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boxofbonesfic · 1 year

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Title: Tonality [2]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

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Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: oop, another addition to the story. i hope it both answers some questions and then raises more, lol. as always, mind the warnings, and please enjoy! 😊🥰

By the time someone comes to fetch you to break fast, you are already awake. Helped into your cumbersome new gown by your lady’s maids, you pace in front of the cold fireplace. You pray the prince avoids the meal entirely, you’ve no wish to face him after—

Your face heats, and you press your hands to your warm cheeks. You don’t want to think of it, but you can’t help it, your mind conjuring images of the prince staring at you with flushed cheeks and dark eyes, his lips curved in that cruel smile—

Better to avoid him altogether.

A soft, almost nervous knock comes upon the door of your chambers, and upon opening it, you discover Kassandra on the other side. She sinks into a deep curtsy, bowing her head.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Awkwardly, you incline your head in return. “Her Majesty requested I fetch you to break the fast.” She chips happily at you, and you wonder if her good mood is true, or if she has created it for your benefit.

“Lady Kassandra,” you say, edging out of your room and closing the door behind you. “I trust you are well this morning.”

“Oh yes, Your Grace.” She threads her fingers together as a blush reddens her pale cheeks. “I did dance quite late into the evening.”

“I’ve no doubt you must have secured many a betrothal,” you say, and she giggles, covering her smile with the palm of her hand. “You did look quite lovely.” For a moment, you are not princess and lady in waiting—it is almost as though you are friends. Friends. Here in Rivia, you are surrounded by more people than ever before, and yet you find yourself lonelier than ever.

“You are too kind, my lady.” Kassandra seems to find her way easily through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, and it makes you wonder how long she has been here. “Twas you that bewitched the court—if you don’t mind my saying so, Highness.” Her words almost make you stumble, your foot catching against stone.

Your cheeks smart with heat, and your brows knit together in disbelief. “I—It was my mother who married the king.” You do not take yourself for a great beauty, not like your mother, but frustratingly, Kassandra shakes her head.

“Her Majesty was a sight to behold,” she agrees. “But I expect, had you not retired early, Your Grace might have received another offer of betrothal.” Kassandra casts a sly look in your direction. “Or two.” You look away, embarrassedly recalling Lord Olthar’s proposal, his skinny, red-faced son peeking out at you from behind his fathers robes. The thought of allowing him any closer than that turns your stomach, and you shake your head.

“One was quite enough.” You’ve no wish to be married, especially not to Lord Olthar’s spawn. “I should hope to remain in Rivia longer than a week before a match is written in stone,” you say dryly. You’re due a betrothal, that much you know—your eighteenth summer had come and gone without one, and just when your mother’s nattering had reached its peak, the fevers had come for your father. And then, a betrothal was the last thing on anyone’s minds.

”I am glad the king did not accept Lord Olthar’s proposal,” Kassandra admits with a small, secretive laugh. She leans in conspiratorially. “They say his son is rather… over fond of horses.” Her words illicit a gasp from you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

You laugh too. “I dare not imagine the wedding.”

“Fit for a queen.”

“The Queen of Horses, perhaps,” you retort, and the two of you dissolve into a fit of quiet giggles.

“I imagine His Majesty will have much higher standers for your betrothal, princess.” She smiles at you reassuringly. “I do not think Lord Olthar will try again.” You nod in return, grateful for her good humor.

“Hopefully I shall not have to think on mine own for quite some time.” Your thoughts are preoccupied enough these days without adding ones of a husband to the array.

“Not inspired by the ceremony?” The low, dark voice makes you turn. Lead forms hot and fast in your stomach at the sight of Prince Geralt. Even during the day, the prince strikes an intimidating figure, wide shoulders and barely tamed silver-white hair. Today, it is partially pulled back behind his ears, loose strands framing his chiseled jaw. Kassandra goes red as she curtsies, blushing deep crimson from the roots of her pale hair to the collar of her dress.

More out of habit than respect, you bend your knees as well, inclining your head. His appearance is sobering, the jovial mood instantly darkening.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” It is all the politeness you can manage. His face looms still in your mind’s eye, his hair falling across his dark eyes as he drove into her, his hand curled in the hair at the nape of her neck—

You suppress a shiver.

“Apologies, Your Grace!” Kassandra rushes to appease him, striking a chord of frustrated irritation within you. “We simply—”

The prince waves a dismissive hand. “It is only be expected, I suppose.” He says silkily. “I know few women who do not await their wedding day with thoughts of bliss.” When his molten amber eyes rest on you, you shiver. His voice takes on an amused lilt.

“Perhaps things are different in Redania, little sister?” You do not like the way the word drips from his tongue, as if another were in its place, one you don’t know, but that makes the the flesh at the back of your neck prickle just the same. His familiarity irks you as well—Prince Geralt speaks as if he knows you, as if he has spoken more than five words to you, not counting the ones uttered while he had been… otherwise engaged.

You swallow against the tightness in your throat. “Perhaps,” you say. The words are clipped, as if you have bitten off their edges. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it, the barb slipping from your tongue before you can pluck it. “In Redania, one must wait until after the wedding to consummate the marriage. Does that policy hold true here as well?”

Prince Geralt does not give you the satisfaction of a reaction, his features schooled into cool impassivity.

“I believe so, princess.” There is a dry sort of amusement coloring his words, as if to tell you the blow you’d tried to inflict was meager at best. “It appears we are not so different after all.”

You grind your teeth.

The prince falls into step beside you, setting the pace. To your frustration it is a leisurely one; walking with his arms clasped behind his back as he drags the conversation out. You wonder irately if he is doing this on purpose—you had walked with Kassandra to the hall the previous morning, and it had only taken half the time, you’re sure of it.

”It was a great honor to attend such holy proceedings.” Kassandra’s voice seems to make the prince’s lip curl, and he cuts his eyes at her, sparing her only the barest of glances from the corner of his eye. You know, though, that the words are meant for you.

“Yes, truly.” The prince hums. “And how wonderful our Queen should be fortunate enough to experience them twice.”

Outrage bubbles up in your chest at the insult of his implication, and it takes all of your strength not to respond in kind. You glance at Kassandra, her passive expression evidence that the prince’s sly remark has either been absorbed without question or gone unnoticed entirely. For a moment you imagine his smile goes smug and self-satisfied as your own lips press together into a thin line. Your mind races as you try to formulate a response—this is not a game you are used to playing, one of guileful words wrapped in loose pleasantries, and you feel woefully unprepared for your part in it.

“Fortunate indeed,” you reply, forcing yourself to keep your tone light and airy. By now, the great hall is in sight, servants bustling through the busy corridor as you approach the hall. “A wisely made match, would you not agree, Majesty?” A gaggle of nobles surround the king and queen, their heads swiveling at the sound of your voice. The satisfaction you feel as Geralt’s lips curl into a scowl is a new feeling, one you are not sure you like. —he cannot continue the game, not now, not without open insult. You can tell he does not enjoy being called to heel, least of all by you.

A chorus of good morning’s and your grace’s assail you like raindrops until you are practically dripping with them. You are familiar with only a select few of the faces surrounding the king and your mother, but not many. You recognize Lord Strom, Kassandra’s father, who shares the same sallow features as his daughter. He is flanked by a woman with a pinched, irritated looking expression; you had been introduced just before the wedding ceremony had begun, but you cannot recall her name now, only her relation to the king. A great-aunt—you think.

As you enter the hall, you note that it is already clean, all evidence of last night’s festivities gone, save for your mother, standing before you. Small tables have been set out for the visiting nobility lucky enough to be granted this brief audience with the king. The large table on the dais is already heavy laden with food, servants flanking the table on either side of the king’s chair as they wait for orders. Breakfast at home had been a family affair, gathered around the table in the hall. This, like every other event you have witnessed since arriving, is public spectacle.

Your mother preens at the attention. She flits from person to person, accepting their congratulations with regal grace. Once upon a time, behind the dusty pages of books she wished you would not read, you and father had called her the Pretty Peacock, the way she bustled about the manor and clucked her orders at the matron and her staff. Here, though, it seemed less amusing, and more… purposeful.

Though your mother seems to move amongst these people with ease, you struggle to follow her example, weaving serpentine through the crowd of courtiers, which parts like butter to a hot knife in her wake. Her gown is of a similar color scheme as yours, pale yellow with silver and gold embroidery embellishing her hem and sleeves. The crown of delicate silver and black leaves rests atop her head, the black jewel at its center sparkling. She turns to you with a smile, embracing you warmly.

“Trust my daughter to appear as her name is mentioned.” Your mother’s delicate, feminine laugh makes you want to curl in on yourself as the eyes of her fawning lady’s maids fall to you. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Though you cannot see him, you can feel the prince’s eye upon you with almost physical sensation. The hair at the back of your neck pricks up.

Why does he watch me? You chance a look over your shoulder, and your back stiffens. There are people between you still, a safe barrier, but there is no mistaking it—the prince’s eyes are locked on you, and he makes no effort to hide it. You turn quickly back to your mother as he produces a slim knife from somewhere, and spears an apple from the table with it. The crunch as his teeth break the skin rings uncomfortably in your ears.

“T’was fine,” you answer her quickly, hoping your small, curt smile is enough to convince her. “I danced, some.” It is a lie, but one she either does not recognize or one she cares little about. One set of eyes is appeased, and falls from you. The others bore hot holes in the back of your dress. The king approaches, and you note the affectionate pass of his hand over your mother’s arm. You curtsy low, again, more out of instinct than conscious thought.

“Come now daughter, we are family now, are we not?” He laughs. “Rise.” His expression is warm, but you feel the word roll inside your skull like a loose marble, or a pebble in your shoe. It is unfamilitar and uncomfortable coming from his lips, but you bear it as best you can.

“Y-yes. Family.” The king walks with his hands folded behind his back, a habit you cannot help but note that he shares with his son. You have dreaded this, the game of getting to know one another over the cold corpse of the man who had raised you. It stings, as you knew it would. It feels insane to you, to behave as if all the years of your life prior to this were but a footnote, and this the true story. Perhaps it is you who are insane, the only madwoman adrift in a sea of sensibility.

“Your mother tells me you’ve a great love of books,” he continues, unaware of the rolling turmoil that rocks your stomach. He casts a long glance sideways at you and at first, you cannot tell if there is reprisal or approval in his words. Then, he offers another smile, this one warm, genuine. “I trust you’ve found the archives enjoyable.”

Your mother’s laughter cuts through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t encourage her, my love,” she says. “We shall surely lose her in yellow old pages.” The gallery of painted faces behind her titters with amusement, and at the same time, you feel your cheeks begin to smart. Perhaps it is the syrupy sweet my love tacked to the end of her sentence that makes your eyes burn with hot, frustrated tears, or her casual disparagement, you are torn for choice. You shake your head, forcing another smile as you blink them back. Perhaps you are simply being oversensitive, seeing what is not there.

“Thank you, Majesty.” You fold your hands together as you follow the king and queen up to the dais, and move to take your seat. “I shall have to bring Kassandra along with me. Perhaps if I am buried in parchment, she may yet dig me out again.”

You are relieved when the conversation shifts from you, allowing you to stare sullenly at the spread before you in peace. It is startlingly familiar, your mother’s need to ensure that every eye is upon her at all times, and you find that you are perhaps glad for it. It is exhausting to play at happiness and not feel it, and every second you do not have to keep up the pretense is one you are grateful for. Even if it comes at the expense of a little of your pride.

That gratefulness dissipates like smoke in the wind as Prince Geralt seats himself next to you. However intimidatingly large he had felt as you and Kassandra had made your way through the halls, he feels doubly so now. Though he has his own chair and place at the table, it feels as though it is too small to contain him, and he spills over into your seat anyway. His thigh is pressed tightly against your own through your gown, and no amount of subtle shifting on your part seems to remove him. You grimace, and the servant who is pouring water into your goblet gasps, and bows her head quickly.

“Apologies, Your Grace, I have offended you!” Her distress begins to turn heads, and you hurriedly attempt to placate her, shaking your head with a weak smile.

“No, no, it’s nothing—”

“Yes, princess,” the word drips from your stepbrother’s lips like black honey. “Whatever is the matter?”

You glare at him. He is pushing you, trying to force you into a confrontation for no reason you can discern—other than his own blasted amusement. You are tempted to give him what he wants, your own accusations waiting eagerly at the tip of your tongue. And you have your pick of poisons to dispense; his foul behavior the night before, his insult to the queen—

But as you look down the table, you see few allies. King Vesemir looks at you with an apathetic sort of curiosity. And your mother… her doll-like expression appears concerned, but you can read it for what it truly is. The way her eyes narrow, her mouth tightened just so at the corners—

She is angry.

You can hear her without her speaking, and your mind conjures her reprisal perfectly, even without her input.

You are making a scene. You know that is what she would tell you. Be silent. Be seen, not heard.

“Nothing.” You wish you could slap Prince Geralt, slap the concerned facade right off of his wretched face. “Nothing at all.”

—

The grass beneath you is brittle, and you can feel it crumbling into dusty nothing as it crunches beneath the soles of your bare feet. The low-cut hedges have grown out crooked and gnarled from neglect, their roots erupting thirstily from the baked earth to choke the narrow pathway. The garden is different now than it was when you had left, but you know it still—home. The manor looms gloomily above the garden, sticking out of the barren hillside like a jagged tooth, glaring angrily down at the cracked flowerbeds and baked earth.

Everything is dead here.

The icy wind that whips at your cotton shift, tangling it about your legs is dead, carrying with it the sound of grinding bones and last breaths. From the parched fissures in the dead, hungry dirt, you can hear whispers, and you press your cold, shaking hands to your ears to block them out. You do not know the reason, but nevertheless the knowledge remains in your bones as if you were born with it—

I mustn’t listen. I mustn’t hear the dead.

You press your palms against the sides of your head until it aches, dragging your feet through the dead, overgrown grass as you make your way through the garden. You want to leave, to turn around and leave this place, this terrible mirror, but your body will not obey. Instead, your unwilling legs carry you further and further into the spiral of dry, overgrown hedges and cracked pavement. The ghostly voices continue to rise in pitch until they are screaming, tortured cries leaking up from below as you approach the center of the garden.

It, like everything else here, is wrong, gleaming as if polished in the dim light of the dead sun. It is white like bone, and black, sluggish muck leaks from the trumpet of the nymph carved there. The sly, mysterious smile carved on her marble lips has been replaced by a grimace of abject terror, and when you follow her stone gaze, your eyes widen with the same emotion. Your hands leave your ears then, covering your mouth to try and dampen the horrified gasp that leaves your lips.

Your father stands before you.

He is still a distance away, walking slowly toward you through the garden. His eyes are blacked out, but not completely, black wriggling over the whites like a child’s scribble, black thread weaved through the skin of his lips, suturing them shut.

He is horrible.

He begins to open his mouth, and it yawns wide, the threads snapping—

You sit up, a hand clutching at your chest. You stare around the room, panting as your mind attempts to place you in your still unfamiliar surroundings. Your heart is still races from the dream, your hands clammy and trembling. The taste of dry earth coats your tongue, and your throat feels cold and parched, as if you had walked the cold gardens truly, and not only in your dreams.

You can still see it, the rotting black threads holding your father’s withered lips shut, the black writhing ink scribbles across his eyes—

“No.” You mutter the word softly as you press the heels of your palms to your closed eyes, pushing hard until colored spots dance in your vision. You do not want to think of your father that way, his body moldering in the earth, rotting away like he had never been in the first place. It had felt so real, the cool distant glare of the white sun, the arid earth beneath your feet—

“A nightmare.” You say it aloud to no-one. “Nothing more.”

The morning sun paints a bright stripe across the blankets through the curtains of the four poster bed, and you tug them further open, squinting. Everything in your chambers is as it was the night before, though the fire in the hearth has gone down to cinders, and a copper tub has been set before it. You step out and into your slippers, noting the steam that still rises from the water. They must have brought it in as you slept, though you had not heard them do so.

I slept… unusually deeply.

You disrobe, stepping into the water with a grateful sigh. You sink in until you are mostly submerged, your nose hovering above the surface as you stare pensively at the window, studying the gray, muddled shape of the buildings beyond it. You do not want to think of the dream, or your father, but both seem intent at crowding at the forefront of your mind.

You know your father would tell you not to ignore it. Dreams mean things, he would say. What did it tell you? But there is no meaning you can discern from your nightmare, other than that you miss your father, and you wish he were still here, with you.

After you finish in the bath, you dress yourself. Instead of the multi-layered gown set out for you by your lady’s maids, you rummage through the wardrobe for one of the loose, flowy dresses more typical of your warm countryside home. You find one at the back, and as you slip into it, you feel more settled, more yourself. The creamy, peach colored fabric has one long, bell sleeve, and drapes modestly across your chest, exposing the top of one shoulder. It is less cumbersome than the heavy, three piece set they chose, and when they enter to help you, you can see the surprise written on their faces.

To their credit, they say nothing, simply helping braid and pin your hair, before setting the small silver circlet you wear at your mother’s insistence upon your brow.

It is long past time to break fast, but nevertheless, your request for a scone with butter and sweet cream is met without fuss down in the kitchens. As you eat, Kassandra marvels at your dress.

“I quite like it, Majesty,” she says, clapping her hands encouragingly as she circles you. “No corset? I do wonder if my father might permit me to have one made in its likeness,” she moans rather piteously. “Though I doubt he shall be pleased by my asking, it is quite bold, if you do not mind my saying so, Highness.” You look down at yourself, and then raise an eyebrow.

“Why should he find your request offensive? I mean no insult, but I do believe our dress more…modest than those of fashion here in Rivia.” Even Kassandra’s low cut gown exposes the tops of her breasts, the bodice molding to her body,pushing them out and up before rising back up to play at covering her shoulders. She laughs behind a hand at your ire.

“I suppose it is all a matter of personal opinion, my lady. I do find Redanian fashion quite lovely, if this dress should be a fair representation.”

“ ‘Tis.” You reply, finishing your biscuit. From your place by the windows, just outside the kitchen, you can see down into the gardens. Though the sight of them is sullied by the memory of your stepbrother’s wanton behavior, the glint of colored glass catches your eye. “What is that?” You ask, pointing at the colored shafts of light as they seemingly beam upward from the ground, the source blocked by lush greenery.

“The roof of the chapel,” Kassandra says. “It is made of stained glass.” At your confused look, she continues. “The chapel is beneath the keep, Majesty, it’s roof is the center of the maze. It is quite beautiful, should you wish to see it, my lady.” Intrigued, you nod.

“Yes, thank you. I would.”

Kassandra leads you down into the bowels of the castle, and you feel the walls grow cold around you as daylight through the arched windows is replaced by the soft glow of candles. The construction looks much older down here, the stone pitted and smooth not from polish but from the passage of time. Upstairs, the corridors had been crowded with courtiers, lords and ladies all seeking the king’s approval, or waiting for their opportunity to serve at his request.

Instead, you take note of the priests in their pale robes, black ink sigils drawn onto the skin of their foreheads and the expanses of their cheeks beneath their eyes. They keep their heads bowed and shoulders stooped as they shuffle through the halls in penitent silence.

“Why do they paint their faces?” You ask quietly.

“So that the gods might receive their prayers.”

The chapel’s carved doors bear images of the gods you do not worship, the wood branded with the sigil of the king—the head of a wolf, it’s mouth open in an eternal snarl. Inside, the air is thick with incense, and it takes you more than a few labored breaths to grow used to it. The inside of the chapel is long and narrow, its walls lined with alcoves featuring enormous statues of the gods. Kassandra gestures to the ceiling, trailing her fingers through the shafts of colored light that stream down, bathing the sullen atmosphere in muted color.

“Is it not beautiful, lady?”

“Yes, it is.” You speak truth—the glass is beautiful, unclouded and the colors true. Images of faith are splashed across the colored surfaces; a great wolf standing beneath a full moon, devouring a beautiful maiden, the three-faced Mother bathed in the golden light of the sun, and the Spider, sitting in the center of her silver web. You watch as Kassandra makes a sign with her right hand, her middle finger and thumb pressed together. She brings it reverently to her forehead, before dropping it to her chin, and then the center of her chest.

It is a quiet, sullen sort of reverence, one you see mirrored in the bowed heads of the priests, and in the quiet, droning chants the monks at the pulpit continue without pause. But there is no joy here. No voices lifted in worshipful, devoted song, nor dances with arms stretched to the bright and brilliant sky. Those are the rituals of worship you know, the ones your father taught you. This place, like the garden in your dream, feels dead.

If there ever were gods here, they have certainly gone, now.

“Who is this?” You ask, pointing to the wolf. It’s golden eyes seem to follow you around the room as you trail after Kassandra, and it makes you think uncomfortably of the prince. She stops in front of it’s stone copy, and she makes the sigil again, finger on thumb, forehead, chin, chest.

“Father Wolf.” She says as she rises. “It is said that he devours the moon each night, so that it may be reborn in the morning, as the sun.” She cocks her head. “Do you not know the stories, Majesty?”

“She would not.” You turn to see one of the priests. In his hand, he holds an incense box, sluggish white smoke pouring from the gold painted slats. “Her Majesty hails from Redania. They hold to the old faith there.” You watch his eyes narrow as they drop to your gown before traveling back up to your face. His lips curve into an unfriendly smile. “I did not think to see Your Highness here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In my experience father, it is a poor monarch who expects to rule people she knows nothing about.” Kassandra ducks her head, covering her mouth to hide her smile at your diplomatically worded impertinence.

His cheek tics. “Of course, Highness.” He bows his head in a manner you know is meant to be respectful, though the acid that drips from his words is anything but. “The people shall be pleased that you are so…familiar.” He drums his fingers against the incense box, before fixing you with another small, curt smile. “They do not react well to the southland’s…” He pauses to search for a word. “Heathenistic rituals.”

The words fly to your tongue before you can swallow them back, flying from your lips with righteous indignation.

“Are you quite sure the heathen rituals you fear are not your own, Father?” His mouth twists with anger, but you do not cower in the face of it, jutting your chin out stubbornly. You have taken little pleasure in the shifting of your station, but his brazen disrespect sets a blazing fire in your chest. You are a princess, and you will not be spoken to this way.

“Father Rame.” Your belly fills with hot iron at Prince Geralt’s voice, his tone warning. So irate were you with the priest that you had taken no notice of his approach. The prince leans against one of the stone pews, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You would do well to hold your tongue, lest my father remove it.” The priest drops into a low bow, his lips curling into a scowl. “I do not think he would take kindly to your… implications.”

“Apologies, My Prince, I meant only to—” Geralt raises a hand, and Father Rame’s words die in his throat.

“Go. And perhaps I will… forget to inform the kingsguard of your offense today.” You can tell the priest is unsatisfied, his hands clenching into tight fists in the sleeves of his robe. Nevertheless, he issues you another stiff apology through his clenched teeth, before he turns on his heel, his robes billowing behind him.

“Thank you.” You spit the words out as if they have burnt you. “For your assistance.” Geralt’s amber eyes dip the way Father Rame’s did, and you hate the way they drag across every inch of you before coming to rest on your face. Instead of scornful disapproval, you find something else there. Something darker you refuse to name.

“My pleasure, princess.” He purrs the words, and you feel them like a physical caress. You try to hide the shiver that travels down your spine, gooseflesh erupting on the back of your neck and arms in its wake. He glances at Father Rame’s retreating back. “I would pay him no heed. The good Father can be… Zealous.”

“That is certainly one way to put it.” You remark dryly.

“He will not bother you again.” He says it with a finality that makes you shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I hope not.” You brush a speck of imagined dirt from the bodice of your dress, and the prince’s eyes follow the movement.

“Your gown is lovely, sister.” He says, and you swallow against the sudden lump in your throat. “I have not seen its like since last I was in Redania.”

“Thank you.” You stiffen as he moves towards you, slow steps carrying him in a small circle around you and Kassandra. You force yourself to endure his inspection.

“Oh yes.” He fingers the hem of your sleeve before you step back, a little. “I hope you do not mind me imparting a bit of… Rivian wisdom?”

Do I have any choice? You force a smile. “Please.”

“This is a married woman’s color, Sweetling.” His eyes are molten honey.

“W-what?” You do not know which words you were expecting to fall from the prince’s smug lips, but it was not these. “I—”

“I hope you take no offense,” he drawls, though the expression on his face says otherwise. “I only mean to inform.”

“H-how interesting.” You force a small smile, before turning quickly to Kassandra.

“My head aches from the incense,” you say, turning away from him and striding toward the door. “We should take our leave.” With a stiff, reluctant bow, you turn from the prince. “Excuse us, please.”

“By all means.”

Kassandra squeaks, hurrying after you with her skirts gathered tightly into her hands. As you push angrily through the entering group of priests and out into the corridor, you can feel two sets of eyes on your retreating back—

Geralt’s, and the wolf’s.

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

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just-a-lil-xtra · 2 months

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Benefits of new materials

• light-weight • easy to handle • easy to accommodate in less space

The use of new material has made furniture light weight and portable. The major attraction of Modern Furniture is that it is totally different from its ancestors in terms of materials, technology and design. With plastics and metal introduced in the furniture industry, today there are thousands of choices available and it is often confusing and mystifying to choose one. Today, we even have furniture from paper, cardboard and concrete.

Global Scenario

Earlier each country had its own movements in art, architecture and design, but due to globalization, the scenario is quite a mixture of global philosophies and local manufacturing. With growing populace and space available inversely proportional to each other, the Modern Furniture sees itself as the preferred furniture as it brings along with it its appealing merits. While choosing the home furniture, a customer would want Modern Home Furniture but still prefer to customize it according to his home and appealing to his tastes. His tastes are more or less an eclectic mix of past traditions, present materials, changing cultures and above all, the weight in his pockets! And Modern furniture does the trick. Elegant, affordable, less cumbersome in space, easy to handle and maintain, customisable- these are just a few synonyms that can be associated with Modern Home Furniture making a person’s home decor fruitful and fulfilling his dream of a perfect home!

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acidblackangel · 3 months

Video

youtube

From Flab to Fabulous - Modern Furniture is here to Woo You

Modern Furniture is synonymous with simple and functional furniture, furniture with neat and clean lines, minus the unnecessary ornamentation and hullabaloo. The trend of adopting Modern Furniture started and came at a time, when the modernist visit site here movement revolutionized all aspects of art, architecture and design and paved way for modern attire in everything.

Blowing the Winds of Change

New Materials Replacing the Old

With machines able to produce products at a cheaper cost and lesser time as compared to hand made products the Modern Furniture and especially the Modern Home Furniture has come with the added zing.

Benefits of new materials

• light-weight • easy to handle • easy to accommodate in less space

Global Scenario

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wangxianficrecs · 3 years

Photo

A Bell That Tells Us to Rise and Fight

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee

T, 121k, wangxian, chengqing, xuanli

Summary: “Aunt?” Wei Wuxian asks, looking at Wen Qing.

“Who else do you think could handle being married to Jiang Cheng?” she says, tone deliberately casual. It’s very satisfying when his jaw drops and he goggles like a fish. “What did you people do while I was gone?” he shrieks.

Wei Wuxian evacuates the Burial Mounds before they fall. Jin Zixun attacks before Jin Ling's birth. Yanli and Jin Zixuan survive and Jiang Cheng marries Wen Qing to protect the Wen Remnants. Thirteen years later Wei Wuxian returns from the dead to a very different world.

My comments: Great canon divergence in which wwx dies trying to destroy the tiger seal... but everyone else lives because he evacuated them from the burial mounds. So lwj never gets whipped (he just kinda moves in with the jiangs), wen qing marries jiang cheng, jzx doesn't die, but he does go into a decade-long coma, so jiang yanli stays at lotus pier, too. Everyone lives at lotus pier! Including all the kids. So this is what wwx comes back to, it's adorable (see excerpt at the bottom).

Canon continues apace, only slightly different, to account for this new reality and a bunch of teenagers running around getting in the way and the MDZS ladies being strong and badass and productive.

Excerpt: “It was nice to meet you!” the Jiang girl chirps, “I’m Jiang Zhi and I’m way better than Jiang Xing at pretty much everything.” She turns, presumably to skip away from her increasingly annoyed brother, apparently forgets about the splint on one leg and nearly topples over. A-Yuan grabbing her by the back of her purple disciple robes is the only thing that keeps her from face-planting onto the pier. “Thanks, cousin!” she says lightly, as if she didn’t almost break her nose, and shuffles away as quickly as she can, cumbersome cast and all.

Wei Wuxian is wondering if he missed a step on his way to rebirth and ended up in the wrong reality.

canon divergence, chengqing, humor, 13 years, alternating past/present chapters, family, found family, family feels, family shenanigans, arranged marriage, (chengqing do it to protect the wens), wen remnants, strong female characters, fierce corpses can be family too, everybody lives, fix-it, everybody needs a hug, BAMF women, @deerstalkerdeathfrisbee

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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thebiasrekkers · 3 years

Text

Shadow’s Birthright | MYG

Chapter 06: Convergence

Plot: Riding in on thunder and lightning, two princes are born. But a crown cannot be shared. It can only be worn by one and one alone. The hands of man have separated the brothers, allowing one to live in wealth and comfort inside the palace while the other grows up among commoners. But Fate cannot be destroyed by the hands of man. A shared destiny reunites the brothers; one to become a king who descends into madness and the other will rise as a dragon whose journey has only just begun in order to claim a crown he does not desire to have.

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairing: Min Yoongi (Lee Yoon) x Female OC (Kalina Shuri)

Warnings: Historical setting, caste system, magic/sorcery, graphic violence, disturbing graphic images, religious tones, angst, slow burn, smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 01 02 03 04 05

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 4,065

Tag List: @luxekook, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @stillcopingxx, @taevkimchi, @aroseforyoongi, @vivpurple7, @happilystrongthroughthedark, @sw33tnight, @nikkitane, @mini-coop25, @shrimpmsg, @ggukkieland

AN: Sorry this took me so long. Life decided it wanted to kick me in the face repeatedly. But I did warn everyone this was going to take a little time with the updates. Please be patient with me. I promise you that it will be worth the wait. If you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to drop me a line!

P.S. Please bear in mind that while the historical accuracy will be mostly correct, I am setting this in a time period in Joseon history where there was no such thing as a king who had a twin brother. Obviously that’s where the fiction/creative freedom is going to come in. Everything else will be period accurate, trust and believe.

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

“Things do not happen. Things are made to happen.” - John F. Kennedy

Yoon greeted his parents with the Crown Princess at his side. They both bowed deeply as they heard the King and Queen laugh in delight. The Royal Consorts also received bows from the Crown Prince and Princess. Finally, they turned and were given bows from the princesses and princes of the Royal Court. The officials and guards, as well as the rest of the palace staff, were present for the opening ceremony to celebrate Crown Prince Yoon’s first international liaison.

When they were finally dismissed, Yoon took his seat next to the Crown Princess, waiting for food and wine to be served. Various voices of praise and congratulations were given to Yoon, to which he simply nodded his head politely and smiled while returning his own charming forms of gratitude. He allowed the Crown Princess to serve him a cup of wine and he, in turn, also served her. Merriment and good cheer surrounded the palace.

It made Yoon sick to his stomach.

The conversation he had with his Father-In-Law still didn’t sit well with him. At his own behest, he politely reminded Minister Jang that he should keep his small-minded ambitions to himself. He didn’t need to drag the Crown Princess into his mess. Regardless of his own personal feelings, Yoon held a deep amount of respect for his Princess. Jang Chae-Ok had no ambitions or selfish desires for wanting to be Crown Princess. She was simply a childhood friend to Yoon who always remained faithfully at his side.

The Crown Princess was not blind to his relationship with Kalina. But she also did not question it. It was from this show of her character alone that Yoon promised he would not take a Royal Consort when he became King. He owed her that much for her understanding.

“I wish that I could accompany you, Your Highness.” The Crown Princess’s voice was sad, matching her expression.

He reached out to grasp her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It will be a long journey. It is no place for a Crown Princess.” Yoon smiled. “I will be back before you realize I’m gone.”

She sighed. “I will miss you greatly.” She placed her hand over his. “Do be careful.”

“I will, Crown Princess.”

A loud gong resounded, drawing everyone’s attention. All conversation hushed as the head of the Artisan school approached. He bowed deeply while the others waited with anticipation for his announcement.

“Members of the Royal Court! We are here to celebrate the Crown Prince’s upcoming journey. We wish him great fortune but before he traverses out in the world, we want to be able to ease his worries and give him memories to hold on to as he travels to Ming. Things that he will be able to keep close to his heart and treasure if he should ever become homesick.”

Yoon smiled, despite his own internal dark thoughts. He loved his country. He loved his people. The skills they mastered in order to have these small moments to showcase their talents were clearly battles within their own houses. Some performers and artists had better skills than others, hence why they were allowed to appear at the forefront. Others were still in training to be able to climb up in the ranks along the way.

He secretly admired the drive that pushed these individuals along. Everyone had dreams, goals, and ambitions. People’s reasons for doing anything were threads that bonded everyone together to achieve common goals. No matter how small or big, they were to be appreciated. Even if one could not voice these appreciations aloud.

The Chief Artisan gave a wide gesture, spinning on his heels as the performers made their way into the grand courtyard. “We hope that our performers, both within the palace walls, and those who have managed to make their ways from the streets, will be able to soothe your soul.”

Everyone applauded as Senior Artisan stepped away, allowing for the in house performers to showcase everything they’ve practiced for days. Curiously, Yoon hummed to himself at the mention of street performers entering the palace. If they were skilled enough to gain the court’s attention, there was a good chance they would be given slots to enter the performance schools within the palace halls. It would be a golden opportunity to change their livelihoods for the better.

He was keen to see just what they were made of.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

Jimin clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth, silencing Taehyung’s whining. “Hyung-nim is filling in for Namjoon Hyung-nim.” His eyes narrowed. “Surely you don’t expect him to wear the dress, do you?”

Taehyung pouted. “No, but still!”

“Besides,” Hoseok cut in, patting Taehyung’s shoulders roughly, “we all memorized multiple parts in case something happens. We only had time for Hyung-nim to learn one. Stop being difficult.”

Yoongi smirked, shaking his head while readjusting the waistband to his costume. The large rosary that hung from his neck was heavy and the boots were a little bit cumbersome, but bearable. He would be able to switch his shoes out when it came time for the tightrope routine. Jungkook and Seokjin fawned over him, making sure he looked as proper as he could in performance gear.

Namjoon appeared, holding out a red and black demon mask to him. “I gave it some new paint earlier so it should be dry now.”

Taking the mask from him, Yoongi cradled it in his hands. “Thank you, Namjoon-ah.” He scratched at the cloth headband. “What will you be doing during the performance?”

“I’ll be narrating and helping the musicians out. Percussion, mostly.”

“I see.” Yoongi eyed the mask, taking note of the large white fangs protruding from the mouth carved into the wood.

Because of the depth of the role, he wouldn’t be able to take his mask off during the entire performance. Beneficial for him, but he hated that Namjoon wouldn’t be getting any credit. Yoongi knew how hard they all must have been preparing for this particular performance. A small measure of guilt wormed its way into his heart, but Namjoon’s laugh brought him out of his thoughts.

“Now I feel even more terrible, Hyung-nim.” Yoongi saw the concerned look on Namjoon’s face, even though he was smiling. “Seriously, you’re doing me a favor. I feel bad enough. If you keep looking like that, I’ll think I’m completely worthless.”

“I’m sorry, Namjoon-ah.” Clearing his throat, he nodded. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be feeling like this.”

“Thank the heavens you’re wearing a mask.” Taehyung pushed his headband up a little more. “Otherwise the audience is going to think you’re guilty of some crime.”

“It’s just nerves.” Jimin flashed Yoongi a reassuring smile. “Right, Hyung-nim?”

All he could do was give a small smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Hayan Geutop Troupe?” An unfamiliar voice pulled all of their attention. They saw someone dressed in official robes motioning toward them. “You’re up next.”

No one could hide their excitement. This was the first time any of them would be entering the palace. Each of them were given temporary passes to gain access. Once inside, they all made sure they were looking their best. The sound of joyful laughter and music rumbled through the courtyard, causing Yoongi’s heartbeat to elevate with excitement.

“Hyung-nim!” Jungkook gently nudged Yoongi’s back. “Your mask! Don’t forget to put it on!”

“Oh. Right.” Yoongi slid the large Demon mask over his head, making sure the cloth headwrap covered every part of his neck from view except the front.

The sound of loud drums rang out through the courtyard. It was a little bit difficult to breathe with the mask on, but not impossible. If anything, Yoongi was more concerned with the mask falling off by accident. But Hoseok assured him that the bands were secured and redesigned to fit his head perfectly. It wouldn’t come off unless he pulled it off himself.

Admittedly, his nerves were a little frayed. Being around so many people at once, as well as so much noise, was teetering him toward sensory overload. But he continued to remind himself that he had a job to do. He just needed to get through the performance and then he could continue exploring the Crown City to his heart’s content. They were set to ride back out to the mountains at first light.

He hoped the shops would still be open before the lanterns were lit.

The large drum was hit, signaling for everyone to settle down. Yoongi took another breath, waiting for their group to be announced in front of the Royal Court. His vision was limited through the small holes in his mask - the rest of the world shadowed on either side of him. He could hear his own breath in his ears as he tried to peer out in front of him. But he wasn’t sure what he was even looking for. There was a strange pull at his heart; a feeling he couldn’t quite explain.

Like someone was calling to him.

No. Like multiple people were calling to him.

“Members of the Royal Court! I present to you a troupe of young performers who hail from the outskirts of the Crown City!” The Chief Artisan looked in their direction as some of the students in the palace artisan school helped to set up their stage. “The White Tower Troupe!”

There was a round of polite applause from all the members of the royal court. The other troupe members were helping to set up the first scene for their skit. Yoongi waited patiently, even though he offered to help. Taehyung and Hoseok insisted that he stand back and focus on the performance. It wouldn’t take them long to get the set pieces ready. Once everything was put together, Namjoon walked gently forward and bowed deeply to the Royal family seated at the large banquet table.

“Please forgive our lack of eloquence, Your Majesties, as we attempt to regale you with a story. It is one I am sure you are all familiar with, but allow us to perform it for you just the same.” He flicked out the large fan in his hand, a picture of a blue sky and a green field painted on it. “We humbly present to you...the Tale of Green Pearl and the Demon!”

Yoon felt Chae-Ok grab his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He cast a sidelong glance in her direction, noting the soft pink flush that tinted her cheeks. He knew it wasn’t from the wine but more from her excitement. He smiled as she met his gaze.

“Oh, I love this story!” She looked back out toward the courtyard. “I’m interested to see how they will tell it.”

“As am I.”

The bass drum resounded through the large space just as the troupe finished setting up for the first scene. The narrator who spoke walked off to the sidelines and took a seat on a plush cushion that was provided for him. Silence draped over everyone present as the actors moved to their positions.

“Many years ago, there was a humble man who lived a humble life. He had a humble trade and a humble wife. The wife bore him two children. A son named White Fang and a daughter named Green Pearl.”

Yoon watched as the narrator spoke about each character. One by one, they all appeared - their faces concealed with wooden masks painted in eloquent designs. Lingering off to the side was an actor clothed in black, red and gold garbs - a demon mask covering his face. Yoon felt his heart beating a little faster as he gazed at the person, unsure of why this strange sensation was lurching in his chest.

The narrator slapped his stick against the small drum cradled in his lap. “As the seasons changed and the children grew older, the father became ill. The wife sent for what physicians they could afford and the old apothecary said that there was nothing he could do. The wife was distraught, unsure of what would become of her or her children should her husband leave this world for his journey to the afterlife.”

“Seobang-nim! You cannot leave us like this!” The wife sobbed beside the husband, cradling his hand between her palms. “What are we to do without you? How are we supposed to live?!”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” said White Fang as he placed his hand over his mother’s, “I will find a way to cure Father. I will travel across foreign lands until I can find the medicine that will save Father’s life!”

Again, the narrator struck the drum. “White Fang left to search for a cure for his ailing father, leaving his mother and sister behind.”

Yoon watched the person portraying Green Pearl moving toward the backdrop meant to pose as a wide open field. A lone tree stood off in the distance where she clasped her hands together and prayed.

“Gods of Heaven, I beseech you! Please help my father. Please find a way to help him get better!” cried Green Pearl as she lowered her head, all but sobbing into her hands.

Heavy drums beat softly, signaling an ominous transition. Yoon watched as the actor portraying the demon slowly moved forward, until he was mere feet from the Royal Banquet table. The Demon whipped his head around to face the Royal family, causing everyone to lean back and gasp.

All except Yoon.

Maybe it was the optical illusion of the mask, but he swore that the demon was looking directly at him. His heartbeat escalated, a soft thunder against his chest, and he waited for the demon to speak. There was a line here. Yoon remembered it. A line where the demon spoke to the audience of his wicked scheme.

But the demon said nothing. All he did was stare. Had the actor forgotten his lines?

“A demon heard Green Pearl’s cries, intrigued by her earnest wailings.”

The narrator cut through the silence. This seemed to wake the demon up, causing him to swiftly shuffle back a few steps as he threw his arm out in a dramatic flourish.

“The sweet sound of sorrow nourishes my heart,” the Demon exclaimed, curling his shoulders forward. He pressed a hand against his face, fingers gliding over the white fangs on the mask. “It is the sound of easy prey. How I have longed to devour such a miserable soul!”

He heard the Crown Princess gasp as the Demon ran forward, leaping into the air and landing on the tightrope with amazing ease. Yoon quirked a brow, internally admiring the actor’s swiftness and balancing abilities. The Demon leaned forward, slinging his legs out until he was hanging upside down from the rope.

Green Pearl took a sharp intake of breath, clutching at the front of her dress. “W-Who goes there?”

“A humble and curious Demon. But nevermind me, Sweet Child.” The Demon spoke in a cooing and sweet voice. “What seems to be ailing you? What causes you to mourn so?”

“My father is ill and there is no way to save him. My brother has left to travel in hopes of finding medicine to cure him.” Green Pearl turned away from the Demon, looking off in the distance. “I mourn for my family and what is to become of them should my father pass.”

The Demon laughed, swinging his body so that he was now sitting upright on the tightrope. He rested a hand on his knee and leaned forward, drawing Green Pearl’s attention once more. “This is a simple problem with a simple solution.”

“It is anything but simple!”

“Oh, but it is!” The Demon hopped onto the rope, bouncing up and down in a playful manner. “Because I know how to save your ailing father!”

Green Pearl stepped toward the tree, her hand reaching up toward the Demon but she was far out of his reach. “What do you know? Please, tell me how to save my father!”

The Demon bounced on the rope a few more times before dismounting, landing just a few feet away from her. He placed his hands behind his back and paced, not really bothering to stray too far from her but not coming too close. “There is a flower that grows in the western mountains. It is said that creating a potion from this flower can cure any illness.” He spun on his heels just as Green Pearl tried to approach him, causing her to halt in her steps. “But it is an arduous journey. Many have died trying to claim this flower.”

“Can you guide me to this mountain?”

The Demon circled her, his steps slow and measured. “What will you give me if I decide to lend you my aid?”

“Whatever you wish to claim from me, Sir!” Green Pearl fell to her knees. “No boon is too great when it comes to saving the life of my father!”

The Demon knelt down before Green Pearl, lifting her face to meet his. “You will become my bride. That is the price you must pay if you wish to obtain my help.”

“If marrying a demon is the trade we are making, then I would marry you a thousand times.”

The Demon pulled Green Pearl up onto her feet, a hearty laugh bursting from his chest. “Then come! Let us be off! The day grows shorter and the journey will be that much harder for you when the night comes.”

A gong and more heavy drums rang out as the Demon and Green Pearl exited the stage. Troupe members hurried to change the set backdrop to suit the next scene transition.

“So Green Pearl and the Demon hurried toward the Western Mountains. The journey was, indeed, arduous. Many perils crossed their paths, but the Demon protected Green Pearl every step of the way. The harshest trek, however, was the path leading up toward the mountains. Wild animals impeded their path. Even the cold mountain winds attempted to blow the two off the krags so they would plummet to their deaths.”

With each scene change, a linen drape with a painted landscape was swapped. The serene music fit the pacing of each scene and the narrator’s strong voice pushed the actors to continue through the skit. Yoon knew this tale very well. Yet watching it unfold in this manner made the story seem brand new. He was particularly drawn to the Demon, unable to shake the tremors in his heart as the masked performer’s moves seemed fluid and natural.

“Finally, Green Pearl and the Demon reached the top of the mountain peaks. There was the mythical flower the Demon mentioned. It was a rich purple in pigment, the stem a soft green and nestled among a cluster of clovers. In the snow and cold temperature, there was no way that any vegetation should have flourished, let alone this single flower.”

Green Pearl reached for the flower, preparing to dig it up from the earth. Suddenly, she was stopped by the Demon’s harsh pull at her wrist. “W-What are you doing?!”

“Do not forget your promise to me, dear Child.” He pulled her flush against him. “You are to be my bride the moment your father is well. And not a minute later.”

“I haven’t forgotten our deal, Demon!” Green Pearl pushed away from him. “We must hurry back quickly!”

A soft bell tinkling sound issued from a row of wind chimes. The Demon laughed, grasping onto Green Pearl and jumping up toward the tightrope. Everyone watching sucked in their breaths as a stream of dark blue fabric followed after them. The Demon dragged Green Pearl behind him as the actors portrayed him using his powers to help them travel quickly. The two actors almost appeared to float across the thick line of rope.

“The Demon used his powers to transport Green Pearl and himself down the mountain. When they reached the foot of the mountain, they instantly moved through the fields. Within minutes, they were back in Green Pearl’s humble village. He safely brought her home and Green Pearl wasted no time preparing the flower into a medicinal tonic for her father.”

Green Pearl appeared next to her mother, holding out a wooden bowl. “This tonic will help Father. Please, we must hurry!”

The Wife started to feed the potion to the ailing Husband. In minutes, he started to rise up from his bed. He held his wife’s hands and she threw herself into his arms.

“Husband! You are well!” she cried as her husband held her close.

He laughed, stroking her back. “Yes, I am well, Pu-in. But tell me, what has helped me come back from the gates of the Underworld?”

“I traveled far to retrieve a flower that is said to cure any illness.” Green Pearl hugged her father’s neck.

“A flower?” He tilted his head to the side. “How did you come to learn of this flower?”

Green Pearl lowered her head. “A Demon told me. He guided me to the Western Mountains and I plucked the flower from the highest peak.”

Both the husband and wife looked at each other, clutching at their chests. The father reached out for his daughter’s hands. “You foolish girl! How could you make an agreement with a demon?!”

“Don’t you know that a deal with a demon only breeds disaster?!” The mother shook Green Pearl’s shoulders. “You have sold your soul to the Underworld!”

Green Pearl pulled herself away from her family. “I’m sorry!” She ran out of the house where the Demon was waiting for her. “We must hurry!”

The Demon grabbed her hand in his. “Let us leave this place!”

“Stop right there, you foul trickster!” The Father appeared, brandishing a wheat sickle. “Release my daughter, this instant!”

The Demon laughed. “The deal has been made, Human! You cannot break the contract!”

The sound of a gong exploded over the courtyard, causing the Demon to gasp. When he looked down, there was a sword plunged through his stomach. As he turned, the assailant stepped forward to push the blade through his gut even further. The Demon reached out with a bloodied hand toward the one who attacked him.

“B-Brother!”

White Fang ripped the sword from the Demon’s body, causing the Demon to fall to his knees. His head hung low and Green Pearl was instantly at the Demon’s side. He finally collapsed to the ground and Green Pearl clung to his shivering form.

“What have you done?!” she screamed as the Demon continued to tremble in her arms. “Why did you strike him?!”

“It was a Demon, Green Pearl!” White Fang dropped the sword from his hand and the satchel from his back. “They only breed misfortune!”

“Y-You fool,” sputtered the Demon, “I would have given her a good life.” A trembling arm lifted as he pointed at White Fang. “Because of your actions, you have now condemned your sister to death.”

“What?!” White Fang dropped to his knees. The husband and wife hurried forward. “What lies do you speak, Demon?”

The Demon turned to look up at Green Pearl. “I will not be able to give you a life you deserve.” He touched the side of her face. “But I will be able to stay with you in the Afterlife. Always.”

“I am sorry for the cruel nature of man! Forgive me!” Green Pearl sobbed, burying her face in the Demon’s shoulder. “I will see you on the other side.”

And then the Demon’s hand fell limply to the ground. Seconds later, Green Pearl collapsed next to him.

Silence filled the courtyard. No one spoke. Hardly anyone took a moment to breathe, Yoon included.

It was broken the minute that the King began to clap. The Queen soon followed until everyone at the Royal Banquet table rose from their seats and applauded. Yoon was still stunned, but he, too, clapped. The actors remained where they were - unmoving. However, the narrator stepped forward and bowed deeply to them. The tragic scene remained, but the story’s message still lingered in the air.

Even a Demon was deserving of love and a person could see beyond the surface to one’s true heart.

But when promises were broken, a terrible fate would await.

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thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Lamb

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Summary: In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

C/N: 18+ only; mythology AU; implied genocide; physical violence; self harm; bloody bloody blood

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Well, here I am again, and here we go again. Please take the content warnings seriously because I am not a nice girl; and herein, may lie not-nice-girl things.

This is my first foray into world building, and I welcome all feedback, critiques, and comments. :)

Special thanks to @kylorengarbagedump and @bexterbex for helping me develop this idea and get it ready for sharing.

***

In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

You ran your fingers over the intricate gold leaf pattern on the book’s cover, remembering your lessons as a child. This Scripture, your grandmother’s most treasured possession, was the only part of your life you’d brought on this crusade. It was the only thing you couldn’t bear to abandon, even in the face of certain death.

You exhausted every avenue before taking on this last of your options. You demanded justice from the law only to be told you should keep your mouth shut. You went straight to the throne, but it shut to your caste, your people too low to deserve even an audience.

Selling every item of value, you had barely scraped up enough for the one-person craft, but it served its purpose. You were here. You landed the shuttle on one of Chandrila's famed rolling hills, overlooking The Demarcation. You exhaled, shallow and nervous, and looked out over the horizon. The pilgrimage to this place, this day, was long and harrowing, but the sacrament itself would be quick.

Your fingers quaked as you shucked everything identifiable about yourself: blue pants your mother bought for your birthday; green shirt that belonged to your brother, found in the rubble of what was your family home; jade hair clip handed down from mother to daughter for generations. None of it would serve you now, and it would only be in the way. Trading the vestiges of civilization for religion, you donned your grandmother’s ample amethyst robe, lacing the silk ties that held it together, and grabbed up the athame she’d bequeathed to you at your initiation.

She enveloped you, your grandmother, and you buried your nose into her sacred garment to inhale the lingering scent. They were your world, lovely and loving, ground to dust beneath the machine of a war none of you pledged to fight. The Resistance descended upon your planet like a plague, and they left a great nothing, a slate wiped forcefully clean in their wake.

It was for them you made this trek, that you abandoned all logic and reason for faith. They raised you to share their doctrine, but it never served a single purpose for you in life. Your grandmother and mother believed everything they’d ever taught you about the Twin Fathers. They wove the fabric of their lives, and yours, around it; and now, you clung to their prayers, your last hope in the face of something horrible and wholly dismissed by the universe.

There was no one to remember them, their faithfulness and devotion, but you.

Fathers, we pray. Bless this our food to the nourishment of our bodies that we may be strong in your service. Bless these our hands that we may share your great instruction with those in need. Bless our hearts that we may find the balance you have so righteously set for us.

Their prayers spilled over your dry lips, the only eulogy they would ever receive, and every holy word strengthened your resolve.

Clutching book and blade in one hand, you punched a series of numbers into the keypad nearest the bay door, extending the ramp. When it finished descending, you issued another command, the tiny keys lighting up with each pressed digit.

“Self-destruct sequence initiated.” The robotic voice vibrated the tiny craft’s walls. “Confirm.”

“Confirmation,” you cast one last look around the shuttle that had been your home for a month, “Bravo Echo 2-4.”

“Countdown 2 minutes.”

Sunlight, warm and inviting, welcomed you as you stepped off the ramp. Squinting into its brilliance, you recalled the way your brother would read to you on lazy afternoons and how your family would picnic on similar grassy knolls. The beeping over your shoulder grew faster with each passing second, and you lifted the cumbersome dress around your knees, wasting no further time jogging down the hill.

You were out on the flat land for just a second before the shuttle exploded into a fiery ball. You watched the blast shoot debris and columns of soot into the perfect sky. In another life, it would have scared you, shying you away from the destruction. Silent, stoic, you tracked plumes of grey smoke and the fall of ashes, comparing it to the devastation you found after the Resistance found your planet.

Days after the attack, you roamed fallen buildings and picked through still warm rubble. You had been too late, too far away. Knowing you could have done nothing to stop the strike was empty consolation.

You could have died with them. You would rather have died with them. Now, all you could do was die for them.

On bare feet, you crossed the flowery field, taking in the array of purples and yellows. You lingered on the blue-green grass, feeling the soft stick of it underfoot, and you basked in the wispy clouds overhead. This was life, teeming with vibrant colors, but it all felt hollow, dampened. You wondered if everyone who came here felt this way, grateful that this beauty would be one of their last memories but unable to fully appreciate what they saw.

Pressing your lips into a determined line, you steeled your will and turned to The Demarcation, The Great Divide.

Grandfather Sky Walker tasked the twins with creating and maintaining The Balance. One would usher life; one would usher death; both harbingers of fate.

It was striking, a sudden upheaval of vitality in deference to darkness. Tendrils of fog mingled with melancholy dusk, and you spent a long moment admiring the space between one and the other. This spot, this one impossible convergence, was balance. It was what every man strived to achieve, and no man could boast.

On the other side of the billowing veil, where you were coaching yourself to go, was The Ren’s territory. People far and wide spun countless tales about the land and its Master. It was a bottomless hole, they said, that would swallow you up steps past the boundary. It was an unending bog, and all who journeyed there were lost. All of its structures were built from the bones of the dead, and The Ren was the vicious king of an unforgiving wasteland.

Your grandmother, however, believed The Ren to be a merciful father, wise and misunderstood. He was the bringer of ends who did not differentiate between rich and poor. No creature was safe from his touch, and that made every creature equal in his eyes.

Whatever that land may be, whatever The Ren may be, there was nothing on the other side of that shroud that could compare to what you’d already endured. It was the way forward, your only way, and you bid yourself to go forth on deliberate steps.

Mirroring the track of your life, a balmy day gave way to a wintry gloom as you moved through the gauzy curtain, passing from one kingdom to another. The living world fell away, replaced by slender black trees that shot up to winking stars and stood adorned with wide, scarlet leaves. A ghostly breeze blew, shaking the leaves to delicately fall and blanket the spongy ground. You trod upon them carefully, uncertain what might lurk beneath the crimson carpet.

You took your time on the winding path, drinking in every otherworldly detail. Light pooled from a clandestine moon, and the very air shimmered under its grace. Midnight-colored blossoms dotted the road, mingling with swaying ferns. The stars shone so bright you could almost hear the twinkle, a delicate song tapped out to echo against the trees. Every inhale was laced with morning mist and rich earth.

The stories were wrong. This was no forlorn place. It was luminous, hallowed. Absent the touch of civilization, this land had bloomed unharmed, untainted.

This world felt more real to you, more easily understood. Colored with variations of shadow, it was peaceful in its ashen palette.

Reaching the altar, you stared, both reverent and curious. How many had come before you to lay their lives down for The Ren? How many had died as a sacrifice? Surely, its ruddy color came from generations of blood spilled in offering.

It was a chalice to which you would soon be adding.

The stone was cold and damp, raising gooseflesh on your nearly naked form. It curved down in the very center, a macabre cradle for all those laid here. A blending of emotion and chill cast your skin in shades of flush and set every digit to trembling. It was as though the thing waited for you impatiently, its very existence demanding an offering.

Your skepticism at your grandmother’s faith dwindled when confronted with an exact duplicate of the altar upon which you’d taken your initiation rites. It was larger, but the ridges were the same. The slab of your childhood did not bear such a florid hue, but the sacrifices it received had been sugar, water, bread.

This shrine’s very construction felt haunted, a cauldron of souls made solid.

Hoisting yourself up onto the behemoth, you arranged your tools in the very center. You set the athame at your right and spread the weighty purple velvet over the shrine, laying the fabric and yourself out as you would for a lover.

Your lips trembled. Your knees knocked together. The cloak barely covered your body, and the little satin bows lent an air of innocence you could hardly claim as truth. You hoped, swallowed a handful of prayers, that The Ren accepted sacrifices as the stories told. Today, confronted with the reality of this place, you believed it more.

Tenderly, longingly, you ran your fingers over the tome once more. You lifted it and pressed a gentle kiss to its cover. It would lie beneath your head during this last of your chores and for however long your body would remain here.

Closing your eyes, you conjured memories of your grandmother bearing witness to so many dead over the years and how you, filled with doubt and agony and hate, had failed to do the same for your family, your friends, your people. It had been too great of a thing, too much sorrow to compact into a single prayer.

The words came easily now, having been swirling and growing in your chest for weeks.

Into thy hands, Great Fathers, do we commend this soul, departed from the body, in payment for the souls still yet to come. We pray that you welcome her, keep her, and enter her into the great Balance so we may again feel the light of her love.

Swallowing your grief, you gripped the wicked blade tight. You had no more tears to cry. You brimmed with an awful energy, this ceaseless anguish bubbling up from your very marrow.

“Dark Father,” you brushed fabric away from your right leg and sliced a deep gash into the supple thigh before you could change your mind. “Hear my prayer.”

You hissed at the burn but smoothed your features into a stolid mask. You would do this for your family and people, who received no warning, no choice to convert or flee. You would make your entreaty to The Ren; or, you would die here and reunite with them. Whatever the outcome, this was your end.

“I commit my body to your hands. As your brother has given it to me, I give it now to you to use as you will. Grant me the grace of your ear that I may plead my case.”

Your breath stuttered, and you fought back the roaring in your ears so you could concentrate and carry on. Fixing your eyes upon the trickle of blood, you watched it turn to a pool and hurried to match it with another slash at your left forearm. Benumbed, you tracked the redness as it crested and spilled in every direction.

The callous cold seeped into your very bones, and you fell back against the altar with a gasp, fingers grasping for the book’s corner. You blinked, heavy lidded, as your face fell to one side, staring into the great forest beyond.

In your delirium, you thought you could see them, smiling and holding each other. Tears you thought you no longer had rushed forth, and you shook. Weakness or acceptance broke open the gate on your heartbreak, releasing a torrent of sobs and screams. There was no one to hear, to care, to chastise you for its futility.

You heard her voice, your grandmother’s tone the same that had been soothing your fears since you could remember, rubbing over you like a comforting balm.

More than yesterday, beloved. Less than tomorrow. Find me in the Balance.

“Nona, I’m coming.”

Your fit rode your wounds and bled away to faint sniffles and glassy eyes. You stared up at what you felt had to be an eternally night sky and pushed your fingers through the growing sticky puddles.

This was death, and you welcomed it. You would slip away into a dreamless sleep here in such a place as you never knew existed. Fatigued, breathing slow, your face fell to one side, eyes unfocused but still dancing from beauteous flower to leaf to timber.

He was a charcoal smudge, nothing more. His movement was so subtle your addled brain took him for a tree, black clad and too tall to be a man. He stepped through the maze, and what little tenacity you had left drained away.

He came to sit upon the side of the altar where you lay dying, tilting his head to look at you. You stared, bewildered and confronted with the most beautiful man you’d ever seen when you had been expecting The Ren, the great storied monster. He passed his hand over your face, and the sting of your wounds abated. The heaviness of your limbs lessened, and the burden of your body eased.

Feeling and consciousness and awareness flooded back into your senses, and you bolted upright. Understanding dawned, and you gaped at him, struck dumb by every mesmerizing feature. Ebony tresses crowned him brilliantly, and he looked back at you with deep, glittering eyes. His fair skin was sprinkled with twilight constellations, and his lips were full, lush, slightly pink.

This was The Ren.

Troubled by the absence of death, you surveyed your situation, shaking both tense hands into fists. The ritual robe clung to the altar more than it did to you, swirling lurid with your blood. Blood that still flowed, you realized. Wide-eyed and amazed, you studied this unnatural phenomenon. The wounds at your thigh and wrist still wept; they should have killed you, but there was now a sanguine loop wrapping each injury around to feed into itself.

“Why have you called me here?” His voice was gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it in millennia.

“Am I dead?” It was a staggeringly stupid question, but it was the only clear thought in your head as you stared at the vermilion ouroboros around your wrist.

“If you intend to answer every question with a question,” his enormous hand shot out to capture the flesh just above your forearm laceration, “you will be soon.”

He squeezed the wounded limb until you shrieked and tried to tug away. Deciding that he would not let you go until you appeased him, you licked dry lips and worked your mouth into a measure of moisture.

“Why did you come?” Your query shocked even you, and you snapped your mouth shut hard enough to hear the clap of your jaws.

True to his word, The Ren’s hand connected with your throat so fast you couldn’t say for sure he’d moved. In one moment, idiotic inquiries filled your muddled mind; and in the next, you were choking at the end of his arm.

“Your howling,” his fingers tightened at your throat, thumb rubbing into the pulse almost delicately. “The next question will be your last. Why are you here?”

Licking your suddenly too-dry lips, you studied him, wrapping both of your small hands around his wrist. This man, this deity, was walking death, and that he sat here with his hands upon you changed the very foundation of everything you believed to be true.

“I-I came to ask your favor, Dark Father.”

He shoved you away and stood from his perch. Death’s gravity pulled you down again, and you whimpered, reaching for him as though it would prolong the inevitable. Your mouth worked on a plea, but none came.

“You’ve wasted your time. And mine.” He turned away and spat the rest over his shoulder. “Sparing virgins their lives or the lives of their lovers lost its allure long ago.”

Glancing back, he must have seen something, perhaps the abject apology in your face and on your outstretched fingers, because he snatched you from oblivion in a blink. You broke into wretched sobs, each lung-full of air quaking and painful.

“I came here so you’d come for me.” You dug bloodstained fingertips into your eyes to staunch the tears. “And to ask for your help.”

He was ethereal, his presence just a step out of sync with the rest of the universe, and it was difficult to look upon. You turned your face to one side and tried to compose yourself. You were battling the significance of your loss against the staggering truth that The Ren was real and here.

“You come to ask favors but cannot even look upon the beast?” He closed the gap in a blur, and you shrieked, leaning away. “How do you plan to beg if you will not even open your eyes?”

Crowding in aggressively, he leaned over and braced himself with both sturdy hands on either side of your head, an effective cage. His gaze traced over every curve of your face, and you couldn’t move under the oppression of his scrutiny.

“You think you will make demands of me?” His voice changed, dropping to a malicious whisper as he brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, tracing it to its origin in your hairline.

He would eat you; you were sure of it. Razor-sharp teeth hid just behind those beautiful lips, and he would tear you to pieces. Bolstering yourself, you drew in a shuddering breath and looked up into the galaxy-filled eyes. You had to say the words. You had to tell him what brought you here, but you weren’t sure you could do it.

“The dying lamb has no value to the shepherd.” His suddenly gentle tone belied his impatience and interminable power. “Tell me why you are here; or, I will leave you to die.”

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, losing yourself in his resplendent gaze. It was like staring straight into the sun, and every part of you felt branded by him.

Your reasons for coming here meant little to him, you were certain. You pictured your family again and the horror inflicted on them.

The tension in your body loosened as purpose flowed through your veins once more. Your trembling lips blew out a steadying breath, which seemed to please him. He traced your lower lip with the very end of his thumb, waiting for you to speak.

“Retribution.”

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #lamb #here we go again

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ofgoodmenarchive · 3 years

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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.

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redrobin-detective · 5 years

Text

relieved, with honors

A Fire Lord’s duty is to his people; Zuko seeks out the last Fire Nation soldiers of the Hundred Year War to send them home

__________

“The candles, my Lord,” Uncle said, bowing reverently as he presented the beautifully crafted red candles atop a silver platter with golden silk. Zuko squirmed a bit in his formal robes, aware of all the eyes on him, both friendly and hostile; still trying to orient to the bitter cold of the North.

“You don’t have to-,” Zuko began softly but Uncle silently chastened him with a look. Zuko was the Lord of Fire, he was above every Fire Nation citizen, including the uncle who made him into the man he is today. This was a solemn event, long overdue, and he needed to give the moment the ceremony it deserved. Three long difficult years have passed since the War’s end. Peace was here, on shaky lamb-fawn’s legs, but holding steady thanks to the collective efforts of the World. The North Pole was hosting their annual celebration for the sacrifice of Princess Yue to become the Moon Spirit.

While he mourned and thanked the white haired Princess he’d regretfully only seen in passing; Zuko’s heart couldn’t help but ache for the men and women just miles away; lying cold at the bottom of the ocean with no way to reach Agni’s light. He’d brought it up, hesitantly, during the first celebration and was barely spoken to the following few days. The second he’d managed to get Aang involved and they’d wrestled a bitter acceptance for the following year. Now it was the last night of the celebration, the Moon had received her tributes. Finally, Zuko was allowed to lay his nation’s soldiers to rest.

He untucked his hands from his long, cumbersome sleeves and gripped the sides of the platter as he carefully walked up the steps to the top of the main wall of the North Water Tribe. From there, he could look out into the vast ocean where hundreds of his countrymen had met their watery end at the hands of the Ocean Spirit. Aang’s delicate, barely there footsteps could be heard following him only because the air was so stagnantly silent. They’d both debated if Aang should participate or not, if it was disrespectful for the power that killed them to be present. In the end, they both agreed that Aang was the Avatar, the man who was to bring balance to the whole world, and that included the Fire Nation.

They reached the top far too quickly and it took all his concentration to keep his hands from shaking and spilling the sacred candles everywhere. In a way, it’d been easy to debate the morality of Aang’s involvement so to distract him from the legitimacy of his. He was the 21 year old Fire Lord, the youngest by far for almost 2 centuries, who’d betrayed himself and his nation several times throughout his life. He was scarred, he was awkward; still lashed out sometimes when he ought to hold his tongue and still cried when he ought to be strong. Most importantly, he had borne witness to the Ocean Spirit’s rampage, had seen the ships fall victim to the waves and disappear from sight. The Fire Lord was said to be the father and protector of the entire nation, would the restless dead respect his slightly ill-gotten authority? Why should they when he had been unable to save their lives in the first place? The crown had never felt so ill-fitting on his head. He swallowed down bitter, haunting memories that remind him of the lost 41st division and carried on.

Zuko knelt to the ground and gently plucked one candle and placed it on the cold, hard ice. Each candle bore the name and number of a ship that had gone down, 15 large candles for the Imperial class ships and 9 smaller ones for the battle cruisers. He turned the writing towards the open ocean his rough fingers lightly ghosting along the wax, blessed by the Fire Sages prior to the journey, before moving on to the next candle.

“Should we help him?” He heard Aang whisper to Uncle off to the side. The three of them are up near the front while 28 Imperial Fire Benders stand at attention behind them. He’s sure the rest of their friends are down below in the crowd somewhere but only fire benders were up on the wall.

“No, this is something Zuko must do alone. The Fire Lord was once the head sage, though we have since forgotten our roots, Zuko still has spiritual blood running through him.” Uncle answered, sounding far more confidant than Zuko felt. “Besides, every Fire Nation citizens answers first to their lord, Only the Fire Lord can properly lay them to rest.” If Zuko weren’t so focused on making sure each candle was perfectly aligned, he’d snap at them to stop gossiping but thankfully they became quiet afterwards. Soon, all the candles were laid out. The last rays of sunlight were sinking into the sea, that magical time of day between light and dark, life and death.

“Today,” Zuko pronounced loudly with his back to the audience still facing the ocean, “we lay to rest the loyal members of the Fire Nation Navy who lost their lives during the Hundred Years War.” No one said a word, no one shuffled or sighed, all ears on Zuko’s next words. “We cannot condone what they were here to do but we respect the love they had for their country and the loss of their fire in pursuit of what they believed was right.” He took a deep breath and forced his hand still to light the first candle.

“We light these memorial candles not just to honor of their sacrifice but also to tell them their fight is over; with these flames I give my thanks and relieve each of their duty. For them, the war ends today.” At last the final candle is lit and in the fading light of the sun, they cast eerie shadows against the ice and his robes as they twist in the wind. He gazed one last time at the ocean and bowed at far as was appropriate which still felt so inadequate. Behind him, there was the confused whispering and the quick rustle of the Fire Nation citizens seeking to bow lower than their Lord.

“I, Fire Lord Zuko, 47th Fire Lord of the Modern Age, Keeper of the Eternal Flame and Agni’s representation on Earth here by release the souls of the dead. May the candles guide them into Angi’s light where they may burn forever in the realm of our ancestors. Go with peace and go with honor, you are relieved.” Still in his half bow, Zuko kept his eyes squeezed shut, hoping that his words (practiced for hours and hours and hours in a mirror because he just had to get them right) were enough. That he was enough.

“Oh,” he heard Uncle choke out behind him and Zuko hesitantly raised his head. At first he thought he was seeing things but it seemed as if there were dozens of little stars floating above the water. Soon more followed, floating upwards towards the setting sun. Mixed in the unnameable colors of the sky was an immeasurable amount of little lights, little clusters of souls leaving the ocean and flying towards the sun where they belonged. He pulled his eyes from the sky to turn and see both Uncle and Aang openly weeping with silent awe, even beyond the wall he could see the faceless people below him wiping at their faces. He turned back to the beautiful image of light returning to light, to burn and be reborn into new Fire Benders, this time, who would live in a war without war. The familiar pain in his left eye told him he’d started crying as well but maybe that was alright. They had been sentenced to die by a Fire Lord who hadn’t cared whether they made it back or not and laid to rest by a Fire Lord who wept for them. Maybe there was hope in this world after all.

Aang approached him from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder. He said nothing to Zuko but the monk was muttering something under his breath, a prayer or perhaps an apology. Either way he thinks his friend’s shoulders will be less tense the next time they come to the North Pole. They stay like that for a long while, past the setting of the sun and the disbursement of most of the crowd. They stay watching the candles burn down to the quick, to the very last light making its way towards the sky. Their leader and balance of the world, watching and blessing their journey the whole way.

#atla #haha what #my dad got emotional talking about posthumanous medal of honor winners #which got ME emotional #and somehow turned into this #I tried to be as respectful as I could #I hope it came across alright

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spmcomic · 4 years

Text

Theia and Gaia

Cover

Chapter 1: (part 1 | part 2) Chapter 2: (part 1 | part 2)

Chapter 3: (part 1 | part 2) Chapter 4: (part 1 | part 2)

“We’re here,” the taller one’s voice cut into the space, drawing the voices back. “The Robot Processing Center.” It gestured with its horrible little hand at the building that jutted from the cliff side, blocking the walkway. A wide, tall entrance led into the side of the structure, and the voices saw more porcelain bodies moving inside. The space turned its head. The upper levels of the walkway similarly led straight into the side of the building, but at the bottom level a wide, flat plaza in front of the structure swarmed with the robed creatures.

The inside of the building was more complex than anything the voices had seen before. It looked much smaller than the outside, with a ceiling only a few body lengths above the space. But then, as the eyes adjusted, the voices saw that the room was actually much larger than the building’s walls suggested. It must have been carved deep into the stone of the cliff. In the distance, they could just make out entrances to tunnels, lit by fires that did not flicker or smoke. The various porcelain creatures cast long, wavering shadows across the plain flooring and the irregular walls as they milled about.

Over there- what’s that- one of the monsters waited by a small, transparent chamber, as a platform lowered to the ground from a hole in the ceiling. Of course- multiple layers- what a great idea- how do they stop it from caving in-

The floor in here provided unexpected relief. The fork-legs had some traction, the wrist protrusions felt just a little give to the floor. Finally, the space could walk confidently. The taller one glanced anxiously at the space, as they led it across the floor to the lifting chamber.

When the chamber arrived, the two figures pushed the space inside, the taller one holding up its stone the whole way. The voices eyed its white-knuckled grip against the piece of metal, and then the passing floors as the lift continued its journey. They came to the agreement that they must be climbing to the top of the structure. But then the chamber stopped, and opened. The figures herded the space through the opening, and behind them the lift continued upward out of view.

“Head Merletaph!” The taller one called, spreading its arms to reveal more bald, corpse-like skin. “We have a surviving Lazarus.”

The creature in the room, Head Merletaph, sat with one leg folded over the other in an odd-looking chair. Its shroud was much less cumbersome, a poncho down to the hips, with golden embroidery and a secure hood fully hiding its face from view. The voices whispered incoherently, unable to agree on the title- the Warlord- the Den Parent- the Captain-

The leader hardly glanced up from its thin, wide sheet before settling back down, resting an elbow on the table next to it. “Oh. Good work.” It shuffled the sheet with thin, skeletal fingers. “Run along, now. Get to the next one.”

“But sir-” the shorter one began, holding out its slate.

The leader stopped it with a sharp, yellow-eyed glare. The two figures shuffled, the shorter one placed the slate on the table, and they left. The space turned to follow.

“You. You stay.” The leader merely lifted a finger and the space felt itself turned back toward the room, frozen in place. They sat like that for what felt like hours, the voices quivering, the leader turning the folds of its sheet occasionally.

The freedom of the sea. Kai swung expertly through the ropes and wood of the rigging, tugging here and there at the sails, perking their ears up to test the wind. They would rarely pause, perched against the mast, only happy with their feet in the air. Their nails dug into the wood as they shielded their eyes from the sun, gazing at the clouds on the horizon. The wind would change direction, soon.

“Well?” The leader interrupted, before the name could find its voice. The leader leveled its flat gaze at the space.

The voices could only flick their eyes to the side, noting the far wall of the chasm through the window, and back to the leader.

“Are you going to talk,” the leader spat, leaning forward in its chair. The voices churned. This body could speak?

The leader set the sheet aside on the table and stood, smoothing out its poncho. “Very well. We’ll do this the hard way.”

In an instant, the leader jumped forward, and thrust its palm into the base of the space’s neck. The voices scattered, the legs shuddered, and the space fell to the floor. Disconnected half-whispers drifted haphazardly into each other, unable to coordinate.

The leader kicked the space’s neck, and the jagged voices cried out.

“I am going to do this,” it said, punctuating each word with a kick, “until you tell me to stop.”

The voices tried to wheeze and struggle, but the space did not need to breathe, and each of the voices thrashed out at different limbs, moving none of them. They scrambled into each other, then scattered again at the next kick.

The old man sat on his throne, his paws clenched against the scepter of gator bone, ruminating. His beady eyes looked over his army down the hill as they labored to build a hasty wall in the face of the oncoming storm. Across the field, he could see the tiny specks of his opponent digging their own burrows. Their insistence on staying underground would be their demise. Bryagh showed all his teeth in a maniacal grin. Yes, while the waters poured… His soldiers could bury their air holes.

“Stop.” The mechanical voice grated, startling twenty-nine voices. Then the mechanical voice groaned with the rest of them, escalating into an anguished howl. This voice was wrong, unnatural- like the hammer against the anvil, missing the weapon- like the call of the eagle about to strike-

The leader turned and strode back to the table, picking up the slate to examine it. It snorted and tossed it back down. “They’re all troublemakers. Fine.”

It waved its hand dismissively. “Pick yourself up and go. From the top of this building, climb straight up the wall. The trolley operators there will give you your assignment.”

The voices struggled upright. It felt as though the joints in the fork-legs creaked with the effort. All the voices could focus on was that wrenching sound squealing from the head as they instinctively panted. The knife-fingers flexed, but with only a glance back at the space, the leader sent a shudder through the body. The voices found themselves picking their way out of the room and into the chamber with the lift. They found an opening to the cliff side, a window, and dug their wrist protrusion into the stone. The sharp point of the limb dug in firmly, and the fork-legs had little trouble jabbing into the smallest footholds. The space was halfway up the cliff side before the voices could catch up to reality. There they paused.

Back down in the ravine, a bright light shone from one of the buildings. The voices recognized this one- the chamber they had first emerged from. The light flickered like a flame in a storm- like the candle at the end of the wick- like fanning wood embers- through the windows. A rising shriek echoed out of the chamber, followed by shattering glass. Then, silence. Below, on the walkways, some of the porcelain creatures paused. Some bowed their heads. Others simply continued their business.

The space had no direction to go but upward. But it only took one step up the wall before it stopped. A violent shudder ran down its joints and up its neck.

“I won’t!” The old man thrashed on his deathbed. “I can’t! Not after everything else! A little cold can’t kill me!”

His attendants sat outside the room. He could hear them, between labored breaths. Perhaps they were waiting to clamor for his position the moment he died. But Bryagh knew from watching so many others- they would never last as long as he.

None had survived the Plague before. But he could survive. He had always survived. He would survive! He would survive…

A violent-

Neima dropped her trumpet, a dizzying weakness wracking her body. The instrument hit the floor with a clang, and a jangle as a piece broke off. She didn’t see which one, doubled over on the bed, bloody drool dripping down her chin. This was the end, it had to be… She pawed desperately at the quill on the end table. Had to get that last song down… She’d ink it in her own blood if she had to…

There was a-

There was a sudden weakness in Kai’s wrists and fingers, and their grip slipped- they fell through the air- hit the water’s surface-

The space froze, rigid-

Divya stumbled, listing hard to the side. She rested a paw on the shallow wall, the only thing that stopped her from tumbling right off the roof.

“Div!” Her brother called. His voice seemed so distant now, even though he was right next to her, holding her under the arms. He brushed damp fur out of her eyes. “I-I’ll get the Den Mother, she’ll know…”

She closed her eyes. “It’s okay, Udom. It’s okay. Just sit with me…”

The space-

Deven tightened his icy grip on his spear, hands trembling in his weakness. Outnumbered and out-supplied, his fellow guards shivered as they watched the invaders bear down on the little stronghold. It was time to move. He hopped up into position, spear at the ready- but the enemy had already climbed the wall- his sluggish feet couldn’t get traction enough to jump away-

Stop-

The eagles shrieked, somewhere not too far behind. They would take the slowest runner. The little party’s leader was slow and frail, but she held the key to their quest’s victory. Ishani knew her own days were numbered as she wheezed and struggled just behind the group. Well… They needed their leader. Ishani stumbled to a stop as her friends continued bounding through the canyon, and closed her eyes.

Enough-

Uk’s only comfort was their companion, stroking their fur gently as they struggled to breathe. But the air seemed to grow thinner, and farther away, no matter how desperate the pleas…

Lazarus screamed a mechanical grinding squeal as its wrists lost their grip on the stone and its full weight pushed into its thin hind legs for support. It backpedaled down the wall a few steps before driving the blades back into the stone and stopping itself with a harsh crackle of old rocks coming loose. This was… This was…

The voices moaned and howled together. They had died! They had been murdered- had had their lives stolen by these- by these-

Kill them! One voice roared above the others.

Yes, yes! Twenty-nine others replied as one. Go back!

Rocks scattered across the roof of the building as Lazarus tore back down through the window. But the leader was already gone. It swung its head back and forth- there- the lift- the leader can’t have gotten far-

It wrenched open the lift doors with an echoing clang. These creatures’ insistence on giving it knives for arms and legs would be their undoing. Inside the lift, Lazarus scrabbled at the hard, smooth walls- no give. But these legs were long if not sturdy. The voices pushed as one, and two legs struck the wall, piercing the stone just enough for purchase. They descended. The voices clamored as they approached the next floor down. They would search every layer of this structure- the leader could not hide for long.

Another creature under a bright, heavy cloth called out and ran toward Lazarus, holding up one of those metal shards. Lazarus’ eyes flicked toward the device, and it snapped its wrist out- like a blade- like a spear- and skewered the creature’s pale, fleshy arm. It wailed, and Lazarus used its free arm to shove the creature aside. More jogged in from the open hall doors. But this body was large, and heavy, and broad. The voices charged forward together, bowling over the smaller creatures in their path. The legs skittered against the hard, unyielding hallway floor.

This body was too bulky to sense vibrations in the ground. No matter. Let the creatures give chase. They would rue the day they challenged Bryagh- Deven- Ezra- Neima- Exene- Amaru-

An open window. A ramp. Lazarus climbed through, folding its legs farther than any animal should be able to, and crawled along the wall of the building. The outside of the structure was built from the same stone as the ravine wall; its fork-legs clung easily to the surface. It found a lower window and slid into a cramped hallway, with walls the color and consistency of the blades Timur spent so much time crafting. A hard clang rung out into the darkness with every step Lazarus took. It could tell from the whirring and humming, like a giant beast slumbering within the ravine wall, that this floor was important. Even if it could not find the leader, Lazarus would find what they were hiding here and break it.

The voices began their charge across the floor, but a leg became suddenly unresponsive. Lazarus turned back. The floor, there were tiny holes, the toes of the knife-legs had gotten caught. It planted its wrist blades between the holes and yanked its foot free, only to trap the next leg. The voices chittered in frustration, their rage escaping as a grinding growl. This floor was thinner and flimsier, and Lazarus could already hear footsteps a few yards away. It had to hurry. It danced across the floor, stumbling every few steps as its legs stuck, until it reached more solid ground.

There it is, the leader’s bright poncho decorated in silver, standing across a platform of the holed flooring. It seemed a little different than before, but none of the voices cared enough to waste time examining it. Lazarus bent its legs and launched itself as far across the room as it could.

But the body was heavy, and the legs thin. Lazarus only hopped a short distance, landed on the flooring, and staggered. The leader turned around, its silver eyes wide, and stumbled back against the wall. Lazarus tripped and crashed to the floor.

The leader effortlessly raised its hand, and the voices found themselves scrambling, unable to coordinate or move the body.

“Finished with your temper tantrum?” The leader asked, high and cold. A different voice than before. Two leaders?

“I think that one’s another Warlord Bryagh,” a distant voice echoed across the room. The voices spun, trying to turn the head, to find the source. Was there someone else here? This voice sounded jarringly familiar.

The leader snorted. “Probably at least one other soldier in there, too. Put a hole in the poor kid upstairs. But they just finished you, didn’t they? You’re a coordinated little concoction.”

The voices struggled, but the arms and legs, the neck, the eyes, remained unresponsive.

“Looks like it caused some damage to a windowsill upstairs, but not much else. You’re not… are you?”

“We have to, Sentry. Merletaph would kill me if I didn’t. Especially with a Bryagh shard, you know how much of a headache that guy’s been over in Mulu. Ping the boys over at Reconditioning and get…” The leader paused, contemplating its fingers. “Sisyphus, to carry this one out. Don’t want those legs and blades causing any trouble.”

“… Right away, Head Merlock.”

The voices buzzed, trapped in an unmoving pile of rocks. What was that voice? Lazarus needed to see- needed to meet- to figure out-

Something lifted its body from behind and half-dragged it out of the room and down endless corridors, leaving the voices reeling. The shrouded creatures stepped aside, watching the body and its prison keeper pass.

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#spm #super paper mario #paper mario #pixls #theia and gaia #cw death

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bisexual-inuyasha · 5 years

Text

Snow Drift

If snow can drift, so can leaves and dust and responsibilities. – Neil Hilborn, “Snow Theory”

A/N: BotW AU, where Ling is Prince of Xing. He’s supposed to be able to feel the Dragon Pulse, supposed to be able to stop what’s coming like his Father and his Father’s Father before him. He goes to the Spring of Power to see if he can trigger his abilities. His faithful Knight follows him.

Ling stared at the lump of rock. The scene was picture perfect: light filtered through the clouds to shine pointedly on the statue, silent princes glowed in the shadows, and his Knight stood with his back turned in an illusion of privacy. Ling had never been more miserable.

The rock remained a rock. No sweet voice called out to him. No power thrummed through the water. Nothing happened at all except that now his legs were wet. The dread gnawed its way up his spine. Fear clawed at his throat. He could feel the walls of expectation closing in on him. Suddenly the Spring was too enclosed. All the empty space above him meant nothing because he could not see the sky.

“Why can’t I hear anything? Why can’t I do this? What’s wrong with me?” His question bounced back to him, louder as it echoed off the rocks. He couldn’t even revel alone in his anguish successfully. Ed would have heard.

He took his time turning around. If he moved slowly enough, Ed would give up trying to sneak a look at him before Ling faced him. Then he could avoid his face for the rest of the day.

He dove under the water. White robes rose in a cloud above him. The water wasn’t deep enough to fully submerge into, but with his head between his knees, he couldn’t see or hear anything above the water.

He looked around. The Spring was peaceful. A frog pushed its way through the water with its powerful legs. The glow of a silent prince cast his voluminous robes in soft blues, completing the illusion he’d dove into a cloud. He wondered how long he could hold his breath. He started counting the stones on the bottom of the water until he could feel his lungs burning.

He’d reached sixty before a boot interrupted his counting. He didn’t have time to ready himself. A hand grabbed his robe and pulled him up to his knees. Water dripped down his forehead and nose, dribbled down to his chin. Like he’d planned, all the salty tears he’d cried had been left behind in the Spring.

“What were you trying to do, drown yourself?” Ed’s usually calm voice snapped. The Knight’s temper didn’t at up much, and almost never at Ling. Duty all but forbade it. When it did, a sticky embarrassment clung to Ling until he’d been properly restored to Ed’s good graces.

“Don’t be silly, there can’t be more than two feet of water here. I was just having a swim is all.” Ling waved Ed’s worry away and stretched his lips into a smile.

“You’re wet and we’ve got to get back to the palace. The air is freezing.” Ed squeezed one of Ling’s long sleeves. Water streamed between his fingers and splashed into the pool. “You’ll get hypothermia.”

“Not with your determination—I’m sure you’ve already got a plan to make me all better again.” The outfit was heavy and cold and cumbersome. His horse hadn’t like it anyway. He’d told his father he hadn’t liked the outfit, but the Spring of Power was sacred and so his clothes must be too. He should have brought a change.

Ed watched him for a moment, hands resting back on their sword. His metal fingers twitched every few seconds, though Ed didn’t seem to notice. Ling noted Ed’s flesh hand had no such tics. He had noticed too many things too often about Ed. His contemplative eyes at dinner when he ate with his brother and brainstormed strategies to defend the Palace. His heavy smile whenever he returned from Zora’s domain with new Winry tales. His silent anger in meetings where Revali spoke over Ling in favor of the bird champion’s own ideas. The King would not approve.

Princes did not fall in love with Knights. Certainly not a Prince whose destiny was very clear. He would defeat Ganon. There was no time for anything else.

“It is my duty to protect you. Understand?” Ed’s face burned red.

Ed took off his tunic. There were scars beneath. Old ones, like the rugged edge of his automail and the small cut under his eye. Ling saw newer ones, too. Fresher, pinker than the others. A long scar across his side—a misstep with the Master sword—was the newest. Ling thought he could still see a few marks where the stitches had only just healed.

Ling had been so concentrated on Ed’s chest and arms he hadn’t fully recognized what Ed was offering. It wasn’t until he saw the arm outstretched, tunic hanging from the ticking fingers, that Ling registered what he was meant to do

“You want me to wear that?”

“The robes are the heaviest thing you’re wearing, which means they’ll take the longest to dry. We don’t have that kind of time. With that much water freezing on you, you wouldn’t make it three steps.”

Ling frowned. “What will you wear?”

Ed gestured over his bare torso. “I’ll be fine.”

Arguing would be fruitless. Ed had done this sort of thing before. Ling suspected acts of pointed selflessness made him feel heroic. He’d had few chances to prove himself so far but the King said that would be changing soon. Ling had no doubts Ed would be more than ready. Already the Knight was proficient in sword work, had proven himself to a begrudging Revali, endeared himself to Armstrong in Goron. In a matter of time, Riza would tell Ling about some amazing feat he pulled in Gerudo.

“Why do you look like that?” Ed didn’t turn around while Ling took off his robes. But he didn’t watch him either.

“Like what?”

Ed was silent for a moment. Ling could hear the ticking. He’d hear that sound forever. He was certain of it. “Like you’re hollow,” Ed finally turned to look at him when the tunic fell over his head. “All the way through here.”

Ed poked Ling’s chest with an automail finger.

Ling’s mouth fell open. A whirlwind of emotion spun through him at once but only one thought fought its way up his throat. “How do you see?”

Ed must not have expected him to answer. He took a step back, cleared his throat, and turned towards the exit. “We should hurry, before the night gets too cold.”

The snow fell lazily outside the Spring. Small piles of new and clean white covered their dirty footprints from their long trek. They wouldn’t be getting home tonight—not if this was any indicator of how the weather would go. Ling shivered, but didn’t say anything about the cold. With Ed’s automail, they couldn’t spend long in the open.

“I think I saw a cabin a little way up the hill.” Ed waved a hand toward a hill among hills. Ling never knew where his Knight was taking him when they went off route. He’d learned Ed would take care of things, as long as one didn’t question him too much.

Ling plucked silent princes as they climbed, tucking them into the wrap around his torso. He stumbled when the ice on his legs began to numb his feet. After the third time, Ling tripped over a stone hidden beneath the snow. He landed with all his limbs splayed out, his face crunching frostbitten grass and twigs.

Ed sighed and doubled back. They had an awkward few minutes where Ed struggled to position Ling on his back but that didn’t last long. Ed put his fingers in his lips and blew out a whistle that rung in Ling’s ears.

They hadn’t gone more than a few yards before the horses showed up. Ed lay Ling across his and set to work tying them together. “I wanted to avoid using the horses. They’re big and noticeable. We don’t have a lot of cover. I just don’t think either of us will get very far like this.”

Ed talked to him steadily on the rest of the trip. Ling trembled. His hair froze to his face. His hands shook. He grew so tired, so ready to be home and warm and asleep before the next day’s worries. He stayed awake so he could hear the rest of Ed’s story.

It was a pleasant story—one Ling had heard before. Ed’s brother had been a royal guard before him. Alphonse was good enough to lead his class. They’d all expected the sword to choose him as the hero. Instead, it hadn’t reacted at all to Al’s touch. The relief was palpable as it rolled off him in waves. The relief lasted for weeks while they scrambled to test the sword with every knight. None of them worked.

Then Ed came to visit Al from his travels in Goron city. His skin was bronzed in those days. Months out of the scorching heat had made him pale again, like his brother. Ling knew then he’d be the one. A coil had begun to tighten the day Ed came into the Palace. It tightened with every step they took towards the Calamity. Ling had brought Ed to the weapon’s room. He’d disguised the sword as a plain weapon, wrapped in an unremarkable cloth.

The cloth, oiled and browned with dirt, hadn’t hidden the gleam. Ed’s fingers wrapped around the hilt and they’d hurtled toward the end.

It had taken another three weeks for Ed to realize he’d been lured into the weapon’s room by the Prince of Xing.

Al was the one who’d told him after he saw Ed and Ling drinking late into the night in Ed’s small cabin, the Master sword resting in the corner after Ling had “gifted” it to him.

Ling remembered Al walking in that night. Ling wasn’t nearly as drunk as he’d pretended to be. Al thought he was revealing an amazing secret. Ling felt as though the young knight had stolen a precious gift.

Ed’s laughter had faded that night, and had never fully returned.

He must have dosed. The next thing he knew, Ed was jostling him awake in front of a fire.

“I know you’re tired, Prince.” Ed poked some fish with a stick. He had his shirt back. Ling’s robes had been freed of their long sleeves and half their length to hang over a fire. The cabin was more shack than cabin. Ling counted only one room and no amenities.

They must be in a town lost to the Lizalfos. Ed had cursed a dozen times when they’d discovered the new breed of monsters with horns that gave off electric currents.

“You never answered my question.” Ed flipped a sizzlefin trout into the embers. The skin would taste like char and the meat would be unevenly cooked. But Ling appreciated Ed had listened the last time he’d talked about his research.

“You never answered mine.”

Ed hummed. It was a sweet sound. From what Ling gathered, it was an old lullaby his mother had used to play for him. He’d told Ling, in their fleeting time as just two people who’s met by chance, that when his mother sang to him time stood still. The severity of the memory, the suffocating sorrow in the memory, had knocked Ling breathless.

Ed covered the fish in embers. He finished his song and set his eyes on Ling. “I watch you. You separate yourself from the other Champions. You are fiercely protective of all of Xing, and of the others, but you refuse to get close.”

Ling smiled. His thoughts were groggy and slow but he knew he didn’t want to answer that question. Not really. “I am meant to die, aren’t I? What is the point of getting too close?”

Ed nodded. “I understand. All I can think of when I hold this sword is how likely I am to lose my brother. I’ll never be able to punch my dad in the face like I want to.”

Ling snorted. “You want to punch your dad in the face?”

“Don’t you want to punch yours?”

Ling laughed. Snow flurried in through a window. The cold outside could not reach him through the fire. “My dad is the King.”

“And yet, despite his divine rule, he can’t seem to grasp the value of your research.”

Ling curled into a tight ball.

Ed had been stationed outside his door the night his father had come into his room. Ling hadn’t gone to his meetings that day. He’d spent the day studying hearty salmon instead. He’d found that combining salmon and truffles could produce a meal that significantly reduced one’s chances of becoming mortally injured in a fight. He’d had the best knights testing out his meals for weeks now. He’d had even greater luck with elixirs.

The elixirs had been the final straw for his father.

Don’t you think you risk his life enough having him accompany you to all of your trips out to the abandoned camps? He should be here, training! Not gathering up lizard tails and octorok eyeballs for your childish playing!

His father had been right. Like he would be right when he was angry with Ling for being late coming home. How could he take his destiny if he couldn’t stop playing with bugs and frogs and critters?

“My brother had one of those hasty elixirs. You know, the ones with that frog you showed me? He was able to outrun a Moblin just as it turned the corner. It saved his life.” Ed pulled the fish from the embers. “It’s about to save ours.”

Ling ate the fish greedily. The skin was unseasoned, and more than once he bit into a spot that was soft and undercooked. As he ate it, he could feel warmth return to his skin. His stomach burned like a hot coal, but his muscles and bones were pleasantly warm. Ed finished two in the time it took Ling to eat one. When they’d finished, they sat back happily.

“Well, now that we don’t have to worry about freezing to death for the next several minutes, we can relax.”

Ling laughed. The sound started as a chuckle, then spread until it boomed through his chest. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever relaxed. The closest he’d come had been when he was lying to Ed.

“Tell me, Ling.” Ed rested his head in his hands. “Why don’t you ever speak of your mother?”

Ling’s laughter stopped. He tried to recall the woman. He sensed kindness, sorrow, worry. He remembered a tiredness he could feel deep inside her. Her face, he couldn’t remember. She just looked generic in his mind—dark hair, average weight and height. Faceless. “I don’t remember her well.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok. She didn’t die when I was young. She just. Was always busy. What I’m supposed to be able to do is usually guided by a friend or relative. Mother was supposed to be mine, but a stray bokoblin got her when she was on the way back from Gerudo. She was supposed to help me come into whatever power I have, but so far, nothing has happened. I think my father suspects they got it wrong this time. Shiekah people wrap themselves in their mysteries and never consider how rude it is to other people.” Ling shrugged. He tried to keep the motion easy and lazy, but his shoulders were too heavy. “Maybe my father is right.”

Ed frowned. “Maybe the sword is wrong, too. I’d never considered being a night before this. I was always intent to be a traveler.”

“Are you kidding me? I had my doubts when we first started—not of you, mind, but of all of this. But you’ve picked up sword fighting almost overnight. The other knights are jealous. You are excelling at your destiny.”

Ed gave a dissatisfied grunt. He pulled Ling’s dismantled robe down from the fire. “It’s warm. We should try to get some sleep. We’ve got to head out tomorrow.”

Ling nodded. He feared he’d somehow insulted his Knight, and he wasn’t sure how. He’d meant to be encouraging. Complimentary even. He decided not to risk speaking any more.

Ed lay on his back. The shack had nothing in the way of a bed or cushion. Likely, the people had taken what they could carry and the Lizalfos had destroyed the rest. Ling’s earlier nap hadn’t done much in the way of rest, but even still, he found himself unable to keep his eyes closed.

Instead his gaze drifted to Ed laying restlessly, fingers tapping out a soft rhythm on the stone floor. After a while, he looked out the window to the silvery moon. They were lucky the moon hadn’t turned red. It had taken to doing so the last few months, at random. And when it did, the monsters seemed to come out in droves.

“Tomorrow we could take the long way around, if you’d like. I know you’ve been running low on hot-footed frogs. We could catch some. Maybe some of those hearty lizards, too.” Ed’s tapping stopped.

“The King would be—”

“And I could try to practice fighting these lizard fellows. We could see about making Al some more of that potion.”

“It’s an elixir.” Ling’s lips twitched into a smile of their own accord. In the dark, the smile was for no one but himself.

“After all this is over, and Ganon is defeated…” Ed’s tapping resumed. “Do you have any plans?”

Ling remembered the fate of every Prince in his role. There would not be an after. Not for a long time. “Not really, no.”

Ed moved across the fire, until his body was inches from Ling’s. “We should go see Goron city together. They eat rocks there. Shaped like meat. I don’t know how it works exactly, but you may be able to get Daruk to show you.”

Ling closed the gap. If his Knight was offering to keep him warm and speak of future plans, he’d not turn him away. It would be nice, for once, to imagine a future where he was not smothered under the weight of Xing. Or any future at all, for that matter.

“What is Goron city like? What were you doing there?”

Ed began to tell him stories about a stone and the power to ward off attacks. Ling listened, mainly to the cadence of his voice, and watched the snow drift outside. He pretended not to notice Ed’s hand reach for his. Despite his efforts, Ling drifted off in the middle of Ed’s story.

The Knight didn’t seem to mind.

They both deserved a long rest.

A/N: I know crossover day is a different day, but I saw royalty in the prompts for today and couldn’t help myself. SO. Here’s a BotW au. I’ll do another fanwork or crossover thing for that day. I just got to the Slumbering Power part of Captured Memories, and was so inspired!

@edling-week

#edlingweek19 #edling #fmab #fma brotherhood #edward elric #ling yao #botw au

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pixiethedm · 7 years

Text

Sunday Respite - Warlock Stock, ( - and Two Smoking Barrels)

Power is not ... easy, I suppose it’d be fair to say. Upon the great, open battlefield of the everyday politics of life and living, there is no equal ground. A thousand-dozen variables add and subtract from whether today will be the one you turn upon those closest to you, or they do the same in a preemptive retaliation against your betrayal.

The same unwritten laws of life apply to the arcane and all strength beyond the confines of flesh and dirt. Some spend their days learning at the words of the generations who have passed before, taking their texts and adapting for the betterment of themselves. Others find fire burning at their fingertips; a great, roaring flame thundering within their chest - a birthright gifted by godlings like an ushering hand to a pawn. There are the rare few, however, who have neither pathway to follow, and instead sacrifice all that is sacred and pure in pursuit of such raw, unending power.

Warlocks are fantastic characters in a gruesome world, breeding with the verminous infections of consequences and the ill-thought actions that spawned them. The embodiment of risk - a lost soul, down to the skin on their back and not a scrap more, offering the only thing of value they have left; themselves. Oh, what dominoes can fall from this most devilish of butterfly effects - the chains that will be linked, the echoes that will be felt through all of history. Only a fool would think that a deal with the less-than-divine would end with a mere handshake. Those pacts have thorns in their words - you will feel their sting.

Here are five profane, impractical, purposefully unprofessional practices of post-perchance pacts in painful places with potent persons of ill-repute. Have fun!

Ald’s Fingerprint

Cavos has the eyes of a man who forgot a certain something with no hope of its return. He watches the celebrations and revelry of his companions with a halfway look of happiness - a dreary somewhere between bittersweet and dry as salt. His reclusive nature is a persistent drain upon the comradery of anyone close enough to notice, as few as they are. He constantly sits behind the front lines of any confrontation - whether that be between the clash of foe and friend or the cheery clink of ale mugs by firelight. His hand sits at his stomach, scratching at the skin under his woolen robes and padded coat, but the itch never disappears, or it never existed. His hand, if witnessed fleetingly out of eye-corners or in double-takes, always seeks to go further up the chest, up to the heart, but retreats like the discouraged dog, whimpering back to his master’s knee when spooked in the dark. Noone besides Cavos knows why, with exception for Ald - the thing that gave him that itch. Old Ald, the world-singer, is a magician of sorts. He turns one thing into another with adept aplomb matched only by the artisans of old. You will not find his creations at the roadside or storefront, however. No, his performances are always set at a heavy price. Cavos can weave colour and fire through the air without a thought or fear of failure, but his mind always returns to that infernal signature of Ald’s interference - that infernal mark that he will never escape. Cavos has a hole through his chest, out to the other side, right where his heart once was; Ald’s pound of flesh; an ever-present reminder as to just who holds the strings of his life.

Coal-Smoke Cloak

This squared length of material is a boiling stretch of black mists that dusts every surface touched with a light sprinkling of ebony powder - light as flour. It can be worn around the neck as easily as any other garment of more mundane manufacture, but only they who have earned it can wear it without breathlessly choking back the smog around their face. The cloak hates unknown peoples without exception. The wearer leaves a trail of wisps behind as they move that swiftly trails off into the air, dissipating into nothingness. Upon command, the wearer can issue forth a plume of smoke that envelops everything around in the same choking murk that it would excrete if worn by an unfamiliar, with similar effects. Those who die within the smoke, skin as lavender with the bulls-eyed expression of a terrible death, are claimed by the weaver of the cloak in the afterlife. It is said, that for every soul that they receive, another cloak is woven for another killer in another world.

Bloodhound’s Collar

A black leather strip - narrow as a finger, strong as bone - is strapped around the unfortunate prisoner’s neck. The skin above and below is reddened and raw. He complains without word, his eyes wrought with the pain and torture of something too tight to bear. His eyes prick at you as you pass, stabbing at your sanity with an arrow-head precision, but his face is flat, sagging at the jowls and eye sockets despite his youth. The collar cannot be removed, at least, not though knife or shear or scissor or flame - and he has begged for and received all, to no avail. Their is no buckle to undo and loosen or knot to snip. The leather is seamless all around. Just how it was applied is a mystery. Still, the prisoner is a criminal and a killer. You do not kill in this county without punishment from the Countess’ regiment. Whenever you speak of his punishment to come, he laughs off into the distance, eyes scanning the crest of the horizon longingly. He passes the threats away like childish banter. He only fears what stalks him at night. He screams under the moon about the beast that worms amongst the cages, the heat of its diseased breath rusting iron and putting plague upon the asleep. You cannot beat the screams out of him and he persists to wail through the night. And so now you gag him. Still, despite the silence, he looks to you like he knows the true face of his death, and it’s name - although he hasn’t blessed you with its mention, but you suspect from the tremor of his eyes that he does. The hazel portals into his head say more than his words could ever do. They have that damned confidence to them. A confidence that says to you that he could escape this cage; this prison; these guards. But, no matter how hard and long he tries, he cannot escape the collar, and he can never escape the beast.

The Bird Cage

Haley has her head in a bird cage hanging at her hip. It’s unusual, and she understands that. The sight of a woman who should, by all mortal comprehensions of vitality, be a twitching lump on ground, instead, walking about the roads in full health, is one to provoke more questions than answers. Her only comments on the matter is that it makes braiding her hair a less cumbersome task, and that it makes conversations difficult for the other side of it. Often she will be talking to an employer - their face taught with the strain of forced politeness - and her body will walk off to the bar to order drinks for the pair, leaving the head to negotiate. According to her brother, who refuses to interfere with the adventurer’s life, she found herself like this after winning a bet against a lesser demon when she was a teenager. They were to play a game of dice. If she won, the demon would grant her magical powers and prowess unlike that of clerics of conjurers. If she lost, the demon would have her head - he was terribly literal. The head was taken before the game as a deposit of sorts, severed by an all-but-lethal blade swing. She won the game of dice- just how, she and her brother either refuse to say or do not truly know. Either way, she cannot remove her head from its wicker cage. She is a regular patron at the local bakery, and has saved several villager’s lives over the years from disaster and demon alike - she considers it her specialty.

The Lonely Oak

The grassy plains of the eastern lowlands are wide and barren. Soft, waving fields of green roll with the winds that drive effortlessly inwards from the coast. There are no towns, no roads, and certainly no laws to adhere to under fear of retribution ... except one. You do not approach the Lonely Oak. At the very deepest, most central point from any forest or wall, there is a single, enormous oak, the size of a cathedral. It is sprawling and vast with eons of unkempt growth. The trunk is as wide as a lake, and its millions of leaves rattle like the nighttime cries of a thousand silken cicadas, softly singing into the dusk, The earth for miles around is buckled from underneath by the powerful roots that have eaten through the soil and rock for centuries. This peaceful titan of iron-hide bark and towering branches is a silent silhouette on the horizon, and so it shall stay, for none dare to near its looming visage for even a step off of the beaten track. The Oak has a guardian; a wicked soul of covetous cruelty, hell-bent on defending the sovereignty of the Oak with every breath she can muster and spell she can cast. Over the endless years, she must have killed hundreds of refugees and travelers who do not know of her legend. Her ferocity is so feared that armies curve their warpath around the Oak’s border like a child through the shadows around the slumbering bear. This guardian speaks to the Lonely Oak and remains as a servant of its will until either she or her master is slain. Her powers, with which she can turn kingdoms back to their monarchs, are an ancient trade from the tree. His only price was undying loyalty. Whether she lives in harmony, or is desperately vying for release, is unknown. All that is certain is that, no matter who she was or wanted or wished, she accepted the offer.

Enjoy

Pixie x

17/07/17

#d&d #Dungeons and Dragons #pathfinder #warlock #d20 #rpg #dungeon master #Sunday Respite

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dentelle-grise · 7 years

Text

Your Latest Trick

Chapter 7

(Loki x Reader)

Summary: Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.

A retelling of The Dark World in which Loki woos the reader despite life imprisonment, mortal wounding and the cumbersome pretense of impersonating his father.

Original Prompt: Imagine Loki undressing you slowly, entirely by magic, only touching you with his eyes.

All chapters to date at AO3 (22K, NC-17)

Chapter 7: Finally they can touch

A/N: For the anon who asked me where I was. You know who you are! Thank you.

You can hear your name from far away, as though you were at the bottom of a well or lost in the forest, but you are too tired to respond or even to move. It’s not just the syllables that are familiar, but the voice itself. You know it better than your oldest memory, better than all those far off nursery rhymes.

You wake to your father’s warm eyes as he softly repeats your name.

“Papa!” You pull yourself to your elbows but your head swims and you have to close your eyes.

He puts a reassuring hand on your arm and eases you back to the lying position. You keep your eyes closed, but you saw enough to know where you are – in the healing rooms again, only this time as a casualty. Then you sit bolt upright again.

“Mother?!”

“Don’t worry yourself.” his deep voice brings an instant calm. “She is fine and she knows you’re safe. She was here just half an hour ago.”

It all rushes back. You’d been on your way to look for her when you’d found the injured man. All the images of ruins and injuries run through your mind. All the things you did since the attack and what you saw in the dungeons run through your mind. It seems like days ago.

“She had urgent to work on the city’s defenses.”

“They’re coming back aren’t they?” You realize you don’t even know who ‘they’ are or why they attacked.

“We have to be ready.” You open your eyes. The serious set to the lines in his face makes a cold fear settle in your stomach.

“Who are they? What do they want? Did you see them? Did they rob the treasury? Oh Papa.” You feel the tears, even though you don’t know what they’re for, exhaustion, frustration, relief, fear. Finally you let it out. To him you always could, your father who allowed your every indulgence and believes you can do no wrong.

“Fortunately not.” He takes his handkerchief and, rather than give it, dries your tears and waits for you to calm down again. “Few people saw them and lived. ’They’ are the dark elves. And they didn’t come seeking treasure or conquest. They only wanted the mortal Jane Foster. It seems the Prince’s young lady is a vessel for dark power.”

“What?” At that you almost laugh. It seems ridiculous, such a frail being. But his face is still serious.

“The Queen died fighting their leader, Malekith.”

“Malekith. But he’s in history books. I thought he died centuries ago.”

“He’s very much alive and looking for revenge on Asgard and on the universe. King Bor massacred his family. Frigga’s death may well have been revenge.”

You remember again the last time you saw the queen. The blue shroud. The silence around her. Nothing is the same. But then you look at your father you realize that some things still are. You have been so lucky.

“Stay here and rest. They told me what you did for them and I’m proud of you.”

After he has gone you don’t feel like resting. The urgency of the whole situation infuses you. You’ve got to do something. You learn that the same messenger who guided you to your rooms found you lying in the dirt some hours later and you were brought back here.

Then Asta and Dagny come. News of your exploits has spread. They look much themselves. Asta teases you about sleeping in till afternoon ‘as usual’ but you can tell they are impressed about you helping the healers.

They ask you to come swimming with them. when you feel better, they are not going to let a potential invasion spoil their fun. You agree, but truthfully you don’t see yourself doing it. You don’t know whether to admire their optimism or think they are hiding from the truth.

After they leave, you go to the head healer and offer your help again.

It is quite simply the most beautiful night, which makes it difficult to believe that it’s such a sad occasion. In the darkness, the damage to the city is invisible and seeing thousands of people together gives a real feeling of hope. You never imagined so many people lived in Asgard. Each of them holds a little light, around you and stretching all the way across the bay. It makes you feel less afraid, helps you forget what is surely coming.

“Malekith will return” your mother had told you. “And Odin will slaughter him.” This for her is a certainty. With her unwavering faith in the King’s power, such things looked simple, despite the risk of the Odinsleep, which is a secret to no one. “Then we must see what can be done for the girl. The power she harbors could ensure the safety and supremacy the realm for eternity.”

So Asgard has become a trap in which Jane Foster is the bait. The idea terrifies you, despite your mother’s confidence. Sometimes you still feel like you were on the end of a rope hanging above the void. Then you look around you. There are points of light for as far as you can see. It makes you feel proud and strong to be Asgardian, sure that the city will rebuild itself and that its people are capable of resisting anything.

You had wondered if Loki would be here, escorted in chains and surrounded by guards, but you haven’t seen him. Perhaps they keep him hidden, even when they take him out under the sky. And if he’s here as an illusion he hasn’t shown his face to you. Since the day of the attack you haven’t been able to reach him again. You can’t get to him. The depths of the palace are far more carefully guarded these days, everywhere is.

But he doesn’t come to you either, and it’s eating at you to know why. Your encounters seem so trivial compared with the gravity of what has happened, to the city and to his family. He saved you, with no more magic than for a ‘parlor trick’, but he couldn’t save her.

His silence tells you he is suffering alone somewhere you can’t join him. He must be devastated.

You’ve kept busy, filling your world by helping those you can.

When Frigga’s ship takes flight, the crowd release their lights, which float upward, penetrating the darkness. You look up for a moment at the growing cloud of pale orbs as they float into the sky, and then you look around you at the faces. Faces of fear of sadness of hope, of pride, tears shining on the face if a lone soldier, while around him children who don’t understand squeal with joy at the pretty lights.

The next day everything changes again. You’ve decided you will join the girls after all and spend some time relaxing after working in the healing rooms. So you’re cutting across a debris-strewn hall and it’s there that you see him, dressed in his familiar leather, dressed for a fight.

He’s with Thor and you watch as they move together between the columns. Perhaps they think they are being stealthy but their clothing is too showy to miss. They are slowly moving toward a group of soldiers guarding the entrance to the royal quarters. Surely they should just let Thor through? Why is he behaving like a fugitive? Loki moves awkwardly beside him, and you see that his hands are bound together. Is he Thor’s prisoner then? He doesn’t seem reluctant to be with him. Determined, more like. Something else is different with Loki - from the sunlight penetrating the gaps in the broken walls you see he casts a shadow.

Your plain robes from the healing room afford you some anonymity. If Thor sees you, he pays you no heed. He’s more intent on his goal. But you catch Loki’s eye and you both stop.

At that moment, two more soldiers arrive, spot Thor and challenge him. He pushes Loki behind a broken off column and starts to fight them.

You don’t waste a second. You join Loki in his hiding place.

When you touch his hand, a shock of pure energy runs up your arm and through your body, stealing your breath. It’s been so long that you’ve yearned for this, to have him here for real, with no barrier.

You watch a dozen emotions chase one another across his features, uncontrolled and unmasked from you. Fear, relief, and a whisper of desire that’s quickly chased away.

The harshness of his attire compared with the times before puts another layer of distance between you.

There’s a clash of metal striking metal behind you.

“This is not the best time.” he starts. But there’s the hint of a smile there too, despite everything. “We have to go and save the universe.” he says, earnestly.

“What’s happening?” You ask. But he just looks at your hands where they are holding his bound ones. “Is Thor helping you escape?”

“No,” And there’s that smile again. ”I’m helping him.”

There’s a yell, a smash and a man gets thrown into your line of sight where he lays groaning. You wince.

“Thor won’t let me fight lest I kill someone.” Loki says, not sounding disappointed in the slightest.

You glance around the column. Thor pushing back a group of soldiers by their shields that they’ve locked together. What is Thor doing attacking his own? You shake your head.

Since you last saw Loki - you won’t count your last trip to the dungeons, which he probably doesn’t know about - the world has changed: Asgard is no longer the safe haven you always believed and Frigga is dead. Asgard lost its queen, but Loki lost his mother. And you saw the impact that had. You had imagined him offering him comfort and him accepting, but that’s not who he is today, he’s somehow someone else. The fury is contained.

He squeezes your hands, but makes no promise to return. The handcuffs tell you what that would mean for him. Considered a criminal in his own home, would he even want to come back after this quest?

What you had with him was little more than the frivolous liaisons you’ve had with most others. Perhaps even less. But it’s not what it feels like when his bound hands pull you close to him and he leans his forehead against yours.

“I am going to avenge Mother. And to help Thor destroy the Aether.”

And then he kisses you, soft and chaste, but it sends the blood thundering through your veins, finally you taste him. Just. But this little is already near overwhelming, you lean in further, but he pulls back and replaces his lips with one finger.

“Shhh.” And while the frustration and impossible urgency to have him stay bubble inside you, he gives you a smile that feels like a goodbye.

You grab Loki’s arm. “Just once, please. Kiss me for real.” If he’s leaving then you won’t let him go without something more. A look you don’t understand flashes across his face. You would almost say fear, that he wants to resist you. But you catch the moment he wavers and make your move.

You thread one of your hands through his hair, running the other down his back over ridges of thick leather and bring your lips to his.

Once he gives in, he goes all out, his tongue hot and wet on yours, his trapped hands scrabbling to touch you through the thin layers of your robes. You had forgotten what it was like to be kissed like this, so urgently. He’s not doing it to impress or seduce, he’s acting purely on instinct, and you respond in kind, tasting him fully, showing how you much want him and want against all reason that he return to you. He responds, perhaps unknowingly, with tiny murmurs of affirmation. He can’t move his hands much in the cuffs, though he clearly wants to take you in his arms. Instead he spreads them to fit them as best he can over your waist. For as long as you can still hear the clashing of metal behind you, you know you are safe from detection. You feel a thread of guilt about Thor fighting alone against multiple adversaries, but he did start it and you know he can handle himself.

So you let yourself forget everything but the moment. It’s raw want, messy and desperate. It’s all the things that you were missing all at once. The strands of Loki’s hair are silky smooth under your fingers and, from the way he pushes into your touch, you can tell he loves it. You want to cry from how good it feels.

You wonder when was the last time he was touched. Before he was in prison? Before Midgard? Before the fall? Before he was king? Before Thor’s banishment? He crowds you against the column and kisses you harder, you forget to breathe. Why did he want to deny himself this?

You break off to drag your lips over his exposed throat. He lets out something between a sigh and a moan and catches your mouth again with his and you feed from one another as though starved.

“Loki!”

For a second you think you’ve been caught but, when you peek, Thor is several yards away standing surrounded in prostrate, groaning guards. You look back at Loki, His face is a mix of lust and regret, his eyes still full of some desolate want you don’t recognize. Then he rebuilds his expression and what emerges is harsh and terrifying - pity the enemies of Asgard.

He turns away from you and with a proud stride goes to rejoin his brother. Instinctively you hide from Thor and lean on the pillar a moment getting your breath back.

When you look around. Loki and Thor are gone. There’s no one but you and the men who tried to stop them.

“A healer.” one calls out in relief.

You’re not a healer, but that’s what he sees - from your robes. You quickly set to helping them anyway, wondering why this fight was even necessary.

The feeling of Loki’s lips on yours and the sensation of his closeness linger. You are sure Thor saw nothing. It’s still your secret.

You can only wonder now what they will do, where they will go and if they will ever return.

You don’t make it out to the pools that day. Instead you escort Thor’s casualties to the healing room. More follow and bit by bit you hear how Thor and his friends broke out Jane Foster and made off in a stolen craft. They are gone.

The close of the day brings with it a gathering emptiness and you finally understand something. It wasn’t the kiss that Loki feared. What he feared was its loss.

Chapter 8

#loki #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #thor #thor 2 the dark world #MCU #your latest trick #imagine loki

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