#clearly used subtle spell on an unlock touch spell

[dathen]

One little detail that sends Jonathan reeling but is easy to overlook is how Dracula opens the front door without a key. Jonathan’s been taking potentially fatal risks to try to get through those locked doors, and it’s the only thing keeping him from just fleeing into the forest and taking his chances there.

Then lo and behold! All he has to do is ask, and the door was never locked at all! Why would I need to lock you in, friend Jonathan? I’d never dream of keeping you here against your will, you could have left at any time!

Of course, Jonathan had examined the doors before and knew they were locked. It’s a massive gutpunch of gaslighting that seems to hit harder than all of Dracula’s other manipulations. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure that Dracula just unlocked the door at a touch, just so he could twist the knife deeper.

[codegemini]

Are We Dead Yet? Pt.II - The Tremaculum

 (( Co-written with @thefugitivemango / @argonas / @avehi-the-adamant​ ))

 ~*~*~

Sinafay kept her head low, hair hiding her features as her tormentor floated away, seeming satisfied with his work. Her ghostly form still trembled from the inflicted pain, but her concealed expression was that of a defiant grin. It took a moment for her head to clear, but once it did, she brought her head back up and peered around.

 One was never really alone in the Tremaculum. There were plenty of sentries and tormentors about. For now, none were watching her. Prisoners were never really active after torture sessions. Even now, Sinafay knew she didn’t have the energy to do much. But she had enough for what she needed. 

 Glancing down to her side, her tail came into view. The end was curled up tightly, one would assume, out of pain. But there was another reason for it. It had been busy during her session, when her torturer had been deep in concentration. Slowly, it uncurled just enough to reveal a key. Her smile widened. 

 Her tail’s movements remained slow, as she kept her head low, peeking through her hair to make certain she wasn’t being watched. It took some time, but eventually, it managed to unlock the shackles holding her wrists, before tucking the key away, out of sight.

 For now, she kept the unlocked shackles on. She didn’t have the energy to attempt an escape… not yet, anyway. So she waited, either until she regained her strength or until a distraction broke out. Whichever would come first.

In a brilliant flash, the latter arrived, as every Mawsworn turned their attention towards the outer ramparts. A flash that could only be the Light in such a dismal place as this. Again, another eruption of brilliance washed over the Tremaculum, accompanied by the increasing sounds of battle. The clashing of steel and the unholy shouts of the denizens of the Maw as they were defeated one after the other. The tormentor hovered back from the commotion cautiously, as the source of the uproar was revealed.

 Argonas.

 He turned the corner, armored body aglow in holy Light, as he bashed down every shadehound and sentry that dared to approach him. It was him in his entirety, not just his soul cast down in death like before-- that much was clear by the intensity of his aura and the potency of the Light that radiated from him in all directions. 

 But the Light brought with it a shadow; he wasn’t alone in his infiltration of the Tremaculum. Following him around the corner came another familiar figure who had once visited Sinafay here in the Maw. Unlike Argonas, Avehi’s aura was one of death and cold, felt in stark contrast to the warm glow of the Light the living Vindicator brought with him. She reached out, shadows clinging between her hand and the tormentor to rip him towards her. The Maw monstrosity shrieked, immediately barraging the Death Knight with a flurry of spells-- none of which hit their mark as they were repelled harmlessly by a sickening icy blue shell that encapsulated her. She hefted her hammer up, then brought it down swiftly to decimate the tormentor in one heavy strike, leaving only the metallic crown and ghastly robes in a heap on the ground before her.

 The two were anything but subtle, attracting the attention of everything in the keep, it seemed! And yet nothing could stand against the two of them working in tandem as they pressed their invasion further. Avehi was the first to hone in on Sinafay’s soul; though to be fair, she was much more honed to the spirits of the afterlife than her living compatriot. 

 “Argonas.” she called his attention forward, as her lichfire eyes fell upon the familiar soul they’d come seeking.

 He turned promptly, following Avehi’s gaze to see his beloved. He couldn’t help his eyes from welling up, both to see her in shackles like this… but also just to see her again. He stepped forward immediately to make his way to the soul of his beloved Sinafay. Avehi held her position, watching their escape route closely to provide cover for the heartfelt reunion.

 “I told you I would come for you!” he declared, smiling wide. “And here I am!”

Sinafay felt her heart soar at the sight of him. She took no time to unclasp the shackles, pushing her exhaustion aside to get up on her hooves. Her vision blurred momentarily, and her ears rang at the sudden motion, but she pushed through and ran towards and into the arms of her lover.

 —at least, that had been the plan. It wasn’t until her ghostly form passed through him and she landed on the rocky ground that she realized it. He wasn’t a spirit, like her. Despite the tormentors’ abilities to make her -feel- like she had a body, this was a harsh reminder that she had no physical form. It all felt so horribly cruel, to be so close to her love, but unable to touch him. 

 She felt the intense heaviness of the Maw overcome her, wanting to cry but having no tears to shed. Her look of sorrow hid behind her hair, but her slumped shoulders as she sat up conveyed the emotions well enough. 

 Argonas knelt down beside his mate, frowning heavily. He reached for her, though clearly saw that wouldn’t pan out as he hoped. She was, to him, intangible. 

 “Avehi, why can I not--”

 “She’s still just a soul, Argonas.” Avehi huffed, glancing over. “What did you expect? We have to get her out of here first.”

 But even the Death Knight didn’t have a solid plan to overcome that obstacle. She glanced to her hammer, eyeing the crystalline head-- more specifically, the entity she’d locked away inside. She recalled binding Rokaa’s soul to the crystal vessel back on alternate Draenor, once she killed him. It was the only way to keep him from simply recurring again and again. The hammer pulsed, as if Rokaa was returning Avehi’s scrutiny. Sinafay would need something similar to house her.

 “She needs a vessel.” Avehi added, approaching the two. “Sinafay, have you seen any of these Maw creatures force a soul into anything like that?”

 Sinafay took a moment to regain her composure, letting out a sigh and rolling her shoulders back. Despite the crushing feeling being unable to touch Argonas brought about, she was still relieved he was there. Him and Avehi both! 

 She shook her head, moving her hair out of her face at the question. 

 “No,” she answered, “Soul chains and portals are the regular transport to get prisoners across the Maw or into Torghast. There are cages and soul traps scattered about, but nothing I have seen used as a vessel. And I haven’t heard of anyone traveling to and fro from the Maw…”

 She looked from Avehi, to Argonas. Spirits! She still couldn’t believe he was right there with her!

 “How did you get here?” She couldn’t help but ask, but was cut off at the sound of wings flapping. 

 She looked up at two figures in the sky, black feathery wings on their backs and spears in their hands. Mawsworn Myrmidon…

 “We need to leave. Now. Find a cave… or something…”

 Unsurprisingly, their infiltration had drawn more attention. With everything else happening down here in the Maw, other Azerothian forces breaching in to save their wayward leaders, Avehi had hoped they’d have more time. But it seemed now that time had run out. Just as well; she had a plan in mind for that, too.

 “We sent another to secure such a hiding place.” Avehi replied, narrowing her gaze up at the descending Mawsworn. “Move quickly, and we’ll make our way there.”

Argonas stood up, and motioned for Sinafay to follow Avehi as she began to return back the way they had come. The path they’d cut into the Tremaculum was still clear… for now.

 Sinafay’s ghostly hand reached and took hold of a Mawsworn dagger that had been dropped in the battle. While she was immaterial, weapons and tools that could be used to torment and bind spirits could also be used by spirits. With that, she got up and followed Avehi out of the battle zone as indicated. It was difficult for her, backing out of a fight, but she’d been in the Maw long enough to know her limits. She was still weakened from the tormentor, and knew the presence of Myrmidon would bring about stronger foes if they remained to fight.

 Thankfully, Avehi and Argonas had done an excellent job fighting their way in, so the escape went smoothly enough. Argonas managed to strike down the few forces that tried to follow. She looked back from time to time, watching her lover fight, nearly tripping over her own hooves at the distraction. How long had it been since she’d been able to admire him in battle —wielding the Light at that! He was more battle worn than she remembered… his hair was longer, and the facial hair was new. She fancied the older look it gave him. How had he gotten hotter?

 Somehow, she managed to tear her gaze away from him for the moment. She’d have plenty of time to stare whenever they got to safety.

~*~*~

[scarloott]

When Merriment’s Done

by: me (scarlett)

cw (i rly hope these are done right! i’m so sorry if not): religious trauma, death/dying, blood, body horror, ambiguity/unresolved

It’s quite long, clocking at 3k words, when it was meant to be a short poem or couple paragraphs, so it’s under the read more.. i rly hope u like! <3

(also lmfao i’m really discrediting my authorship with these crappily phrased forewords but n e way on with the show)

I was guided in by the hand, my skin bristling at the gentle grasp of an immaterial touch - like the phantom limb of another person. I wanted to ask who they were, what I was doing there, at that… was it a church, even now, when any trace of a God had been flushed out by dark? I supposed I’d find out soon enough: I followed. The air grew oppressively cold as I passed through the gate, entering this being’s domain, like the very matter of the air turned from atoms to needles, all stabbing my skin, leaving me perforated; I didn’t much like the thought of that, and I shuddered, pulling my coat tightly around my shoulders, creating something resembling a chrysalis that did little to shield me from the frost, but just enough to make it bearable. My breath seemed to freeze in mid-air, turning to tiny shards that freckled my face in red. I looked over my shoulder, to the outside, and saw it melting away into nothingness - a black darker than any I could have comprehended, that demonstrated in no uncertain terms the boundaries of this space: ahead, also, I could see the dark, consuming the unoccupied land at the far end of the cemetery. Houses surrounded the domain, but these too were consumed - I tried my best to ignore the nagging thought of their occupants’ fates.

The cobblestone path, although worn by repeated footfall, was well-kept. The being walked a few paces ahead, its gait reeking of certainty: it knew I had nowhere else to go. It didn’t even stop to invite me in, entering the church’s vestibule, a narrow corridor leading into the main chamber, with doors to the left and right. These were shut. That may have been a blessing.

The nave was stunning. The church - although blatantly Protestant - hadn’t entirely forgotten the flair of the Catholic church and, compared to the dark outside, was almost preferable - almost beautiful. The pews, constructed from brown-stained wood, were cushionless - there was a certain penance in this place, even beforehand, and it manifested in the littlest of things: uncomfortable pews; a slight, almost unnoticeable slant of the floor that tended to cause issues for the elderly - particularly those confined to wheelchairs, whose brakes may just so happen to deactivate mid-service, and they may begin to slowly - almost unnoticeably - roll away; and in the archaic - or rather, borderline nonexistent - lighting: the only sources of light were natural - now not an option - and the candles scattered sparsely around the hall. Electricity was a force unknown in this place - not that it mattered nowadays. If there even was a “now” anymore. Or “days”. In the opposite corner to the antechamber, there was a walled-off rectangle - another room, of function unknown to me. Beside it, at the front of the nave, was the altar, depicting a robed man on a cross - I assumed it was a depiction of Jesus. A long, two-pronged spear protruded from its side, leaving long, scarlet trails that - I suppose - were the statue’s blood. I snorted, quietly. “Subtle,” I said, into the void. The word resonated from wall to wall, rising to a crescendo as it reached the rafters, which groaned under the strain of this new disturbance. I didn’t expect a response. I suppose that’s why I got one.

“Subtlety doesn’t… work well in places like these,” it replied, the sound emanating from everywhere around me, and yet not reverberating. It simply remained in the air, stagnant and unmoving, and slowly decayed in its own fashion. I supposed it spoke sense, but it was hard to be scared by such a human response. The being continued walking as it spoke, as the being was not the same as the voice, but they were linked somehow. If I could figure that out, perhaps I could sever the connection. If I could sever the connection, perhaps I could escape, although I knew not what I would escape into… if anything.

“I wouldn’t even try it,” the voice said, matter-of-factly. “We’ve done this twelve times already. Give it up.” This shook me. I hadn’t considered it, but I had no knowledge of anything preceding my entry to the churchyard. Of course, I’d known about the houses, but… was that a memory? Or just an invention of the being? It could read and wipe my mind… surely it could implant thoughts too, I briefly despaired: I was truly, inescapably, trapped. Twelve times, too… does that make this the thirteenth? The Christian mythos holds a certain scorn for the thirteenth of anything, a deep-rooted superstition thanks to the thirteenth disciple, the thirteen knots of a hangman’s noose, the thirteen steps of the gallow… Perhaps this thirteenth repetition spelled bad luck, but I feared that such bad luck was my own - not that of the being, or of the voice.

I stood before the altar, enraptured as it began to shake. Well, shake wasn’t the right word: I am not sure that it moved at all, but it seemed to fluctuate as though something within were trying to break the surface, as though trying to turn the whole structure inside-out. It was while staring at this ever-shifting altar that I realised my initial assessment of the nave’s lighting systems had missed a crucial element: the pulpit itself radiated with a certain imperceptible luminescence, as though ultraviolet, and yet it clearly sufficed to illuminate the hall, as I had found may way forward without much trouble.

The being kneeled next to me, its head bowed, its palms together in a cruel mockery of what once could have been seen as prayer. I wish to bring pen to paper, to commit to some permanent record the aspect of this creature, and yet… I simply do not know. Picture it as a pitch-black humanoid figure, or as a servant of Cthulhu, or as Jesus himself - it makes no difference. Words proved an insufficient medium to elucidate this creature’s appearance. It appeared, and it was present, and it taunted me in a voiceless manner, whilst the voice it lacked berated me from all sides. I knew not what was expected of me so, in an imitation of the being, I too knelt; I clasped my hands in my own form of prayer and anxiously awaited the ritual. 

In a moment, and for but a moment, my senses were alight: I could smell freshly brewed coffee turned sour by off milk, the scent of the outside world shortly after rain, the decay of flesh, and innumerable things I could not attach to any firm memory; I could hear the screams of the damned, some knowing - and calling in hoarse, tortured moans - my own name, the awful sounds of violence and of gunfire, the sobs of a new widow; I could taste dirt and naught else; I could see naught but white, though the oils coating my eyes played tricks with my perception and told me I was being buried alive during a war, my widow crying over me, while it rained out-of-date coffee, and I was being condemned to Hell. Then the first leg of the ritual was over.

“You can’t leave this place, but I won’t stop you trying. Why not explore while I prepare myself?” the voice suggested. The being was still praying. Resent growing, I left the being to its sick machinations and thought to explore the rooms behind the closed doors. The door that had been to my left when I entered stood open; the one on the right was shut. I favoured the latter, and found it unlocked, although the handle was icy and it was difficult to release my grip after. The door - a towering thing of solid, heavy wood - creaked on hinges unfit to bear such a load, and shuddered open, releasing a breath of frost onto my face. I recoiled - too far, clearly, for I found this great door closing once more, and another closing before me: the one which had before been open. The lock clicked shut as I found my bearings and began to look around. It was a stone room made from grey bricks, whereas the church proper was made of some reddish, sandstone-looking mineral. The only window in the room was narrow and high-up, and barred as though a prison cell. In the corner opposite to the entrance stood a toilet with a pull-chain; another corner housed a wash basin elevated only a foot above the ground. Affixed to the wall above was some sort of electronic boiler, although a note affixed spelled in red marker pen the words “OUT OF ORDER. DO NOT USE.” Mould had begun to spread from a damp corner of the note, so the words now looked more like “OUT OF   ER. DO NOT    .” The room was barren but for these few features. I was not looking forward to the second leg of the ritual, so I attempted to leave. To my surprise, the bolt of the door allowed itself to be opened, and the door swung open with a great zeal. I stepped back into the vestibule, where the being awaited me.

“It wasn’t a prison, exactly,” the voice explained. The being moved toward me and I stepped aside, but it didn’t register my presence. It closed the door of the room I had left and reached into the door itself to bolt it shut. “The townspeople had suspected the vicar of pedalling lies for some time. They loved his God, but his means… they missed their children. They locked him in there, made him wait out the forty days and nights to prove his holiness. Of course, he withered away, and they never found their children - their location died with him…” The voice laughed: a smug, self-assured noise that somehow toed the line between laughter and wheeze. “In a sense.”

“And the other door?” I demanded. The being was heading back toward the altar.

“Another time. We have so much work to do.” The being turned left at the altar, and entered the room I had noticed earlier, which obstructed the view of those on the far side of the church: in a way, blocking them from God. It was clear my role was to follow; I did so without protest.

This room was carpeted, although the carpet was the sort that scratched you and gave no illusion of comfort, and when you pressed flesh to it for more than a minute or so it would leave vibrant red marks where it had suppressed your circulation. Another slight discomfort in a place designed to punish Man for the original sin and offer conceits of redemption: another nail in the coffin of humankind.

In this room we again knelt in prayer, heads bowed as we faced a coffin teetering precariously on a comically undersized table. I could not see the name engraved on its face from my prostrated position, but I had no doubt it was my own. As we knelt, I heard the creak of hinges - the coffin opening, likely autonomously. I daren’t open my eyes - not yet. Something got out of the coffin, swinging its legs over the cusp and landing neatly between myself and the being. It walked around for a while, leaving the room and returning what felt like millenia later. It then clambered into the coffin, slamming the lid behind it. I knew now to open my eyes, but when I did I was met by a face mere inches from my own, with yellowing eyes, jet-black skin, and a red, rotting gouge where its nose should have been. It had no mouth, but it had teeth: some, at least, for most must have simply withered away, and those it did have were brown and smaller than human teeth, and all molars. It smiled at me in a childlike manner when we locked eyes and, although I knew better than to recoil, I couldn’t help but jump when I saw it. It grabbed me by the shoulders and… I suppose it kissed me? I spat on the ground, but something bit into my tongue and I felt it writhing, like a… like a… 

“I’m sorry about the,” 

Like a… 

“Maggots,” the voice said once again. “Just thought it’d be funny.” I spat again, although I knew it wouldn’t dislodge the creature as it crawled down my esophagus. I simply wished to show my hatred to the thing. The being had entered the coffin, taking place of this new, somehow worse entity, which followed me around with its sepia-toned, bloodshot eyes that seemed ready to bulge and burst and pop from its formless head. An attempt made by this new version of the being to attain some form resembling humanity, although it had gone… poorly, to say the least. 

Again I found myself unoccupied. The creature - an entity distinct from the being and, in turn, from the voice - seemed intent on following me, nigh-on mirroring my actions as though my clone. I shuddered at the mere thought. Does it mean to take my skin next? This, of course, solicited a greater shudder, and I resolved to get a move on; I wished to get away from that… thing.

My return to that right-hand ingress was met again with an icy reception, although I came this time equipped with the mental fortitude to put off the cold. I stepped in, untroubled - or, at least, untroubled by the chill. I was very troubled by the creature, which visibly shivered. If it weren’t so disturbing, it may have been comical: the creature’s head bounced around, its neck visibly - and audibly, with a squeak like an unoiled chain - stretched and deformed; its teeth knocked about, moving all over its face and disappearing under its shadowy… it would be remiss of me to describe what it possessed as flesh.

This room was narrow - more akin to a corridor, which boasted little detail but for a narrow stone staircase that quickly twisted out of view. The steps were high - uncomfortably so - and extremely short and narrow: far too much so for me to fit much more than tiptoes on the step. My unwanted companion followed with a detestable ease. I considered pushing him. My hand must have slipped, for I oh-so-accidentally did so and my arms passed through its pathetic face as though it weren’t there at all. I fell, rolling comically down the tight, spiralling staircase until I reached the bottom, landing on my face. The taste of copper filled my mouth, and one of my teeth clattered across the room in leaps and bounds, landing at the feet of the being. It bent down to pick it up and walked past me, still unaware - or perhaps simply ignorant - of my presence, to hand it to the creature, who accepted it gladly and placed it in the centre of its face, roots pointing outwards, as though it were a carrot nose on a macabre snowman.

“Do you like it?” enquired the voice, but I hardly heard. I sprinted through both the being and the creature, clambering up the stairs like some quadrupedal relative to the tarantula, passing closed doors I knew better than to try. A frenzy overtook me - a burning desire to escape the being, and to cause harm to the creature, for I hated them both equally. I turned the final corner - or perhaps the first, for the staircase was a tight spiral - I emerged to a round room containing a single, enormous brass bell at what I assumed was the apex of the church’s tower. The creature and the being had both beaten me in my ascent: the former now stood, staring expectantly at me, boasting my tooth in the centre of its face and grinning its malformed, decaying grin that bore so deeply into my soul and evoked such primal fury; the latter - the being - stood by an opening, overlooking the darkness, and paid me no heed. I fell to my knees; the creature mimicked me. I cried out; the creature did the same. I stood again, and walked toward the bell… The creature made no move to imitate me and instead watched, content or, perhaps, curious. A cord of interwoven metal hung down from the bell’s inside, with a handle a similar brassy shade to the bell itself. The darkness rumbled in trepidation as I gripped the handle, and I felt the world around me grow a little darker. Now the creature came to join me, and I made no effort to push it away. I knew that ringing the bell would kill me; I hoped only that it would kill the creature too. As we stood, the dark spreading like a cancer onto the churchyard, swallowing the ground and the grass and the graves, I stared at that creature, so pitiful in all its aspects: its stance was weary, leant to one side on a stunted leg that was forced to carry the bulk of its massless weight; its sinister smile malformed and misarranged, as though an abomination of Man trying to play God, and falling short in every manner; its tooth nose was rotting already, and would soon be consumed; its eyes were weary and lonely. I noticed it drawing close to me, and felt the maggot in my throat stir once more, as though it were compelled by the creature’s proximity. I tried to bite down, to prevent whatever may happen, but the worm tore from my throat, escaping back into the open, expectant mouth of my counterpart. After all, for all I hated it, it was but an extension of me: my shadow.

The voice was gone, its source consumed perhaps by the sea of darkness which began to shatter the stained glass windows of the nave. I could have sworn I heard a scream from the altar; I was glad I heard nothing from the coffin. The darkness rose further, swallowing the church’s roof, and the acid in my throat mimicked it, dripping through the hole bored by the maggot and melting the ground below me.

Praying - praying for perhaps the first time in my life - that I had made the right choice, I - and, by extension, my shadow - rang the bell, as my orifices were flooded with the darkness, purging me.

Then, perhaps, was I clean.

[wordsablaze]

The Witchfinder’s Legacy

Things often come back to haunt Merlin but people with a vendetta make it all the more painful and Arthur struggles to step in before Merlin's suffered... from my whumptober adventures, enjoy!

A/N: Several chapters of my whumptober fic were linked and people suggested posting them as their own fic so here we are ^.^

-

Merlin was usually careful enough.

He knew he wasn't the most subtle with his magic - especially since Gaius never stopped lecturing him about it - but he rarely ever exposed it. Which meant that, for the most part, nobody would think to call him, the clumsy but joyful and loyal manservant, a sorcerer.

For the most part.

Every so often, someone would accuse Merlin of practising magic and there’d be a risk of jeopardising his destiny.

This time, however, it was a little more serious.

This time, it was a witchfinder.

And a fraud of a witchfinder at that.

Merlin catches Gaius’ eye as the witchfinder drags him into an audience with the King. The physician is doing a terrible job of hiding his concern, in Merlin’s opinion.

“What is the meaning of this?” Uther demands, raising an angry eyebrow at the witchfinder.

“The boy cast a spell on my horses!” The witchfinder declares, shoving Merlin forward.

Barely catching himself, Merlin shakes his head at the King. “I wasn’t, I swear-”

“All due respect, My Lord,” the witchfinder interrupts, “but surely you wouldn’t trust the word of a mere serving boy over mine.”

Uther frowns, clearly torn between what he wants to believe and wanting to save his reputation. If it comes down to his reputation, Merlin knows he’s doomed.

“Do you have any proof of this accusation?” Uther asks.

“You can’t have missed that my horses rampaged through the city as if possessed!” The witchfinder has the audacity to look offended, as if he hadn’t been the one to cause them to do so.

Gaius steps forward before Merlin can try to argue again. “Sire, I think we should remember what happened with Aredian before you pass any judgement.”

The witchfinder stiffens at the name and Merlin groans to himself because, if the two witchfinders are somehow related, there’s no way he’s going to let this go before Merlin is dead, or worse.

“Aredian, My Lord?” the witchfinder asks, his voice the epitome of innocence.

Uther’s silence acts as a cue for the witchfinder to grab Merlin again. “If there are, as you say, multiple who have accused the boy, perhaps there is good reason for it?” he suggests, tightening his grip on Merlin as if daring him to argue.

There’s a silence in which Merlin mouths an apology to Gaius.

Then Uther nods solemnly. “Very well. You may question the boy for three nights. If he then confesses to me, I will let you do as you wish.”

Merlin’s eyes widen but Gaius and Gwen - who seems to have appeared from nowhere - look more hopeful than before. Apparently they haven’t heard of how witchfinders force confessions from people and expect Merlin to easily survive his interrogations.

Once Uther's word is finalised, the first thing the witchfinder does is drag Merlin along and throw him into the small cage that lives on his cart, securing heavy metal shackles around his wrists.

He thinks he’s gotten lucky but no, as soon as the metal clamps around his wrists, something breaks inside of him, smothering him from the inside. Just his luck to be accused by a witchfinder that knows what kind of shackles can suppress magic.

Despite the pain, Merlin glares at him once he’s done. “I know you’re framing me.”

The witchfinder laughs as he spurs his new horses on and they start moving. “Just as you framed my father.”

A small gasp escapes Merlin. “You’re Aredian’s son?”

“Aren’t you a smart one?”

He doesn’t have a chance to answer because Aredian’s vengeful son turns a corner and he’s painfully thrown against the side of the cage. He ends up focusing on trying not to cry out every time Aredian’s son makes the journey more difficult for him, which is almost continuously.

It doesn’t help that it feels like someone is slicing into his soul with every passing minute, the shackles effectively dampening his strength entirely. By the time they stop, Merlin is sure he’s gained a dozen bruises, if not more.

He exhales softly as he hears Aredian’s son climb down and walk round to him. “I take it you won’t be ready to confess yet?” he asks languidly, clearly happy with this situation.

“I can’t confess to a crime you committed,” Merlin replies, not even trying to hide the venom in his voice.

“Oh, but you will…” Aredian’s son laughs. “But since we have three nights and I rarely require more than one, how about you enjoy a quiet night under the stars for today?”

“What?” Merlin finds himself asking before he can stop himself. It’s only then that he takes a moment to look past the pain and at his surroundings, seeing nothing but trees.

Aredian's son unlocks the cage and unhooks the chain from the side of the cart, yanking Merlin out of the cage and forcing him to tumble onto the ground. With a groan, Merlin pulls himself to his feet and stumbles after the witchfinder, who doesn’t even look back as he pulls on the chain that links Merlin’s shackles together.

They don’t stop walking until they reach a quiet, secluded clearing, where Aredian's son unlinks one of the shackles long enough for him to push Merlin in front of a tree and wrap the chain around the trunk so Merlin ends up effectively tied to it.

He’s too tired by the suppression of his magic to even fight back and the witchfinder takes this as a sign of him being in control of this situation.  

“They’re going to discover you’re a fraud, you know,” Merlin warns, testing how far he can go and realising he literally cannot step away from the tree without uncomfortably pulling his arms backwards.

“No, they’re going to discover you’re a sorcerer,” Aredian’s son replies, harshly kicking Merlin’s knee so his legs buckle and he ends up on the floor yet again, groaning softly.

“Now, I’d avoid sleeping if I were you… what with all the snakes and that.”

He has the nerve to wink as he walks off, dropping petals behind him that Merlin can tell will attract the snakes that may have otherwise left him alone. Sometimes, it’s truly a curse to be Gaius’ ward and know so much about which plants attract which species.

Merlin stretches his legs out and winces as his knee starts throbbing but he can’t do anything about it, especially since he can’t use magic.

“This cannot be happening,” he mumbles to himself as he tries and fails to get comfortable, the tree digging into his back and the shackles feeling as though they’re digging into his bones.

Attempts to slide his wrists out of them only result in him breaking the skin there, leaving it more painful than before. Sighing, Merlin gives in and simply closes his eyes, preferring to be asleep than awake and in pain.

It doesn’t last long.

He wakes to a burning sensation.

He’s not sure what’s causing it at first but it’s not hard to figure out the source when his arms feel like they’re on fire, his wrists feel like they’re about to fall off, and the shackles feel as heavy as the burdens of his destiny as Emrys.

Biting his lip to stop himself from crying out and giving his magic away, Merlin curls into himself and struggles with the shackles, the dull clinks of the metal barely registering to his ears as he finds it harder and harder to breathe.

“Stupid Uther…” Merlin mutters through gritted teeth, somehow finding himself wishing that Arthur had been there to negotiate on his behalf.

With half a sob, Merlin gives up on the shackles, his wrists stinging from the myriad of cuts caused by the uneven metal and his head pounding as his magic screams at him from where it's being cruelly forced down.

It’s a small mercy that no snakes attempt to approach him despite a few having appeared, lured in by the scent of the petals. He's content to have survived what the witchfinder had attempted to throw at him, just like he'll have to survive anything else thrown his way.

By the time Aredian’s son returns, Merlin is exhausted.

“Well, well, well. It looks like someone foolishly did themselves a fair amount of damage overnight,” Aredian’s son drawls, laughing at the state of Merlin’s wrists.

Merlin just glares at him, too tired to argue or defend himself.

“If this is what happens before I even touch you, I can’t wait to actually get started…”

Something inside Merlin, something that feels a lot like hope, dies at the very thought.

But he’s too busy trying not to cry to care.

He has to get through his. To prove Aredian and his twisted son wrong. To prove to Gaius and Gwen and anyone else that believes in him that he won’t let them down. To make sure he’s there to protect and serve Arthur.

So when Aredian’s son unwraps the chain from the tree and roughly pulls Merlin back towards the cage on his cart, Merlin stays silent and focuses on breathing, on hiding the agony burning inside him, on staying alive for destiny's sake.

Out of everything, witchfinder shackles will not get the better of him.

He can’t let that happen.

-

Arthur's worrying is of no help.

Unfortunately.

He'd argued with his father until he’d been sent to his room, he’d paced the polish right off his floor, and he’d thrown enough objects around for his room to look like it'd been attacked by a beast of some sort.

But none of it had helped to get Merlin back.

None of it could undo his sentence with the witchfinder.

The sentence that, while Arthur was busy worrying, Merlin was suffering through.

“No,” Merlin repeats, his voice barely some sort of hushed whisper.

He’d tried not to talk at first and, in a way, he’d succeeded.

He hadn’t confessed, but he’d whimpered.

He’d whimpered and moaned and eventually cried out when the superficial pain on his skin had started to match the oppressive pain in his very bones.

Aredian’s son was fond of blades.

“Confess!” the witchfinder snarls again, cruelly dragging the small dagger down Merlin’s arm yet again.

“Not until you do,” Merlin bites back, but his defiance is weakened by the whimper that escapes him next.

He’s not sure he can handle any more slicing into his skin, he’s not even sure he should be awake with the amount of blood that seems to be spilling out of him. The constant agony of the shackles suppressing his magic doesn’t help either.

Aredian’s son groans, throwing the dagger to the corner of the room that Merlin had been brought to earlier that morning. Apparently, surviving the night outside was a double-edged success and had only lead to more severe interrogation ‘techniques’.

Merlin winces as the metal clangs against the stone walls, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans against the cold wall. At least it provides some relief from the way his magic is literally burning to be set free inside him.

He hasn’t moved away from the wall since he’d been roughly thrown there and the chain connecting his shackles had been fixed into a bolt on the wall. There’d been no reason to aggravate Aredian’s son; his only goal is to survive, to get back to Gaius, and to carry out his duty of protecting Arthur.

He can vividly feel all of the cuts littering his unfortunate skin, all the blood that falls over his fingers and slides down his torso. It hurts in a way that he can’t describe.

“I am not without mercy,” the witchfinder declares unexpectedly.

A broken laugh escapes Merlin as he shakes his head in disbelief, not bothering to open his tired eyes. He can’t see any mercy in such a cruel kind of torture.

“I will give you one more chance to confess,” he continues, his footsteps getting louder until he stops and crouches in front of Merlin, uncomfortably close, “before I take this to the next level.”

Something infinitely sharper than any of the blades that had been used on him throughout the day touches the back of Merlin’s hand and his eyes shoot open reflexively.

No.

He must have said that out loud because the witchfinder laughs. “I can’t have you bleeding out, now, can I?”

“No, please…” Merlin mumbles, finding a little strength in the newfound fear that shoots through him and shuffling away, as far away as possible. Not far enough.

“Is that a confession?”

No.

It’s a needle.

Merlin shakes his head weakly, biting his lip as Aredian’s son scowls darkly before sighing and arranging himself better, pulling Merlin’s arm towards himself in a firm grip.

“Well, then, I’ll have to make sure you don’t die so I can continue.”

Merlin whimpers softly and squeezes his eyes shut as the needle is pressed to his arm, into his arm, into the skin right at the edge of a cut, and then pushed, pushed, painfully pushed deeper until the thread is pulled through.

He cries out immediately, trying to get his hand free, but there’s no use, the witchfinder is stronger. He makes a mockery of stitching the wound back together, unfathomable jolts of pain sparking along Merlin’s arm as he bites his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

By the time the wound is stitched back together, the witchfinder is grinning and Merlin is close to crying.

He yanks his arm back as soon as it's released and whimpers, knowing the wound could have done with a simple bandage instead. It’s almost alarming how neat the unnecessary stitches are, almost a parody of when Gaius has done the same for him in the past.

“There, see, that wasn’t so bad…” Aredian’s son drawls, close to sounding like he actually cares about keeping Merlin alive.

A small part of his brain is telling him that this is all for show, that it’s all being done so the King can’t complain and accuse the witchfinder of anything, but he’s blinded by the throbbing in his new stitches.

“You seem relieved…”

Merlin looks up sharply, cradling his arm.

Aredian’s son smirks at him. “Come on now, don’t give me that look. We’ve only just started, after all.”

“No, no, no,” Merlin breathes, shaking his head, trying to move away, failing to move away because of the shackles, his eyes widening at the implication.

Before he can make sense of anything, Aredian’s son has pushed him to the floor and is hovering above him, pressing down on his chest and brushing the needle against the gash in his side.

That one does need stitches, Merlin can admit. But he wants Gaius to do it, he doesn’t want this, he can’t handle this, please-

The needle pushes in.

Merlin screams.

His thrashing is weak because his soul feels drained but he’s aware of himself crying as the witchfinder just laughs above him, using the thread to pull his skin back together as if this is all a game, as if Merlin’s pain is nothing more than background music.

He feels himself starting to lose consciousness halfway through but he doesn’t get the mercy of staying unconscious, his magic forcing him to stay awake, to stay alert.

So he just screams, his hands curling into his fists and his teeth starting to ache from being clenched together too hard. He can’t move, he’s pinned down by the weight of the witchfinder, but his free leg kicks at the witchfinder desperately, uselessly.

It hurts.

Merlin can feel his resolve crumbling; this is something new, something no spell or book could have prepared him for. This is pure evil and he can’t do anything, he can’t find a way to stop it, he can’t figure out how to handle it.

“Please!” he finds himself whimpering, wishing it would stop.

It doesn’t.

Not until the knot is tied and the gash has been closed in the most awful way possible.

Only then does he breathe, every breath tugging slightly on the stitches but letting him exhale his pain away. Or rather, imagine that he’s exhaling some of his pain away.

“One more, I think…” Aredian’s son muses, glancing over Merlin.

He shakes his head again, silently pleading for him to stop.

Aredian’s son clicks his tongue as his eye catches the wound on Merlin’s shoulder; Merlin watches as the idea forms in his mind but he’s too exhausted to even try and defend himself this time.

He’s rolled over so that the cold floor is pressed to his face and he can see nothing but stone and blood, the shackles digging into his wrists painfully and Aredian’s son settling into place above him, pinning him down again even though he wouldn’t have the strength to move anyway.

Merlin screams again as he starts stitching.

This one hurts the most.

He can’t stop the tears escaping from his eyes as the needle is pulled through his skin, weaving away the wound but leaving behind unmeasurable agony in its wake.

He slumps into the stone below him, letting his tears fall as soft sobs leave his tired, bleeding lips. If he didn’t have magic, he’d have been mercifully unaware by now, but it’s just his luck to be plagued by the reminder of his destiny, his responsibility, his duty to fulfil the expectations looming above him.

“Puh- Please…” Merlin manages to plead as the witchfinder harshly yanks the thread at one point and sends a whole new wave of pain down his spine.

“I don’t know what you’re made of that’s keeping you awake,” Aredian’s son mutters, something like concern flashing in his voice for half a second. It disappears as soon as he adds, “But you could just take this chance to confess.”

Despite everything, Merlin shakes his head, letting his eyes close once more.

He’s so tired that he wouldn’t even have the energy to form a confession if he’d have wanted to. Not that he does. He never will. Not even if it kills him.

And as the third gash is finally stitched up and Aredian kicks him back into the corner, agony from all three wounds flaring up enough to entice yet another broken sob from his lips, Merlin thinks it just might.

-

Merlin rarely screams.

He’s so used to being quiet and hiding his pain to maintain his reputation as a bubbly manservant who always smiles at everything and cracks endless jokes. Even in front of Gaius.

The last couple of days have made up for all of that.

He easily loses count of how many times he’s screamed in pain during his sentence with the witchfinder, both due to internal agony related to the magic-suppressing shackles and the inflicted external wounds.

And the third day’s morning sees him screaming yet again, albeit weakly this time, as freezing water is unkindly poured over him; it’s a shock and a half.

“I thought you might be dehydrated,” the witchfinder explains, even though it’s more of a taunt.

Merlin just glares up at him, not even bothering to try and straighten his posture from where he’s awkwardly slumped against the wall because his limbs feel like the mud he usually has to clean off the horses after it’s been raining.

“What? No thanks?” Aredian’s son crouches down and lifts Merlin’s chin with his hand, smirking. “Do you need more incentive to show your gratitude?”

Naturally, Merlin doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy trying to figure out if he’s now freezing because of the unwanted shower or if the burning in every atom of his magical being is just so intense that it only feels as though his soul has frozen over and is now shattering into tiny fragments, fragments that are slowly piercing his organs.

Within seconds, the witchfinder’s other hand presses down onto the stitched wound on his arm, eliciting a sharp, broken whimper from Merlin, who can’t help but also flinch away from the pain.

“Much better!” Aredian’s son beams brightly, as if he were a child getting his way.

A lack of sleep means Merlin doesn’t even have the energy to mentally form a comeback to that, never mind actually say one out loud. He just waits until Aredian’s son is satisfied and lets go of him again so he can exhale softly, pulling his arm closer to his chest protectively.

“I had so many fun things planned for today but I might have to change them if you’re so unwilling to talk,” Aredian’s son announces.

Merlin just waits, blinking water out of his eyes.

“I think we’ll go for a ride,” he announces eventually, making Merlin groan.

He knows what’s coming but it still hurts - it hurts so, so much - when Aredian’s son unfastens the chain and yanks him to his unsteady feet, not bothering to let him steady himself before starting to march towards the door.

Merlin almost falls over in his haste to stumble after Aredian’s son, his numb feet just about managing not to let him fall until they arrive back at the cart. Only then does he stumble and end up on the ground, groaning softly as the witchfinder grins down at him.

“Pathetic,” he comments gleefully.

Merlin flinches from the word, using his less injured arm - that is, the one without the stitches - to push himself upright as he bites down on his lip to stop himself crying out.

Aredian’s son just grabs his ruined t-shirt and hauls him up, practically tossing him back into the cage before securing the chains to the cart once more. He’d lost his jacket and necktie at some point, probably when all those blades had gotten involved, so he can’t stop himself from shivering when his skin touches the cold metal of the cage.

“Comfortable?”

Merlin lets his eyes shut and refuses to acknowledge the question, but regrets that when Aredian’s son bangs on the cage, the reverberation echoing through his bones and drawing out yet another whimper.

He feels himself slide down until he’s not touching the bars anymore, curling into himself to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a target.

Aredian’s son just angrily grumbles something about a confession and, soon enough, the cart starts moving. Hitting as many rocks and bumps in the road as possible, it seems.

When they stop, Merlin doesn’t notice.

What he does notice, however, is the chains rattling and the shackles rubbing against his bruised wrists, where the skin is raw from when he’d found the energy to struggle.

He hisses softly, his eyes blearily blinking themselves open.

“Merlin?”

Arthur.

Merlin gasps, pulling himself upright with newfound strength, carelessly lifting a hand to rub his eyes, ignoring the pain that shoots down his arm.

“I can’t- Merlin, stop moving!”

Definitely Arthur.

But Merlin obeys anyway, his gaze finally focusing on a familiar face as Arthur draws out his sword. Despite the familiar face, however, Merlin flinches as light glints of the sword, pulling himself into the opposite corner.

“No, Merlin, I wasn’t-” Arthur cuts himself off, sighing sadly, and swallows before sheathing his sword almost guiltily and turning to the menacing chains once more.

Merlin lets his eyes fall shut again regardless of how much he wants to see Arthur, how much he wants to see if Arthur will stay.

He’s missed Arthur.

There’s about a minute’s silence before an almighty, metallic noise rings out and Merlin abruptly feels alive.

He gasps, ducking his head to hide his eyes as they widen because he can feel, actually feel the powerful golden glow that radiates from them. He covers his head with his arms as his heart blooms again, as his soul finally starts to thaw and comfort him again, as his magic roams free under his skin again.

He breathes.

Inhales.

Exhales.

Simply breathing.

He’d forgotten how liberating it feels to be able to breathe normally.

He waits until he feels his magic settle, nestle inside him where it can’t be found, before looking up.

Arthur’s tears greet him.

He frowns but no, he’s not hallucinating, Arthur Pendragon is in front of him, is crying in front of him.

“Arthur…” Merlin breathes, a small smile blooming on his face.

Arthur looks conflicted but he beams as Merlin smiles, letting them share their relief for a moment before clambering onto the cart and unfastening the bolt on the cage, practically throwing the door open.

“Come on, Merlin, I have to get you out of here,” he says quickly, hushed.

Merlin nods, pushing himself towards Arthur and letting himself be swiftly but kindly guided off the cart.

Instantly, there are arms around him.

Merlin’s smile only lasts a second before Arthur’s hand brushes the stitched wound on his shoulder and he cries out, wincing enough for Arthur to pull back in concern. “Merlin?”

“S- sorry,” he manages, unable to stop smiling despite the pain.

“Oh, Merlin. I’m so sorry,” Arthur tells him sincerely.

Someone starts yelling somewhere behind them - apparently, Aredian’s son hadn’t missed the commotion - and Arthur’s eyes widen, glancing around frantically before settling back on Merlin. “I’m sorry if this hurts,” he whispers.

Then Merlin’s feet are leaving the ground and his head is suddenly on Arthur’s shoulder.

He whimpers but clings to Arthur as he bites down on his lip, forcing himself to stay quiet, focusing on his magic, trying to see how much of it he can use to help them escape, to help prevent Arthur having to face the witchfinder too.

Not much, apparently.

But just enough.

With the help of Arthur’s strength and a sprinkling of Merlin’s magic, they manage to make it far away enough that they can’t even hear whoever it was chasing them anymore. Only then does Arthur stop and let Merlin down, making sure there’s a tree behind him that he can lean on.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Arthur smiles.

When he doesn’t continue with how he’d be losing someone to use as target practice or something of the like, Merlin lets himself smile properly for the first time in days.

“Why… I mean, how did you…?” Merlin stops suddenly, unsure of what exactly he should be asking.

Arthur understands anyway.

He shrugs. “I persuaded my father that three nights was far too long to result in a genuine confession and then I simply followed the tracks to find you.”

“You followed the tracks?” Merlin echoes, unsure where his energy is coming from but unable to resist an opportunity to tease Arthur.

Arthur clears his throat pointedly. “I may have, uhm, asked… everyone… if they’d seen a witchfinder.”

Something soft, something like happiness, spreads through Merlin as he imagines Arthur questioning so many people just to look for him. It means more to him than he can care to admit and it makes his suffering at the hands of the witchfinder just a little more tolerable.

“Arthur, we can’t stay here,” Merlin finds himself saying, despite his heart wanting to do just that.

Arthur nods solemnly. “I know, we have to get you back home- Uh, that is, to Gaius. So he can heal you. Because you don’t look good at all.”

Merlin has questions but he makes a note of and saves them for another time.

When Arthur moves to pick him up again, Merlin holds up a hand and steps back just enough to prove a point. He ignores the way Arthur looks horrified at the bruising on his wrist and swallows. “I can walk.”

“Merlin…”

“We’ll be faster this way,” Merlin argues.

Arthur takes a moment but nods once more, pausing briefly before grabbing Merlin’s hand and starting to run.

“I only said I could walk, Arthur!” Merlin yells as they start moving.

“You also said you wanted to go faster!” Arthur yells back, his voice laced with equal amounts of amusement and concern.

Merlin had anticipated himself falling but he does nothing of the sort, a strange sort of strength pushing him forward, allowing him to keep up with Arthur as they sprint their way towards Camelot.

They don’t speak but they don’t need to.

If Arthur’s hand wasn’t firmly gripping Merlin’s as they ran, Merlin would have thought he was imagining this as some kind of fever dream. It just seems unreal that Arthur would search so desperately for him but he’s not complaining; if this is the reward for maintaining his end of destiny’s bargain, he’ll gladly accept it.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asks breathlessly at one point, glancing sideways.

Merlin nods, not even lying when he manages to reply, “Never been better!”

They carry on, through the forests and over the mostly deserted roads, stopping for nothing and no-one as they move, their fingers firmly intertwined as if their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the castle comes into view and the two of them share a slightly exhausted but still exhilarated grin as they somewhat carelessly navigate their way through the streets until they burst into the courtyard.

Coming to a stop, Arthur looks over to Merlin, pure relief in his expression.

Merlin sends him a lopsided grin in return.

But then the blistering pain of the last few days catches up to him and he whimpers again, his hand falling from Arthur’s as he doubles over, his body aching all over.

Agony burns and dances across his skin, creating nonsensical patterns between his wounds and connecting the dots of all his bruises. It hurts and although it's slightly better than before because his magic is trying its best to help dull his pain, it still hurts a little too much for him to bear.

“Merlin!”

He can hear Arthur’s concern but it seems that his adrenaline could only last so long.

Satisfied that he’s back in Camelot, back where he’s safe, back home, Merlin offers Arthur a soft smile before letting the soothing comfort of darkness take over, take away his pain.

He just about registers himself collapsing before he sinks into unconsciousness.

At least Arthur's there to catch him this time.

-

Arthur was no stranger to scars.

A knight’s duty is to battle and continue to battle even when injured.

Naturally, not every battle can be won and often, Knights would return home with more injuries than victories, injuries that slowly but surely healed into scars of memory and experience.

Having scars should have been a trait reserved solely for Knights.

Merin shouldn’t have scars.

A strange kind of fury blossoms in Arthur’s heart every time he’s reminded that his manservant and his - dare he say it - his friend had been injured, tortured, and left with scars.

He knew Merlin would scar as soon as he’d seen him, there’d been far too much blood smudged on his bruised skin and soaked into his rags of clothes for anything otherwise. And then they’d started moving and Merlin had winced and flinched but pushed through and his hand had smeared blood into Arthur’s skin while their fingers had been intertwined.

Merlin had been his responsibility and he’d failed him and that blood can never truly be washed off his hands.

Just like the witchfinder’s cruelty will never truly leave Merlin.

Arthur doesn’t even get to see Merlin for what feels like an eternity after they return to Camelot because Gaius forbids it and not even Arthur would dare to interfere with a court physician’s love for his son.

But not seeing Merlin doesn’t mean he’s not constantly reminded of him.

It seems that everything he does is somehow connected to Merlin so even waking up in the morning without their usual exchange of meaningless teasing feels strange, disjointed. If people didn’t respect his position as Crown Prince or First Knight, he’s certain they would have pointed out his general lack of enthusiasm, lack of spirit, lack of life.

And they’d be right; he misses Merlin.

He misses him more than he can explain. More than he can express. More than he can handle.

So he waits.

He waits and waits and pretends that he’s not suffering with his guilt and his concern and what seems to be his affection for Merlin.

It feels like years later when Gaius finally summons him.

Arthur’s never run so fast.

He thunders through the castle corridors until he reaches the physician’s study, composing himself enough to knock once, twice, thrice.

“Come in,” Gaius calls from inside.

Taking a breath, Arthur pushes the door open.

Only to be hit with something.

“Ow!” he exclaims, rubbing his head and glaring at the lowly twig that had bounced off him.

“What took you so long, clotpole?” Merlin teases.

Oh, how he's missed that voice.

Arthur feels himself laugh before he looks up, catching Merlin’s eye immediately, his feet pushing him forwards before he can think about it but his brain quickly catching up and making him freeze just before he gets round to embracing his manservant.

“Can I…?”

Merlin grins and pushes himself off the bench, wrapping his arms around Arthur.

It’s just about the happiest Arthur has felt in his life.

“Merlin…” he breathes, taking care not to press too hard as he wraps his own arms around Merlin, a relieved smile taking over his face.

They stay wrapped within the moment and each other, neither of them wanting to ruin their reunion in any way, anything they’d previously planned to say forgotten in favour of savouring one another’s presence.

“At least sit down, will you?” Gaius scolds, but not unkindly.

Sighing, Arthur pulls back so they can both take a seat on the bench, refusing to take his eyes off Merlin, noticing the way he holds himself tighter, as if afraid of falling apart.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” Arthur begins, only to be cut off as Merlin lifts a hand.

“I know, Arthur. It’s okay… You came for me, didn’t you?” The soft smile on Merlin’s face is so pure, it makes Arthur want to scream.

He doesn’t, of course.

He just takes Merlin’s hand, frowning at the small, almost invisible marks on his skin that he knows he should have prevented.

Merlin clears his throat after the silence stretches between them. “My face is up here, you know?” he jokes.

Arthur looks up slowly, unable to stop his gaze wandering over the rest of Merlin, the bandages peeking out from under his shirt, the few bruises that have failed to fade even after so long, and the way he seems to be smaller, more vulnerable, more fragile.

He knows Merlin is far from fragile, he knows that.

But he can’t help himself.

“Arthur, please,” Merlin says quietly.

Guilt flashes through Arthur again as he finally meets Merlin’s eyes and notices the almost-healed cut on his jaw and the healed but not entirely invisible scar on his forehead.

But he smiles nonetheless. “It’s good to have you back, Merlin,” he admits.

“It’s good to be back,” Merlin replies as he stretches a little, “but I’ve been in this room for so long, I’ve just about forgotten what wildflowers are like.”

It takes Arthur a second to register what Merlin’s said but then he bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Surely you’d see the herbs and such that Gaius uses in his potions?”

Merlin makes an incredulous face. “Do you really think crushed remedy ingredients are anything alike?”

“I don’t know Merlin, I don’t often spend my time admiring flowers like a girl.” Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Ah but you do sometimes?” Merlin raises an eyebrow and Arthur scoffs, gently shoving his arm.

Wrong arm.

A stifled gasp escapes Merlin as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He reopens them almost instantly but it’s too late to pretend that nothing had happened, that he's alright.

“I’m so sorry,” Arthur blurts, awkwardly jerking back and pushing himself off the bench to stand upright, not even trusting himself not to hurt Merlin anymore.

“It’s not your fault,” Merlin murmurs in response, sighing.

But it is.

It’s Arthur’s job to protect Merlin and here he is further aggravating his wounds. Maybe Gaius was right to keep them apart, at least until Merlin was stronger, better, back to his old self.

But he can’t ever truly be back to his old self because he’ll have to carry the scars of his time with the witchfinder on his skin for the rest of his life.

“Please- Arthur, don’t… leave.”

Merlin’s voice breaks through his guilt-fueled doubts.

He doesn’t even have to think about it before sitting back down, shuffling as close to Merlin as he physically can, offering him a reassuring but apologetic smile.

“I won’t,” he promises.

It’s an easy promise to make.

Merlin’s loyalty is unbelievable, unrepayable, and if he’s willing to let Arthur stay near him- if he’s asking for Arthur to stay with him even after such an ordeal, Arthur will gladly honour that promise with his life.

He knows it won’t be too difficult for Merlin’s endlessly, hopelessly kind heart to forgive him but until he feels as though he’s kept this promise for as long as he’s able to, he’ll never quite forgive himself for letting Merlin have to bear the burden of his scars.

-

Merlin wakes up crying.

He’s not sure why at first but flashes of blades and chains and indifferent smirks are enough to let him guess that, apparently, he’s not recovering as well as he’d thought.

And if that wasn’t enough, he could easily have guessed because lately, it was common for him to lose out on sleep and end up experiencing his past pains all over again. It seems that, unfortunately, he’ll never quite get used to it.

Angrily, he wipes the tears from his eyes and pulls himself out of bed because the sun seems to be peaking through his window anyway so there’d be no point in getting back to sleep.

He’s still a little disorientated by the time Gaius wakes up and serves them breakfast so he says nothing, keeping his troubles to himself, not wanting to worry the man he considers to be his father.

“Are you feeling alright, Merlin?” Gaius frowns at him once they’re both finished and Merlin’s halfway out of the door.

He briefly considers replying truthfully.

“Of course, Gaius!” he smiles widely before closing the door behind him and making his way to Arthur’s chambers.

Arthur’s still fast asleep, no surprise there.

Rather than immediately waking him, though, Merlin sets up the armour for later, tidies away what he can, and sets the table for breakfast before attempting to rouse him.

“Arthur, come on, you’re going to be late!” Merlin all but yells at said prince, yanking the covers off him and chuckling when Arthur grumbles in response.

“So rude,” Arthur comments as Merlin kindly manhandles him upright.

For a second, he sounds just like Aredian’s son, right before a dagger had been plunged into his skin because he’d refused to make a sound. For a second, he’s back in a hollow, stone room with no escape and no refuge from the cruelty of someone out for revenge. For a second, he forgets where he is.

“Merlin, you do have to move,” Arthur says impatiently, breaking the spell.

“Right.” Merlin clears his throat, pushing away his memories and focusing on getting Arthur into a more respectable outfit for his meeting.

They’re both quiet until Arthur sits down to eat, at which point the silence seems to be suffocating Merlin and he finally speaks up:  “I need to, uh, feed the horses. Unless there’s anything else?”

Arthur frowns before shaking his head. “No, that’ll be all. But make sure you’re back here after lunch to get me ready for training.”

“Of course,” Merlin promises before sprinting from the room, his feet taking him towards the stables even though it’s not actually his turn to feed the horses and he’d just used the first excuse he could think of.

When he gets to the stables, he turns and takes the path that leads into the woods, walking until he knows he hasn’t been followed before sinking down into the leaves under a particularly tall tree and sighing sadly.

He lets his head fall onto his knees once he’s pulled them up to his chest, keeping his eyes open so that he doesn’t fall asleep but letting himself slump back against the tree trunk, too tired to hold himself upright.

And he cries.

He doesn’t mean to but he can’t get the scent of metal and blood and badly hidden hatred out of his mind and it’s driving him crazy.

Silent sobs ripple through his frame as he tries to breathe, tries not to fall into unpleasant flashbacks, tries and fails to stay composed.

Only when he knows he can’t stay any longer without risking being late and letting Arthur down does he push himself to his feet, wiping the tear-tracks off his face and breaking into a soft run.

“You’re late, as usual,” Arthur scolds as he bursts through the door.

“You’re ungrateful, as usual,” Merlin retorts, scoffing.

He swiftly goes over to the armour and starts getting Arthur ready, letting himself stay focused on securing the clasps rather than securing his emotions.

“You smell bizarre, Merlin. What were you feeding those horses?”

Merlin blinks in confusion before pausing. “Um… I wasn’t… Someone else already had so I went to collect herbs for Gaius instead.”

Arthur hums in acknowledgement, the two of them lapsing into a hushed quiet once more before making their way to the field so Arthur can embarrass the new recruits with his ego.

He must be having a bad day because Merlin doesn’t even know what happens between handing Arthur his sword and the end of the training session. He’s dimly aware that he’d been gathering weapons and assisting the Knights but he can’t focus on any of it.

“Merlin, get your head out of the clouds,” Arthur yells at him eventually.

It’s only then that he realises the sky has gone dark.

“Wh- what?” Merlin asks, blinking as Arthur walks over to him.

“Did you get hit in the head?”

Merlin nods without thinking, then frowns. “Wait, no. I don’t know.”

After a beat, a matching frown appears on Arthur’s face. It disappears before Merlin can comment on it and then Arthur is pulling him back to his chambers, his grip on Merlin’s arm soft and gentle but firm enough to hold.

“Help me with my armour,” Arthur orders him once they’re both back inside.

Merlin does so, without question.

He steps back once all the armour has been taken off, picking up the gauntlet and readying himself for having to clean it all before the next dawn.

But Arthur just shakes his head. “No, Merlin, they don’t need cleaning yet.”

“Then what do you need?” Merlin asks, dumping everything in the chest near the door so he remembers to clean it another time.

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again, then repeats the process.

Merlin would laugh if he weren’t so curious. “Arthur?”

“Stay with me?”

It takes Merlin a second to process the request because Arthur had blurted it out as if it were trying to run away from him.

“What?” is all he can reply.

Arthur walks over to him and smiles knowingly, something he doesn’t do very often. “I know that something’s troubling you, Merlin. Perhaps if you stay with me tonight, I can help.”

Oh.

Merlin’s heart grins as he understands why Arthur had been acting so nervous: he was just worried. But it’s not like Arthur can fight Merlin’s own mind for him, especially when he has no idea what goes on in there.

“Arthur, I appreciate it, but-”

“I know,” Arthur interrupts, “that I don’t understand entirely. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Even if he’d have wanted to, Merlin couldn’t argue with that.

“If you wish,” he mumbles.

Arthur’s explicit concern is almost surreal but Merlin lets himself have it, lets himself fall asleep in the presence of another despite the risk of his nightmares being a nuisance, lets himself be the subject of someone else’s help for once.

He sleeps soundly.

-

In case anyone's interested and hasn’t seen my whumptober fic, the prompts for each segment were 'shackled', 'stitches', 'adrenaline', 'scars', and 'stay with me' :)

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like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist

[worstfruit]

Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

 Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

 Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

 Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

 Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

 “Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

 Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa  couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?”

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

 Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Chisaki Kai x Hacker!Fem!S/O

Who would have thought that such things as arranged marriages would still be a thing in a modern era like ours? She vehemently refused, at first, but nobody was to cross her father or they will have it bad, so after some rather peculiar persuasion, she gave in and accepted to meet her future husband, being all dressed up nicely like a harmless, innocent girl who has been locked away from the world her whole life and knew nothing about its true colours. 

 That was, however, the farthest thing from the truth. 

 As she meekly bowed at him in a sign to show respect, which he returned, only stealing a lingering glance at her petite form and angelic face.   He knew people shouldn’t be judged by their appearances, so he refused to believe she doesn’t hide something, no matter how little, behind her shy facade.

After the courtesies were made, her father made her leave the room so they could discuss the serious, adult business that she had no need to know about. At the end of the conversation, they shook hands, agreeing to collaborate and the girl's butlers were to help her move into Chisaki's hideout. Of course, at the end of that, all but one butler was killed, that one which was to be by her side at all costs and make sure her all needs are seen for. Thankfully, Chisaki was very formal and clearly a very busy man, so he let the girl go out and do whatever she wanted, accompanied by her butler, so she wouldn't lack anything or be locked in a cage for no reason. Chisaki was a rich man, being the leader of the Yakuza, but so was she, coming from a family with an influencial father in the underground world, so her card was always filled with buckets of money, being able to buy just about anything her heart desired. But there was one thing she couldn't afford despite all the money in the world- And that was love and friendship. Those words were so foreign to her that she completely forgot they exist in the dictionary, being fine with just being a completely mysterious vixen who can find any information desired and can get away with it, pretending to be a little oblivious angel...Which, in truth, wasn’t too far away from reality. However, some kind of friendship seemed to flourish between her and his associates, mostly Setsuno and Chrono, for some reason still unknown to the rest and even to them. One day she was staying on the sofa, fooling around on social media as she usually did, when she noticed Setsuno having a hard time at something - Something that seemed to be hacking, of all things. 

Y/N: Hey, Harry Potter, how are you? Setsuno: Uh...Top Secret stuff, sorry miss. Y/N: Don't bother, call me Y/N. Anyways, you seem to be struggling with this sort of coding. Setsuno: Yes, well, I'm not the best hacker in the world and this coding is something I've never encountered before. Y/N: And to be fair, your outdated computer isn't doing you any favours either. Setsuno: Outdated? It's the last technology! Y/N:*smiles* Not for me. 

With a grin, she ran to get her laptop and put it on the table next to Setsuno's computer, transferred everything needed into her laptop and started doing her magic, leaving the man awestruck at the girl who broke into the most secret society's own database without even breaking a sweat. 

Setsuno: How did you do that? Y/N: Well, when you try to hack into international databases, you have to understand that the conventional ideas of hacking will be completely erased. What I did was combine a ton of math stuff, unlock tons of invisible locks with those math equations, then continue byte by byte with each and every code apart, to make it subtle and appear as if nobody got access to it. Setsuno: Whoa... Y/N: It's pretty simple once you get the hang of it. How do you think I get all that money? NASA is filthy rich. Setsuno: *jaw drop* Teach me, master. Y/N: Oh, sure! I'm always happy to help people with anything I can, which is usually not much. But if you want me to teach you today, you have to bring me food or snacks 'cause I can't function properly otherwise. Setsuno: *laughs* Very well, I'll keep in mind how to bribe you from now on.

Unknown to either of them, however, Chisaki was watching from a corner, an eyebrow arched as the girl piqued his interest, wondering how much more can she surprise him and even what else can she be hiding. For that, he invited her for a drink in a private room of the hideout where Shin was acting as a “butler” for some reason unknown to her, since there were already enough capable people who could do that.

Despite that, she only kept a sincere and serene smile on her face, looking down at her hands as she fidgeted anxiously with her fingers, waiting for Chisaki to speak.

Chisaki: Wine? Y/N: *shakes head* I don’t want to sound pretentious, but I don’t drink alcohol. Chisaki: Oh? You’d be the first person to hear say that. Y/N: *smiles* It’s not for my tastes. I prefer sweet flavours like fruit juice or simply water. Should’ve seen my father’s face when he realised I won’t touch alcohol...*amused breathe* Chisaki: I thought fathers who had daughters were strict when it came to the adult vices. Y/N: *grins* Not when your father wants to marry you off to overly-sophisticated individuals. I almost pity him for not having an heir, but that’s none of my business anymore. Chisaki: Your words are peculiar. He said you’re his only child. Y/N: Oh, but I am, he didn’t lie to you. Chisaki: Then aren’t you the only person capable of being his heir? Y/N: *smiles* Oh, dear Chisaki...You see, my father never lies...But he evades the truth so things will be in his favour. Why do you think I’m here? Chisaki: It seems like you know more than he thinks you do. Y/N: I learnt how to unlock my room with a hairclip. He thinks I only stayed trapped in my room, unless told otherwise. *shakes head* Poor man, if only he knew... Chisaki: *raises an eyebrow* I think we have some important things to discuss, Y/N. Y/N: *sighs* You know...I never get attached to people, but for some reason, I seem to care for you, otherwise I wouldn’t have let those key words slip for you to understand the situation. Chisaki: Your father promised a business deal if I were to marry you, are you aware of that? Y/N: *snorts* Of course I do, who do you think I am? You’re the 7th person I’m supposed to marry for the same reasons.*smiles* But to be fair, I kinda like it here. Despite their differences, the people here are pretty nice...Even if they act like that towards me because you ordered them to. Chisaki: I see you are aware of that as well. Y/N: Of course I do. Reading people isn’t difficult, you know? Even you, Chisaki. You thought that by marrying me, the company is going to be yours as soon as my father died...Or was killed, and I inherited it...Am I wrong? Chisaki: No. Y/N: Let’s say I value my life enough to tell you the truth. At least, if I am to die, you won’t have to be disappointed that you won’t get the company and the money. Chisaki: Then why did he send you away? Y/N: Because I’m not a boy, of course. He didn’t know how to get rid of me faster, so he used the whole marriage thing as a pretext for idiots to catch the bait.

But as soon as she sighed and looked away, mentioning the word “idiots”, Shin already had her by the throat, squeezing the life out of her mercilessly.

Chisaki: Nemoto, that’s enough. Leave her alone. Shin: But Chisaki, she called you an idiot! Chisaki: And she was right to do so. On the other hand, she confessed the truth, so she deserves to live.

Shin only tsked, glaring at the girl as he let her fall to the floor, gasping for air. Weirdly enough, she only chuckled and got up, dusting herself and smiled, somehow defiantly, at the one who tried to kill her.

Y/N: Now, now, Shin, don’t you know it’s not nice to touch married women? Have some manners, will you?  Shin: Why, you-! Chisaki: Leave. Shin: But- Chisaki: Now. The girl had to look away to hide the satisfaction on her face, when she was brought back to reality as her husband called out her name.

Chisaki: What is your Quirk, then? Y/N: Oh, you want to know? I mean, it’s nothing flashy or interesting...Which is why I’m sure he avoided that topic. Chisaki: I want to know. Y/N: How about I show you?

He only nodded, making the girl stand up and put her hands under his, bringing them together and much to his surprise, a small white flower began to grow from his palms, making his eyes widen in surprise, not having expected something so pure and innocent. Even more shocking was, however, how the once symbol of purity, the little frail snowdrop vanished in a black mist, scattering away as if it was never there.

Chisaki: What is your Quirk exactly? Y/N: I don’t know for sure...But I’ve been able to do this since forever. When you’re stuck between 4 walls all the time, you start to learn how to cherish the little things. Chisaki: You may just come in handy...

As usual, Y/N spent the whole weekend outside, experiencing the beauty of life and the happiness it brings. For her, only being able to see the light of the brilliant sun was enough to make her grin and have no worries in the world. Now that she’s out and can do whatever she wants, she used this opportunity to go to the nearest Starbucks and try out one of the chocolate frappes, since they were hyped all over social media, and now she could Snap all she wanted as well, very proud that they spelled her name correctly.

What she wasn’t expecting, however, was to be tapped on the shoulder as a gorgeous girl with long red hair, emerald green eyes and a mischievous smirk sat next to her, her own frappe placed on the table, as she looked at Y/N like a vixen ready to approach her pray.

-?-: Hello, stranger. You must be knew here. I’m Kitsune. And you~? Y/N: Oh uh...I’m Y/N, nice to meet you, Kitsune! May I help you in any way? Kitsune: Mhhh not really...I just wanted to say hi to the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. You come here often? Y/N: *eyes widen* O-Oh...! Thank you, Kitsune, but you’re much more beautiful than me! And well...You could say that I’m new in town. Are you from here? Kitsune: *smirks* How about I show you around? I know this place like the back of my hand. Y/N: Sounds like a plan!

The red head only smiled in satisfaction as she grabbed the h/c-haired girl by the hand, intertwining her fingers with hers and started showing her around the city, the important places, the shopping areas, the pubs, where all the teenagers gathered and all the important things a young adult would want to know to have fun. At the same time, the fox-like girl never once let go of Y/N’s hand, until the sun started to set.

Y/N: Kitsune-chan, could you bring me back to the Starbucks? It’s getting late, I have to go home... Kitsune: Awwww, no, that’s too bad! How about I get you back home...After we go to a pub? Come on, just a little bit of fun, what could go wrong? Y/N: Uhm...Well...I’ve never...Y’know... Kitsune: Oh, you’ve never had proper fun before? How about I show you what life is about?  Y/N: I mean...I don’t know...I... Kitsune: Just this once, okay? Come on, it will be fun. You never know what you like until you try it at least once, right~? Y/N: Ah...Well...I guess you’re right. Okay then, lead the way! Kitsune: That’s what I like about you, love, you’re always willing to try out something new. Let’s go!

Y/N could feel her heart beating faster and faster, both from feeling an immense amount of warmth for the person who’s willing to show her the world, but for the adrenaline of doing something she’s never done before. The unknown, the excitement, the new, the rush, the fun.

And all because she went out of the house and a gorgeous stranger was kind and daring enough to start talking to her, a timid nobody like her who was like a child, still afraid of her own shadow.

The way the blinding, colourful light would shine on her face, her graceful yet somehow provocative moves, the way she’d pull on her hands, bringing her closer, instead of drinking some stupid Coke, so she could dance with her, the way she kissed her on the lips with such passion, the red lipstick smeared on her face.

The way she convinced her to drink vodka cocktails with lots of juice to mask its bitter flavour until her head started to spin, the way she’d share her weed cigarettes with her, claiming that it would ease her fears and anxieties, that it would make her bolder, the sexy voice she’d use as she whispered in her ear to follow her back to the apartment, the way she’d straddle her waist and look down at her, so endearing, as her fingers softly touched every inch of her skin, removing each piece of clothing and peppering her with hot kisses, the shy sounds she’d let out without realising, completely lost in the bliss of the moment, the unknown yet nice sensation she’d feel in her heart as she held her tightly to her petite body.

Everything about her was perfect, like an angel guiding her through life to experience the vices every person her age should, without feeling any shame or regret because after all, this is what life is all about -

Having fun, living your life and being happy.

And those are the only things she’s been searching for so long. After all these years of seeking and desperately trying to find an answer, she found it, in the form of an enticing fire-kissed woman.

The only problem was that Chisaki Kai was a man who had relations everywhere and knew every little thing that moved in the country so of course he knew of everything that Y/N was doing. At first he didn’t bother with it, dismissing it as just another teenage girl having fun for the first time in her life...But it happened every weekend now. Y/N would leave home on Friday, meet up with this redhead and return on Monday morning as if nothing happened. In truth, she seemed much happier, like a weird euphoria took over her, brainwashed her into doing all the irrational things she shouldn’t do, but she was a mere tool in his plan and he couldn’t care less what happens to her as long as she’s alive.

But the question was...

                                  ...Why was he feeling so angry?

Her life is of no importance to him, so why does he feel so mad whenever he knows she’s with another? It was a dark feeling that he never experienced before and he just couldn’t wrap his head around it. Or rather said, he didn’t want to admit it. He had one weakness, and that was revolving around the great Sins. Greed, Wrath, Envy.

Chisaki was an intelligent man and knew just how to make this feeling disappear and make his fiancee come back to him willingly, a broken little thing, ready to give up all the foolishness that kept pissing him off without having to soil his hands too much. He had just the perfect plan for it.

“Don’t bother coming to meet me today, scrub, I’m not going to be there anymore. I finally found a proper Daddy who can really take care of me, so I don’t need your money anymore. Truth be told, your innocence was so annoying, but I had to put up with you. No more of that. I’m nobody’s mother or babysitter and I’m done being the one to teach you everything. I couldn’t care less about you or your feelings, so don’t bother contacting me again, or I’ll just block your number. Everything I said and done was a lie, just like the feelings you thought I had for you. I am a fox and that’s what we do. Fool idiots and steal their money. Bye ~ Kitsune “

Poor Y/N dropped her phone and fell back on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably as she could feel her heart being ripped in tiny tiny little pieces and stomped on, the pain crushing her completely.

If this is what love and happiness meant, then she wanted none of those.

It took her a few days to go back to her facade and try to go back into her passion, hacking, and help Setsuno out, as promised, as they were to hack into her father’s business and forge his signature so she could be the true heir, allowing Chisaki to have access to the money. To their surprise, as soon as they managed to get into the main base, a video of her father popped up, looking straight at them, taunting them.

“So I see that young punk Kai took action much faster than expected, I applaud your guts, kiddo, but that won’t be enough to defeat me! I am the only King of the Underground, not some green boy with daddy issues who relies on marriage contracts to get the money for his projects. You will never be able to defeat me! But I have to thank you, Kai, you let me get rid of that good-for-nothing daughter of mine and she was a great ploy for me to trick you into thinking I would actually give my money to some nobody who wants to kill me! Better luck next time, losers.”

It took less than 2 seconds for the girl to punch the computer monitor so hard that her hand was bleeding, making Setsuno worry, confused at what to do.

Y/N: Don’t fucking JOKE AROUND WITH ME! Urgh...That’s it...! I’m so done being walked on like a fucking doormat, always being seen as less than what I am. Fine, you want a war, you started it! But when you get burnt, don’t start crying for mercy, for you will see NONE of it! Setsuno: Y/N calm down! We have to tell Chisaki about this so we know what to do! Y/N: Forget it. Go tell him, I’m gonna get ready to destroy that place with a goddamn panzer. It didn’t take long for the fair haired man to run to his leader and tell him everything that happened, and for him to rush to where the girl was, slamming her on the wall, holding her hands so she wouldn’t move, his intimidating gaze, for the first time, not having any effect on her.

Y/N: What, Setsuno told you about the message my obsolete father sent to you indirectly? Chisaki: He did. Y/N: Good, then what’s your problem? We share the same goal - Forge his signature, get the money and kill him. Chisaki: You can’t rush like an idiot and expect results. Y/N: Why do you care? I don’t influence your plans in any way, correct? My capture or death would be of no significance to you. So tell me, Chisaki, why stop me? Chisaki: I have no obligation to answer to you. Y/N: Oh really? Then you have no obligation to control my life either! Let me kill myself by going to that place to rebel, what is there to lose? Chisaki: You’re not going anywhere until I come up with a plan and that’s final. Y/N: You’re really pissing me off, Chisaki. But fine, be that way!

The girl grumbled furiously, pushing him off her as she stomped her way back to her room, doing the only thing that could take her mind off of the whole ordeal.

Train her Quirk.

With the help of all his associates, Chisaki managed to make his way to the businessman’s office, where he was greeted by the man with a smirk on his face, but much to his shock, the girl was there as well, being held captive by her father, a knife at her neck, blood slowly falling down her pale skin. What confused him, however, was that the girl seemed anything but frightened. She was smirking as if she won.

Father: Ah, look who decided to show up! How are you feeling? Want some tea? Cookies? A little bit of victory, since you’ve never tasted it? Oh, come one, Kai, don’t look at me like that, you didn’t really think you could beat me, right? Especially not if your vanguard is my own daughter. What, you thought it would touch me? Horrible strategy, really. Chisaki: Give me the business and nobody gets hurt. Except for you. Father: You’re so dull, Kai. I guess the married man life isn’t for you, huh? What, this one didn’t satisfy your needs? You wanted more? I’m pretty sure you could at least afford THAT if you wanted. Y/N: Stop being so disgusting, you lech. I can’t believe we’re related... Father: I don’t speak to those with IQ lower than my shoe size. Y/N: You will be surprised- Father: Now, Kai, look how we’re gonna do things here. You can either save this useless kid and I will allow you to walk away unscratched...Or you can try to fight me and go against my unbeatable Quirk and watch her die. You choose. Either way, I win. Chisaki: Why are you so sure you’re going to win this? Father: Let me show you a small fraction of my power.

As he said that, he pointed to Chrono and without blinking, everyone watched Chrono fall to the ground, having no idea how he could do that. Setsuno went to search his pulse, but he shook his head, completely shocked by what happened. The girl only smirked wider, letting a dark chuckle escape as she extended her hand towards her dead friend. Chisaki then realised what was happening, having seen her Quirk manifest before, but not to such a huge extent and smirked in victory under his mask. This girl was a true trump card for his assets.

She was taking her father’s life essence and Chrono’s death mist and exchanged their places, making his associate get up and gasp for air, while her kin to shake and fall to the ground, coughing blood, eyes webbed with the veil of death.

As she wiped the stray bead of sweat that formed on her forehead, trying to catch her breath, she hid her physical exhaustion by plopping on the office chair and starting to forge all documents so his death won’t be in vain.

Y/N: Sorry about that, Chrono, but hey, at least you’re alive, right? Chisaki: They’re not here anymore. Y/N: Oh, you sent them away. Didn’t notice that. Anyways, I’m almost done here. Chisaki: Well played. Y/N: *shrugs* Could have been better, but I can’t complain. Here, all done, now let’s get out of here. Chisaki: *nods* This place is the filthiest I’ve ever been to. Y/N: Tell me about it...

As she got up, however, a wave of nausea made her stumble and almost fall to the ground, were it not for her fiancee who caught her just in time. The girl muttered that she over-used her Quirk and this was a usual side-effect since she wasn’t used to exerting it to such a great extent, making the Yakuza leader only sigh, picking her up bridal style, which made her bite her lip, memories of her ex-lover flooding her mind like a hurricane damaging everything in its way.

All the way to the base she kept asking herself what was going to happen. Now that the company is hers, Kai’s going to write the official papers to marry her, so he could have full access to the money. But what about her? It’s true, she will live a rich life, as usual, but what about everything else? He is a cold, cruel man who only thinks about his goals, but she could feel a small, but existent speck of light in his soul, so maybe - Just maybe....

As soon as they got back to the hideout he placed her on her bed so she could rest, but before she could blink, he fixed her with his intense gaze that could kill a man with no problem.

Chisaki: You are mine now and nobody’s going to touch you again. What were you thinking, going like that without a plan? You almost ruine- Y/N: Who said I had no plan? Please, I’ve known that wretch since forever and I had the advantage of knowing his Quirk, while he didn’t know mine. I knew he was going to kill one of your guys to show off his powers, that’s just the kind of guy he was, always begging for validation and power, so...You saw what happened. Don’t underestimate me, Chisaki Kai, I am your wife after all *winks*.

He only looked at her, no emotion shown on his face, making her look away, uncomfortable, before he threw away his mask and kissed her roughly, making the girl lose her mind completely. What was going on? Is this really Chisaki? What am I going to do? Is my heart capable of holding a person dear to me, after what happened?

Y/N: So...I guess we’re official now? Chisaki: I don’t take no for an answer. Y/N: Lucky me, I wasn’t going to refuse.

With eyes still glossy and lost from his actions, she cupped his face and kissed him with just as much passion and need as he did, putting aside every bad thing that happened, completely forgetting about the redhead she once loved.

Unknown to her, however, Chisaki could only smirk internally knowing that she suspected nothing and had no idea that the fox girl was actually long dead and that he wrote the text, out of unadmitted jealousy, now feeling much more superior.

Chisaki Kai, the leader of the Yakuza, ALWAYS gets what he wants, no matter what.

And Y/N L/N was his.

[shealwaysreads]

If you're taking the kiss prompts... 65?

Thank you my lovely! This little fic is from THIS list!

Simple Little Kiss

Drarry | 1548 words | fluff, first date, first kiss, strong!harry, confident!harry

Also on AO3

Harry slid his knife and fork together, and leaned back in his chair to watch Draco finish the last sip of wine in his glass, the long line of his neck exposed as he tipped his head back. Satisfaction and longing vied for the top spot in his mind. One appetite had been thoroughly sated; another was growling its hunger in his chest.

This place had been Draco’s choice for dinner, their first meal together just the two of them, their first date. Decorated in elegant creams and golds, and with tangible wards at the doors to keep paparazzi out, Harry had been surprised to find himself so at ease. The restaurant was filled with the gentle murmur of diners’ conversation, the gentle glow of the candles at every table, and wait staff so subtle Harry barely noticed as their table was cleared.

“That was delicious. I’m glad you brought me here – I had heard of it but hadn’t had an excuse to come yet.” He smiled. “Do you want something sweet?”

Draco’s foot had been leaning against Harry’s ankle since the middle of the main course, and that small point of contact between them had created a buzzing awareness of their proximity that kept Harry hyper aware of every minute movement he made. Now, as Draco leant forward and crossed his legs under the table, that foot slid up Harry’s calf and rested tucked in behind his knee.

“Something sweet sounds like the perfect end to the meal.” Draco’s grey eyes were glowing in the candlelight, heat was in every line of his slow grin and arched eyebrow. “Would you like to have pudding here? Or do you have something to share over a…nightcap?”

The combination of Draco’s words and the look in his eyes made Harry flush, and spread his legs wider in the chair to relieve the growing tightness in his trousers.

He had wondered how this evening would end. He had wondered if they would linger over dinner, or move on to a bar for drinks and conversation. In fleeting moments he had tried to avoid during work hours, he had wondered whether they would crash together before even making it into the restaurant. The last week had been a hot tangle of nervous anticipation and wild impatience to see how he and Draco would work together in this new dynamic.

Harry reached across the table to touch his fingers to the back of Draco’s hand, pleased with the faint flush this simple contact brought to his pale cheeks. It was gratifying to know he wasn’t the only one awash in nerves and wanting.

“I reckon I’ve got just the thing at home. Want to come back to mine?” He could hear the way his own voice had lowered; going husky with the knowledge that Draco wanted this too.

Draco nodded, linking his pinkie finger over Harry’s. A rush of warmth spread in Harry’s chest, the sweetly chaste gesture filling him with a confidence that this step was the right thing to do. It was right moment for them to come together and try for something real.

Their flirtations had been ramping up over the last month, culminating in Draco being the one to finally crack and ask Harry to dinner. And their conversation over the meal had been funny and engaging, full of interest and anecdotes from friends and work. But this tiny signal of gentle affection felt like a promise of more than Harry had let himself hope for.

One of the startlingly efficient wait staff arrived with their cloaks and the bill, which Draco whipped out of Harry’s reach in order to sign the sum over from his Gringotts account.

Harry just draped the cloaks over his arm and held his hand out to Draco, wanting to regain that warm tactile connection as quickly as possible. As they wove between tables towards the fireplace near the entrance that was permanently lit for guests to travel in and out by Floo, their fingers tangled together. Harry smiled to himself contentedly.

“You go first,” Draco suggested. “”Make sure the wards are adjusted for me, I don’t want to get thrown back out here.”

His tone was joking but Harry saw a glint of uncertainty in his eyes, and was quick to reassure him.

“My wards have been keyed to let you in for months now, but I’ll get the lights on for us. Don’t want you alone in the dark, do we?”

With a final squeeze to Draco’s hand, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and called out his address. He stepped into his living room and dusted the ash out of his hair before lighting his candles and side lamps with a quick spell, and unclasping his cloak on throwing it across the nearest armchair.

He only had a few moments alone before the grate filled with green flames and Draco walked through them with exactly the same elegance he would stride through the corridors at the Ministry. Not an iota of dust had stuck to him. Privately Harry suspected some kind of charm, but he was too embarrassed to ask in case it was just a profound lack of the clumsiness that Harry seemed plagued with when travelling by Floo.

“Hey-” Harry started, a smile stealing over his face at seeing Draco here, in his living room, at the end of their first date . But Draco swept forward, his soft hair falling into his face, and interrupted him.

“You changed the wards for me.” It wasn’t a question. But Harry heard the wonder behind it. “You changed the wards on your home, to let me in, whenever I want to come here. You want me here.”

Harry grinned, nodding; not feeling worried in the slightest at how revealing his admission had actually been. Because clearly Draco understood - this might be their first date, but their connection had been growing steadily and Harry wanted more of it.

“I don’t want a drink Harry.” Draco breathed, as he stepped into Harry’s personal space. “And I’m definitely not hungry.”

Harry could feel his body heat, and felt himself swaying towards Draco without a conscious decision to do so. He dragged his eyes away from the heavy gaze Draco had locked onto him, and focused on the silver clasp of Draco’s cloak. He reached up and unhooked it with steady fingers, his trembling all erased in the face of this utterly reciprocal interest.

They let the cloak fall to the floor in a puddle of fabric around their feet. Harry laid his hands at the top of Draco’s chest, his fingertips just touching that pale neck at the open collar of his crisp white shirt.

“Then what can I give you Draco,” Harry murmured into the space between them. “What d’you want?”

That tingle of awareness from the restaurant was now roaring in his ears, and he could feel Draco’s pulse under his fingers begin to race. This was really happening. Somehow it felt like it had taken them a lifetime to get to this moment, and simultaneously like it was rushing towards them with not enough notice.

“This, I want this Harry.”

Harry leant in, brushing Draco’s patrician nose with his own, watching as those grey eyes closed and silvery blonde eyelashes fanned out over high cheekbones. He tilted his head and gently, so gently, brought their mouths together. Draco’s plush bottom lip fitted perfectly between his own, and his own eyes shuttered as he savoured this perfect moment.

Just this simple little kiss seemed to melt Draco, his whole body softening against Harry, a gentle sigh breaking free when they parted. Harry opened his eyes to feast on the sight of this man, here in his home, his face flushed and his pink mouth parted – ready for the next kiss.

A rush of arousal flamed through Harry. He had never imagined Draco yielding to him like this and the idea of him being so open to receiving Harry’s touch was like a key unlocking that roaring desire inside of him. Suddenly he didn’t want to wait, didn’t want to content himself with one small kiss. He wanted more, and Draco was just waiting for it.

Draco must have seen something on his face, because the next thing Harry knew they were crashing together again, those pale elegant hands were tangling into his hair and Draco’s lithe body was pressed tightly against his own as their lips met. There was nothing chaste about this kiss - they were devouring each other – and the slick sound of their tongues was enough to make Harry harder than ever.

Harry responded on instinct, wrapping his arms around Draco’s middle and then lower, grabbing generous handfuls of that perfect arse and grinding their lower halves together. Draco moaned loudly into the kiss and Harry abruptly decided that this was potentially the best first kiss of his life. He braced his knees and lifted, pulling Draco up and into his body, and thanking his lucky stars that Draco got with the programme immediately, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist.

He stepped backwards until he felt the edge of the sofa against the back of his knees and then dropped into the comfortable cushions. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good. With Draco draped over every inch of his, their hungry mouths still tasting each other, hands roaming, and desperate little noises escaping them when the heat of the moment spilled out.

❤️

[codywalzel]

It is my personal belief that no one can teach another human being a single useful thing about how to make art. My understanding of “teaching” is giving someone something directly, like a full-proof method for balancing algebraic equations, or the definitions of SAT words. I went into art school with the hopes that cryptic lesson plans would lead to a Mr. Miyagi style evolution that would unlock my hidden powers. If I knew what I do now about how to art-learn, I might have gotten something substantial out of college. But in my experience, art education begins and ends with either: 1. Another artist opening your eyes to an idea about drawing that you hadn’t noticed before, or 2. Elaborating on their go-to solutions they use in their own work. Someone can tell you that you can ground your storyboards by drawing a ground grid. But using that grid in correct perspective, to it’s intended effect, is not something someone can do for you. Art educators and mentors can help you identify solutions to problems, then you work out how to implement it yourself. At the risk of sounding like a pedant for drawing that distinction, I’ll say that since I started approaching creative learning from this perspective, I get a lot more out of it. It’s become more “guided experimentation” than recording a recipe for the perfect painting. That said, storytelling in art is definitely something you can teach yourself. You’ve identified a trait already, storytelling, so you’re already at the limit of where some teachers can take you. Plus you identified something astute, because I’ve been trying to incorporate storytelling into my art for a while, and have only recently started to get a handle on it. So in my opinion, you’ve done the bulk of the thinking work. Now comes the heavy practice work to master this new spell. This journey has a lot to do with finding your voice as a storyteller, so the tone of “YOU”, and the style of rendering that best expresses that tone in this time and place, will have a unique set of challenges for each person. But, I’ll take you through some of the realizations I had on the path to where I am now: A proud adult with two cats and a hit or miss batting average at clearly expressing thought in a sketch.

Capturing an entire scene in a single, static drawing is something my mentor Ian Abando does masterfully. I used to try to emulate the personality I saw in those drawings, but I was only copying the surface. I realize now that me and Ian’s outlooks are so different, that Ian and I would never tell the same type of stories, much less the same exact same story about those people at the adjacent cafe table. He’s personable, outgoing, jovial. Ian is like a friendly labrador with a dark streak in his sense of humor. He can sketch two strangers and capture a warmth that makes you realize they’re actually two old friends that haven’t seen each other in years. I can find something in that coffee shop too, but I’m just a way bigger weirdo, so I’m more interested in weirdo shit. For me, the first step in capturing those stories was finding the right subject. I keep a sketchbook with me at all times, and I’ve developed a patience for waiting, for hunting the right subject. When Ian and I meet up at a coffee shop to sketch, it always seems like he can draw anything. He seems to rest his gaze somewhere in the room at random, then drop pencil to page and watch that snippet explode into life. But now, I think he’s hunting too. I think he’s searching for what’s interesting, what’s worth drawing to him. It only seemed random to me because I couldn’t see what was beautiful about a subject. That he can see a particular magic in a certain 6 square feet of space, and not 6 feet next to it, has to do with who he is. In my mind, he was making that table of pleasant, unremarkable strangers more interesting on the page than it really was. But in his mind, maybe he saw that a girl was counting down the seconds until the end of a bad date, and the guy was trying to find subtle ways to flex.  Even now that I can “see” more, I might never appreciate the specific things that Ian does until he draws them.

The potential exists for that to be true of all of us. Art is a magic that lends other people your eyes. So let people see the pieces of your world that only you can. Just like he can do for me, I can see what’s interesting in scenes that Ian would overlook. And there are a million scenes where we’d see the same fascinating thing, but we’d have a different approach to it (for one, his approach would be to be way better at drawing than me). And there are a million more scenes that we’d both see something interesting in, but we’d each attach to a different feature of it.  All of that to say, don’t just pick out something and draw. If you want to tell a story, then don’t draw just to put something down on the page. Wait. Observe. Find a moment that makes you laugh. Find somebody despicable, and capture what’s despicable about them. Use a sketch to vent. Or make a sketch intentionally cold, and show everyone what your specific brand of loneliness feels like without begging for sympathy. I’d rather keep observing and draw nothing than to try to draw something dull because it’s in front of me. Find the stories you’re personally interested in, you probably have something funny or insightful to say about a given situation that is unique to you. Try to put that weird part of you on display. If it scares you, then it’s probably coming from an honest place, and you should keep going. It may be clumsy at first. The story I want to tell still doesn’t come across on the page every time. Meanwhile, Ian seems to capture his stories without a single failure. If stories are Pokemon, he’s tossing great balls while I’m stuck with a standard issue poke ball. He’d probably say that comes down to pencil mileage. So keep practicing. Keep putting pencil to page even on the shit drawing days. It’s a toll you have to pay to be good down the line, even if you’re not good today. But, please, keep your brain turned on, that means always make an effort to be interesting. (Everyone go ahead and make that same effort in life too. Being boring around the water cooler at work is super rude and depressing.)  Like I said, being interesting in your art usually just comes down to taking an extra second to consider your subject before you start drawing. What am I seeing here? Is this the thing I want to draw? Where am I going with this? Is this coming from a real place? Am I digging to find the best I have today, or am I just making the same tired observation about airline food that I’ve seen before? And if I’m drawing something a lot of people draw, I make sure to ask what can I bring to this? What story can I tell about this that no one else is telling? Example: for the most part, if everyone around me is gushing about some new Star War via fanart, another well rendered post telling the story that you also enjoyed the Star War isn’t that interesting to me. I’d rather a worse drawing driven by a more interesting idea. You can participate in the cultural conversation without just repeating what’s already been said. I’m more likely to enjoy your Star War art if it comments on that one character’s funny butt pose in the third act. Or whatever. That’s just an hypothetical it doesn’t have to be butts. The point is to put more thought in to your art. Wait a sec for the right idea, don’t just start drawing. You will know when you spot the right subject because you will already see it on the page. Plussss, when you start drawing with a clear idea where you’re going, not only is it more interesting, but it actually informs your craft- your drawings will come out better. Okay, let’s say I’m not interested in the people a table over at the coffee shop, how do I know what else to look for? As stupid as this sounds, tweeting helped. Not just reading other people’s tweets, but putting myself out there, wording an idea with limited characters, figuring out what types of things could be explained, and what things were hard to express. And then I started to notice more and more effective way to express those ideas with a specific tone. One thing I realized about myself was that I trying to say two or three things about something at once. It made good ideas muddy, and weakened all three. I challenged myself to clarify, to combine, to present a single, strong idea. I’m still working on it, but for me tweeting is a storytelling exercise that’s helped put more “me” into my art. It forced me to get thoughts, ideas, jokes, frustrations, etc. out into the ether unadulterated by technique. There was no consideration of line quality or volume, so a thought had to stand on it’s own two legs. I doubt tweeting would help many artists in the same way.  But I think in words exclusively, images come later. I write outlines and dialogue in detail before I ever touch storyboard or comic thumbnails. But I’m in the middle of transitioning into writing, so I think my brain is naturally more verbal than most artists. Even with so much internal commentary, my art was without clear storytelling for a long time, because ideas either got lost in the drawing stage, or were too complicated to fit into a single image. Tweeting taught me how to be concise, (I’m clearly not using that skill for this reply, but whatever). So find your own method for making yourself comfortable enough to open up. Which leads me to the most my recent storytelling realization: Don’t be afraid to put your opinions in your art. What you feel passionate about from the deep to the mundane can guide you in your search for a subject. I think people’s egos are funny. LA’s coffee shops are flooded with aspiring creatives mouth-shitting hot takes on art with dogmatic authority, and all from their designated unemployment-check-opening-butt-crater that they’ve worn into the cafe couch. I’m not denigrating anyone that hasn’t made it yet. But I am laughing at the unearned confidence of beardy over at the next table, and the volume at which he’s dropping that savage insight into the Black Mirror episode using stolen lines he just finished reading in a Robert McKee book. Beardy is a “writer” you see, I know because he might have mentioned it a few times to the people he’s with. So yeah, one thing I like to draw is people with their ego’s showing. It makes me laugh. Probably because I too have a big, fragile ego.

That “storytelling” thing is a muscle, like being funny at a party. You get good at party banter if you put yourself through the pain of attending multiple parties close together. (I’m convinced no human being actually enjoys parties, by the way. We all think we’re the idiot just outside the conversation circle that can’t find a big enough gap in people’s shoulders. But parties are the hardest social video game and It’s a little fun to be good at it.) The same way, you keep that storytelling muscle active in your drawings, and you’ll get momentum. If you take a month off, it’ll get weaker, and you’ll have catching up to do when you come back to it. Draw “you” day in and day out. One day you’ll starting getting these bursts where you stop thinking about the drawing process. You’ll stop actively trying to make it “good”, you’ll be swept up, and you’ll disappear into your own rhythm. It’s probably on that day that you’ll look down and realize you just communicated on the page. But let’s move on to a matter of real importance:

The older I get the more I resemble an anime. Thoughts?

[inkerii]

So I actually liked vld season 7

Some of it anyway. I still have some beef with it. Normally I don’t really post my thoughts but I wanna get it out of my chest c: gonna stick just to the Good Things on this post since it got out of hand!

Warning: LONG POST and since I’m on mobile idk how to put it under a read more!

*** [Good Things]

So many good things honestly.

• FIRST OF ALL: THE MUSIC! THE ANIMATION! THE BACKGROUNDS! THE CHOREOGRAPHY!! More than any plot these workers deserve so much credit <333

• Everything about episode 1. From learning of the beginning of Keith’s and Shiro’s friendship to the shenanigans with the yelmore. As a med student though, I wish they would explain a bit more about this mysterious disease he had and why is it apparently “gone” now.

• Cosmo. Everything about this space pupper. I love that he’s being included far more than the other pets because it was always pretty clear to me he’s very protective of keith and doesn’t appear to like leaving his owner’s side. ALSO I LOVE HOW BIG HE IS. HE’S BIGGER THAN PIDGE IN SOME SHOTS.

• I’m digging the Generals’ new outfits. Noice.

• LANCE DEFENDING PIDGE. Yes yes yes. I love how much he cares for her. I really wish she had become his love interest instead of Allura. Still! They had quite a few sweet moments c:

• Space mice are back to helping the team too heck yes

• “The Feud” is both kinda endearing but also my least favorite episode of the series. Since this part is about the good things: Everything about Lotor. Zarkon calling Lotor names. It was so DOTU I loved it so much

• THE DRUID IS BACK!! I loved that the druid was back. I really really wish they had expanded on WHY the druids are like that and HOW do they get their powers. They appear Galra. Are they a breed Haggar experimented on? They seem to almost idolize her. Gimme more info on the quiznaking Druids season 8 plEASE

• KEITHS WEIRD QUINTESSENCE POWERS VOLTRON PLEASE -PLEASE- EXPLAIN - as a side note I 110% believe the purple quintessence coming from Keith’s hands in when he unlocks Black’s wings in season 6 is that very power of his, not Shiro’s spirit or whatever

• Keith’s and Krolia’s goodbye. It was so emotional. I love that Keith has the maturity to understand that she has to leave- not because of a “mission” but because so many Blades she was shown to CARE FOR were gone. For all the “greater good” the Blades were about, they did seem to care. I love how gentle Krolia was with Kolivan too. I wonder if Kolivan is the Shiro to Krolia’s Keith.

• I originally had mixed feelings about the Floating In Space episode because both Keith and Allura felt OOC at first. But y'know what? I’ve come to like it. Keith had been acting like the Perfect Leader™ since he came back, as if his issues had all faded away when he and Black really became a team. But truth is, they weren’t. Keith was responsible for his team now, and they were floating in space, nearly dying, and the paladins were talking about QUITTING. Keith didn’t do his job well enough. Keith failed, failed them and FAILED as a leader, or so he felt: he let them down JUST LIKE IN SEASON 4 and now they’d all die. He was tired and not thinking properly so OF COURSE his basic instinct flared up: “leave them so they wont kick me out first”. As someone who likes the idea of keith and allura together, I really didn’t get Keith’s sudden outburst against Alfor, but… He might have done it to push Allura’s buttons. He KNOWS her, he KNOWS she’s the one who would argue the most (like in s4), so he instinctively tries to get her off him already- and because he knows her so well he goes for something that he knows is a low blow. Thing is, that made Allura’s own hurt feelings flare up (and the rest of the team’s). Allura might have understood where he was coming from in s4, but she was clearly sad that he still chose the Marmora over them. Even if she GETS it, it still HURTS. The whole team HURT. And now Keith was trying to push them away AGAIN. They were PISSED. They had trusted him 100% even though he abandoned them and now he was leaving again?!

BUT THEN!! DEVELOPMENT!! This time team Voltron WILL NOT let Keith go. Will NOT kick him out no matter how hard Keith tries to make them do it (thanks Hunk!!). And that helps Keith to FINALLY admit how much he cares and allows him to put them right up there with Shiro and Krolia when it comes to people HE wont give up on, people he now KNOWS wont give up on him. He may have called them “friends” but.. Keith isn’t that good with expressing how much he cares. He’s always a little hesitant when it comes to sharing his feelings (you’re LIKE a brother to me vs you’re MY BROTHER). He does mean family. He’s just being Keith :)

• I actually genuinely liked the Earth two-parter. I never thought Sam could carry an episode like that but damn. U go babe. I loved Colleen too. AND VERONICA YEA GIRL

• Kincaid and Griffin OWN MY HEART I SWEAR-

• Bless non-evil-Galra-Prince AJ LoCascio. Even though I got whiplash in some scenes like “wait he sounds like Lotor wtq” most of the times I didn’t even notice. So glad they decided to keep him around! He has a superb voice.

• Katie reuniting with her family!! LANCE reuniting with his family!! “uncle lance” yes pls ;w;

• Hunk’s flashbacks ;-; I feel so bad for the baby I’m so glad his family is safe now. I loved seeing how cooking isn’t really just for food when it comes to Hunk, I love that his mom and aunt (i’m assuming??) actually let us viewers understand that every time hunk cooks he’s more interested in sharing company and spending time together. Just. Yes <3

• Iverson apologizing to Keith + petting Cosmo heck yea. Griffin and Keith ignoring their differences, nice.

• KEITH COMFORTING HUNK. He might not be as comfortable saying emotional words like “love” or “family” to the team as he is around Shiro and Krolia (understandably), but you can see he cares just as much. Also YES let him be hugged more. He clearly loves it.

• All those conformations of paladins!! Keith/Pidge/Allura -> Pidge and Keith. Yes!! Keith and Hunk! Lance and Hunk!! A+ hell yea

• All the shoutouts to previous seasons!! The reflective shields from S6ep1. Keith understanding sign language this time!! Pidge distracting the guards by being silly (but in a very Pidge way) while Keith goes around like in season 1!!!

• Really nice touch of having Allura give up the crystal in her tiara to save Shiro. Their friendship is so precious <3 Also bonus points since this was likely what allowed Shiro to sense Atlas’ quintessence- the new arm still DOES have a connection to his brain so, like, so does the crystal :’D

• Speaking of Atlas, I’m neutral on it? So long as it doesn’t keep showing up as a robot I’m good. I just don’t get why it gets defense upgrade when it turns into a robot? Regardless though, it seems wayyy too big and clumsy. So hopefully it’ll remain just a ship in most eps.

• I did love the smaller earth fighters tho! Blonde + Freckles Whose Name I Can’t Spell Sorry grew on me. Also, ships’ designs are awesome. Honestly so long as Earth Team doesn’t end up in the LIONS I’d be happy. I feel like they might though. Oh well.

• LANCE. JUST HOW MUCH LANCE MATURED. THIS WAS ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS ABOUT THIS SEASON. He barely joked around this time!! He really showed how he supports the team. I LOVE to see Keith depending on and trusting Lance to be his second in command. THAT’S what I always wanted for the two of them. - Bonus: I loved how Keith fell back for a second on his old habits by going all “don’t miss the shot” or whatever cause really that’s exactly what their rivalry was about. Early Series Lance would get back at him without batting an eye. But he remained focused and alert! Lance’s development is more subtle but this is EXACTLY the same point Keith was when Kuron started calling him worthless. Keith had GROWN, and those things didn’t bother him anymore. Likewise, Lance has GROWN. He’s an adult who takes things seriously now and doesn’t waste time with silly bickering. Just. Yes. While lowkey, this is just as satisfying to me because unlike Keith we actually SAW all the stages of Lance’s growth. (We didn’t see all the conversations Keith and Krolia had on the space whale). Just. Lance. Bless him.

• I still prefer Sendak’s season 1 design. That said, he was a marvelous villain- more than any other he really represented all that was evil in the Galra Empire so I enjoyed him. Zarkon was into the lions for personal reasons, Haggar is more about the Altean thing, Lotor didn’t really care for Voltron since he built Sincline. So yea. I didn’t expect him to be the main villain but I don’t mind.

• Speaking of which, loved the Sendak/Shiro fight! It really felt like all that encompassed the Paladins vs all that encompassed the Galra. And even though I actually didn’t like that Keith was the one to deal the final blow, Keith IS a mix of Galra/Paladin who has good intentions. So… like Lance said early in the season. He’s the future.

• not so sure what to think of the final EP and that weird robot but eh. Assuming it’s from Honerva, I DID like how it showed that Honerva IS different than Haggar… And more dangerous. This was literally a Haggar Robeast but upgraded, because YEA Honerva is much better than her quintessence-cursed counterpart.

• THE FAMILIES!! Shay!! Y'know I’m not usually a multishipper - actually I’ve never done it before - but I love both hunay and hunelle. I’m totally ok with hunelle in an AU and hunay in voltron canon (Hunk clearly cares for her so much that even though I prefer Romelle I can’t go against that precious bean teary smile when Shay showed up.). Besides!! Platonic hunelle is really precious too. ALSO ALSO KOLIVAN AND KROLIA and Krolia is wearing a Leader's version of the BoM suit?? NICE

• Matt is back and looks more handsome than ever! I love the ponytail. I love his design. And his colors. And his new girlfriend?? If I remember correctly from the Naxzela episode the helmeted alien sounded like a girl. ALSO ARE THOSE PUPS BESIDES OLIA HER KIDS?? PRECIOUS PUPPERS

• ROMELLE. we need more of her gdi-

• IS THE ALTEAN MERLA OH GOD LET IT BE MERLA I’M BEGGING YOU-

• Lastly, another of my favorite bits: Piloting the Lions through their bond. It just goes so well with my headcanon that the quintessence of the pilot actually MERGES with the quintessence of the pilot, so much that when they’re connected like that even if the body dies the mind still goes on. The difference for me between this season and what Shiro went through is that the paladins still have their bodies to ground them and help them keep control, while Shiro was just… Lost in the astral plane, barely able to separate his consciousness from the Lion’s (so much that this only happened twice when the paladins were purposely trying to connect with his quintessence/spirit in the astral plane). It’s not as “romantic” as the whole ‘black SAVED SHIRO’ but I really think his time in the Black Lion was really unsettling: not being Shiro and not being Black, but some weird mix of the two (his sarcastic confusion towards lance early in the season also supports this: he wasn’t HIMSELF anymore. Thinking like a normal person and not like a robot is WEIRD for him). It’s a headcanon though but it’s mine and I will fight you on this (actually no pls don’t fight me).

*** Overall!! While not my favorite season (that’s 2 and 6), season 7 wasn’t BAD. Maybe I just had lower expectations since I spoiled myself out of anxiety. It wont be like s2 and s6 where I’ll binge watch the eps over and over again, but it’s pretty comfortable with s1 and s3 in “eh it was fine, ok, I like it”.

[That said, there WERE quite a few things that pissed me off about this season, but everyone is so negative rn and quite a few people already covered part of those reasons, so I wanted to post about good things!! I’ll probably do another post on the Bad Things of this season.]

[andonewillbringhisfall]

Day 18. Stuck in a room together

For anyone who hasn’t read the previous chapters: instead of writing oneshots for Carry On Countdown this year, I’m writing an ongoing chaptered fic, where I incorporate as many of the prompts as I can into a single fic. There won’t be regular updates; I’ll just be posting whenever a prompt comes up that I was able to fit into my storyline.

Links to previous chapters: Day 2. Social media Day 4. Rainy day Day 6. Angst day Day 9. Flowers Day 10. Song inspired Day 14. Fairytale retelling

SIMON

Ms Avery, the librarian, looks surprised at my request.

‘Revealing spells? For someone who doesn’t want you to know who they are?’

‘Exactly,’ I say.

Penny said I might find some clues in some of the less obvious places in the library, but I have no idea where to start. I figured asking Ms Avery would be more useful than wandering around by myself.

‘It’d have to be powerful,’ says Ms Avery, ‘if they don’t want to be found.’ She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Should you really be doing this? I won’t pry, but…’

I shrug instead of answering.

‘Well, okay,’ she says. ‘I might have a few ideas.’

She types something into her computer, squints at the screen and then leads me through the rows of books to a spot in the back corner.

‘You’ll find what you’re looking for in this section,’ she says, then pulls one out. ‘Maybe try this one. I’m not sure you’d be able to pull this off at an eighth year level, I have to say.’

She winces as she says it, so I know she means she’s not sure an eighth year, especially me, could pull it off.

I shrug again.

‘Alright, I’ll leave you to it,’ she says.

‘Wait, what about fairy tales? Or why a spell from a fairy tale wouldn’t work? Or how could I know if it did work?’

‘Hm,’ she says. ‘You might want to look at some older texts for that.’ She points me in the direction of a little storeroom at the back of the library. She pulls an old-fashioned clip out of her hair and uses it to spell the door open.

‘Thanks,’ I say, stepping into the room.

She holds the door open. ‘What you’re looking for might be on the top shelf there,’ she says, pointing with one hand and returning her clip with the other. ‘But just be careful, a few of those encyclopedias there have a tendency to try to escape when no-one’s around, so the door won’t open from the inside. Make sure you close it on your way out, though.’

‘Okay,’ I say.

She uses her foot to wedge a wooden doorstop underneath the door, so it doesn’t close all the way. After she leaves I turn to look at the room. It’s small, just enough space for shelves along two walls and a desk no bigger than the ones we have in the classrooms along the third wall, and then the door. I turn back to the books on the shelf Ms Avery pointed at. I stare at them, reading the faded titles on their spines.

None of the titles jumps out at me, so I choose one randomly and set it on the table. I open it to the first page, already thinking that I’m wasting my time.

But I can’t give up, not until I’ve done everything I can to find him and convince him to give me a chance.

 BAZ

Snow is gone by the time I wake up in the morning. I try not to dwell too much on what he might be doing with his early start. Hopefully wallowing in disappointment and pining for me. Hopefully not about to figure out who I am.

I roll over, and the first thing I see is his flower – my flower – still sitting on the nightstand. I heard him running up the stairs last night, and I saw the silver glow, so I can guess what happened. The fact that Snow didn’t throw anything at me – Anathema be damned – shows that he obviously hasn’t come to the right conclusion yet. Hard to see how he could have missed it, given that I was right there, but that’s Snow for you.

I skip breakfast. I have no desire to see him again after last night, after he looked into my eyes the exact way he has countless times in my dreams. Instead, I go to the library, hoping for someplace that doesn’t smell like Snow or decaying rats (that doesn’t leave me any of my usual options).

Of course, as soon as I get there I spot Snow in one of the storerooms at the back. It wouldn’t be my life if it was this easy to escape him. It also wouldn’t be Snow if he was giving up on finding T that easily.

It almost knocks me over, realising how much he actually cares. If I thought I could show up for one romantic night and disappear forever and have him forget all about me, I was wrong. He’s not going to forget. I wasn’t just someone who happened to be there at the right time to give him a break from everything.

I don’t know what to do with this knowledge. I can hardly announce myself as T and have him forgive everything I’ve done to him for the person I was online.

I can’t break his heart like that, either.

I step into the room behind him, kicking the doorstop out of the way so he’ll hear me coming, and cross my arms, leaning against the door.

‘Shouldn’t the Chosen One be at breakfast?’ I say, sneering.

 SIMON

I startle when Baz speaks, the book dropping from my hands.

‘Great,’ I snap. ‘Now you’ve made me lose my place.’

‘How terrible,’ Baz drawls. ‘It must have taken you hours to read those five pages.’

I growl at him. I only got here ten minutes ago, but I don’t owe him an explanation. He can think whatever he wants.

‘Why are you here?’

‘To bother you, obviously,’ Baz says. ‘Or to plot your demise. Whichever works better for you.’

I roll my eyes. ‘For once could you just…’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Just not,’ I snap. ‘Just not get in my way and ruin everything. This is important, okay?’

‘What’s so important?’ he asks. I’m probably imagining that his voice has gone softer.

‘Nothing.’

It’s Baz’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Clearly.’

‘Could you just leave?’ I say through gritted teeth.

He stares at me for a long moment. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. (I can never tell what he’s thinking.)

‘Fine,’ he says, and reaches for the door handle. It doesn’t turn. He tries again. ‘Snow, what the fuck?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘The door doesn’t open from the inside.’

He turns around to glare at me. ‘And you couldn’t have warned me?’

‘You came in before I could!’

He doesn’t stop glaring. He pulls out his wand and tries to spell the door unlocked. It doesn’t work.

I gulp. ‘I think only the librarian can do it.’

He puts his wand away and knocks on the door sharply. He tries again, but no-one comes. With a heavy sigh, Baz sinks down and sits cross-legged on the floor, facing me. I turn away and open the book again.

‘Who were you dancing with last night?’ Baz asks abruptly.

‘What?’ I look up from the book.

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. I turn a page, but I’m not registering anything. Sighing, I close the book and sink down to the floor in front of Baz.

‘You don’t know?’ he sneers.

‘No,’ I snap. ‘Look, I – that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to figure it out.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Right.’

I know I’m blushing furiously. ‘I know it sounds stupid. You won’t get it.’

He sweeps his arm towards the locked door. ‘We have time. Enlighten me.’

I shake my head.

‘Is it your secret email admirer?’ His tone is mocking. Of course it is. How does he even know about T? (I guess I’m not subtle. I’m never subtle.)

‘I – I – yes,’ I stammer.

‘And the flowers were for him too?’

 BAZ

Fuck. I shouldn’t even have said ‘him’. How would I know that, if I’d only seen him underneath the mask? (Though it would have had to be a very tall girl.)

‘Yes,’ Snow mutters, his face flaming bright red. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

‘How romantic,’ I say. I can’t seem to drop this derisive tone. Let him think I think this whole thing is pathetic.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he says.

I pretend that doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. I laugh. ‘But you don’t know who he is.’ I shift closer to him. Our knees are almost touching.

Snow shakes his head silently.

 SIMON

I want to punch him. Or go off on him, but then I’d probably take out all of Ms Avery’s precious old books too. There’s no room to move, and nowhere to look except him. His eyes. The greyness of them – grey that’s dark blue and green and oceans and stormy skies and everything in between.

 BAZ

‘So you’ve danced with him, and you talk to him, but you don’t know his name.’

Snow is glaring at me. I lean forward. (I shouldn’t. This is dangerous.)

‘Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit suspicious?’ I say. ‘He sounds like a tosser, if he won’t even show his face to you.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Snow snaps. ‘Don’t talk about him like that.’

‘What’s he so scared of?’ I continue. (Playing with fire.) His blue eyes blaze into mine. (I want to dance with him again.) ‘Why doesn’t he want you to know who he is? Maybe he has something to be ashamed of. Maybe he’s some fucked-up –’

‘Shut up,’ he growls. ‘He’s not. He’s amazing.’

My breath catches. I turn it into a smirk. ‘You don’t even know who he is.’

‘I do. I know him.’

I shake my head. Snow’s stare is determined, defiant, like nothing could shake him. Maybe not even me.

I breathe out slowly. ‘What if you found out he was someone you hated?’

‘I wouldn’t.’ His knees press against mine. ‘I know him. I wouldn’t hate him.’

I feel myself tipping forward, like I’ve jumped off this cliff and now it’s too late to turn back and gravity will get me no matter what I do next. Snow’s gaze is intense, and he’s not leaning away from me, no matter how close I get.

‘Do you promise?’ I whisper.

 SIMON

Grey eyes…

It can’t be.

 BAZ

There’s a flash of light and we startle apart.

‘Simon?’ calls Ms Avery. ‘Are you still in there?’

The door opens. Snow blinks.

‘Sorry, Ms Avery,’ he stammers. ‘I – we were just leaving.’

He abandons the book on the desk and rushes past her. I realise my hands are shaking.

[the-yunhaneul]

Freckles.

Haneul had never put so much thought into freckles in his entire life. Freckles were just there, he had a few himself, scattered on his body and not all that noticeable despite how dark they were. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever considered, trying to use his magic to remove them or to place more. How did one go about starting that?

He was going to try, at the very least. He’d received February’s letter just before classes began, the crow that had carried the note in hadn’t come to the Great Hall but had found it’s way to his dorm instead and waited for Han- while avoiding the attention and claws of playful kittens- to write his reply before the bird had disappeared again, leaving no trace behind. He’d spent the whole day thinking of her letter, delicately scripted hand that he read in her voice, and the notes she’d sent along with it. Those he would study later, read about his people another time, but when classes were done and a few hours of practise came to an end he found himself sat on the floor before a mirror that covered the whole wall; the practise clothes he wore clung to his skin, face and arms shiny with sweat, breathing quick but controlled, with a cold water bottle pressed against his neck; and while he looked upon his own face and took note of the freckle beside his nose he couldn’t help but think of what she’d said. Practise with freckles. He had a drink like she had suggested, he even had fruit in his training bag, he always carried something around with him when he knew he was going to dance. He had everything he needed, even the magic that was buried deep and would supposedly allow him to add and change details of his very being as he pleased.

Supposedly.

Haneul kept his water bottle pressed to the side of his neck for a moment before he set it down right up against the mirror and then scooted forward with his legs crossed until his knees pressed against the glass, the cold still reaching his skin through his clothes. He leaned forward and, tilting his head to the side, studied the freckle on the right side of his nose. It was subtle but still quite a contrast to his skin, easy enough to miss but when it was noticed it was difficult to not see, and although it was the only one on his face he rather liked having it there. He wouldn’t mind having more either, he quite liked freckles as features, they added something to a person’s face that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Haneul didn’t get freckles with the sun but he’d noticed people here did sometimes, when the sun finally began to shine in the last month or so of the school year people’s faces seemed to come alive with them, sprinkled with more colour as though summer itself bled onto their skin. He definitely wouldn’t mind having more himself.

But how?

February had mentioned it was just like changing his hair. His hair went from one colour to the other and freckles were really just skin in different pigments, if he could change his hair than theoretically he could change his skin too, but Haneul had never tried to change his skin before- he’d never really felt the need to. Plus, there was the small factor that, for the most part, Haneul wasn’t sure how he’d learnt to change his hair. It had just happened when he was little, it happened all the time with his emotions, and although he could now control what colours appeared it was practically second nature to him now. He wasn’t sure the exact method he used, he almost just thought it and it happened, but his skin was different. He’d never thought about the possibility of having darker or lighter skin and it had just happened, perhaps it was something to do with skin being alive. Sort of. Haneul understood the basic biological principle enough to understand that skin cells were constantly being made and replaced, the body was constantly changing like that, where hair grew and died in a cycle. Maybe it was even simpler than that, perhaps it was easy to change his hair because people changed their hair anyway, not anywhere as easily as he did but hair could be dyed and changed. Skin didn’t work quite the same.

He didn’t quite know where to start. Metamorphmagi magic was almost like practising non-verbal magic, except with non-verbal magic there was actually a spell, you simply learnt to manipulate the magic without saying it aloud. There was no spell with metamorphmagi magic, no particular word he could use or think to suddenly change, it was why other people couldn’t simply learn it, there were no books on it and no information to read, you had to unlock it within yourself and he was actually not doing so well with that.

“Freckles,” He whispered softly, pushing his fingers back through his hair to drag the locks away from his forehead. “It’s just like painting, just adding colour to another to change it, easy.”

Not easy.

Nothing was happening. He stared at himself in the mirror until his eyes watered and the breath he’d been unintentionally holding had to be released.

“It’s just freckles!”

Why was this so difficult? He already had a freckle, adding just one more couldn’t be that much of a challenge when he was constantly changing the colour of his hair- oh, but maybe that was a good way to start. His hair was currently the colour of snow, white and bright, and Haneul barely felt like he was using magic at all to make it that way. His hair just changed, he’d grown used to it over the years, so much so that Haneul didn’t even recognise the feel of the magic he’d been born with. When he thought back to London, sitting with February in that restaurant, it had taken a single touch from her and he’d felt the magic as though it left a trace behind on her skin, and it had spoken to the stir of magic inside him. It had been familiar but Haneul wondered how long it had been since he’d felt that by himself, when he’d been aware of the magic in use all the time. He wasn’t sure he ever had. So perhaps to feel it again he had to stop feeling it first. Taking in a deep breath he looked at himself in the mirror again and just as the thought passed his mind his hair bled black, staining the locks all over until they were their natural colour... Except, they weren’t. He had never really noticed before but now it was easy to realise that even with his hair black he was using magic, his hair changed so constantly that he’d grown used to having to manipulate his hair back to it’s natural state but then it wasn’t natural at all. It was black as he pictured it, as he wanted it to be, that wasn’t the same as letting the magic go entirely.

So he did.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, emptying his head of all thoughts that weren’t related to what he was doing now, waiting patiently until he was practically meditating and then he just let the magic slip away. It was a strange feeling. A physical feeling. He could feel the magic that kept his hair ever-changing dissolving, melting away, and a part of him was tempted to claw the feeling back, scared if he let it go he wouldn’t be able to feel it again. He knew he would though, it was like any other kind of magic in that sense, when he wasn’t using it it didn’t mean it didn’t exist. It felt like he’d lost something though. He blinked his eyes open and he didn’t look any different, hair was still dark like he’d pictured it before, but he felt very different. He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers back through his hair. The locks felt the same, thick and soft, he shook his head a little to allow them to fall back into place and nothing about his appearance was unfamiliar. He didn’t feel like himself though, he felt as though a switch had been flicked, a part of him had been shut down and while everything else continued to function he felt a little less... magical?

But that was good, now he knew what he was missing and he could bring that back, if freckles were simply adjusting pigments in his skin- which he could already do for his hair- then it couldn’t be all that difficult. Which he quickly found out wasn’t the case. Having brushed his hair back from his face again he sat as close to the mirror as physically possible and concentrated on drawing back the magic so familiar to him. His first attempt was a failure. He did change and noticeably too, but not how he wanted, in fact all the colour he tried to project onto his face shot straight up into his hair instead, the locks remaining dark but fading out to a deep, dark brown instead of black. He sighed but would not be deterred. This would take a little time, that was alright. Though it was much harder than he thought it would be, he found himself sitting in front of the mirror for a good hour or so, failing attempt after attempt; one time he made his only freckle disappear instead, another time he ended up changing his eyes the wrong colour, one attempt actually managed to change his skin but rather than a scattering of freckles like he’d intended the whole thing blotched together and caused a patch of skin to morph dark brown, startling him and breaking his concentration. He wasn’t even convinced he was gradually getting better, some attempts did absolutely nothing at all, unable to muster up enough magic to even show a change let alone accomplish the addition of even one freckle. And with every attempt he got weaker. At first he didn’t notice, the first few tries he felt completely fine, when his hair changed instead it did nothing at all, but after several attempts he started to feel it. Energy poured from him in fluctuations, when he wasn’t trying to change he could just about bring his heart rate back down and control his breathing but the moment magic surged in his core it was like flicking a switch, whatever exactly he was manipulating to try and change clearly needed some sort of fuel and it was sucking him dry. It was dizzying after a few hours, his body felt weak and he was mentally drained, unable to bring himself to move and eventually slouching forward until his forehead pressed to the glass. His breaths, heavy and laboured, fogged up the mirror. He closed his eyes tight to try and block everything else out. When he had enough energy to move his arms he opened his bottle of water and gulped half the liquid down. 

“Huimang-ieobsneun.” Hopeless.

He was exhausted, perhaps it hadn’t been the best to try this straight after training, he was drained already and trying to control so much magic was a task he hadn’t mentally prepared for. It vaguely reminded him of trying to cast the patronus charm, that had taken a while and even now Haneul was wary that the spell wasn’t strong when he cast it, it had taken a lot of practise to have any kind of control over it and he had a feeling this was going to be similar. It was going to take time and energy, perhaps more than other spells had, there were no books or tips on how to control metamorphmagi magic, he was trying to grasp at something that couldn’t be taught, with the only person who seemed eager to share knowledge about it miles away in London.

“Hanbeon deo.” Once more.

Sitting up straight once again Haneul pushed his hair back out of his face. He could do this, he was sure of it, he changed his hair at least a dozen times a day without even realising, he could add a freckle to his face if he damn well wanted to. Inhaling a deep breath he stared at the single freckle he did have on his nose, focused on the shape and colour- of course with practise he wanted to be able to produce natural ones, in different shapes and sizes, but one step at a time- and kept the image of it locked in his head. Then he closed his eyes again. His fingers flexed, tips of them brushing the glass, as he pictured the colour as clearly as he could and tried to push it to the surface. He realised now that when he really focused on a colour and tried to expel it it soared upwards, blasting up onto his hair, that’s all he’d ever needed it to do and he’d never tried to control it any other direction, but things were different now. Magic didn’t necessarily have a physical form, especially not magic like his, but he could feel it like it did, the trick was being able to push it where he wanted it with his mind because he had nothing else. Not up, he didn’t need his hair to change, he needed to push outwards and that was tricky. Still, he breathed deeply and when his first attempt failed- he didn’t even need to look to know- he pulled the magic back again and started from scratch. It was like trying to guide liquid, not an easy task but it could be done, he just needed to focus and when he did he could feel the difference. It was draining, he could feel his limbs growing heavier where he sat, but he ignored the feeling and instead focused on pooling magic in his system. It was warm, familiar to him though he’d only even known it distantly, and when he reached a point where he felt dizzy he pushed the feeling outwards. He wasn’t sure how he knew it worked, perhaps because it felt as though the magic settled, there wasn’t as much of a strain on him as he blinked his eyes open to find his cheeks dotted with freckles.

“I did it!” A grin curled his lips and the moment it did, his concentration wavering, the additions to his face began to clump together and then vanish. “Ani!” His protests did nothing, the magic was failing quick, draining away from his skin as if it were never there and a last attempt to maintain it drained him of energy completely.

With a frustrated sigh he flopped back to lie flat on the floor, arms splaying out either side of him. He barely managed to uncross his legs from where his knees pressed at the mirror, stretching them out and up so his feet pressed to the glass above him. His breathing had lost it’s steady rhythm, body aching from both hours of practise and now with the real lack of energy it had. He was exhausted, a feeling not unfamiliar to him but this was different, he felt mentally drained and didn’t think he’d be getting up from his position sprawled on the floor any time soon.

It didn’t matter anyway.

He’d done it. Freckles were a small victory on the grand scale of things but he was thrilled with the results all the same, now he knew how to do it it was only a matter of practise, of slowly but surely stretching his magical limits. It was like dancing, really, when he was a child he couldn’t do all the things he could now, it took time for his body to adjust and form properly so he could move the way he wanted. He was a fast learner though and now, at the very least, he could write to February and tell her that he was progressing. By the time he saw her again, he promised himself, he would be better at controlling the gift they shared.

[sarissophori]

Hither Yonder, Chapter 8

The Vision

Late spring passed, and Halli’s arm had mended. It was in her hands again to move on from the Gallenwood, yet she lingered, keeping her place with Noma and Amerrotaieu on the herding fields. Leaving the Nosi and their way of life behind proved difficult, and she fought against herself to remain. Spring became summer, and still she tarried, through the heat of the season and the burgeoning of the harvests. It seemed to Amerrotecus and Luxwannen that Halli made her choice to stay in Meadow-home, and were glad for it. They had since looked on her as a foster-daughter, hoping that she would choose to stay past her mending. In the depths of Halli’s heart, her urge to remain was stronger than they knew; still, she was torn between the comforts of an adoptive family, and an errand postponed. The longer summer went, the more she sought solitude, even from Noma.

 It was the first day of autumn, still in the warmth of late summer. Amerrotaieu and Luxwannen were out overseeing the final harvests, and Amerrotecus was walking the lawns of his longhouse alone. Halli went to him and walked with him a while, explaining her odd moods at times and thanking him and his people for the help they gave her, and the love they showed. Her burdened thoughts and words were slow to build to their intended point.

      “I have rested here too long” she said at length. “Not that your hospitality is needing –that’s what’s made leaving Meadow-home so hard, but there is something I set out to do, and I can’t put it off any longer. I must say my goodbyes before I go.”

      “If that be your choice, Halli” Amerrotecus said. “You have waited until your arm has healed, which was my only condition. There is no law among my people to keep anyone here against their wish; freely you came, and freely you may go, but I must ask, to where do you go, and for what do you set out? You mentioned nothing of this before.”

      “I didn’t feel the time to be right until now, forgive me” Halli said. “I go to find my sister, who is in the far west, beyond the Great Sea.”

      “She is dead, you mean?”

      “Yes” Halli said. “She died when we were in Dumbria. I’ve come all this way, though there be many more miles ahead. I seek the lands of Tarmaril.”

      “The Westerlands?” Amerrotecus said softly. “By the gods, why there? Why not to Arthon south of the Wood, or some other way? Have you not heard of what happened there?”

      “I have” Halli said. “They are simply ghost-stories, I think. Besides, they are the only people I know who have made ships worthy enough to cross the sea to its other side. In that I place my greatest hope, if any still live there.”

      Amerrotecus stopped walking. He regarded her in wary thought, speaking to himself in Nosi for a moment, then saying, “It is as I feared when Noma smelled their blood in you; that you would be drawn to those lands, sooner or later, were you not compelled to stay. Yes, as I feared.”

      “I want to, but I can’t” Halli said. “I must do this, dassa.”

      “Indeed” Amerrotecus said with an unhappy smile. “I said I would hinder you not, no matter the path. Yet before you go, there is something I have to show you, a thing that concerns such a path.”

      Putting a hand on her shoulder, he turned her around and took her back to the longhouse.

 Behind the main hall was a narrow hallway that led to the personal rooms of the longhouse, including a shrine dedicated to the ancient gods hidden away, like all the rooms, behind a curtain of thick dark pelts. Amerrotecus took her to the shrine, a shelf crowded with stone idols, totems and talismans, and bowls of incense. Under the shelf was a small wooden chest that he opened, retrieving something bound in cloth and tied with a knot of sage. Unwrapping this, he held in his palm a crystal sphere that glinted in a pearly translucence, even in that darkened space, its core shimmering like polished diamond.

      “What is that?” Halli said.

      “History” Amerrotecus said. “Memories. This is how the Westerlanders recorded their wisdom and lore unchanged through the ages, using high skill-crafts now lost. This, my child, is a tarmaril.”

      Halli gazed at it in wonder, drawn to its polished gleam and desiring to touch it, withdrawing her hand when she realized she was reaching for it.

      “You felt its pull, did you?” he said. “You are not the first. A powerful magic resides within this jewel, subtle but alluring to the unwary.”

      “I read about tarmarils when I was in Dumbria” Halli said. “They were designed so that only Tarmarillians could view their histories un-fragmented, and some were even protected by spells.”

      “Such a spell may lie on this one” Amerrotecus said. “It was found by my grandfather on the slopes of the mountains past the Middlesea, amid the bones of many men whose bright swords had long since rusted. What they were doing there, and what slew them, he never discovered, but he brought back this jewel as a keepsake, smitten by it as he was. He tried to unlock its secrets and peer into its hidden knowledge. It gave him only nightmares. So here it has lain since, dormant, until this hour.”

      “And you want me to look into it, after telling me that?” Halli said.

      “You are partly Tarmarillian. You may be able to see its visions clearly.”

      “Is that enough? What if all I see are nightmares?”

      “What is in you is sufficient to understand Noma” he said. “If that fear is enough to stop you, then I would advise you to stay away from the Westerlands, for worse things will you find there. If not, then glimpse what you may, and see what dangers lurk there still in the shadows, on that path, for yourself.”

       In trust Halli took the tarmaril from him. It was warm, and tingled her skin. She fixed her eyes at its center, watching as its heart glowed to her touch and began to swirl. Colors blurred, then her body lost perception of the material world. Her mind felt like it was being dragged through a mist, until her physicality as she knew it was unfamiliar; no recall of heartbeat, pulse or breath, as her consciousness ascended to the tarmaril’s higher plain. As in a waking dream, Halli saw what the jewel had to show.

 Knowledge was not so much seen as perceived, until Halli could focus her concentration through the mists. When she did, she saw in her mind’s eye a history scattered, discombobulated, events and patterns more felt than witnessed. A people unfolded before her, austere and stately, gray-eyed and light-haired, whose lives and achievements were revealed in tantalizing fragments, but clarity was still fleeting. She honed her thoughts, and the ethers drew back. Visions moved quickly but perceptively, and the vibrations around her consciousness reverberated in twain. Tarmaril of old was once a beautiful and wonderful land, the Tarmarillians learned supremely in nature’s intimacies, and in the lore of the stars. They became as they were to be, to the world’s ending, in an evolution begun by divine tutelage, and allowed to grow of its own accord. The vibrations were in harmony, wavering like strung beads of glass blown by a gentle wind.

      Suddenly, one image showed itself in a sharp contrast against the haze, that of a white ship sailing through vast waters, its sail bulged by sea-breezes, captained by some lone figure setting course for the west, though who Halli couldn’t guess, for the clarity soon shifted. The vibrations grew frayed, and the harmonies became sour. It was more difficult to focus the visions in this plain of the tarmaril, so close to the core. She stumbled into a blankness that was heavy and oppressive, like the bowels of a cave. She felt vulnerable to entities no longer benevolent, but cold and cruel, unburdened by human sympathy. Here, there were monsters. As Tarmaril would betray the gods, the monsters of their creation would betray Tarmaril, preying on them as any other, with the zeal of a malignancy run amok. What Halli felt here made her wander quickly away, to another plain of calmer vibrations, gray and somber. Pallid shapes took form, mournful of loss, yet bitter of it also. She strayed, seemingly, into a dream of some physical caliber, the sharpest memory of the tarmaril her senses could unlock, and she beheld it as it unfolded.

      There was torchlight. Halli was standing in a lofty court of pillars and arches, under a dome of crystal-glass that reflected the moon. A table was directly below, crowded by councilors, generals and noblemen, their backs bent, their fingers tracing lines on a map of the Hither and Hinterlands, discussing a second war against Ahn in the east. A high throne was on the other end, flanked by black marble columns and placed atop many steps. There upon sat Amornidaz the Splendid, last and mightiest king of Tarmaril, obscenely clad in opulence, girt with the ancient sword of his line. His crown was diamond and silver, a tarmaril set on his brow to preserve his own history, as with all other kings and queens before. Halli stared at him in awe, and yet recoiled, for his handsomeness was a mask for his cruelty, his majesty for his cravenness, and even if she hadn’t known it before from Sador’s books, she could sense it from his brooding airs.

      A robed figure came out from the shadows, face hidden by the hood, and the torches in the chamber flickered, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

      “I seek an audience with the king” he said, before any could demand a reason for this intrusion, or how he bypassed the guards.

      “Who seeks it?” a general asked.

      “I have no pronounceable name in mortal tongues” he said. “I come as a messenger, from those who dwell on the hithermost shores.”

      The court murmured in a whisper, the Undying Lands.

      King Amornidaz scoffed. “The Undying Lands? How preposterous! Seize him, and throw him into the pit. Then he will tell us his true name and purpose.”

      The royal guards moved in, yet as the messenger raised his hand they fell immediately as if struck, and lay stunned. The councilors and noblemen backed away from the table as he approached.

      “Have I convinced to satisfaction, lord?”

      Amornidaz leaned forward on his throne, hand on hilt, then thought better of it and sat down again.  

      “Your trick has won my audience, but not my fear.”

      “I wish that not” the messenger said. “I desire only council, if you will heed it.”

      Amornidaz reclined. “Proceed.”

      “You are responsible for much grief, lord, and many blasphemies. We have observed as Tarmaril has waged war on her neighbors and perverted the natural order. The cries of the abused have reached our ears, speaking ill of your race. You are a wise and gifted people. We hoped you would own your wrongs and cease these actions of your own accord. To our dismay, you have not. We will stand aside no longer. You as king are hereby demanded to end your wars, disband your legions, and atone for the mutations of your alchemists, under the doom of divine consequence.”

      Amornidaz sat uneasily as he listened, checking his indignation, his humiliation, and more than a little fear. He resented being addressed like a malcontent, but even he dared not interrupt.

      “This is your one chance, your one warning” the messenger said. “It is yours to accept with wisdom, or to ignore with peril. Please, lord, consider the fate of your people with more than a whim.”

      “Whim” Amornidaz said. “I will not be spoken to as this by a sprite in a cloak, a mere herald who comes at another’s stead. You may not give me ultimatums in my own court. My word is absolute here, not theirs. Tell them that, revenant.”

      “Arrogance is less befitting than you deem it” the messenger said. “The hubris of mortals cannot ever supersede the designs of nature or the divine, lest monsters be the result, and chaos unfathomable. You betrayed the oaths made by your ancestors, and are under a harsh judgement for it. Hear me! Even in this hour Tarmaril may earn forgiveness. Do not throw your destiny away in rashness, atone!”

      The king was silent, brooding on what thoughts none could say. Then he stood, magnificent in his regalia, deciding that pride would deliver his words.

      “I am King Amornidaz, son of King Argomenes, heir of a line unbroken for one thousand years. I have not ascended to my grand-sire’s throne to be goaded by a memory of our oldest stories. I fear you not, nor your masters, any more than a child’s fable.”

      Amornidaz raised his voice so that it rang through the court, up into the colonnades.

      “This is my kingdom, I am Tarmaril! Are the all-powerful gods so frightened of us that they see it fit to meddle in our affairs? They forbid us from the hithermost shores, and now they will control us here? Does that itself not break our covenant? Nay, it is not us who should fear them. It is they who should fear us, for we stand to usurp their supremacy!”

      The messenger stood unmoved by the king’s show.

      “There will be no other warnings. Stay your pride, and end your wrong-doings.”

      “Why wait?” Amornidaz said. “If I truly be so wretched, then may the gods in their unerring wisdom strike me where I stand!”

      He drew his sword and held it high, catching the red glint of torchlight. His court froze in tenseness, not as sure as he to tempt punishment, but there he was, unsmitten, his arrogance justified. A long moment passed until they breathed a sigh of relief.

      “I am supreme here, herald” Amornidaz said. “Your errand has failed. So much for divine foresight.”

      The messenger bowed. “Then the choice is made. I shall return to my masters and inform them of your decision. Be prepared for their response.”

      “Response?” Amornidaz said. “Retaliation, you mean. That, undoubtedly, is a breaking of our covenant. The satisfaction will not be theirs. It is I who declares war on them. Take that back with you.”

      Here the vision faded, leading Halli into another. It was daytime, yet the skies were gray and low. She stood outside, on the steps of a battlement overlooking an immense harbor shaped from the mouth of a wide river. A high wind blew from the bay, carrying the scent of salt and foam, and catching the flags of the warships at anchor; hundreds at the piers, hundreds moored offshore, and still more along the coast, their masts like a barren forest stripped of green. It was the largest fleet ever amassed by any people of that age, for the purpose of waging war on the gods themselves. With such strength of arms and industry before her, Halli understood the arrogance of Amornidaz, and felt her skin go cold. Then from the towers on the hills came a crescendo of blaring horns so great, the air itself was shaken, and Halli’s body was stunned to its core. Warning was thus given to the enemies of Tarmaril, that her legions were again unleashed, this time across the sea to lay low the Indomitable Ones, while the gathered masses cheered them on.

      The already gloomy sky then darkened, ominously so. It made Halli nervous, knotting her stomach with anticipation. Somehow, she knew this was no storm or squall, or indeed weather of the world.  She backed away from the battlements, out of crowds that heeded her not, looking up for some sign of doom.

      It would not come from the skies. The waters in the harbor receded, and the ships sat lower in their docks. A thin gray line appeared over the world’s bend from a point beyond sight, a line so small at first glimpse. Drawing in more of the sea, it surged across the shallows as a mounting wave, racing fast over the exposed shore, roaring louder than any force of wind. People screamed as the wave rose, arched over, and slammed into the piers, pounding the harbor to rubble; those who weren’t stiff with fear fell over one another trying to escape it. Warships hundreds of cubits long were carried up like toys and smashed on the water breaks, or pulverized against the hills. Masts as thick as tree trunks were snapped like twigs, thrown as shivers into the sky, then fell as rain. Those moored on shore were rolled up and subsumed, broken and gouged into the beach or dragged out to the ocean, taking all hands with them. Soldiers, sailors and captains, the armada in full was beaten to its base timbers, a tithe of the sea sweeping away in one moment the pride of Tarmarillian might.

       Halli…Halli…

      The upper battlements were also overcome by the surge, intensifying the panic. The Tarmarillians quailed and begged for forgiveness, to no avail, as everyone, repentant or no, was swept away where they stood, their screams lost to the roaring wave.

       Halli? Halli!

      Something pulled on her tunic, bringing her to the ground. She raised her hand against the coming wave, even as everything blurred. The sensation of being pulled grew stronger.

      “Halli!”

 The vision faded. Halli’s mind raced speedily from the jewel’s inner depths, saved by the intervention of reality. She blinked, then started coughing; she could almost taste the salt of the water, prepared to feel it pulverize her body in its fury. She still half-expected it to, lying on the floor of a room in a hall far from the western sea. Noma was licking her forehead, having snapped her out of the tarmaril’s grasp by pulling on her sleeve. Amerrotaieu was kneeling beside her, her hand in his, chanting softly in Nosi to cleanse the remainder of the spell.

      “Are you alright, Halli?” Noma said. “You were silent, then your body stiffened, and your breath was labored. You looked very afraid.”

      “I think so” Halli said. “But I’m not doing that again.”

      “And you needn’t” Amerrotecus said, taking the tarmaril after it fell from Halli’s grasp and wrapping it in its bundle as before, then locking it away.

      “Your Tarmarillian blood has allowed you to wander far within the jewel, and showed you all you could see. It is an evil thing, and far worse will you find in the Westerlands. This is but a taste of their sorcery.”

      “What is this about?” Amerrotaieu said. “Why did you let her look into the devil’s eye? That was a foolish thing, father!”

      “It was a necessary test” Amerrotecus said. “She had to see for herself the dangers of that road and what awaited her at the end, for that is the road she intends to take.”

      Amerrotaieu’s face blanched. “She…what?”

      Noma, at first relieved at Halli’s recovery, tucked her ears to her head, her swishing tail dropping still, swishing no more.

      Halli sat up uneasily and sighed. “Yes, it is, to keep a promise I made long ago.”

      “To whom?”

      “Her sister, who has passed” Amerrotecus said. “She goes to the cursed lands, and from there, she will sail to the shores of the gods.”

      “Is that not forbidden?” Amerrotaieu said.

      “So the legends say.”

      “I will find out, at my peril” Halli said. “I must. For my sister, I must.”

      Amerrotaieu stood stiff, mouth hung with empty words. He then leaned clumsily and braced his shoulder on a wall. The uncomfortable silence lengthened.

      “She is a stubborn one, father. Mother will not like this when she hears it.”

      “Yes, a pity for us all” Amerrotecus said. “Yet her mind is made, and set in stone. The only way to stay her, I deem, is to imprison her with force, which the laws do not allow, nor are we prepared to do so even if we wished.”

      “I would still go, if you tried” Halli said. “The visions haven’t changed my mind.”

      The chieftain and his son glanced at each other, unsure of what to say, figuring at length that any gainsay would be pointless.

      Amerrotecus sighed. “Is there anything we can have readied for you, then?”

      “I’ve already taken more than was my right” Halli said. “I can ask no more.”

      “Nonsense. You were wet and hungry when you first came here, as I recall. Whatever we can give in food or cloth is yours.”

      “Thank you” Halli said. “Keep it light, please. The way will be a long one, and a lonely one as well.”

      “No, not lonely” Noma said. “Not with a companion at your side, for I volunteer myself to go with you.”

      She sat before Halli’s feet and gave her a long steely stare, every bit the image of her wolf-kin from the mountains. Amerrotaieu had a look of dismay, but kept silent.

      “Noma” Halli said. “I love you, and I want you to come with me, but this is where you belong. Stay here, with your master.”

      “I have no master” Noma said. “My pack lives among the Nosi, but each may come or go as they please. Yet not until now had any of us a reason. I love you also Halli, too much to let you go alone. Amerrotaieu and his father would both pledge themselves as readily as I if not for their duties to the tribe, or the uncertainty of the journey. I give you my service as protector and companion, if there is a place at your side.”

      Halli, moved by Noma’s pledge and the fondness that was its wellspring, set aside her proud stubbornness in being the solitary wanderer.  Her heart rising in her chest, she grazed her hand along Noma’s ear and down her flank, through the softness of her fur.

      “There is. I will take you, Noma, if Amerrotaieu grants it.”

      “I do” Amerrotaieu said, though with hesitance. “Your need for her will be more than ours before the end. May she protect and guide you through all dangers on your road. Her friendship is now yours to command, as it was once mine.”

      “I shall miss you dearly, teonan” Noma said. “I must say goodbye to my pack, before we leave. Oh, how sudden this all is –when do we leave, Halli?”

      “I was thinking early next morning, come sunrise” Halli said.

      “That will give us time to supply you” Amerrotecus said.

       “And for mother to say farewell” Amerrotaieu said.

      “Maybe it won’t be a farewell” Halli said. “There is a chance I may return to mortal lands, I hope. If I do, I’ll return to Meadow-home and live with you again, and Yuta too, permanently this time. This I promise.”

      “And you are one good for promises” Amerrotecus said, laughing. “We will keep a lantern hanging for you on the hills, then. May it be that you glimpse it on the roads through the forest, should you come by this way again. Until then, let us prepare for tonight’s supper, and make it hardy.”  

[wordsablaze]

9~ Shackled

Magic and Misery Merlin might use magic to help Arthur but he rarely uses it to help himself, which leads to an awful lot of misery… written for whumptober, enjoy!

A/N: this one’s a little angstier than the rest, sorry in advance ^.^

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Merlin was usually careful enough.

He knew he wasn't the most subtle with his magic - especially since Gaius never stopped lecturing him about it - but he rarely ever exposed it. Which meant that, for the most part, nobody would think to call him, the clumsy but joyful and loyal manservant, a sorcerer.

For the most part.

Every so often, someone would accuse Merlin of practising magic and there'd be a risk of jeopardising his destiny.

This time, however, it was a little more serious.

This time, it was a witchfinder.

And a fraud of a witchfinder at that.

Merlin catches Gaius' eye as the witchfinder drags him into an audience with the King. The physician is doing a terrible job of hiding his concern, in Merlin's opinion.

"What is the meaning of this?" Uther demands, raising an angry eyebrow at the witchfinder.

"The boy cast a spell on my horses!" The witchfinder declares, shoving Merlin forward.

Barely catching himself, Merlin shakes his head at the King. "I wasn't, I swear-"

"All due respect, My Lord," the witchfinder interrupts, "but surely you wouldn't trust the word of a mere serving boy over mine."

Uther frowns, clearly torn between what he wants to believe and wanting to save his reputation. If it comes down to his reputation, Merlin knows he's doomed.

"Do you have any proof of this accusation?" Uther asks.

"You can't have missed that my horses rampaged through the city as if possessed!" The witchfinder has the audacity to look offended, as if he hadn't been the one to cause them to do so.

Gaius steps forward before Merlin can try to argue again. "Sire, I think we should remember what happened with Aredian before you pass any judgement."

The witchfinder stiffens at the name and Merlin groans to himself because, if the two witchfinders are somehow related, there's no way he's going to let this go before Merlin is dead, or worse.

"Aredian, My Lord?" the witchfinder asks, his voice the epitome of innocence.

Uther's silence acts as a cue for the witchfinder to grab Merlin again. "If there are, as you say, multiple who have accused the boy, perhaps there is good reason for it?" he suggests, tightening his grip on Merlin as if daring him to argue.

There's a silence in which Merlin mouths an apology to Gaius.

Then Uther nods solemnly. "Very well. You may question the boy for three nights. If he then confesses to me, I will let you do as you wish."

Merlin's eyes widen but Gaius and Gwen - who seems to have appeared from nowhere - look more hopeful than before. Apparently they haven't heard of how witchfinders force confessions from people and expect Merlin to easily survive his interrogations.

Once Uther's word is finalised, the first thing the witchfinder does is drag Merlin along and throw him into the small cage that lives on his cart, securing heavy metal shackles around his wrists.

He thinks he's gotten lucky but no, as soon as the metal clamps around his wrists, something breaks inside of him, smothering him from the inside. Just his luck to be accused by a witchfinder that knows what kind of shackles can suppress magic.

Despite the pain, Merlin glares at him once he's done. "I know you're framing me."

The witchfinder laughs as he spurs his new horses on and they start moving. "Just as you framed my father."

A small gasp escapes Merlin. "You're Aredian's son?"

"Aren't you a smart one?"

He doesn't have a chance to answer because Aredian's vengeful son turns a corner and he's painfully thrown against the side of the cage. He ends up focusing on trying not to cry out every time Aredian's son makes the journey more difficult for him, which is almost continuously.

It doesn't help that it feels like someone is slicing into his soul with every passing minute, the shackles effectively dampening his strength entirely. By the time they stop, Merlin is sure he's gained a dozen bruises, if not more.

He exhales softly as he hears Aredian's son climb down and walk round to him. "I take it you won't be ready to confess yet?" he asks languidly, clearly happy with this situation.

"I can't confess to a crime you committed," Merlin replies, not even trying to hide the venom in his voice.

"Oh, but you will…" Aredian's son laughs. "But since we have three nights and I rarely require more than one, how about you enjoy a quiet night under the stars for today?"

"What?" Merlin finds himself asking before he can stop himself. It's only then that he takes a moment to look past the pain and at his surroundings, seeing nothing but trees.

Aredian's son unlocks the cage and unhooks the chain from the side of the cart, yanking Merlin out of the cage and forcing him to tumble onto the ground. With a groan, Merlin pulls himself to his feet and stumbles after the witchfinder, who doesn't even look back as he pulls on the chain that links Merlin's shackles together.

They don't stop walking until they reach a quiet, secluded clearing, where Aredian's son unlinks one of the shackles long enough for him to push Merlin in front of a tree and wrap the chain around the trunk so Merlin ends up effectively tied to it.

He's too tired by the suppression of his magic to even fight back and the witchfinder takes this as a sign of him being in control of this situation.

"They're going to discover you're a fraud, you know," Merlin warns, testing how far he can go and realising he literally cannot step away from the tree without uncomfortably pulling his arms backwards.

"No, they're going to discover you're a sorcerer," Aredian's son replies, harshly kicking Merlin's knee so his legs buckle and he ends up on the floor yet again, groaning softly.

"Now, I'd avoid sleeping if I were you… what with all the snakes and that."

He has the nerve to wink as he walks off, dropping petals behind him that Merlin can tell will attract the snakes that may have otherwise left him alone. Sometimes, it's truly a curse to be Gaius' ward and know so much about which plants attract which species.

Merlin stretches his legs out and winces as his knee starts throbbing but he can't do anything about it, especially since he can't use magic.

"This cannot be happening," he mumbles to himself as he tries and fails to get comfortable, the tree digging into his back and the shackles feeling as though they're digging into his bones.

Attempts to slide his wrists out of them only result in him breaking the skin there, leaving it more painful than before. Sighing, Merlin gives in and simply closes his eyes, preferring to be asleep than awake and in pain.

It doesn't last long.

He wakes to a burning sensation.

He's not sure what's causing it at first but it's not hard to figure out the source when his arms feel like they're on fire, his wrists feel like they're about to fall off, and the shackles feel as heavy as the burdens of his destiny as Emrys.

Biting his lip to stop himself from crying out and giving his magic away, Merlin curls into himself and struggles with the shackles, the dull clinks of the metal barely registering to his ears as he finds it harder and harder to breathe.

"Stupid Uther…" Merlin mutters through gritted teeth, somehow finding himself wishing that Arthur had been there to negotiate on his behalf.

With half a sob, Merlin gives up on the shackles, his wrists stinging from the myriad of cuts caused by the uneven metal and his head pounding as his magic screams at him from where it's being cruelly forced down.

It's a small mercy that no snakes attempt to approach him despite a few having appeared, lured in by the scent of the petals. He's content to have survived what the witchfinder had attempted to throw at him, just like he'll have to survive anything else thrown his way.

By the time Aredian's son returns, Merlin is exhausted.

"Well, well, well. It looks like someone foolishly did themselves a fair amount of damage overnight," Aredian's son drawls, laughing at the state of Merlin's wrists.

Merlin just glares at him, too tired to argue or defend himself.

"If this is what happens before I even touch you, I can't wait to actually get started…"

Something inside Merlin, something that feels a lot like hope, dies at the very thought.

But he's too busy trying not to cry to care.

He has to get through his. To prove Aredian and his twisted son wrong. To prove to Gaius and Gwen and anyone else that believes in him that he won't let them down. To make sure he's there to protect and serve Arthur.

So when Aredian's son unwraps the chain from the tree and roughly pulls Merlin back towards the cage on his cart, Merlin stays silent and focuses on breathing, on hiding the agony burning inside him, on staying alive for destiny's sake.

Out of everything, witchfinder shackles will not get the better of him.

He can't let that happen.

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Alright, please excuse errors bc this kept flowing and got a bit long for me to have enough time to check properly, oops...

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EDIT: here’s the direct continuation :)

like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist