had taken the chance to vent his boredom during the long car drives on his clothes. He wondered what Cid thought of Prompto’s artistic habits.

Noctis buried his bearded chin in the collar of his coat. There were no trees near Dainse haven to cover them from the chill breeze that carried all the way from Callatein’s Plunge. The steam of his breath tickled his face. Figuring he wasn’t going to get any warmer by sitting on his backside, he removed one hand from his ear, tapped his friend’s shoulder and waited for the drilling to stop.

“Sup?” Prompto removed the tacky earmuffs and wiped his sweaty forehead.

“I’m freezing my ass off. I’m gonna take a walk.”

The freckled man looked apologetic. “Ahh. Sorry, buddy, I didn’t pack another drill with me.”

Noctis shoved his freezing hands in his pockets. “That’s ‘cause you don’t have another drill.”

Prompto grinned. “True.” He took out an empty crystal flask from his pocket, put a pipe in one of the barrels and with a turn of the tap filled the flask before casually tossing it to his friend. “Just don’t go too far. I don’t wanna get ambushed by daemons.”

Noctis caught the flask. “I’ll watch your back. Just need to get my blood flowing is all.”

With that Prompto put his earmuffs back on and switched on the drill. Noctis briskly walked further away from the ear-piercing racket.

Ignoring the phone vibrating against his thigh was becoming a habit as Noctis didn’t need to confirm the caller ID to know it was Iris. He had been avoiding her for the last two days and had yet to reveal his mistake to anyone, even Prompto. Not necessarily for the lack of wanting to – although that did play a part in his reluctance – but because he didn’t know how to bring it up.

‘Hey, Gladio. I screwed your sister.’ He wouldn’t have to worry about continuing the Lucis Caelum line after the fiercely overprotective brother was done sterilising him.

‘Ignis, do I smell like Iris? Your theory would be correct this time.’ He’d be lucky to escape with a firm lecture.

‘Prompto, you said you wanted to see me hook up with Iris…’ Definitely not what his friend had meant.

He couldn’t keep ignoring the issue forever. If he didn’t address Iris and talk this through, she would bring it up to ‘Gladdy’ and then the whole fort would know.

Bracing himself, Noctis brought the cell phone to his ear and pressed the ‘accept call’ -button. A long monotonous beep was his only reward. She must’ve hung up just as he answered. Figures. No way did he had the guts to call her himself.

With a frustrated sigh he shoved his phone back in his pocket. Guess he’d just have to talk to her once they returned to the fort. Noctis noticed Umbra hiding under the van. The dog was a pathetic sight as he covered the sensitive ears with his paws to muffle Prompto's drilling.

Noctis knelt down and peered under the car. “You okay there, boy?”

The canine gritted his fangs in an ugly grimace as if commenting on the noise. Chuckling, Noctis dragged the dog out.

“Some guard dog you are. C’mon, I need to write Luna a message.”

Reluctantly Umbra allowed himself to be pulled out from under the car. The notebook was removed from its casing and flipped to a blank page. Noctis hadn’t seen her since she brought him the Carbuncle figurine and healed his arm. He wanted their next meeting to be more casual and less about saving dying birds or his sorry hide. More than anything, he wanted to actually sit down and talk with her. To her. Whatever. He could start by asking why she never spoke.

It was slightly unnerving how easily he had gotten accustomed to the unnatural. To him it was perfectly normal that he could contact his dead fiancée through an old weathered notebook that was carried by an immortal dog. It was just another day in his life when he caught brief glimpses of a white dress from his peripheral vision or when the latest injury from a daemon encounter was mysteriously healed the next morning.

He tapped the end of the pen against his bearded chin as he tried to think of a good way to invite her over.

‘I’d like to spend time with you, if your undead schedule isn’t too full.’ Nah.

‘Poor little old me misses my friendly ghost. Throw this geezer a bone and come visit?’ Hell no.

When did he become such a loser? He scratched his cheek absently. Last time she came to visit, Noctis had thanked her for saving him and expressed his longing for her presence. Maybe a good ol’ ‘I miss you’ could do the trick?

He glanced at the miserable dog and the bushy tail tugged between quivering legs. Umbra really hated that drill. Somehow he could be brave and ferocious when dealing with daemons and not be bothered at all by the racket of turrets firing right beside him, but for some reason Prompto’s drill was making him miserable. Maybe it produced some sort of high-pitched whine along with the regular buzzing that only dogs could hear.

Noctis set his pen on paper. ‘Miss you. Come visit me soon?’ Much better. Simple yet effective. He wondered how she could receive the message when the messenger refused to do his job. In the end it hardly mattered as long as it worked. He closed the book and put it back in its casing before standing up and letting Umbra inside the van. The noise was much more bearable there. Making sure the Engine Blade was securely tied to his belt, Noctis made his way back to Prompto.

♫

As soon as he drove the van past the gatekeeper-MT, Noctis spotted the pale figure of Little Luna balancing on top of a fence that separated the airship landing zone from the rest of the fort. A slow grin crept to his lips. She had received his message.

“Is that who I think it is?” Prompto peered through the windshield.

Noctis couldn’t keep the excitement from his tone. “Yep.”

He parked the van and stepped out. Prompto jogged off to find a trolley to move the elemental energy-filled barrels to the garage. Despite civilians and hunters alike flocking the area, Noctis could clearly see Little Luna’s white dress gently swaying in the chill breeze above the crowds. She spotted him and waved. Incontinently he waved back. He doubted people would pay any attention to him or realise he was waving at thin air – from their perspective, anyway.

He didn’t notice someone else returning his wave.

“Noct!”

His eyes fell from Little Luna to the brunette in farmer’s overalls.

“There you are. I’ve been worried about you! You haven’t answered my calls.” A strong smell of hay floated up to his nose as she came closer. Her boots were covered in mud and chocobo manure. She must’ve just returned from the farm. He could make out Talcott’s familiar flannel shirt and Hammerhead cap peeking behind passing bodies.

“Must’ve had my phone on mute”, Noctis easily lied. He didn’t want to have ‘The Talk’ in public. “Doesn’t help I’m half-deaf after hearing Prompto’s drill for an hour.”

Iris let out a relieved sigh accompanied by a small giggle. “I’m so glad to see you’re okay now. You’ve been acting strange lately and I didn’t really know what to make of it.”

“Yeah.” Noctis shifted his weight uneasily and glanced to where Little Luna had been standing. Of course she was gone. Damn it.

“Say, Noct. With all the hustle and bustle of the Market day and the daemon attack, we haven’t really had the chance to spend time together. You should ask Ignis to grant you a day off.”

A day off? It’s not like he had assigned work days; he worked when it was required. Other times he passed time with mundane activities or helping Cid with what he could. Although he rarely had to worry about boredom as Aranea was more than eager to make sure he didn’t stay inactive for long.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and frowned. “What for?”

“So we could hang out, silly!”

This could be his chance to find privacy to dissuade her of any romantic notions. He doubted she wanted an audience. He sure didn’t. But he didn’t like misleading her and giving her false hope.

Noctis nearly jumped out of his skin when he noticed Little Luna appear from behind Iris’ back. She settled between them and looked up, her head turning back and forth between them as if assessing the situation. Seeming to come to a conclusion, she took a step back to stand next to Iris and frowned. She ruffled her blond hair and made a valiant effort to style it similarly to his before stuffing her hands in imaginary pockets and hunching forward. Was she imitating him?

Not able to help himself, he snorted.

Ha. Ha. Very funny, you cheeky little imp.

Iris’ smile faded as confusion weighing down her pink lips. “What?”

“That’s a good idea”, he managed to say even as his lips quivered from a suppressed grin. Little Luna beamed up at him and dropped her hands from the imaginary pockets. Reaper, he had missed her. He would do anything to see her smile.

“Really? I mean, great! I’ll ask if I could get Ignis to cook us something.”

Oh crap. She was taking their social outing as a date. Not only a date, but a dinner date. Way to ruin her day by ending it with a “sorry, it’s not you, it’s me”-talk.

“Maybe that’s too much”, he tentatively cut in. “I mean, Ignis is busy with work and can’t just come down from his tower to cook a meal for random denizens.”

Iris put her dirt-covered gloved hands on her hips and glowered. A storm brewed in her hazel eyes. This could end badly. Next to her Little Luna copied her expression and pose. It was hard to concentrate with her actively trying to make him laugh. “We’re not just random denizens; we’re his friends! I’m sure he’d like to have a break and do something he actually loves for a change!”

How did he always end up in these situations?

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea”, he mumbled in defeat.

Recognising his reluctant agreement, Iris grinned at him in delight. She always got her way when it came to him, Gladio, Ignis and later Prompto. After all, she was the group’s baby sister and they had adored pampering her ever since she was a little girl. But then she reached her thirteenth year and started casting doe-eyes his way whenever they happened to be in the same room. Those two years had been highly awkward times and he had made sure never to leave Gladio’s side whenever visiting the Amicitia household. When he had complained about the youngest Amicitia’s behaviour to Ignis, the advisor-in-training assured him that it would pass and she was just having a little crush on him.

“Not so different from the one you nurture on Lady Lunafreya, I should think.”

“I-I am not!” his seventeen-year-old self had heatedly claimed, but even back then he hadn’t fooled anybody.

Those were much simpler times.

“I’ll let you know when it’s ready. And be sure to wear something nice!” Offering a final wave in parting, she joined Talcott and strolled down to the underground levels with a spring in her step.

Defeated, Noctis ran a hand through his hair in frustration before glancing at his ghostly companion. Little Luna covered her mouth to silence her muffled giggles.

“I’m glad you find this funny”, he grumbled and went to help Prompto unload the barrels from the van.

Noctis sauntered to his dorm. Iris had asked him to wear ‘something nice’. A simple request, but not one he could fulfil. His idea of nice equalled a clean hunter’s uniform, since he didn’t exactly own outfits for casual social events. Figuring he could leave the vest, scarf and weapons behind, just this once, he pulled out a clean shirt from the wardrobe. He stripped out of his coat and skull-printed shirt and carelessly tossed them on the bed. When he didn’t hear the expected rustle of cloth hitting cloth, he turned around and saw Little Luna sitting on his bunk and peering at him through the collar of his shirt. Suddenly self-conscious about his topless state, he turned his back to her and hurriedly pulled the long-sleeved black shirt on.

Little Luna dropped the shirt and coat, stood up and held one hand behind her back as if she was hiding something. She beckoned him to come closer.

“What are you up to this time, you little minx?” His grin softened the bite of his words. Hands on his hips, he stood in front of her and quizzically raised a brow.

She motioned him to turn around. Noctis frowned in suspicion, but complied with a melodramatic sigh. “I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I.”

Something was wrapped tightly around his neck. For a brief moment he panicked as he imagined a noose strangling him, but the expected light-headedness resulting from running out of air never came. He looked down. It was the tie he had worn with his royal raiment back in Insomnia. He turned around to glare at the little girl.

“It’s not a date. I don’t need to dress up.” Ignoring her pout, he pulled the white striped black tie off. She lowered her glassy eyes to stare at her toes. Was she seriously sulking over a tie of all things? Why did she want him to wear it so badly? He sat down next to her and fingered the silken cloth. Was it because she had expected to see him wear it while waiting for him in Altissia? Was he denying her an innocent daydream?

He loosely tied the piece of cloth around her bare neck. “You know what? If you want to see me in the suit so badly, I promise I’ll put it on for your-“, he stopped himself. Curious, she looked up at him expectantly, but he didn’t have the heart to say it out loud.

♫

Funeral.

Her funeral was less than two weeks away.

It had been over a month since he found Little Luna in Caem and retrieved the corpse of his fiancée from the icy waters. She remained in the same condition as when he found her; one unfocused eye staring into space, pale slime-covered skin of a recently killed victim and lacking the foul stench one would associate with a corpse. Even if she was left unattended with her body bag open, the flies didn’t appear interested enough to bother her. She was frozen in time like the flowers Little Luna had given to him. Ignis suspected her body was biologically four to six hours old after death. When Noctis had asked how he knew that, especially without his vision, Ignis told him to try clenching her fingers into a fist. Thinking nothing of it, the hunter had done as asked only to realise it was impossible.

“Rigor mortis. Causes limbs to stiffen and lasts seventy-two hours. Can occur as early as four hours post-mortem”, Ignis had explained. “Truly curious how she hasn’t proceeded past the third stage of death. Do you suppose the ghost of Lady Lunafreya you mentioned earlier could have something to do with it?”

“Definitely. I think she has everything to do with Luna’s condition.”

It was then that he had noticed her left hand. The dominant hand had been clutched as if she was holding an invisible pen. He could’ve sworn both of her hands had been in a relaxed position when he last visited her. It had made him think; had he received the notebook messages from her instead of Little Luna? Or was she truly one and the same? The black blood he had found next to the last entry pointed towards her smaller counterpart. He highly doubted the Luna in the body bag would just unzip her bag from the inside, walk to his room while he slept and write to him as well as bleed over their notebook.

Noctis carefully studied Little Luna. She didn’t seem to have any visible wounds besides the faint bruises that peeked underneath his tie. However, the Luna in the morgue still had the blackened stab wound below her right breast. He had to admit to himself that the image of Luna’s animated corpse moving around was highly unsettling. As desperate as he was to be with his fiancée and enjoy every waking moment he could steal from her younger counterpart, he couldn’t say he wanted to add more to his ever lengthening list of nightmares.

Little Luna smiled sadly as she realised what he had left unsaid. He wondered if she knew what would happen after the funeral. Would she stay with him or disappear for good? From the bittersweet turn of her lips he could tell more than he wanted to know.

“Hey.” He gently lifted her chin. “I’ll join you soon enough. You just enjoy your well-deserved break from saving my sorry behind, okay?” He tried to imagine living another thirty to forty years without her. He doubted he’d ever live to be as old as Cid. Even reaching sixties seemed highly unlikely; something was bound to kill him long before then, whether it was daemons, his own recklessness or ever elusive sanity, an illness or something as mundane as extreme case of food poisoning.

Her small hands balled into fists in her lap. It was an unpleasant conversation, but he needed to get it out of his chest and make sure she fully understood what she meant to him. “I swear I’m not meant for anyone else. What happened with Iris was a mistake and I intend to tell her that.” He took her cool hands in his and opened the fists by interlacing their fingers together. “I admit I’ve been a coward and avoided her, but I know it’s unfair to keep her in the dark.” Her troubled eyes focused slightly past him in deep thought. He wished he could somehow read her thoughts from her layered face.

Noctis released her other hand and lifted his knuckles to caress her bare shoulder. She didn’t appear to notice. There were no shivers nor did she get goosebumps on her pale skin from his feather-light touch. He scolded himself internally for expecting her to react. Their last night together should’ve made it clear to him that she was unable to enjoy his proximity in the same way he enjoyed hers. It wasn’t a mutual relationship if one could even call it one. She was always giving while he was always taking. “And it’s equally unfair to you”, he quietly added.

To his surprise Little Luna pointed at his chest and cupped her hands. She presented her open palms to him as if offering his heart back.

Creases formed on his forehead from a frown as he attempted to decipher her hand signs. “You’re saying my heart is free to let you go and move on?”

He didn’t miss how she clenched her jaw and pursed her lips to keep them from trembling or the sadness that flashed in her downcast eyes before disappearing under the curtain of her fringe. Little Luna solemnly nodded. She was serious about this. It was obvious she didn’t want to lose him, but true to her nature she would rather leave this world knowing he would be happy after she was gone. Not only did she look after him and his health, she held his happiness in high priority – even if it meant sacrificing her own.

“Idiot.”

She sharply looked up, confusion and hurt dancing in her misty gaze.

“I can’t ignore how I feel about you. It’s you or no-one.” His lips curled into a teasing smirk. “Besides, my heart has a no-return policy.”

A faint, almost unnoticeable rosy hue dusted her pale cheeks and she shyly played with the hem of her dress. Overwhelmed with adoration, he wasn’t able to resist the sudden impulse to place a hand to the nape of her neck and guide her head closer to his. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of his stomach when he saw her blond-lashed eyelids closing instinctively. His lips delicately brushed the corner of her mouth in a chaste kiss. As much as he wanted physical proximity from her that had been denied from him when she died, he didn’t dare to cross the thin line between romantic and familial intimacy. She had the appearance of a child and he was old enough to be her father. He was scared what she might think of him if he were to indulge in more passionate displays of affection.

She didn’t resist when Noctis pulled her to a tender hug and rested his bearded chin against her blond crown. Gradually she relaxed and allowed her cheek to lean against his breast. He was certain she could hear and feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Not for the first time, Noctis wished he could give Little Luna more than these fleeting moments, that he could keep his promise to her and fulfil the prophecy that everybody close to him seemed to think he was a part of. But he wasn’t a virtuous warrior of legend like Cor or a noble king like his father. He was just a broken man who had little hope of redeeming himself before the time came to face his forefathers.

Little Luna’s skinny arms wrapped around his waist. He had nearly forgotten how good it felt to be held. His eyes closed involuntarily as he exhaled in content.

His walkie-talkie buzzed.

“Oh, come on”, he grumbled in irritation.

Little Luna pulled away and fetched the bothersome device for him.

“Thanks.” He rewarded her with a quick peck on the cheek before bringing the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “State your business.”

Prompto’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Hey, uh. Iris told me to let you know she’s waiting for you.”

“Gotcha.” He tossed the walkie-talkie next to his discarded clothes on the bed. “Guess that’s my cue. Wish me luck.”

She picked up his Carbuncle figurine from the nightstand and placed it in his palm. He turned the wooden ornament in his hand before pocketing it. “I’m not really into charms and such, but if you think this’ll help, I’ll definitely carry it around the clock.” Her encouraging smile made him feel like he was ready for anything, even to face the possibility of breaking a good friend’s heart. He really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Halting at the door, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Luna. When I come back, I wanna talk with you. Really sit down and talk. There’s so much I need to know.”

Glazed eyes stared past him, but she slowly nodded in acknowledgement.

“So no disappearing acts, eh?”

She pointed at the seam on her face and waved a finger in a refusal.

“All right, we’ve got a deal.” He walked back to her, lowered to his knees and offered a pinky. It reminded him of the day he had persuaded her to leave Caem behind. Her face serious, she wrapped her pinky around his and shook. “You won’t disappear on me as long as I don’t try ripping your face off. Sounds reasonable enough.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. He chuckled and left with a final parting pat on her blond head.

♫

He was pointed to the command tower. Aranea stood by the elevator, her heeled boot impatiently tapping against the asphalt.

“About time. I have actual work to do.” She ushered him inside the lift and placed her key card on the reader. Instead of the top floor, she pressed the third floor.

Noctis eyed the Niflheimian woman curiously. She was in full battle gear and carrying a satchel filled with potions and cooling gel patches. Her previously destroyed leg guard had been replaced. “What work?”

Her tone was taut from vexation. “A single red giant has been sighted heading our way by one of the scouts. I don’t want that thing anywhere near the fort. The walls get weaker every time we have to repair them and I’m not about to have greenhorn hunters losing their lives due to inexperience.”

“I could help”, he immediately offered.

“Thanks, but I can’t have Specs slaving over your fancy dinner date for nothing. Besides, I have Biggs and Wedge. We work better as a team than you and I. No offence.”

He internally cringed at the mention of a dinner date. “None taken.”

Aranea listened to the coordinate exchanging on the radio for a moment before briefly glimpsing at him. “Aren’t you a little under-dressed for the occasion?”

He glanced at his red-soled boots, black jeans and shirt before shrugging. “Not sure what you’re talking about. What’s so special about this event?”

The dragoon brought her gauntleted hand up as if to rub her temple, but her helmet’s visor blocked the subconscious motion. “Your date hasn’t even officially begun and already I see a red flag.”

Noctis huffed and crossed his arms. “Speak plainly, will you.”

“That Amicitia girl had Specs make you fancy food, redecorated our personal dining room for a candle-lit dinner and dolled herself up under strict guidelines of dress to impress. And then you show up in jeans. Either you’re as ignorant as Specs is blind or you’re not into her at all.”

Oh great. Now Aranea was pulling an Ignis on him. Deducing should be left for detectives only. Then again, he figured being the leaders of a settlement required some detective-skills.

“I see.”

The lift came to a stop.

“Right, I’m off. Play nice.” She pushed him out of the elevator. “Oh, and by the way, our bedroom is off-limits.”

A rather ungentleman-like retort threatened to come out of his mouth as he spun on his heel, but was cut off when the lift-door closed and blocked contact with the shameless dragoon.

With a roll of his eyes, Noctis entered the dining room. As he feared, the lights had been switched off in favour of using candles. At least they weren’t scented candles as those tended to give him headaches. He wasn’t sure if they were even a thing anymore in the post-apocalyptic world. Some people had hoarded luxury items from the old world and now made a living by selling them at ridiculous prices.

Their food waited on the table hidden beneath dome-shaped covers. He wondered where Ignis had gotten them. He was aware the blind brunet did some shady trading if the dozen boxes with dubious labels in his trailer were anything to go by.

“Noct, I thought I asked you to wear something nice.”

He turned towards the scolding voice and felt his mouth go dry.

Noctis had always been aware Iris was pretty, beautiful even as she grew older, but he wasn’t prepared to see her as she was now. Gone were the faded farmer’s overalls and dirty boots. In their place was an elegant black dress that hugged her figure in the right places. The hem of her dress barely reached her knees and exposed her toned legs. A tastefully cut neckline made it difficult for him to look at her without his gaze falling to inappropriate places. Swallowing heavily, he focused on the familiar choker and necklace that she had worn during their journey from Lestallum to Caem. Her hair had been tied up to a fancy bun that must’ve required a helping hand from a friend to achieve.

Everything about this situation felt so wrong; almost like he was intruding on a private moment that was never meant to be seen by him. It was nearly on the same level of wrong if he were to witness Prompto walking in on Luna wearing nothing but lingerie.

Awkwardly he cleared his throat. “Afraid I don’t own anything nice.”

Iris crossed her arms. Was he imagining it or was she subtly pushing her breasts up with her arms?

Reaper, kill me now.

“I know you still have your suit.”

“That’s meant for special occasions.”

♫

Wrong answer.

“And this isn’t?”

He scratched his head as he tried to think of something less offending to say without having to lie. “I’ll wear it only when I’m representing myself as Lucian royalty. Right now it’s just two friends spending time together. Hardly reason to put the royal raiment on.”

“Friends.” The way she said the word was as if she had taken a bite of a lemon, skin and all.

He’d have to be tactful. For one, they should eat first before bringing up the difficult subject and not waste Ignis’ efforts.

“Better not let the food get cold.” Remembering his manners, he pulled the chair for her.

They ate in silence. The mood was strained. Iris was clearly not impressed by his approach on their ‘date’. She was clever enough to realise the night wouldn’t end with a sequel to their last… session.

She daintily wiped her pink lips with a napkin and pushed her plate to signal she was done. “So, are we done beating around the bush, Noct? I can see we’re not on the same page and had totally different expectations for tonight.”

Noctis finished his meal. He made a mental note to praise Ignis’ cooking and thank him for his trouble, even if it was in vain. Setting the napkin aside, he leant forward with his hands clasped and elbows resting on the table. Time to address the catoblepas in the room. “Iris, I’ll be blunt. That night was a mistake.”

She visibly tensed, her slim fingers gripping the armrests of her chair. Her face was void of any expression as she tried to process what he had just said.

“Truth is, you found me at a very bad time and I was ready to do just about anything to forget about my problems. Had I been sober, I would’ve never agreed to sleep with you.”

Her grip tightened until her knuckles were white. “So you’re saying you used me?”

Noctis sighed and lowered his gaze. He felt terrible, but it was too late to back down. And even if he could, it would only get worse over time. Best make this as swift and painless as possible. “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

He could feel Iris’ gaze boring holes into his head, but couldn’t summon the will to look up and witness her heart breaking into million pieces. His guilty conscience suffered from too many nightmares already.

Iris’ nostrils flared as her breathing grew erratic. She clenched her hands to keep them from visibly shaking, her lips quivering and voice brittle as she spoke. “Why were you in that state in the first place? What happened to make you so desperate?” She was having hard time accepting his rejection.

He couldn’t tell her about Little Luna. She would never believe him and would think he was blaming Luna for his state of mind. “I’ve been suffering from night terrors and anxiety attacks. They got worse when I returned from the mines.”

“I heard from Gladdy that you were poisoned.”

“Yes.”

Despite having the opportunity to take the easy route and blame his condition on poison, Noctis wanted to be as honest with her as he was able. He had to take responsibility over his actions and make it crystal clear to Iris that he had no intention of pursuing a romantic relationship with her.

A loud sniffle forced his attention back to her. By some basic instinct coded in male DNA, his eyes shot up to see her hazel eyes well with tears. A tear fell, then another. Panicked, he hurried to her side and dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin. Oh crap. Gladio would kill him for making her cry.

“Am I not good enough for you? Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

Iris and Luna. Day and night. They couldn’t be more different. Whereas Luna bottled up her pain in favour of allowing him to pursue his own happiness, Iris openly expressed her unhappiness and attempted to bargain to change his mind. He’d have to be mindful of his words, yet not give in an inch or she’d wrap him around her pinky like she did with her brother. She was cunning as a coeurl when she wanted to be.

“Iris, never question your self-worth. You’re funny, smart, sweet and easy on the eyes. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

“But?”

Noctis sighed. Honest. He had to be honest. “But I can’t return your feelings.”

“Do you mean that, Noct? Am I really nothing more than just a temporary relief for you to use and forget about the next day?” She openly sobbed and wiped her eyes, but the tears just kept coming. There was no stopping the flood. A tight knot formed in his stomach as he helplessly watched her cry.

He took one of her hands and gently held it between his in an attempt to calm her down. “Of course not! Iris, you’re my friend. You’ve been my friend since I was fourteen and you will continue to be my friend for as long as you’ll have me. That’ll never change.”

Iris abruptly pulled her hand from his and stood up. “I need to go. Goodnight.” She nearly knocked the candles off the table as she made a run for the elevator. Noctis darted after her and blocked her escape at the last second. He grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her still. Cheeks burning from humiliation, she shut her eyes to block him out, but he knew she was listening. She always listened to him.

“Iris, I want you to know that this is in no way your fault or something you should feel ashamed of. I don’t want you to be stuck in an unhappy relationship with me. I know how much you’re willing to sacrifice for me, and trust me, it’s not worth it.”

Teary eyes lifted to his, followed by a dubious scoff. She still believed she could find her happily ever after with him like in the fairy tales. Somehow he had to make her understand, regardless of how bad he was at voicing his thoughts. He took a deep breath and wished he had at least a fraction of Ignis’ and Luna’s talent with speeches.

“I’m barely a shadow of the man I was ten years ago and incapable of giving you what you want from me.” His grip on her subconsciously tightened as shame weighed his shoulders down. “I’m a walking disaster and there’s no living person on Eos that can fix me.” The only one he believed capable was dead.

“Obviously not, when you won’t let anybody close enough to try!” she cried. She was like a lovestruck teenager who refused to see him for what he was in favour of fawning over a warped, idolised version of him.

“I’m not a math problem that can be solved with time and patience”, he snapped. “Half of me died ten years ago in Altissia and the rest has rotted over time with each year I’ve failed to fulfil my supposed destiny!” His eyes blazed as anger and frustration leaked out beneath his calm and composed façade. He could barely hear his own voice past the rushing blood in his ears. “I’m not a prince from one of your romance novels.”

Painfully his fingers dug into Iris’ bare shoulders. She flinched and seemed to shrink away when for the first time she felt fear towards the man she had pined for since childhood.

As if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, Noctis froze when he realised what he was doing. Horrified, he released his hold on her. Bruises similar to the ones that permanently decorated Little Luna’s pale neck now marred Iris’ skin. Feeling light-headed, he lowered himself to the ground and covered his face in shame.

Iris sucked in a shuddering breath. He could detect sadness, disappointment, shame, fear and anger from the next three almost inaudible words. “No, you’re not.”

The elevator door opened and closed. She was gone.

He stayed on the floor and stared at his feet in a stupor. Their ‘date’ had been nothing short of a royal screw up.

♫

When he finally left the dining room, the candles had gone out and the floor was covered in darkness. In a daze, Noctis exited the lift and stumbled out of the tower into the cool autumn air. He could barely see in front of him or hear the clanking of patrolling MTs as they passed him.

Hey!

Not only had he ruined Iris’ night and stomped on her feelings, he had physically hurt her. He felt out of control and like he couldn’t trust himself anymore. It was one thing to ask her get over her crush on him, entirely another to expect forgiveness after physically assaulting her.

Is there anything you wanna tell me?

Could Luna even look him in the eye if she knew what he had done? How could she trust him to hold her without hurting her when he had harmed one of his dearest friends in a fit of anger? It was Balouve mines all over again. He took meagre solace in the fact that he hadn’t been armed. Reaper knows what might’ve happened.

Hey, I’m talking to you!

He bumped into something solid. Someone shoved him back. He lost his balance and fell on his backside on the hard asphalt. Large hands lifted him by the collar on his feet before he could even consider getting up on his own. His vision finally cleared enough to recognise the muscular tattooed arms and the furious scowl on his former bodyguard’s face.

“Care to tell me why my sister came back from your date in tears and with bruises?” His voice was dangerously low like a predator’s that was ready to jump on its prey.

Noctis gritted his teeth and shrugged off Gladiolus’s hold on him. “’cause I’m a fucking coward and a failure. I’m not fit for anyone, let alone your sister.” He raised his fists and settled to a fighting stance. “You here to fight? Let’s get this over with.” He was dying to let off some steam.

Gladiolus crossed his arms and stared him down, animosity twisting his mouth into a sneer. Just when Noctis thought the older man would give him a sound beating, Gladiolus slowly exhaled and forced the built up tension to dissolve. “I should knock some sense into that thick head of yours, but it ain’t worth it. Just because nobody hails you as king, doesn’t mean you can act like a brat.” Taken aback, Noctis lowered his fists.

“While you’ve been too busy moping and raiding the drug-dispensers, the rest of us have been doing the best we can to keep this fort safe.” Noctis clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze. Iris must’ve told Gladiolus while he had been brooding in the command tower. He was fairly certain she had kept his secret until he removed her last reason to defend him. “You’re now one of the few remaining combat-ready hunters in this fort after the raid. So I want you to get your head out of your ass and get your act together. First thing tomorrow you’re apologising to Iris.”

Noctis squared his shoulders and evenly glared back at the older man. What little remained of his wounded pride insisted he keep stubbornly resisting, but he knew better than to argue. Instead, he opted to silently stare and channel his anger into good old fashioned passive aggression.

“Before I got here, I received a word from Aranea that there’s been increased daemon activity in the southern part of the peninsula. She’s worried another assault is imminent. So you, me and Prompto are gonna go take care of it.”

He was tempted to point out he and Prompto did just fine without him, but Noctis had known the tattooed man long enough to recognise when he was making a roundabout effort to reconcile. “Fine.”

Of course Gladiolus couldn’t just drop the issue there. He always had to have the final word. “And if you ever pull crap like this again, don’t think I won’t bring it up to Aranea and Iggy. Stealing from the medical staff is a serious crime, especially in this time and age.”

“It won’t happen again.” He had silently vowed as much after waking up to the stench of sweat and sex. Even in his dreams he had faced away from Iris as if his unconscious mind couldn’t forgive himself for the act he had committed. He could barely understand how Luna could forgive him so easily. Did she believe she didn’t have the right to feel cheated or upset, because she wasn’t part of the living world anymore?

Noctis pushed past the bodyguard and tensely made his way back to the dorm.

“See to it”, he heard Gladiolus call after him.

Prompto lifted his gaze from his tinkering when Noctis entered and shut the door behind him. The freckled man appeared to be doing monthly maintenance on his Auto Crossbow. “How did it go?”

“Pretty badly.” Noctis kicked off his boots and flopped into his bunk.

“Why? What happened?” Prompto set the machine aside and settled down next to him.

Throwing his arm over his tired eyes, Noctis exhaled loudly. “Long story short, we had a misunderstanding and I had to turn her down. We both lost our cool and I got physical with her without meaning to.”

His friend’s light blue eyes softened in sympathy. Prompto might have had only fragmented pieces of what Noctis had been through lately, but he understood the former monarch’s psyche better than most. He was willing to give Noctis the benefit of doubt and not jump into conclusions. “Have you apologised to her?”

“I will first thing tomorrow.” Suddenly realising something was missing, Noctis sat up and looked around. “Where’s Luna? And Umbra?”

Prompto shrugged. “Umbra’s doing that thing he does sometimes. Patrolling or something. Luna went with him.” He lowered his voice and smiled thinly. “I think she misses him.”

Noctis could empathise. Even with Little Luna nearby, he still missed her and longed for their days together in Tenebrae. It was not the same when they couldn’t stand on equal ground or even communicate like regular people. It was too easy to ignore the painful truth of their situation and pretend that she was as real as the other children of the fort. Only when his eyes would fall from her sweet smile to the ugly bruises on her neck or notice the mysterious seams peeking beneath her blond locks would he snap back to reality and remember the two of them were worlds apart.

At least he didn’t have to worry about Little Luna pretending he didn’t exist. He wished he could do something to make Umbra stop ignoring her. He recalled the dog noticing Little Luna when she first appeared to them, but had proceeded to treat her like thin air once Noctis discovered Luna’s corpse. Did he consider Little Luna a fake? Or was she literally like air was to him; something he knew existed, but couldn’t see and therefore took for granted until it was gone?

“Hey, Noct.” The blond hunter’s voice snapped him out of his musings.

“Yeah?”

Prompto pulled his legs to his chest and peered at Noctis. “Cindy and I have been thinking that I should move to Hammerhead. She’s busy with work and can’t make it to Fort Highwind to come visit.” He bit his lip and glanced at the nightstand where Cindy’s cap sat. “And honestly the whole long distance relationship thing kinda sucks.”

Noctis smirked. “I know that from first-hand experience.”

It had its perks. It was nice to unload all of his troublesome feelings and thoughts on paper for Luna to read and give her thoughts on when he knew he would have difficulties doing the same face to face. But mostly it was cons. He couldn’t hold her to make her feel better when she felt crushed beneath Niflheim’s thumb or squeeze her hand reassuringly and then look on in pride and adoration as the newly ascended Oracle stepped forward to provide healing to the desperate masses afflicted with the scourge.

He ruffled Prompto’s blond mop of hair. “So when are you flying out of the nest?”

“In a few days when the traders head to Leide. But don’t worry! I’ll definitely come back for the funeral. I’ve got the ride sorted out and everything.” Prompto’s eyes gleamed with giddiness and he leant closer as if about to tell a secret. “Apparently some former member of Kingsglaive is gonna attend and he lives close to Hammerhead.”

“Think I know the guy. Met him in Meldacio Stronghold while I was there with Ignis. His name is Libertus Ostium.”

Noctis had heard from Ignis in passing that the mines were cleared and Cor had already put weapon manufacturing into full production. Thinking of the children in Meldacio Stronghold and how they had wielded small knives on their person made him wish Aranea wouldn’t have to adopt a similar protocol in Fort Highwind. It was hard to imagine the care-free children of the fort wearing brown vests and carrying weapons like the grim youth of the stronghold. His imagination involuntarily conjured up an image of Little Luna wearing faded hunter’s uniform, covered in dirt and blood, her left hand clutching a short sword like a lifeline. He would have to step up and make sure they wouldn’t lose anymore hunters and that way ensure the children wouldn’t have to touch a weapon before their 18th birthday.

“I was thinking of wearing the Kingsglaive uniform in Luna’s honour at the funeral, but was worried I’d look like a fraud next to someone like Libertus.” Prompto’s gaze subconsciously fell to his covered wrist with the imprinted barcode.

Noctis pulled Prompto to a side-hug and rested his cheek against his friend’s freckled one. “If I’m allowed to wear the royal raiment, you’re definitely allowed to represent yourself as what you truly are. I’m sure Luna would agree.”

“What I truly am?” He couldn’t see Prompto’s face, but he could definitely hear the disbelief in his voice.

“You’ve proved yourself every day since we set out of Insomnia. You’re part of my guard, even if I don’t have the title to promote you to a member of the Kingsguard.” He affectionately squeezed his friend’s freckled shoulder. The upcoming mission might be their last together. He wanted Prompto to know his worth and what he meant to him before setting out to Leide. “I couldn’t ask for a better partner or a friend.”

He felt something wet touch his cheek. Pulling away, he saw Prompto embarrassedly wipe his teary eyes. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that from you”, his friend confessed with an abashed chuckle.

“I might have a vague idea.” Noctis lightly teased before sobering. “In all honesty, though, I doubt Libertus will think much of it. Specs wore the uniform while we were in the mines and he didn’t even bat an eye.”

Prompto still appeared uncertain. “But he probably saw Ignis and Gladio a lot in the Citadel and knows their faces.”

“And soon he’ll know yours, too. I bet he’d like to increase his ranks and share some glaive-tricks.”

A slow grin lit up Prompto’s freckled features. “I’d like that.”

♫

The next morning when Noctis woke up to Prompto’s obnoxious chocobo alarm clock, he noted that Umbra hadn’t returned from his patrol. He didn’t have time to mull over it as he had to get a move on and find Iris before her assigned dorm group would go to the showers.

“Be a pal and reserve us a table. I’ll join as soon as I can.”

“Good luck”, Prompto called after him.

Iris’ dorm was at the other end of the corridor. Noctis’ and Prompto’s dorm was close to the stairs that led up to the surface level. As hunters they had to be close at hand for anything. Briskly Noctis walked past the civilians that made their way to the showers and the mess hall before continuing to their assigned work stations. Most of them ranged between ages twenty and forty. Families with children were located closer to the shelter further downstairs where civilians took refuge during daemon attacks. To Aranea the safety and defence of new generations was held paramount. She understood their importance.

Noctis approached the familiar wooden door with a tacky heart-shaped ‘welcome’-sign. Iris shared her room with Wiz’s granddaughter whom she had befriended when the Niflheim base had still been known as Fort Vaulleroy. Outside farm-related business, he hadn’t really talked with the girl much.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

“Just a second”, a half-hearted female voice slurred. The door cracked open and he was greeted by the sight of a barely awake Iris. He peered past her into her room and saw piles of used tissues scattered over the bunk, table and floor. She must’ve been crying all night and had barely caught any shuteye. Guilt twisted his insides.

Iris blinked several times and rubbed her face. Once she was certain her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her, she fixed her slouched posture and glared at him. “What do you want?”

Noctis tried to ignore the people passing Iris’ dorm. Most of them didn’t pay them any mind, but he could feel occasional pair of eyes glancing their way in curiosity. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene.

“Can I come in?”

Her hazel eyes narrowed. “No.”

Noctis sighed and ran his hand through his messy black locks. “Look, I’m really sorry for last night. I know you were really looking forward to it-“

“Understatement of the century”, she scoffed and crossed her arms.

“-I just needed the privacy to tell you the truth. I never intended to lead you on or hurt you.”

“Well, you did.” He could see the dim light of the corridor lamps reflecting from her watery eyes. Fresh tears threatened to fall, but she choked them back. He reflexively lifted his hand to touch her arm to comfort her, but she flinched back defensively as if anticipating a strike. Clenching his jaw, he let his hand fall uselessly to his side.

“Iris, you have to understand-“

“All I understand is that you’re an asshole!” Her tone dripped from venom, her usually friendly and warm eyes flashing from hurt and anger as she pointed an accusing finger at him. “Do you have any idea how it is to feel this way about you? How much I hate myself for it?”

Noctis frowned, his eyes widening in surprise and confusion. What was she talking about?

“Fifteen years, Noctis.” Her lower lip quivered as she took in a shuddering breath. “Fifteen damn years I’ve held these feelings in. I’ve liked you since I was a kid. Even when I knew you were going to get married, I couldn’t just make my feelings go away no matter how hard I tried. And when she was gone, I thought I had been given a chance to be with you. But then you went off on your own and I heard from Gladdy that you were trying to find a way to fix everything. I admired and loved you all the more for it.”

Her long brown bangs hid her eyes as she lowered her chin and clenched her hands into fists, nails painfully digging into the skin of her palms. “But when you came back to us, you never so much as looked my way.”

Her voice cracked. “That night I thought you were opening up to me and I wanted to help you. I thought you could finally see me as a woman who loves you, not just your bodyguard’s little sister. I was a fool.”

Her shoulders slumped, the last remnants of her anger spent. Too tired to fight back, she let the tears freely stream down her cheeks. “All I ever wanted was for you to look at me the way you did when you saw Lady Lunafreya on broadcasts.”

Hesitantly Noctis took a step closer, hoping to comfort her somehow, but her shields were instantly up and she shoved him away from her. “Don’t touch me!”

He held his hands up in a peace-offer. Seeing no other way to fix this mess, he decided to tell her the truth. “Luna isn’t gone, Iris. When I retrieved her body from Caem, it wasn’t the only thing I brought with me. I’ve seen her ghost regularly. She’s the one who found the missing chocobo. Without Luna’s interference, Prompto and I would still be searching for her. She even saved me from getting ambushed during the daemon raid.”

“Is that the best you can come up with?” Iris laughed humourlessly, her timbre dripping from bitterness. “Do you think you can blame your behaviour on a dead person? You’re a bigger bastard than I thought. I’m sick and tired of your crap. Just leave me alone.” She slammed the door in his face.

♫

Noctis pulled the van to a stop and addressed his bodyguard without bothering to face him. “Hope you’re not thinking about keeping that leather jacket on. Gonna be a short stealth mission if you give our position away the second we’re in earshot.”

Gladiolus glared at the back of his liege’s head, but shrugged the attitude as well as the jacket off. “How far away is the territory?”

“Half a mile. We can’t alert them with the van, so we’ll have to walk the rest of the way”, Noctis explained as he checked his equipment. “We won’t be using torches, either, unless we’re forced into melee-combat.”

“Got it.”

Gladiolus reached for a pair of night vision goggles next to Prompto, but the freckled scout was quick to snatch them out of his hand.

“Woah there, big guy! This baby is off-limits.” He dropped an ordinary pair in the tattooed man’s open palm. “This one was specifically made for me. It’s far superior to the ones I lost during the raid.”

“Oh yeah? What’s so special about them?” Gladiolus humoured the younger man in hopes of dissolving some of the tension between himself and Noctis.

“Cindy made them”, Noctis stated matter-of-factly as he got out of the van. He let Umbra out and handed the potion satchel to Gladiolus.

They trekked in silence through the darkness. Umbra had taken point, his ears moving in every direction as he listened for any sounds of danger. Once they reached the forest edge, they slowed down and quietly crept past the tall pine trees. The air was crisp and slightly chilly. Noctis could hear faint chirping from high up and a persistent knocking as a woodpecker worked on a new home. As long as the birds weren’t alarmed, they could rest easy.

Umbra suddenly halted. Noctis signalled for Gladio and Prompto to stop and knelt down next to the dog. The canine’s posture remained relaxed even as his ears were pointed forward in alert. His mouth opened to pant. Noctis recognised the sign – no danger. Then why did he stop?

Prompto noticed a familiar landmark and patted Noctis’ shoulder to gain his attention. “We’ve reached the territory.”

Gladio peered into the darkness through the goggles, but couldn’t see any movement besides the flickering of the green hued image of his night vision. “I don’t see any daemons.”

Noctis ushered Umbra forward. They sidestepped fallen dry branches and walked deeper into the woods. Setting his nose on the forest ground, Umbra followed the scents to a previously discovered daemon nest.

“I think I see something”, Prompto whispered.

Noctis didn’t need the aid of the night vision to find what Prompto was referring to. The buzzing of flies and a foul smell led him to a pile of daemon manure. Next to it laid cleaned bones of a spiracorn. “They’ve been here recently.”

“Yeah.” Gladio swatted away a persistent fly that was eager to make a home in his ear. “Question is: where are they now?”

“Out hunting, maybe?” Prompto suggested.

“Not so sure.” Noctis moved the pile of bones with the tip of his boot. “The evidence suggests they’ve just eaten. There has to be some kind of den nearby.”

Gladio scanned his surroundings for any clues. “What kind of daemons did you find here before?”

“Mostly goblins and imps; the small ones that like thick vegetation”, Prompto replied. “They tend to be scattered, though. We should’ve seen at least one by now.”

Something was off. Had the daemons moved to find new hunting grounds or had they been chased away? The forest felt too empty. “Let’s move on.” Noctis rose and quietly ordered Umbra to resume the search. “We’re bound to run into them sooner or later.”

The ground softened as they continued further. The sponge-like moss silenced even Gladio’s heavy footsteps.

Umbra stiffened, his ears turning to every direction as he listened. He sniffed the air and turned to point towards their left.

“What is it?” Noctis asked. He peered into the darkness, but couldn’t distinguish anything out of ordinary.

Prompto sharply inhaled. His more advanced goggles must’ve picked on whatever had given Umbra a pause.

“What?” Gladio hissed impatiently.

Prompto licked his lips nervously and swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple popping. “I think there’s a body hanging between those two trees.”

Deeming it safe enough to switch a torch on, Noctis alerted his companions to remove the goggles to shield their vision from the sudden light. Sure enough the shaft of his torchlight revealed a small humanoid figure hanging limply in the air. On closer inspection they realised it was a goblin corpse cocooned in gossamer that hung from a large thinly weaved web.

“What happened here?” Prompto breathed.

Gladio’s tone was gruff as he eyed the unfortunate victim. “Survival of the fittest.”

“An arachne moved in and claimed the territory”, Noctis guessed. “The daemon activity the MTs took notice of was the goblins and imps leaving to find a new place to stay.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Prompto nervously fingered the straps of his Auto Crossbow. “I mean, now we have less daemons to worry about!”

Gladio grimaced and crossed his tattooed arms. “In the best case scenario we have only one arachne to worry about, but it’s highly likely that it has already laid its eggs. Soon we’ll have a whole brood of ugly spider-ladies crawling about. In the worst case scenario the goblins and imps will make a new home closer to the fort and we’ll end up having to deal with both daemon packs.”

Prompto’s optimism dimmed immediately. “Oh. That doesn’t sound good. So what do we do now?”

Noctis peered around. “We find the nest and burn it before the arachne spawns more of its kind. Aranea can deal with the small fry.”

The further they continued, the more they saw webbing covering trees and blocking the way forward. Noctis cut a path with his Engine Blade through the sticky-threaded patterns. Umbra’s nose caught a foul smell and led the trio to a dank cave. The putrid stench was even worse inside. Several half-eaten goblin corpses littered the entrance and covered the soft forest floor in fresh black blood. Flies buzzed and laid eggs on the carcasses. The decaying bodies bustled with activity as countless larvae made quick work of the daemons. Noctis wrinkled his nose in disgust. It would appear bugs made no distinction between man, beast or daemon.

He motioned his companions to stop. “Put your night vision on.” He purposely kept his torchlight on; the goggles distorted the images enough to spare Prompto from the gross sight. He was glad Little Luna had stayed behind. While she might’ve not minded – just as she had barely reacted when he had shot a chocobo right next to her – he still felt the need to protect her from life’s ugly truths, even if it may have been too late for her. She had most likely spent the past decade with nothing but her own adult self’s corpse for company. That ought to have messed with her head more than nature’s course ever could.

Noctis switched off the torchlight as they entered the surprisingly cramped cave. It could’ve easily been a lone coeurl’s den were it not for the thick webbing that covered the rocky surface. There were no signs of their target. No cocoons, no eggs-sacs, nothing.

“This can’t be right”, he muttered.

“Let’s do a thorough sweep. It might be hiding somewhere if it heard us coming”, Gladio proposed.

Umbra’s paws got stuck in the sticky gauze. With a revving of the sword’s engine, Noctis cut him free. “Wait outside and make sure we don’t get ambushed from the rear, okay?” The canine gladly made his way back, not appearing to be bothered by the stench of death and decay. As much as Noctis wanted to rely on Umbra’s superior senses, he didn’t like bringing him to places that were clearly not meant for his kind. Still, the dog remained loyal and refused to back down from challenges. The Belouve mines had proved as much.

Prompto slapped a hanging silken thread from his face. “We could just toss a firaga flask and call it a day.”

Gladio removed the greatsword from his back and tested the webbed cave-walls with it for any hidden passageways. “If the arachne isn’t here, it wouldn’t do us any good. It’d just find a new place to lay its eggs.”

“I guess.”

Noctis’ boot sank as he stepped on a thick patch of webbing, the ground seeming to stretch under his weight. He made to jump out of the unstable area, but his boots were as if glued, and he only ended up sinking further down.

“Guys-!”

“Noct!” Gladio rushed to his side.

♫

The net broke and he fell to a hidden room. His landing was softened by dozens of cocooned egg-sacs that were smashed under his weight with a wet squelch. He hurriedly sat up, his hands fumbling for the hilt of the Engine Blade. An unsettling thrumming coming from above made his skin crawl. He froze and held his breath.

He could hear the gaping mouths of its patellae chittering in anticipation. Very slowly, Noctis turned his head and saw the giant arachne glide down from its webbed nest with ease. It was close enough that he could see each thick spike-like hair on its curved spider-legs. Another mouth, that was located just beneath where the feminine humanoid torso began, gnashed hungrily. A bright red forked tongue slipped past its sharp fangs and tasted the air as if trying to pinpoint where its prey was hidden. The female torso attached to the spider-body turned around, its dark pink eyeballs scanning the nest for the intruder.

Another egg shattered under his weight. The arachne sharply turned towards the noise. More forked tongues stuck out from the patellae-mouths. It slowly crept towards him, clawed hands reaching blindly in front of it. Short high-pitched hiccup-like yips and squeals bubbled in the back of its throat.

Cold sweat trailed down his back as his clammy hands felt around for the Engine Blade. His shallow breathing was uncomfortably loud in his ears. The arachne picked its speed when it saw the faint movement and heard the rustling of his clothes against the broken egg-sacs. He briefly wondered if the daemon could smell fear as panic threatened to take hold of him and dull his rational thought.

Air rushed past Noctis as the clawed hand extended to grope at his face, twitching with inhuman motion and speed. It was like being stuck in a horror movie. More egg-sacs were smashed as he retreated away from the daemon. Only when his back hit the hard rock wall, did the panic subside enough to remind him of the sniper rifle that strapped to his back. Quickly he removed it and aimed.

The arachne was faster.

It swiped at his face and sent the night vision goggles flying from his head. The muzzle flash of his rifle illuminated the cave like a strobe light, momentarily displaying the arachne’s bloated body in all its disgusting glory. The bullet missed its mark. Something wet fell heavily to the cave floor and broke open. A chorus of chirping and clicking of chelicerae grew in volume. The arachne matron cackled gleefully as its thick, curved legs jabbed at the ground around him. He rolled out of harm’s way, sticky web clinging to his hunter’s uniform in the process. Too dizzy to get back on his feet unaided, he hurriedly crawled on all fours to get some distance to the daemon. Noctis nearly cut himself when his hand bumped the blade of his sword.

Using the Engine Blade as a crutch, he staggered on his feet and slashed blindly around him.

The daemon shrieked in displeasure. More wet squelches alarmed him to hatching eggs. Tiny arachnae that had yet to develop humanoid torsos swarmed his booted feet. Disgusted, he kicked away the spiders and hurriedly switched on his torchlight. The matron let out a guttural hiss and backed away from the blinding light.

For every wave of arachnelings he slashed, another egg-sac would hatch, renewing the threat. His sword-arm grew tired from the relentless exercise; he had to get out of here, but the only way was up. Gladio and Prompto hadn’t attempted to follow him down, thankfully, but they didn’t appear to be making efforts to help him out of the hell-hole, either. They must’ve been swarmed as well.

Noctis turned his attention to the matron and its angrily snapping patellae-mouths’ jaws. It was his only way out. He side-stepped and killed the arachnelings that attempted to overwhelm him. Hurriedly he sheathed his sword and took aim. The bullet flew right past the humanoid female face. The arachne matron reared back in surprise, its front spider-legs swiping at air in bewilderment. Not wasting his momentum, Noctis jumped on the daemon’s back and held on to its spiked hairpiece to avoid getting in range of its clawed hands.

The arachne thrashed around and rolled on the ground, but Noctis’ grip held. With an outraged screech, the daemon jumped out of the underground nest. Deeming it time to abandon ship, Noctis removed his other hand from the hairpiece and took hold of his sword to stab the disgusting creature’s spine. Finally the matron collapsed, its spider-legs twitching and patellae-mouths gnashing. Mustering what remaining strength he had left, Noctis beheaded the humanoid torso and impaled the arachnid lower body. Black blood splattered to his clothes and face as he removed his stained blade from the twitching corpse.

Stumbling off the daemon’s back, he paused to listen and assess the situation. A stampede of tiny insect-feet scraped the rocky wall as the arachnelings emerged from the hidden underground nest, their chelicerae clicking angrily in vengeance.

“Noct!” Prompto’s frantic cry forced his attention to his best friend.

The sight of Gladiolus lying motionless on the ground was enough to make his blood run cold. Prompto was firing his Auto Crossbow left and right, rapidly downing the overwhelming numbers of arachnelings. However he wouldn’t be able to last long – the machine was threatening to seize up if the shaking and sputtering was anything to go by. Vapor poured out of the welded joints and fogged Prompto's goggles.

“Prompto, take Gladio and get out of here. I’m burning this place down!” Noctis took out the magic flask Prompto had given him the day they had been harvesting elemental energy. It felt warm in his gloveless hand. He moved between the daemons and Prompto to cover his retreat.

When his friends were at a safe distance, Noctis backed away and threw the crystal flask. It exploded in brilliant magical flames. The shockwave sent him flying backwards, the intense heat threatening to scorch his beard and eyebrows. The flames caught the thin webbing that hung to his clothes. Panicked, he rolled violently among the larvae-infested goblin corpses in an attempt to put out the blaze, the bodies and dry lichen surrounding him inadvertently catching fire. Prompto hurried to his side and helped Noctis smother the flames.

Noctis shakily stood up with Prompto’s help and glanced down. His burnt vest was tattered beyond repair. The stench of burning corpses, manure, and vegetation hung heavily in the air.

“Here. Take this”, Prompto quietly said and offered him a potion bottle with shaking hands. Noctis quickly downed the medicine.

“What happened to Gladio?”

“I don’t know. One moment he was protecting me from the spiderlings, the next he collapsed and didn’t get up. I gave him a remedy and an elixir, but nothing’s helping.” Prompto wiped his sweaty brow and fidgeted, his body trembling from the adrenaline that insisted him to fight or flee. Noctis suspected it was thanks to the hormone that the svelte man had been able to carry their heavy-built friend to safety.

“We need to get him back to base. Help me carry him.” He took hold of the muscular man’s arms while Prompto lifted his legs. “Umbra, lead us back to the van, double time.”

♫

The gates had been left open for them. Noctis wasted no time driving past the MTs and parking in front of the entrance to the underground levels. Medical staff rushed to move Gladio’s still body from the backseat to a stretcher. The two scouts ran after the medics, worry lightening their steps to the point it felt like they were gliding across the long hallway to the emergency room. Startled civilians moved out of their way. Noctis didn’t even notice when Umbra skidded to a stop and ran off in the opposite direction.

Noctis and Prompto stopped in front of a large glass window. From behind it they witnessed the doctor examine Gladiolus’ unclothed body while nurses monitored his vitals through computer screens.

“How’s he doing?” They turned to see Aranea approach them, with Ignis and Iris not far behind.

Noctis ran his hand through damp bangs. “No word yet. We have no idea what caused him to collapse.”

Iris refused to acknowledge him and lifted a calloused hand to the glass, hazel eyes glued to her brother’s still form. She must be so mad at him for letting this happen to her only family. If he had been more careful, he wouldn’t have been separated from his companions and could’ve covered the bodyguard’s back. Or if he hadn’t asked Gladio to take off his jacket, he might’ve been protected. Noctis stopped when recalled Cor’s words; what ifs and buts would do him little good. This was the reality he had to deal with.

Ignis’ nostrils flared when the stench of burnt cloth carried from where Noctis was standing to his sensitive nose. “Are either of you hurt? We should have you examined, just in case.”

“I’m fine. We’re fine.” Noctis turned his back to the blind brunet and anxiously watched the medical staff inject something in Gladio’s veins.

Aranea wasn’t having any of that. “Specs is right. You could have a serious wound needing medical attention and you wouldn’t even notice it thanks to all that adrenaline pumping in your veins.” She gently put her hands on Prompto’s freckled shoulders and guided him away from the window. “C’mon. He’s not going anywhere. We’ll let you know the moment anything changes.”

Noctis clenched his jaw in defiance, his hands involuntarily clenching into tight fists. “I said I’m fine. I need to be at his side.”

“Noct, there’s nothing you can do for him right now. You can return as soon as you’ve been examined.”

He ignored his former advisor.

“You should go.” Iris’ quiet voice immediately grabbed his attention. She refused to face him and opted to keep her hard gaze firmly on the happenings of the emergency room. “You’ve caused enough problems.”

He felt like he had been punched in the gut. “Iris…”

Eyes burning with anger and resentment, she sharply turned to him and pointed to the exit. “Leave. Now!”

He held her gaze for a few seconds, but deemed it best to follow her wishes. “Fine.”

After the examinations, they were summoned to the infirmary. Gladio had been moved to a room the patients liked to refer to as ‘solitary confinement’ which was meant for cases with contagious diseases. Noctis noted Iris was absent, presumably to avoid him and disturbing the other patients. Ignis let the two hunters inside.

Several lamps with bright blue lights had been set around the bed to point towards the unconscious man. He was clothed in a faded hospital gown that appeared to be few sizes too small.

“So, what’s wrong with him? Why’s he held here?”

Ignis moved next to Gladio, his gloved hand fumbling as he searched for the edge of the covers. He lifted it enough for them to see. The bodyguard’s left breast, shoulder and armpit were covered in black substance. On closer inspection Noctis realised the pulsing liquid was faintly moving, almost as if attempting to hide from the burning hallowed light.

“Is that daemon blood?” Prompto hesitantly asked and instinctively backed away.

Ignis silently shook his head, the muscles around his neck tightening as he fought to keep his voice stable. “Starscourge. He is infected.”

Noctis’ breathing dwindled to shallow gasps to the point his lungs couldn’t get the oxygen they needed. He felt light-headed and stumbled backwards, hitting his shoulder against the white stone wall in the process. Prompto was at his side in an instant and helped him stay upright.

“Y-you’re joking, right? I didn’t get infected and I was there right next to him!” the blonde hunter babbled.

Denying the obvious was futile. Noctis had to know if there was anything he could do for his sworn shield. “How long-?” he managed between gasps.

“The lights are slowing the plague from entirely taking him over, but it is only a matter of time before he loses the fight and turns into a daemon.”

Noctis let out a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. This was all his fault. “Does Iris know?”

“Yes. She said she needed some space.”

During their conversation the plague had spread further down his arm and up his neck. The light slowed its advance, but Noctis doubted Gladio had more than two hours before the transformation was complete.

He eyed the IV that pumped fluids into his friend’s bloodstream. “What did the medics inject him with earlier?”

“I’m presuming the daemons you encountered were poisonous. The wound that’s hidden under the plague was festering and needed treatment, while the intravenous therapy is merely to correct the dehydration caused by perspiration.” Ignis let go of the covers and headed towards the door. “It is all we could do for him. Now we can only make his last hours as comfortable as possible and prepare for the worst.”

Noctis found Iris skulking outside the medical staff’s office with her ear pressed against door.

“What are you doing?”

She lifted her finger to her lips to signal silence and continued to eavesdrop. He could hear Aranea talking.

“So what you’re saying is that there’s nothing we can do to prevent the transformation?”

“If we could, we would’ve never needed an Oracle.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. Now let’s stop wasting time and cut to the chase. How do we deal with him?”

“He is an Amicitia, is he not? The King’s Shield deserves a clean death. We could give him a drug overdose. He would die in his sleep peacefully.”

Iris covered her mouth to muffle the gasp, her wide eyes welling with tears. She stood up and hurried off. Noctis followed.

“Iris, wait.”

Abruptly she turned on her heel to face him. Her face was red and blotchy from crying. Tears glimmered between her dark lashes and served to only further irritate her bloodshot eyes. She quickly wiped her clogged nose with a dirty sleeve. Her voice cracked as she attempted to talk through the lump in her throat. “They want to kill my brother like common cattle. He deserves better than that!”

Biting her swollen lower lip, she squeezed her teary eyes shut as a sob shook her slight frame. She didn’t resist when Noctis’ warm arms wrapped around her in a loose embrace and buried her runny nose in the crook of his neck while he stroked her back. She breathed through her mouth and sniffled in an attempt to spare the collar of his shirt.

He was at a loss of what to do. He couldn’t fix the situation, but he had to support Iris somehow just as she had been there for him in his darkest moments. Returning the favour was the least he could do. “Iris, tell me what you want me to do.”

She drew a shaky breath and slowly exhaled in an attempt to gain a measure of composure. “Help me say goodbye to him.”

They entered Gladio’s room. A machine hooked to his body beeped steadily to his calm heartbeat. A lone nurse was monitoring his vitals.

One glance at Iris’ puffy eyes was enough to make Noctis take the initiative. “Excuse me, could we have a moment alone with him?”

The nurse nodded her consent and left the pair alone.

“I hate anything remotely resembling a hospital. It’s so cold and sterile in here”, Iris mumbled and rubbed her gooseflesh covered arms.

Even with the covers hiding most of Gladio’s body, they could see the black substance had spread far enough to cover most of his tattooed torso and scarred face. His blanket and hospital gown weren’t spared from the plague’s influence, either; the cloth was wet and thin and looked like it was ready to fall apart from where the black substance had seeped into it.

“Gladdy”, she hoarsely whispered and sat down next to him on the bed. Without any regard to her own safety, she tossed the covers aside to expose rest of his infected torso to the hallowed lights and took hold of his large, rapidly cooling hand.

“Iris, be careful or you might get infected, too.”

She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes: she didn’t care. Her only family was being taken from her and the love of her life had rejected her. In mere twenty-four hours her life had turned on its head. Absently she caressed the plague-ridden hand, not minding the cold, inky substance that latched onto her hand and squelched between her fingers.

The heart monitor’s beeping quickened pace as the older Amicitia slowly came to. The left eye was entirely hidden under thick, black, twitching matter, but the other one cracked open to reveal a warm hazel eye that struggled to focus on his surroundings.

“Gladdy?”

The large fingers interlaced with her delicate ones and squeezed reassuringly.

They could see the plague had clogged his mouth and throat, but Gladio was determined to respond to her. “Good… t’ see… you, baby… sis-” He violently coughed as more rotten substance forced its way down to his lungs.

She gave him a watery smile and sniffled. “I’m here for you, Gladdy.”

He managed a weak, lopsided grin, before the lack of oxygen forced him back to unconsciousness. The hand in Iris’ grasp slackened. With a raspy sob, she lowered herself to hug her brother’s still body and quietly wept. The plague didn’t waste any time latching onto her shaking figure and weakly binding the two Amicitias together.

Noctis felt like someone was tightly holding his heart in a persistent grip. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. He hadn’t had the chance to talk things through. He couldn’t allow his bodyguard leave this world without reconciling.

He shook the tattooed man’s uninfected side. “Gladio! No. No-no-no. You gotta wake up!”

The black webbing coated the rest of Gladio’s head and spread to his pillow and mattress. The pattern of the effervescent substance on the cushion reminded Noctis of the bloodstain and bits of brain matter that had splattered on the cave wall when he had shot the chocobo. Faint gurgling sound came from between the dying man’s parted lips as the plague fully clogged his trachea. He silently hoped his friend would be choked to death and that way sparing Iris from having to witness the people she trusted snuffing out her brother’s life.

Noctis let go of Gladio’s shoulder when the Starscourge threatened to reach his fingertips. Tears blurred his vision to the point he couldn’t distinguish his friend’s features anymore underneath the plague. He backed away to rest his back against the wall and covered his face to hide the tears. His legs gave out and he slowly fell to his knees.

♫

Noctis barely heard the door creak as someone entered the room. Umbra hurried to his side and pressed his wet snout against the hunter’s cheek. The dog pawed at his shirt to get his attention, but Noctis merely patted Umbra on the head and continued to stare apathetically in front of him without really seeing anything.

The quiet sound of dripping pulled his attention to Gladio’s bed. He sharply inhaled when he noticed that the plague was no longer spreading, but moving back towards its source. Over the wound rested a small pale hand. Little Luna stood next to the bed, her lips stretched to a thin line and her brows creased in concentration.

“Luna?”

Iris lifted her head from Gladio’s chest and gasped when she saw a faint flicker of movement in the still air. Slowly, as if witnessing the sunrise casting its first light over something previously hidden, she could make out a vague, ghostly figure of a small girl. She blinked and rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The unfocused image sharpened and Iris could clearly see the girl in a white dress standing next to her, absorbing the plague.

Gradually the thick black webbing crawled away from Gladio’s tattooed skin and stained cotton. The substance made its way up the little girl’s arm and merged with her pale skin. Iris watched in mute fascination as the plague latched to her arm did the same. The wound on Gladio’s shoulder pushed out the remains of the black puss before closing and healing on its own.

Noctis’ eyes shone with gratitude and admiration as he watched the miracle unfold. Gladio would live!

Suddenly Little Luna stiffened and convulsed. Excess plague leaked out of her nostrils and mouth, staining her pale chin black. Panicked, Noctis hurried to her side and knelt down in front of her. More black blood spilled from the seams of her face and trickled down her neck. Her glassy eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed to his waiting arms.

“Luna!” He shook her and caressed a bloodied cheek, but she remained motionless. Noctis carried her to his dorm and left Iris to welcome Gladio back to the world of living. They would talk things through later.

Prompto sat in his usual spot on the top bunk, cradling his camera as he went through pictures of their great journey together. He could hardly believe they would lose a vital member of their former Crownsguard. As much as he wanted to be there for the gruff yet warm man, he couldn’t bear to see his friend in such a state. He preferred remembering Gladiolus as he was in their photos: healthy and full of life.

He blew his nose on a tissue and grimaced. His nose was red and raw from constant contact with paper, but he couldn’t stop the snot or tears. Without warning the door burst open nearly causing Prompto to tumble from his perch. The blond man watched Noctis rush in, eyes wide in fear as he set Little Luna down on his bed.

“Noct-?” Words died in Prompto’s mouth when he saw the condition she was in. “Oh no. Has she been infected, too?” He couldn’t lose another friend to the Starscourge so soon.

“No. She purged the plague from Gladio and Iris… I don’t know what’s happening to her.”

“Hold on.” Prompto uncorked a potion bottle and set it between Little Luna’s parted lips. Noctis held her nose to make sure she would swallow the healing liquid.

Instead of the desired effect, she began to splutter and choke. Noctis let go of her nose and pushed the potion bottle aside. He saw the liquid sizzle in her mouth as it touched the corruption. Little Luna coughed violently, drops of black blood flying everywhere and staining his sheets. He was instantly reminded of their notebook and the black drops that marred her last entry. Was this the reason?

Laboriously she sat up and attempted to climb out of the bed, but ended up sprawled on the floor. Supporting herself on trembling arms, shuddering and heaving, she vomited more black substance. Noctis moved his hand on her back in soothing circles. Her arms gave out and she lost her balance, her slack body hitting the stained carpet. Gently Noctis turned her around and pulled her head to rest in his lap. He wiped her blackened chin with a sleeve and brushed the damp bangs from her listless eyes.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he quietly asked. Little Luna shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut as another violent cough wrecked her tiny frame. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep few black drops from spilling and staining his face and clothes. Noctis clasped her small hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

Just when he thought she wouldn’t be able to take much more, the inky substance began to move. As if pulled by an invisible force, it inched towards the seams of her face and disappeared between the barely noticeable cracks. Even the drops on his face fell and were sucked in.

Once all of the foul matter had disappeared, she opened her eyes and smiled weakly at him. He choked on a relieved laugh. She was fine. Gladio and Iris were fine.

He leant down to press his lips on her temple in a lingering, heartfelt kiss. “I don’t know how you did it, but you saved them. Thank you.”

He watched the focus dull from Little Luna’s eyes as exhaustion overwhelmed her. With utmost care, Noctis lifted her back in his bed and pulled the covers to her chin. A soft, warm smile tugged at his lips as he sat down next to her and stroked her golden head.

♫

A knock on the door alerted the men to a visitor. They exchanged glances. Noctis shrugged.

“It’s open!” Prompto called.

Iris stepped inside visibly disoriented as she struggled to process everything that had happened. Her gaze fell to the still figure of a pale girl resting in Noctis’ bunk.

“Is she okay?”

Prompto did a double take. “W-wait a minute. You can see her?”

Iris haltingly nodded and sat down next to Noctis.

“But how? You never saw her before even when she was right in front of you.” Noctis watched in disbelief as Iris reached out to tentatively touch the cool cardboard-like skin of Little Luna’s arm.

“I don’t know. She sort of appeared out of thin air. At first she was nothing more than a vague figure, but when I concentrated she seemed to turn solid.” Other than the nearly imperceptible twitch of her lips, Little Luna remained dead to the world even as Iris’ hand reached down to hold the girl’s small hand. “Thank you for saving my brother.” Noctis gazed at Little Luna in quiet satisfaction. Despite the blank, blue eyes staring unblinkingly into space, he had a feeling she was going to be all right.

Iris let go of the hand and turned to address the dark-haired hunter. “Noct, I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand why you couldn’t return my feelings”, she dropped her eyes to her fidgeting hands. “And honestly, I blamed you for using me and causing harm to Gladdy. There’s so much I still don’t understand, but now I realise you were telling me the truth.”

“You had the right to it. What happened to Gladio was entirely my fault.” He sighed and rubbed his face, fatigue from hours of relying on adrenaline to keep him going starting to weigh down on him. “If I had been less irresponsible and paid attention to the people around me, he wouldn’t have insisted on joining me and Prompto and none of this would’ve happened.”

A small smile curved Iris’ pink lips as she shook her head. “If he hadn’t joined you, neither you nor Prompto would have returned home. If there’s one thing my brother is good at, it’s keeping you out of harm’s way.” She grinned and poked his chest.

Noctis chuckled. “You might be onto something.”

The tension left Iris’ slim shoulders and she shifted to a more comfortable position. “The nurse told me Gladdy’s recovering well. No sign of Starscourge anywhere, even the blankets were spared! His vitals are good and they were considering moving him to the infirmary tomorrow. Would you mind if I took the radio to him?”

“Not at all. You bought it.”

“Great!” Iris reached for the handheld radio on the nightstand, but paused and gasped when something grabbed her attention. “Where did you get these? How long have you had them?” She delicately touched the vibrant blue petals of a sylleblossom.

Noctis had already forgotten about the flowers. “Luna brought them to me some time ago. I think they’re like her, only certain people seem to be able to see them.”

“What makes a person see her? Have you two always seen her?”

Prompto shrugged. “I saw her when she got out of the van with Noct and Umbra. Didn’t realise nobody else could until Aranea pretty much ignored and looked through her. I’ve tried to capture her on camera a few times, but that never worked.”

“We don’t know what caused her to become visible to you or us for that matter.”

Iris scratched her head in thought. “Have you ever asked her?”

A slight grimace soured Prompto’s freckled features. “She doesn’t really talk.”

“Why not?”

Noctis leant over Little Luna and carefully slid a finger between her chapped lips. “I’m planning on asking her, but I think I have an inkling to why she can’t.” He parted her lips open and peered into her mouth. As expected, he couldn’t see anything – not even teeth or a tongue – but thick, black oil-like substance. He wasn’t sure what to make out of this newfound information. “She’s mute”, he concluded.

“I see.” She took the handheld radio and stood up. “It’s been a rough day, huh.”

“You can say that again.”

“But I’m glad we can now put this behind us. Be sure to visit Gladdy when you’re able!” She was about to turn the handle of the door and leave, when Noctis’ voice cut her off.

“How are you going to tell Gladio about his miraculous recovery?”

Iris smiled faintly. “By telling the truth.”

♫

Noctis woke up to Little Luna stirring in his arms. Her glassy eyes were wide open as she took in her surroundings. He could tell she was about to do another disappearing stunt when she realised she couldn’t escape his hold.

“Do you always leave me hanging, little minx? I recall you promising not to disappear on me.”

Startled, she looked up to his kind blue eyes. Guiltily she shook her head.

“Relax. No need to be so jumpy.” He lightly stroked her bare shoulder with his thumb, but she didn’t appear any calmer. “If you’re worried about me finding about your little secret, you can rest easy.”

Confusion and worry altered on her expressive face.

“I didn’t rip your mask off or anything like that, if that’s what you’re fretting over. I promised not to, after all.” Some of the tension faded from her stiff shoulders and she allowed herself to lean into his tender embrace. “But I might have peeked inside your mouth.”

Instinctively she clenched her jaw and pursed her lips to a thin line. He now knew it was to keep the black blood – or whatever it was – from coming out of her mouth. Had her insides always been coated in it?

“I’m guessing it’s the Starscourge, since you seemed to be able to somehow absorb it from Gladio and Iris. One could come to the conclusion that you’re a daemon-” She shook her head vehemently in denial. “-But that wouldn’t make much sense considering you’re constantly in contact with the hallowed lights and don’t appear affected by them.” Rigidly she lay against him and waited for his judgement.

“So, the question is: what are you?”

He hadn’t expected an answer and was pleasantly surprised when she lifted her left hand to show him the scar on her ring-finger. I am Luna, she seemed to be saying. And he believed her.

But that didn’t answer his question. He had to think of something else that she could answer.

“Were you down in the mines with me a week ago?”

She glanced up at him, confusion written all over her face as she shook her head.

He might as well make sure he had the full picture while she was willing to indulge his curiosity. “Are there more Lunas other than you and the one in the morgue?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled in good humour from a suppressed smile. Again, she shook her head and relaxed in his arms. She must’ve thought him crazy.

He breathed out in relief. It had been just a vivid hallucination. Everything he had gone through in the mines had been created in his messed up head – or at least partially. He still couldn’t quite distinguish what had been real and what made up. She hadn’t pulled his heart out of his chest, that much was certain, and it appeared he hadn’t hurt her either. He felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders and that his conscience was slightly less tainted.

Little Luna’s skinny arms wrapped around his neck. She rested her chin on his shoulder and held him tightly. The unexpected show of intimacy caught him off-guard, but he happily returned the gesture nonetheless. He had a feeling it was her way of thanking him. He wasn’t sure for what, though. For accepting her despite the lack of oral hygiene? His lips twitched with dry humour. He placed a soft kiss on her shoulder and allowed her close proximity to lull him back to a blissfully dreamless sleep.

♫

The line to the mess hall was moving unusually slowly – something about visitors from Leide disrupting the carefully planned schedules according to Prompto. Not that Noctis minded too much. He wasn’t exactly starving to death, but he had hoped to bring Gladio some proper food. Who was he kidding? Iris more than likely already had that covered. He merely wanted to do something nice for his bodyguard to lessen the inevitable awkwardness.

A loud stage-whisper caught his attention. Little Luna stood outside the hall next to Umbra whose notebook holster had been replaced with a package.

He nudged Prompto’s side. “Be right back.”

The way Little Luna covertly checked if the coast was clear before presenting the box made him think of a shady drug dealer. The silly mental image made his lips twitch from a suppressed grin.

“What’s this?”

Curious, he lifted the lid of the box and was greeted by the alluring scent of freshly baked goods. It was an ulwaat berry tart, the dish he had fallen in love with during his stay in Tenebrae. He could tell it wasn’t quite the same as the ones he had enjoyed as a child, which was most likely due to lack of required ingredients. The trade wasn’t what it used to be and fresh bread was unheard of outside Lestallum and Altissia. But its lack of authenticity hardly mattered when the tart was fresh and made his mouth water. Next to it was a note.

‘Give my regards to master Amicitia.

PS. I might have had to borrow your gil, for I believe supporting the local industries is essential.’

Noctis snorted. Nobody would’ve noticed if she stole a single pastry from a busy bakery, yet she couldn’t bring herself to steal even with the obvious advantages at her disposal.

“You should come with us and give it to him yourself. If nothing else, it’d be funny to see his reaction to a floating box. It’s not like he doesn’t know of your existence.”

Little Luna placed her hands on her hips and glared at him in disapproval. He held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. No frightening recovering patients, I get it.” She nodded importantly in agreement. “But you can’t deny you’ve thought about it once or twice. I know you better than you think.”

Glassy eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment. A hearty laugh rumbled in his chest.

“I knew it. C’mon, let’s take this to Gladio.”

A passing hunter gave him a funny look before turning to nudge his friend’s side, but Noctis paid them no mind. He had less than a week before Luna’s funeral and wasn’t about to let anything ruin his final days with her.

“Well, look who decided to show up.”

“Hey, we came as fast as we could”, Prompto protested and set down the tray piled with food in the recovering man’s lap for emphasis. “Can’t have a comeback party without goodies.”

The IV had been removed from Gladio’s arm. Iris had sewn him a temporary hospital gown that looked far more comfortable than what he had previously worn. His long, brown hair looked like it had been recently washed. He must’ve been to the showers with some extra help, but couldn’t stay out of bed for extended periods of time. She had also brought him several spare pillows to make his stay as comfortable as possible. Other than the obvious fatigue from the recent trials, he appeared to be healthy as a spiracorn.

Noctis’ voice was quiet as he clasped the older man’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” He blinked away the tears that threatened to well in his eyes. He was determined not to make this into another emotionally draining ordeal. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

There was no hint of resentment in his warm hazel eyes as Gladio’s large hand reached up to clasp his liege’s. “Glad to see you’ve got your head sorted out. Iris told me everything.” He turned his attention to the little girl hiding behind the dark-haired scout. “Who’s this?”

“There’s someone I want to introduce to you.” Noctis grinned and gently ushered her forward, his arms warm and reassuring around her small frame. “Meet Luna.”

Gladio gaped at her in disbelief before embarrassedly admitting: “When Iris told me Lady Lunafreya’s mute ghost healed me, I kinda expected her to look older than that.”

Noctis awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to another while Little Luna’s gaze fell to stare at her toes. “Yeah, uh, I can’t really explain that. I don’t think it’s something she chose.”

Prompto shamelessly stole a biscuit from Gladio’s tray and munched on it thoughtfully as he voiced what all three of them had been thinking. “So, how come only we can see her?”

Gladio studied the pale girl, taking note of her unfocused, pupilless eyes and her slightly, well, dead appearance for lack of better word. It unnerved him to see Noctis so easily holding her like she was some prized porcelain doll. He suspected the former monarch had spent too much time with the dead to realise how abnormal and absurd the whole situation was. You don’t just casually hold your deceased lover’s animated corpse in your arms like that, no matter how alive it appeared to be. “Is it because we’ve all been healed by her?”

Prompto ignored the tattooed man’s disapproving glare as he spoke with his mouth full of food. “She never healed me. Besides Noct could see her before she healed him.”

“Actually”, Noctis cut in. “The first time she healed me was in Altissia before she died, but that’s beside the point.”

Gladio contemplatively stroked his beard. “What else do we have exclusively in common?”

Noctis thought of the black substance that coated the inside of Luna’s mouth and the bruises that marred her frail neck. He remembered how the imps hadn’t hesitated attacking her when they caught her in their sights. All of it had to be somehow connected. Then he remembered Iris. “All of us have been in contact with the plague. Iris could see Luna only after she had been infected.”

Prompto uncertainly wriggled his hands in his lap and bit his lip. “So you think I’ve been in contact with it, too? I mean, I’ve never been infected. Not even when I was right next to Gladio when he got infected.”

Noctis tapped his chin and frowned. “Do you think it’s possible you might’ve been in contact with it without getting infected? Weren’t you engineered to become an MT? You might’ve had a brief contact with it in the laboratories.”

Prompto tilted his head and pursed his lips in thought. “Yeah, but wouldn’t that mean I’d get infected more easily?”

The dark-haired scout hopelessly shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m just throwing out ideas. So far it makes the most sense to me.”

They sat and ate in silence. A cheery Lestallumian melody played from the radio sitting next to Gladio’s bed. While the three hunters had been debating, Little Luna had quietly withdrawn and huddled next to Umbra who obediently sat in the hallway as not to violate the ‘no animals allowed in the infirmary’-regulation. Her fingers combed through the happily panting dog’s shaggy fur. Noctis figured she might’ve felt a little unnerved by all the attention she was receiving lately. She was too used to being ignored and had spent too many years on her own.

Prompto broke the silence. “Y’know, it was kinda nice being back together for that mission. Would’ve been like in the good old days if Ignis had been with us.”

Gladio’s eyes glazed wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be something.”

Noctis noticed Little Luna was looking at him with a funny look on her face. He couldn’t quite decipher what was going inside that enigmatic mind of hers. It was times like these that he realised she really was older than what she appeared to be. It was almost like she was burdened by something he couldn’t understand. She broke the eye contact before he could come to any conclusion.

Returning to the conversation at hand, Noctis nudged his best friend’s side teasingly. “So, you heading to Hammerhead to get away from ‘paw-paw’?”

A faint blush dusted Prompto’s freckled cheeks, but he hid it with an easy grin. “Nah, I called Cindy and we agreed to meet up for the funeral. She got Takka’s kid to cover for her.”

Noctis didn’t miss how Little Luna tensed and tried her best not to appear to be eavesdropping. What a bummer. It must’ve been so strange for her to hear people casually talking about her funeral. He decided then and there that he’d spend the rest of the week making her forget about all the doom and gloom and just enjoy their time together.

Neither Gladio nor Prompto noticed the change in Little Luna’s body language. Then again, Noctis liked to think he had gotten pretty good at it. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he could definitely read her emotions like an open book.

Prompto’s happy chatter brought him back from his musings. “Besides, we’re not in that much of a hurry. With Gladio here bedridden, it’s the perfect time to do some catching up and playing cards together like we used to. Might even get Ignis to join us if I practise my kicked puppy impression hard enough.”

Gladio licked the ulwaat berry jam from his fingers and chuckled. “You do realise that won’t work when he’s blind, right?”

“I think he meant he’s gonna try sucking up to Aranea.”

“Hey!” Prompto objected.

“What? That’s what you said.”

“I prefer the term ‘winning her over’.”

Noctis rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

♫

He ran like he was late for his dorm-group’s assigned supper. Some people might have called him immature, while others might’ve thought him to be plain insane. Noctis hardly cared when he saw the wide smile lit up Little Luna’s pale features, her shoulder-length hair and white dress dancing in the breeze as they rushed past the denizens of the fort.

He had borrowed a trolley from the garage and used it to push Little Luna around at high speed. She clung to its rails and beamed at him through the curtain of tangled blond locks.

They had spent the last few days together doing silly activities such as this whenever his schedule permitted. Anything worked as long as it kept a smile plastered on her face and brought them memories of their time together in Tenebrae. Their current activity had been inspired by their memory of Luna pushing his wheelchair around the Fenestala manor. Noctis still remembered the shocked and appalled faces of the servants as their dignified princess had thrown her manners out of the window, just to make the sick Lucian boy laugh.

As promised, she hadn’t disappeared on him, not once. Every night she lay in his arms, not really sleeping – he suspected she never did – and kept him safe from the recurring nightmares. He would fall asleep to the comforting weight of her slight body draped over his, her cool hand absently caressing his coarse cheek. Prompto had jokingly asked if he could borrow her when he saw how positively her presence affected the former monarch’s mental well-being. Noctis knew his best friend was still shaken after what had happened to Gladio. To their surprise, the little girl hadn’t hesitated hugging Prompto. It became a habit of hers to hug him every night before retiring to Noctis’ bed. The sight of Little Luna holding Prompto’s middle was heart-warming and only served to remind him how much she cared about all of them, even the ones she had hardly known in her life.

Each morning she followed Umbra around the fort while the two hunters showered and ate. She would even join them in their reconnaissance scouting. While she was never in any real danger, thanks to her ability to disappear at will, Noctis still liked to keep a careful eye on her to make sure no daemons would harm her. Even though he hardly considered these missions something he wanted to share with her, he could tell she was happy to see his everyday life and be a part of it.

Gently he slowed their ride to a stop.

“Better head for the airship landing and make it look like I’m actually doing something with this.”

Little Luna covered her mouth and silently giggled. She always appeared so self-conscious about opening her mouth; he couldn’t help but wonder if she constantly worried about spilling the plague. If that was the case it was most likely just because she didn’t want to disgust him rather than actually fearing about infecting someone.

Something hit the asphalt with a muffled clatter. Little Luna hopped off the trolley and lifted the item for him. It was the wooden Carbuncle. He had forgotten he still carried it in his pocket.

“Y’know, I think this might’ve actually helped. Just a week ago everything was a wreck and look at us now.” He grinned and playfully tickled her cheek with the wooden figurine’s snout.

She half-heartedly swatted his hand away, her wide grin diminishing into a soft, almost bittersweet smile as she nodded in agreement.

His smile faded, a worried frown taking its place. “What’s that look for?”

Little Luna shook her head as if dismissing the matter. Now he was positive something was wrong. His frown deepened. With a faint, teasing grin, she attempted to diffuse the situation by imitated his expression just like she had back with Iris. No frowning. His lips twitched in good humour, but he wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily.

“You might wanna reconsider answering my question. Otherwise I might be inclined to demand you pay back the tart-gil you stole.”

Little Luna feigned shock and slumped her head and narrow shoulders in defeat. Her hand rose and beckoned him to come closer, even as the rest of her remained hunched over. Obediently he knelt in front of her and expectantly looked up to her downcast eyes. Noctis nearly lost his balance when the scrawny girl pounced on him, arms wrapping around his neck and chapped lips brushing against his bearded cheek.

“H-hey!”

She hid her face in the crook of his neck and held him tightly, almost as if expecting something to come and pull her away from him. He reassuringly stroked her back and hair, unsure what caused this sudden – yet very much welcome – display of affection.

When she pulled away, he noted her glassy eyes appeared to be more reflective than normally. It was then that he realised he had never seen her cry. He lifted his hand to her pale cheek and waited with baited breath for the first tear to fall, but nothing happened. Was he imagining things? She leant into his touch and briefly closed her eyes before shyly withdrawing.

Not quite ready to let the moment pass, he leant forward to caress the tip of her nose with his and kissed her cheek. Flustered, she grabbed his hand and pulled him on the trolley.

“What are you-“

He had forgotten how strong she could be.

Something was off.

He felt like something important was missing, something essential. Something that was part of him.

Drowsily he yawned and stretched the kinks from his stiff muscles. As he slowly came to, he realised his bunk felt more spacious than usual. His hand felt around for the familiar chilly body, but found nothing. Panic twisted his insides and his heart skipped a beat as he sat up, hoping she was still nearby. He scanned the room, peeked into Prompto’s bunk and checked under his own bed, but didn’t find even a hair from her golden head to indicate she had been there. Little Luna was gone.

Before he could start thinking about forming a one-man search party, something blue caught his eye and he turned around to find a single sylleblossom placed next to his pillow. He noticed the royal raiment had been placed over the bed’s headboard. Then he remembered.

Tomorrow was her funeral. Tomorrow the illusion would shatter and he would be forced back to bleak reality. He would spend the rest of his life apart from the person he longed to be with the most.

With a faint, bittersweet smile he inhaled the flower’s sweet scent.

All good things come to an end, huh.

#ffxv fanfiction #noctis lucis caelum #lunafreya nox fleuret #noctluna #noctis x luna

10 notes · View notes