#empires smp fanfic

[valoisfulcanellideux]

AToTD - Full title and cover reveal

I walk these streets I thought I knew...

Coming soon to AO3: A Tale of Two Devotions by Valois Fulcanelli.

I've been teasing this for weeks (probably months) by now, but since I'm deep into the writing of it, it's time that I revealed what the mysterious 'AToTD' stands for... aaaaand what the cover looks like.

You ready?

I am beyond thriled to reveal the cover for A Tale of Two Devotions that I commissioned from none other than the amazing Sabira - @floweroflaurelin!

Those of you who guessed from my hints that this is a story about the Copper King and the Phantom Assassin? You were right on the money!

I'm deep into the writing of it at the moment, and I won't start uploading chapters until it's fully complete. Nor will I show you the full 'book cover' that I made from Sabira's stunning artwork (because that full cover reveals the blurb for the story, and I need to keep some secrets, dammit!) but I'm so excited to share this with you.

Sabira absolutely delivered everything (and then some - look at that outfit, and the armour!) that I wanted for this artwork, and I've been metaphorically sitting on this cover for almost two months xD

There's another commission in the works with them right now, too. Can you guess what that one is for, dear readers? ;)

[thetomorrowshow]

response

empires superpowers au masterlist (not up to date)

this takes place about 10 months after the end of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, flashbacks, heavy dissociation, blood & injury

~

It’s on the news before it’s anywhere else, which is to say, everyone knows before Jimmy.

Lizzie texts him to ask him if he needs anything, and while it’s an odd message to receive out of the blue, Jimmy doesn’t mind it at all. Lizzie checks in occasionally, particularly after big life events, and it’s just nice to hear from her.

Then Joel texts the same thing, and Jimmy starts to feel that something’s wrong.

He only finds out by chance, though—he turns on the TV and it happens to be on the news, and just before he switches away, he sees the scrolling headline.

MAJOR DISAPPEARS AFTER FIGHT WITH THE ORACLE.

His stomach drops.

The clip starts playing moments later, some newscaster narrating it like a sports game, not like his partner’s life is on the line.

“So here we can see the Oracle grab Major—it’s barely contact, but anything goes with that villain—and then, while Major’s disoriented, he slams him into the ground.”

Jimmy watches, mouth slightly open, as Scott indeed is shoved into the asphalt with enough force to knock a few teeth out. He winces, old injuries twinging in sympathy. It doesn’t stop there, though—as Scott is grabbing at the Oracle’s legs, doing anything to pull himself back up, he goes suddenly limp, and the Oracle lands a terrible hit to Scott’s nose, sending blood spurting everywhere.

The Oracle grasps Scott by the hair, then, Scott’s arms flailing out, and slams his head into the road. Jimmy gasps, reaches out as if he can grab Scott through the screen. This is bad. Scott hasn’t had such a bad fight since Xornoth. The Oracle must be getting more powerful, or gotten more training recently or something, because last Jimmy knew he was a local menace, not actually a danger.

Jimmy almost can’t watch. His hands are up at his mouth, and he can’t tear his eyes from the screen as Scott stops trying to fight back and just tries to crawl away. He almost makes it—the Oracle grabs him by the cape, pulls him back as his fingers scrabble for purchase.

The Oracle drags him up, has him in a chokehold—it’s the perfect position to just kill him, he’s already too weak to do much and the Oracle could easily slip a knife from the folds of his clothing and slash Scott’s throat, but he doesn’t. He just holds him as Scott struggles, whacking at his grip with steadily clumsier arms. Scott stops moving after a moment, and Jimmy’s moving forward, toward the TV, he has to help—

Scott’s only gathering strength though, and moments later he manages to buck backward and throw the Oracle’s arms from around his neck. With a spray of ice on the road, Scott collapses and penguin slides down the hill and past the news van, throwing up a curved wall of ice to make a sharp turn to the right. He disappears from view entirely, and when the camera turns back to the Oracle, he’s gone.

It’s barely a minute-long clip, but it leaves Jimmy breathless in the worst way possible. He needs to find Scott, he needs to help him—he’s opening the front door before he even puts his mask on, only in socks and his gym clothes, he’s got to find him—

His phone buzzes, and without even thinking he answers, everything in him tensing at the thought that it could be Scott, it has to be Scott—

“Jimmy, where are you right now?”

Lizzie. His heart utterly sinks. “I’m—do you know where he is? I’m going out to find him—”

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, yes, but I’m leaving—”

“Do not leave,” she tells him sternly. For the first time, Jimmy registers feedback from her end—as if she’s outside on a windy day, or standing on the pier. “Stay at home.”

“I have to find him,” says Jimmy, and he needs to grab his key—where is his key, it’s usually right on the hook by the door—

“Joel and I are sweeping the city, all right? You need to stay home.”

“I’m not scared,” Jimmy retorts. “I can fight, I will fight, I’ll kill the Oracle if I have to—”

“Jimmy.”

He stops, reluctantly, at her tone.

“You need to stay home right now, because if Scott is his usual stubborn self and doesn’t check himself into a hospital, he’s going to come to you,” she explains. “Now I need you to listen to me, all right?”

He sighs. He’s still burning with a need to get out there, find Scott, but she’s right. Unfortunately. He slams the front door shut, sighs even louder. “Yeah, fine. What is it.”

“Get towels you don’t care about,” she instructs. “I know you have a pack of rubber gloves somewhere, so get those and your first aid kit. Disinfect wherever you’re going to help him—I’d think the dining room table, but it’s your choice. Got all that?”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the closet for the first aid kit, grabbing some bleach-stained hand towels from the bathroom on the way. “Yeah. What else?”

“We’re most worried about a concussion here, so he might be confused—especially after fighting the Oracle. Help him know he’s safe and cared for. Maybe get something he’s familiar with to have near, to ground him?”

“Treat it like a flashback, got it.” Jimmy sets the first aid kit down on the table, runs back to their bedroom. He and Scott had gone on a Build-A-Bear date recently, and Scott had gotten the Frozen’s Elsa bear. That should do for grounding, hopefully.

He brings the bear (and after a thought, his own, a brown bear with roller skates) back to the dining room, then cracks open the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit and starts rubbing down the table and one of the chairs.

“Take care of him, all right?” Lizzie says, sounding almost far away. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you with more updates. Text me if he shows up.”

Before he can even say goodbye, she hangs up.

Great. He just has to deal with this situation alone, then. Scott’s never been that badly injured since Jimmy’s been dating him—sure, there was the broken arm incident, but Scott had still won that fight. He’s never been so badly injured that he had to flee.

What if he doesn’t remember how to get home? It’s not like he’s lived here his whole life, it’s entirely possible that he gets lost on the way back. Jimmy needs to go looking for him, has to be out there to help—

From the office comes the sound of a window sliding open.

Jimmy drops the rag he’d been using to wipe down the table and sprints for the office.

Sure enough, Scott is there, one leg in the window, and looking absolutely awful.

He looks worse than he had on TV. The collar of his costume is drenched in blood, most of which seems to be stemming from his nose but there’s blood in his bright blue hair and dripping from his mouth and all over—

Blood, there’s so much blood and Jimmy’s not sure if its his own or his opponent’s but as he stares at it he feels nothing, nothing but hope that his master will reward him for being so good—

Scott grunts and Jimmy’s back in the present, but his feelings of detachment remain. He crosses the office to the window and wraps an arm under Scott’s armpit to pull him the rest of the way in (Scott cries out, but Jimmy ignores it), then puts his other arm at his knees and fully lifts his boyfriend up.

Scott’s almost too heavy to carry—sure, Jimmy’s been working out, but the deadweight of a muscular, six foot human isn’t anything that he’s used to. So he gathers all of his strength and hurries down the hallway before his arms can give out, carrying Scott to the dining room and settling him in the chair he’s prepared before cracking open the first aid kit.

Jimmy strips off his mask first, grimacing at the bruises already beginning to ring his eyes. Luckily, Jimmy’s set quite a few broken noses in his time, and he mutters a warning before jerking it back into place. Scott lets out another cry, muffled by Jimmy shoving a wad of cotton under his nose.

He holds it there for a few moments while he categorizes the other wounds. The head wound is probably most important—or rather, most dangerous. There’s scrapes and bruises in various places all over his body, visible through the tears in his costume. Red stains his lips, so Jimmy pries his mouth open—yep, missing tooth and bitten tongue. He knows Scott’s already got an implanted molar, but this is one of his front teeth, leaving a gaping hole in his mouth. That’s going to need some cosmetic surgery.

It’s not really a huge concern at the moment, though, so Jimmy moves on, rolling down the neck of Scott’s costume.

Sure enough, bruises are already blossoming around his throat. That’s not something Jimmy can take care of himself—he needs an x-ray to make sure nothing’s broken, probably. In fact, it would be better just to take Scott to the hospital right now.

One last thing to check—across the room, on the hook where he usually leaves it, is his key, a pocket flashlight attached to the key ring. Jimmy retrieves it, shines it in Scott’s eyes.

His pupils don’t dilate smoothly, and the left eye is slower than the right. That’s never good.

“Are you feeling disoriented?”

Scott blinks. “. . . yeah,” he rasps. Jimmy hands him his glass of water, gives him a napkin when he chokes on it.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he announces, clicking off the flashlight. “Put your mask back on, I’ll carry you to the car.”

Scott complies, hands moving slowly and shakily. “I—Jimmy?” he asks, voice small.

“Yeah?”

Scott sniffles. “I don’t feel well.” “That’s why we’re going to the hospital,” Jimmy tells him, voice utterly lacking emotion. He doesn’t feel much of anything, right now. “Do you want to bring anything?”

Scott looks around, blinking slowly. He points to the Elsa bear on the table. Jimmy nods, glances around for a moment before finding a reusable plastic grocery bag and stuffing the bear in it.

“You’ll have to leave it in the car, but that’s fine. Let’s go.”

Scott is, for the most part, complacent as Jimmy picks him up, wrapping his arm around Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy carries him out of the house and into the backseat of the car as quickly as possible, then ducks back inside to look for Scott’s thin work wallet, eventually finding it just outside the office window. He grabs it—it identifies Scott as Major, has his SuperInsurance card, and other necessary cards—then heads back out to the car, swinging into the driver’s seat and snapping a mask over his face. He tosses the bag with the bear in the backseat with Scott, then pulls out of the driveway.

The hands on the steering wheel don’t look like his, and it takes until Jimmy clicks on the turn signal at a stoplight to realize that he’s dissociated. In fact, he thinks he’s been out of it since he helped Scott inside. Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember doing anything to comfort Scott, calm instincts taking over to keep him from panicking.

A glance in his rearview mirror shows that Scott barely looks conscious. “Don’t fall asleep,” Jimmy snaps, and Scott jolts up, gasping, one hand clutching at his other arm. His other arm that looks mysteriously swollen, held carefully close to Scott’s body.

How had he focused so hard on the head wound that he hadn’t even noticed an injured arm? It’s clearly hurting Scott, and he had done nothing—

“Stay awake, okay? Talk to me. What are you feeling?”

“My arm hurts,” Scott manages. “I think—Jimmy, I think it’s broken again. I don’t—where are we going?”

“The hospital. Just hang tight, we’ll be there soon.”

They won’t be there soon. They’re still at least twenty minutes away. Scott had actually been closer to the hospital before he’d headed home, so he could’ve saved them both some time and gone straight there.

The hands that are definitely his but don’t look it tighten on the wheel. None of that matters right now. Right now he just needs to get Scott to somewhere for treatment.

It’s a tense drive, but Jimmy manages to stay levelheaded. He knows he’s speeding, so every cop car he passes he sends a burst of power out toward, hoping whatever accident it causes won’t be very dangerous.

He sees the signs for the hospital and cuts across three lanes of traffic to get into it. Once there, he pulls into a parking spot and looks up.

At the hospital.

The dissociation hits full-force.

It’s not the hospital, not the one where he was taken right after, but it’s still a hospital. It’s still tied to needles and blood and long hours on an exam table and distress and pain, and just looking at it makes his head all woozy.

His head presses against something hard. His hands go slack. He’s not sure where he is. He’s not sure what’s real.

It’s easier to believe that he’s asleep, easier to accept that none of this is real. He doesn’t even know what he doesn’t want to be real.

He’s not sure how long he floats there, feeling nothing but anxiety about how he’s feeling nothing. He doesn’t even register that there’s any sort of outside stimulation until he hears words, tinny and staticky.

“Jimmy? Hey, Jim, what’s happening? Talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” he thinks he says. “What’s happening?”

A sigh. “Scott says you just sort of zoned out. Do you know why?”

He’s not sure how to answer, so he doesn’t.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No,” he admits, because he doesn’t. He has no clue where he is or how he got here, and now that he’s realized that, the anxiety develops into panic.

“Look around, Jim. Tell me five things you can see.”

Five things—that’s a grounding exercise. Jimmy knows that’s a grounding exercise. He glances around. “There’s a steering wheel. Radio. A seat. I’m in the car.” It hits him like a train, the understanding that he was driving, and he can’t remember that he was driving, and he can’t remember why he was driving, but he’s in the car behind the steering wheel. “Um, asphalt. Parking lines.”

“Cool, four things you can touch?”

The hands in front of him don’t exactly look like his own. One of them lays itself on the steering wheel, and he’s not sure if it’s by his own instruction or not.

He’s sitting in the car, though, so he can assume some certain things. “The seat. The armrest. Um.”

“That’s good. Anything else?”

The voice sounds rushed. Jimmy cringes. He can’t really feel much, other than the awareness that a thing is touching him. Another sigh.

“Right, hand the phone back to Scott, okay? Scott, where are you?”

Is he holding something? He’s holding a phone, and that’s where the voice is coming from. Jimmy stares at it, not quite sure what he can do with it. “Hand it back to Scott,” he echoes.

“Jim’s really out of it, Scott, so can you just look out the window and tell us which hospital it is? Then Lizzie and I’ll be over.”

“It’s . . . United. You guys are coming here?”

“Yeah, well, it sounds like you two are being a bit dysfunctional right now. I’ll escort you and Lizzie’ll stay with Jimmy, and that way all bases are covered. Sound good?”

“I guess?”

It’s warm, Jimmy thinks. Like he’s lying next to a heater. At least it’s feeling something. He feels so detached, so out of his body, that he’s not sure of anything anymore.

He doesn’t hear any more speaking, and he’s not sure if that’s good or not. He just sort of . . . exists, less-than-present but not nonexistent.

At least, until there’s someone grabbing his arm.

He’s not exactly snapped back into his body, but he can see it now—someone heaving him out of the car, someone with pink hair, wrapping an arm around him and walking him to the other side of the car. It feels like he’s observing from above, knowing that it’s his body being moved but feeling no real attachment to it.

It all becomes foggy again as he’s set down in the passenger seat, but he manages to register something clicking and then the car moving. He doesn’t know how long the car moves, but at some point, there’s someone talking to him.

“Scott’s all right, you’re all right, everything is fine. Jimmy, are you with me?”

He tries to nod. He’s not sure if he does it properly.

“No, you’re not. Can you hold this?”

Something’s put in his hand. He doesn’t know what it is.

“Smell that, all right?”

He lifts it up to his nose. It smells sharp, citrus-y.

“What’s that smell like?”

“Oranges,” he answers dutifully.

“Keep your hand up, keep smelling it. Can you describe it?”

He sniffs it again. “Nice,” he eventually says. “Clean. Oranges, and lemons.”

“What does an orange taste like?”

He puts the thing in his mouth.

“No—! No, Jimmy, don’t eat that! That’s—that’s an air freshener, it’s not an orange! Please take it out of your mouth!”

It’s bitter, he thinks, as he obeys. Not like how oranges usually taste. Oranges usually taste sweet, a bit sour, and have all those stringy bits that you have to get off otherwise eating the segments aren’t worth it. It’s one of his favorite tastes, though; the fridge always has orange juice in it and there’s usually oranges on the table. Not just because they taste good, but because they’re decent tools for grounding. The peel has a strong smell and texture, and when you’re done peeling you can taste it.

This isn’t an orange. But it feels suspiciously like a grounding exercise. Why would he be doing grounding?

He blinks, looks up at Lizzie. She’s here. He doesn’t remember her getting here. “Am I dissociating?” he asks.

She laughs a little. “Yeah, I think you might be. Can you smell the air freshener again?”

It’s wet with his own saliva in his hand, but he raises it to his nose anyway. “I’m smelling the air freshener.”

“Good job. Don’t eat it.”

“Don’t eat the air freshener.”

“Smell it.”

“Smell it.”

“Yes.”

“It smells like orange.”

“Mhm.”

Jimmy closes his eyes and breathes in deep. It smells like orange, but not quite. More bitter than an actual orange. Like the way it tasted bitter. “Did I put an air freshener in my mouth?”

Lizzie laughs again. “You very much did. Are you back?”

“No,” he tells her, then goes back to smelling. He can smell something else on his hands, something just as familiar as an orange. Something clean, yet bad. Something that hurts.

“Jimmy, you’re crying. Can you keep smelling the air freshener? Lift your hand back up. What’s it smell like?”

He smells it. “Orange.”

“That’s right. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it.”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

Jimmy likes oranges, so it only makes sense for him to like this scent, right? But in the same way it tastes bad, he’s not sure that the smell of it can hold a candle to real oranges.

“I don’t know,” he says slowly.

“All right. What do you know?”

He sniffs the air freshener. “It smells like oranges. I’m holding it. It tastes bad. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” agrees Lizzie. “Do you want me to hold your hand?”

Jimmy frowns. “Holding the air freshener.”

“You have two hands.”

Oh. Right. He extends his other hand, Lizzie taking it in hers. Her hands are cool, but not nearly as cool as Scott’s. Her nails are pointy, brushing against his skin. The skin. Of the hand. It doesn’t look like his.

“I’m dissociating real bad, I think,” he murmurs. Lizzie’s hand grips his tighter.

“That’s all right. I’m here until you feel better.”

It’s a long time until Jimmy feels more like himself. When he fully becomes aware again, he’s sitting on his couch next to Lizzie, sharing some leftover pasta between them. He blinks at it, vaguely remembering the process it had taken to get him to eat it at all.

“I’m back, I think,” he says, blinking a couple of times. He licks his lips, tastes the pasta sauce there. 

“Oh, thank goodness,” Lizzie sighs in relief. “I was just going to try getting you to nap next, I was completely out of ideas.”

Jimmy laughs a little, thoughts still somewhat out of order from all the fog settled around his brain. “Norman usually helps. Did you get him?”

“Check your feet.”

He looks down. Sure enough, Norman is curled up on his feet, purring loudly.

Jimmy doesn’t remember much from the past—however long it’s been. He has bits and pieces of the drive home from the hospital, but he has no idea when Lizzie turned up or what happened to Scott.

Scott.

He jolts up, almost knocking his plate of pasta to the floor. “Scott,” he gasps out, “is he—did—”

“Scott’s fine,” Lizzie says placatingly, gesturing for him to relax. “Joel just texted me a few minutes ago. He got some stitches and they just finished his scans, they’re waiting on the results. They got him on some pretty good pain meds, I heard, so he’s doing fine.”

Reluctantly, Jimmy sits back, wringing his hands. Sure, Lizzie can tell him that Scott’s fine. But he hasn’t seen that, he doesn’t know for sure, all he knows is that he barely did anything to treat Scott’s wounds and then couldn’t even walk him into the hospital.

His head hurts.

“We can call him, maybe?” suggests Lizzie. Jimmy nods after a moment. That might help.

He sits in silence as she fiddles with her phone, doing who knows what. Every second that passes is another second that Jimmy doesn’t know how Scott’s doing.

Then Lizzie’s phone rings.

She answers, grimaces at the screen, then hands it over to Jimmy.

It’s a video call, and Scott’s there. His nose is properly bandaged, now, and Jimmy can see through the eyeholes in his mask that his eyes are puffy and bloodshot. There’s a large bandage along his jawline, and his split lip is actively bleeding. The ring of bruises around his throat is stark against the hospital gown.

He looks absolutely beautiful.

“Jimmy!” Scott cries, delighted, then sheepishly ducks his head when Joel shushes him offscreen. “Joel—sorry, the King says I can’t say your name.”

Jimmy chuckles, nerves quieting as he gazes at Scott. “That’s fine, Major. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” Scott admits. He shrugs. “My head hurts, but they put some good drugs in my arm and I can’t really feel it so that’s good!” He tips the screen to show an IV. Jimmy shudders and looks away.

When he looks back, Scott’s turned it back to his face, concern written all over it. “Are you okay? You were . . . uh, what’s the word. . . .”

“Dissociating,” Jimmy finishes.

“Yeah. That. Lizzie said it got really bad, but when we got to United, you just sorta . . . blanked out.”

Jimmy bites back a retort. He doesn’t actually want to be mean to Scott, especially not when he’s floating on pain drugs. He’s just exhausted and foggy from the dissociation. “I’m good, just worried about you. And maybe don’t say real names, yeah?”

“Oh. Right. Joel, how much longer?”

A sigh from offscreen. “Probably half an hour, maybe more. Done talking to your man?”

“J—the King wants his phone back,” Scott whispers. “Are you really okay? Do you need a nap?”

Jimmy can’t help but laugh. “I’ll go rest if you rest, yeah? Love you, keep annoying the Mad King.”

“I love you so much,” Scott says seriously. “I wanna kiss you right now, but I don’t wish you were here because that would be bad for you. So I can wait until we go home.”

Suddenly choked up, Jimmy manages a wave, which Scott sets the phone down to return. Then Jimmy passes it back to Lizzie, who exchanges a few words with Joel before hanging up.

Jimmy doesn’t go to bed. He curls up on the couch and turns on some episode of a 90s sitcom to watch in silence.

“You didn’t fail him,” Lizzie says during a commercial. “You did good.”

Jimmy sighs. “Lizzie, I was dissociating before I even helped him into the house. I didn’t call you, I didn’t actually do anything to help him, and I couldn’t even go into the hospital with him. I freaked out and couldn’t help when he needed me.”

“You fought a trauma response to assess your boyfriend’s injuries and were able to drive him to the hospital,” Lizzie counters. “You set his broken nose and kept your head, despite having triggers all around you. Not to mention, driving him to the hospital was probably the best choice you could’ve made—I don’t have a car, and Joel was halfway across the city. There was no way we could get him to help. You did everything you could.”

Jimmy doesn’t argue. He’s too tired. He just turns his attention back to the TV as the commercial break ends.

When Joel helps Scott in the house several hours later, Lizzie’s made pancakes for them all, and Jimmy’s set out plates and spreads. Scott eats a single pancake, eyelids heavy, before limping off for bed. Jimmy follows him, rearranges the pillows so that Scott’s newly-casted arm can be elevated.

“You’re gonna be here a while, mister,” Jimmy tells him, handing him an ice pack. “Doctor’s orders. A week of bed rest, all for you.”

“At least I can give you kisses,” Scott slurs, smiling the best he can with a split lip and swollen mouth. Jimmy giggles, stripping off his shirt and climbing into bed next to him.

“I think even kisses are gonna hurt, baby. It’s okay, though. You’ll be okay.”

Scott nods sleepily, eyes already closed. “Yeah. We both will be.”

[deityoftherain]

I completely missed @mcytfanfictionappreciationweek but I want to give some fanfic recs anyway ✨

…also ignore how most of these include flower husbands (and specifically including Scott) lol I’m aware I have a type but there are some that aren’t specifically flower husbands related I swear

^ very longfic flower ranchers slow burn mostly during a fancreated game after double life; emotionally destroyed me in the best ways with happy ending

^ same author as above but Scott finds out he’s part siren and his boyfriends (Tango and Jimmy) try to help him get over the insecurity he developed about them only liking him because he’s charmed them

^ dead dove flower husbands superpowers series can be hard to read specifically because of the topic at hand but is written well and spoilers has happy ending and we’re getting oneshots of what happens post the big bad event and it’s adorable and worth it

^ amnesiac Jimmy shows up at Rivendell

^ FANTASTIC EVENTUAL FLOWER HUSBANDS ? the writing quality and worldbuilding is fantastic I love it so much it’s going over their lives from children up and it’s so beautiful

^ snowbugs with amazing worldbuilding so far! Tango is a Mythlander prince with his siblings being Sausage, Fwhip, and Gem- I believe it’s going to be eventual flower ranchers?? but is set up to be longfics with multiple stories from what I can tell

^ been awhile since I read this but if you like roseblings I remember really liking it

^ flower husbands arranged marriage au with a bunch of characters from other things like the life/hermitcraft sphere being extra siblings and citizens to the characters in empires SMP my friend actually is writing this one hi friend

I need to get better about bookmarks or subscribing to things I really like so I can give recs easier 😭

If you’re curious about my fics, I post them under the cut on my pinned intro post on my account and my username is deityoftherain on ao3 also feel free to send me recs I love them

[simple-seranade]

“Critter City has defenses, and once we rebuild-“

Jimmy laughs, a high sound tinged with slight hysteria. It makes Lizzie’s fur stand on end. “Rebuild? Rebuild? You only to have to rebuild a little bit of stone!”

He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the debris around him, the world, the universe, every single spark of existence that only seems to be against him. He can still hear the other’s voices ringing in his head, and it only makes him want to talk louder and louder and louder, because he will be heard for once, damnit.

“I have to rebuild my whole life!” Respect might as well be buried under bedrock or tossed into the void below with how far out of reach it is, and on top of it all he has nothing to even try to reach for it with. All of his things, all his tools, the results of hours of hard work of finally collecting some sort of payment for what he does around here, gone. Lost forever.

Just like he lost his deputy. His height. His humanity.

His sanity.

“My whole life and you’ve taken it away from me! MY WHOLE LIFE!” He isn’t just in Critter City now. He’s standing in his own railroad tracks as the people mock him, he’s coughing on the potion particles floating in the air as he shrinks, he’s covering his ears as he tries desperately not to make a sound and alert the wandering warden. He’s back on the bridge, Fwhip and Gem and Sausage laughing at him before the Princess of Peace slices a sword through his chest.

He’s reliving every moment of his life here, and it only makes him angrier.

“You lot think I’m the villain?” He isn’t. He just wants to help. He’s only ever wanted to help. He’s only ever wanted to be a person.

But they denied that of him.

They stripped him down to a joke, a punching bag, some little thing (not person, not human) to look at when life felt miserable to feel better about themselves. Called him corrupt for simply doing his job. Made his life a living hell.

“You’re the villain.” He spits out, and he’s not just talking to Lizzie now, he’s spelling it out for all the universe to see.

He’s the hero of this story.

And everyone knows heroes are always in the right.

(Now if only there was a single hero who was happy.)

[seth-kia]

Something is wrong with his hands.

Pix has been awake for some time since respawning. His head throbs; his lungs burn with the effort of taking a breath, like death is still fighting him--perhaps it is, because he feels terrible. He's drained and shaky, like he'd been wracked with fever and only now broken through the sickness.

He lay there catching his strength through trembling fingers until he felt well enough to try and stand.

That's when he gets it. Something is wrong with his hands.

Pix pushes them against the bed to sit up, and they go through the sheets like they're nothing.

He falls.

The breath he'd just regained is taken from him as his back slams into the mattress--or it should. Instead, he plunges into the wool like water, back sinking through the wooden frame. It's stifling against his skin, body which is stuck halfway into his bed, and he is panicking, and he cannot breathe.

It's somewhere in that panic that he realizes he does not need to.

The shock stops him in his floundering, going still within the should-be-solid blankets. He is frozen. He is not breathing, and it does not hurt.

Why does it not hurt?

Beneath all the terror, curiosity surfaces. It's warmer, and comforting. He's spent his whole life learning, understanding. Researching.

Knowing.

Something is wrong with his hands, and he needs to know what.

And for that, he needs to get up.

Pix braces his palms against the wood below, and it feels solid enough. Pushing, lightly at first, his body feels weightless, like he has no substance. With a gentle shove, he rises above the wool.

Now he's sitting on it. He's not sinking. His blankets are real in his grasp.

He takes a breath. A shuddering, slow, careful inhale, tasting the dust of the catacombs deep in his lungs, his muscles weak and sore, but he is breathing. He's breathing.

He huffs a shaky laugh, and it echoes. What a defiance, he thinks, to laugh even when he feels like death itself is holding him down.

There's a distant meow from deep within the catacombs.

He chuckles again, feeling stronger with the air in his lungs. "I hear you, Neptune," he calls, his voice surprisingly even.

The cat's yowl bounces through the winding halls. It's tense, and concerned, and out of place of their usual playful mews.

The research could wait, Pix decides. He didn't know how long he'd been dead for. Had he fed Neptune yet?

"I'm coming, hold on," he says, and hears a confirmatory meow in reaponse.

Bringing his legs off of the sheets, he presses his feet into the floor, testing the surface and deeming it solid. He doesn't fall through when he stands.

Still weak, he reaches for a wall to steady himself, and his hand sinks three inches into the stone before stopping.

"This is... very strange," he says to himself, thoughtful. He pulls his hand from the wall, and it feels like removing a block of slime from a piston--the stone clings to him, but finally he is released, nearly knocking himself off balance again before he's steady on his feet.

Mentally, he notes that down. Touching feels like water; escaping feels like molasses.

Neptune yowls again, from deep within the catacombs, and he sets off for the staircase to find the cat.

It almost feels a little like he's walking across sand. He sinks a little into the surface, and it clings when he takes another step, but other than that, it's all the same. He gets used to the rhythm as he explores his storage rooms, the winding corridors calming, grounding him in familiarity.

When he turns the corner, he finds the ghost cat is no longer a ghost.

Neptune is regal and proud and unabashedly solid, licking their paw smugly. Their tail flicks around in greeting.

"Buddy, look at you!" Pix says, unable to keep the glee from his voice. "A--a real boy, as one might say! You know, your fur is much more vibrant now that you aren't translucent."

The cat stops grooming, tilting their head almost in confusion. They stretch, and reach forward with a paw.

Instinctively, Pix holds out a hand to catch it.

Neptune's claws are real and solid, and they hurt.

"Hey!" He yanks his hand away, cradling it. "What was that for?"

Neptune trills, expression unnervingly similar to something of frustration. They paw at the air again.

"What?" he asks. "I'm not giving you my hand again, if you're going to use me as a scratching post."

The cat's gaze is unmoving. For a being completely incapable of speaking Common, they are unfairly convincing.

Their tail twitches.

"Fine," Pix sighs. He holds out his palm again.

Neptune gently places a paw on his fingers, pulling his hand fully flat, where Pix can see claw marks across the flesh.

"Yes, that's where you--"

He pauses.

There's no blood from the wounds.

The skin has clearly separated, and the marks are deep, but it's not bleeding. Instead of red, he sees a grayish void between bone and flesh, undefined and unmoving.

"--clawed me," he finishes slowly. "Neptune, I don't suppose you know why I'm missing my blood, do you?"

They meow, loudly, and lick the back of their paw.

"Helpful," Pix mutters.

Neptune looks at him.

He curls his fingers into a fist, the claw marks opening to reveal more of the absence of crimson. Had the cat not torn open his palm, he probably wouldn't have known about the whole 'missing blood' issue for a long while. "Point taken."

The curiosity nagged at him again. He had so many questions, so many things he didn't know the answer to.

Pix thought back to his death, curled beneath the shelves of Katherine's castle. It was cold, and painful, like concrete was flooding his veins, like someone had tangled a rope around his heart and lungs and pulled it taught, like someone had poured acid all over his skin, like he was disintegrating. He'd never died like that before. Not even to the hands of wither skeletons in the Nether, not to weakness, not to poison.

When he'd woken, he fell through his bed. His hands sunk into surfaces. He didn't need to breath, but he could. His wounds didn't bleed.

But he could touch his cat, who previously to this moment, was a ghost.

"Am I..."

He feels like, inside himself, something's been taken from him. Like something less physical than his blood is missing.

Neptune watches him, pausing their grooming.

"...It's not that you're alive, now, is it," he says. "That's not why you look real to me."

Saying it out loud hurts, as if he'd spoken the truth into reality. The realization floods him with emotions he can't name, and he takes a breath, the cool air grating against his dry throat.

Neptune purrs. They bunt their head into Pix's palm, who runs his fingers through the fur absent-mindedly, revelling in how solid it is through his nails, how real it feels against his bloodless skin.

Something is wrong with his hands, he thinks.

"I'm not really alive anymore, am I?"

Neptune blinks slowly.

Pixl feels the rumbling through the ribcage of his ghost cat. The trill echoes through the hallowed catacombs, below a long dead city, covered in thousands of years of dust.

He hums.

After everything, it's a little appropriate. Something living, breathing, pulsing in the heart of so much history--something truly alive--was bound to be stifled and choked by it all someday.

A laugh escapes him, and his ghost cat's tail curls around his arm, warm and solid and real.

"Perhaps another ghost here isn't so out of place, huh, Neptune?"

ao3 link here!

[iicarussea]

reunited, at last.

This is the Emperor's Hamlet au !!

The gist of it is that Fwhip and Gem haven't seen eachother in ~10 years, and the only person Fwhip had left was Gem, so he moved to Emperor's Hamlet. A lot of things have changed about both of them in the time they were apart (mainly Fwhip, because he's trans in the au !!).

Fwhip learns a lot about this town—more of a village, really; a hamlet. No wonder it's named that. But it's a really weird place. There's something in the woods, a man who won't leave his home, and a fisherman who likes cod a lot, apparently.

———

Maybe it can be home, though.

part 1 /

(feel free to send me asks about this au btw !! i need to ramble about this so much lol)

[djpurple3]

his tears freeze when he cries, did you know that?

3k words, Empires s1, romantic scwhip (fWhip/Scott), vaguely canon compliant, set just before Scott leaves on his Elsa Arc. Full fic both on AO3 and posted below.

Tagged: kissing, crying, self-deprecation, abandonment issues, hurt no comfort, angst, winged Scott and fWhip, tragic romance.

Summary:

After fWhip's sister gets hit by Scott's newly developing and quickly out-of-control powers, fWhip has that sort of... gut feeling that everything is about to fall apart. He rushes to Rivendell to see Scott just in time - catching Scott as he is about to leave. fWhip now has to try, in vain, to convince his love to stay.

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

fWhip has that… that gut sort of feeling. When Gem had shown up, allegedly ‘feeling fine’ but corrupted to all hells and back, and talking about Scott, fWhip had a terrible sort of feeling. Now, coming to a quick landing in Rivendell’s main plaza, he sees he was right to assume the worst.

Scott, wings half-unfurled, stares at him, caught off guard, and… painfully scared.

When fWhip dares to approach, he has to swallow hard, stomach twisting itself into agonising knots, because as he draws closer, Scott shies away.

“I’m not mad,” fWhip says quickly. He raises his hands in a show of peace. “Not anymore, I promise.”

“It’s not just that,” Scott says, and he doesn’t even look at fWhip, and that hurts too. “It’s… no. You should go.”

“Go?” fWhip stops five paces away, hands still in the air, and he tries to smile, tries to joke it off. “But I just arrived! And it was such a long journey, too.”

“You may use one of my people’s homes to rest,” Scott says. He’s really trying to brush fWhip off. And, fWhip notices, Scott’s… not in his usual robes. He’s in warm weather gear – not sleek and well-fitted royal garb, but thick and sturdy. Scott is… he’s in runaway clothes, isn’t he? “I will send word for you.”

“Scott.”

“You can’t… I-,” Scott cuts himself off with an aching sigh. “We can’t, fWhip.”

And Scott finally looks up. His eyes are wide and bright and exhausted. fWhip can’t help but notice that Scott’s been clutching his hands tightly together over his stomach this entire time.  It’s a stark contrast to the usual way Scott would gesture as he spoke.

“You should understand better than anyone else.” Scott’s lips purse, and he looks away. “…How is she?”

“Well, she’s…” fWhip looks away, too. Scratches the back of his head as he fumbles for his words. “She went looking for a cure herself, and got corrupted, actually, but… I took her to Katherine, who managed to purify her. She’s good as gold, now, …if not a little shaken.”

“Corrupted?” Scott echoes, horrified, and he steps back sharply, hands flying to his mouth. “Even Gem? E-even the… the Great Wizard of the Crystal Cliffs…”

“Hey. We both know that it doesn’t matter who you are,” fWhip says sharply, but the way Scott’s face falls tells fWhip he’s accidentally hit a sore spot. “But! She got help! We defeated it together.”

fWhip does his best to smile, now and takes a half-step closer.

“And besides. This,” fWhip gestures at Scott, now, up and down, “isn’t that. You’re… you’re you, Scott. You didn’t mean it. She knows you didn’t mean it. I know you didn’t mean it. It… it’s okay.”

“It’s not!” Scott’s hands tighten, and the air gets several degrees colder even as Scott takes a jerky step back that spreads frost from where his boot makes contact with the ground. fWhip fights down the urge to shiver, and holds his ground. “I… you’re not listening to me! I can’t control myself, fWhip. A-and I don’t… I don’t want to keep hurting people.”

And fWhip watches in quiet horror as tears fall down Scott’s face. But… but they aren’t normal tears. They’re frozen on his cheeks, long before they hit the ground, and bounce on the cobblestones with little tink-tink-tinks.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Scott says, and he reaches out to fWhip for a moment, just a moment, before he catches himself, and tucks his hands away again.

fWhip involuntarily makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat, before he has a thought, eyes lighting up. Scott watches him in confusion as fWhip frantically pats down his coat.

“Look, wait, hang on,” he tells Scott, before he finds the right pocket and pulls out his work gloves. “These- these babies? Designed to withstand the extreme temperatures of my forge.”

And fWhip doggedly closes the distance before Scott can argue, pulling his gloves on, and takes Scott’s hands in his. Scott flinches, gasps, his hands flex as frost spreads across fWhip’s gloves, but fWhip just raises a shaky eyebrow, and smiles.

Scott’s eyes widen.

“See?” fWhip squeezes Scott’s hands, coaxing him along, and finally, the tension leaks from Scott, his shoulders uncurl enough to stand tall again. “You can’t hurt me. It’s alright.”

“…Your technology is marvellous,” Scott says, musing. He gently turns fWhip’s hands over so Scott can inspect the gloves closer. “And you’re sure I’m not…?”

“Can barely feel a thing,” fWhip assures him. “You’d really need to start pumping the temperature up or down to damage these.”

In truth, he hasn’t actually really tested these for cold. But they certainly work for heat. Wearing these, he can handle magma and, to some degrees, even lava with his hands. Which is more where his expertise lies. But they’re holding up more than fine right now. fWhip squeezes Scott’s hands again, even as the frost thickens. He still doesn’t feel the cold.

Scott looks up now, finally meeting fWhip’s eyes… and, gods above and below, he looks tired.

“I’m about to go,” Scott whispers. “I’m… I’m going.”

“Where?” fWhip asks, voice equally hushed, worried, and he immediately steps closer.

“Somewhere. Anywhere. Away from here. I have to.”

“You… Scott.”

“I have to,” Scott’s still crying, his frozen teardrops are almost piling around them now. “I need to learn to control myself. And I need to do it somewhere I won’t freeze someone half to death. O-or worse.”

“And you?” fWhip tilts his head, studying Scott’s face.

“Oh,” Scott says, his best attempt at playful, and he even does his best to give fWhip a smile. “The cold doesn’t bother me.”

“…H-how long will you be gone?”

“Long enough,” Scott says, and his hands tighten around fWhip’s for a moment. “I… I don’t know if I should even…”

“You better come back,” fWhip cuts Scott off, brow furrowing as the pain in his chest threatens to seal off his throat. “You better. I’ll hunt you down if you don’t.”

“fWhip,” Scott says He sounds in pain.

“Scott,” fWhip matches his tone. “You… you can’t go. …I-I’m sorry. I hate seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” Scott says, the bitterness in his tone taking fWhip aback, and he watches as Scott’s lip curls. “A menace? A danger? A threat?”

“Scared,” fWhip says, earnest and simple. “In pain.”

He moves in, now. fWhip catches Scott in a full-on hug, and wraps his leathery wings around both of them, best he can.

“You better come back,” he half-growls, hugging tighter as Scott tenses up with a sharp gasp. “We… gods, Scott, we were just beginning to work.”

“I know,” Scott says, and he sounds so… mournful. “Maybe we just weren’t meant to-”

“You better not finish that sentence either,” fWhip cuts him off again, voice so dark, and fWhip looks up sharply to meet Scott’s ice-blue eyes. They’re practically pressed chest-to-chest now. Scott’s shaking in his arms. “I… you can’t… I can’t… I’ve already lost so many, Scott, you…”

fWhip closes his eyes for a moment, before he finally says, “I can’t lose you too.”

Scott’s face crumples, and he watches fWhip with a devastated expression. fWhip takes his opportunity to lean in and place a kiss on Scott’s cheek.

“fWhip!” Scott reprimands him, and snowy owl wings push draconic ones aside. Scott physically shoves his way out of fWhip’s arms.

“What?” fWhip tries not to sound choked up even as he stumbles back a few steps. “You can’t say you don’t want it!”

“I’ll freeze you!” Scott cries, and fWhip’s eyes widen as frost spreads from around Scott’s boots, seeping deeper into the ground, edging closer to fWhip. “I’ll kill you, fWhip, and I don’t want to. You’d be safer without me!”

Scott puts his head in his hands, turns away, wings circling himself, drawing in tight.

“Everyone would be safer without me,” he whispers to himself.

fWhip chokes on his tongue. He can’t breathe. He needs to say something, anything, but he can’t. The words won’t come.

He takes one hesitant step forward. Then another. He tries to take care not to slip on the ice. Scott doesn’t look up until fWhip is directly in front of him again.

“…fWhip?”

fWhip reaches out, now. He reaches out, worn leather gloves reaching out until he cups Scott’s face gently, so gently, and fWhip tears up as he watches Scott’s eyes widen. fWhip guides Scott’s head down, not all the way, just until their foreheads are resting together, and fWhip closes his eyes, staying there. It’s almost too much to bear.

“I can’t stop you,” he says, low and slow. “I know I can’t. But promise me, Scott. Promise me you’ll come back. I need you to come back.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“You can.” fWhip’s face scrunches up, eyes screwing tighter shut. “…Who’s even looking after your people, when you’re gone?”

“My advisors,” Scott says. “I’ve left them letters; they know what to do.”

“…The Grimlands will lend aid, if they need it,” fWhip’s voice is so soft. Scott’s touch is much colder than it used to be, but fWhip isn’t scared of it. He likes it, even. It… fWhip runs too hot for his own good. He could even get used to this, grow fond of this, …if Scott would stay.

“Thank you,” Scott whispers, and somehow, he’s the one who shivers. “…fWhip.”

“Scott.”

fWhip hasn’t opened his eyes yet. He can’t. If he opens his eyes to see that fear on Scott’s face, it’ll… make this far harder. Too hard. fWhip wants to remember what Scott looked like with a smile. What he used to look like before the demon. Before everything.

“What are you doing?” Scott whispers to him.

“I-I’m trying to remember you happy,” fWhip replies honestly. “So it’ll hurt less when you’re gone.”

Scott’s breathing hitches. Under fWhip’s touch, he shudders. Slowly, fWhip feels the familiar warmth and softness of being encircled by feathery wings, and he melts into it.

“Don’t go.” fWhip can’t help but beg.

“I have to.”

“Then kiss me,” fWhip finally opens his eyes, and takes in Scott’s tears, the fear in his eyes, the way his mouth is hanging a little open, the way he’s drawn tenser than a bowstring, and knows he won’t be able to erase how Scott has changed, has been changed, by all of this. “Kiss me, one last time. Please.”

Scott gasps again, and fWhip watches Scott as he openly wars with himself, fear and longing clawing at each other until Scott gasps for air, and-

“I…” Scott’s hands almost make it to fWhip’s face, but they falter, fall a little, and lightly cup his throat, over where his scarf is, like Scott can’t bring himself to touch fWhip’s bare skin.

“Lean in,” fWhip whispers. “Close your eyes, if it helps. I just… Gods. Give me something to remember you by, Scott.”

Scott caves. fWhip watches it happen, watches it play out across Scott’s face. Scott caves, and closes his eyes and tilts his head down, hesitant, waiting. fWhip is the one who cups Scott’s face again to guide the kiss.

Scott’s lips are cold. fWhip doesn’t let it throw him, just presses their mouths together insistently, tries to press everything he can against Scott’s lips to try and let Scott know he has something to come back to.

When they part for air, Scott doesn’t open his eyes for another moment.

fWhip leans back just a little to start undoing his scarf, and he slips it off, loops it around Scott’s neck, and he’s fumbling with doing up the knot when Scott’s eyes fly open.

“I… I can’t take this,” Scott tries to argue, though he makes no move to stop fWhip.

“I have others,” fWhip tells him sharply, doing up the knot a little too tight as his nerves spike. “Remember me.”

Scott touches it softly, his expression twisting. “Red’s not my colour,” he whispers.

“Means you’ll have to give it back.” fWhip drags him in by the scarf now, and kisses him again, pressing his words to Scott’s lips. “Means you’ll have to remember me.”

It seems to be yet another touchy thing to say to Scott – his lips part like he was going to say something. fWhip almost takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss then and there, but he doesn’t. He… doesn’t think Scott would forgive him if he did.

They break away. fWhip just doesn’t want to take his hands off the elf before him, yet. When he does, Scott will go, and it’ll all be real.

“Is there any last things you need?” he asks instead, makes himself ask instead.

“No.” Scott’s hands fall away to hang at his sides.

“You have enough food?”

“I do.”

fWhip smooths down the scarf. …Scott isn’t wrong about red not being his colour. It just kind of washes Scott out.

fWhip still thinks he looks beautiful.

“…Be safe?”

“You too,” Scott says earnestly. “…If there’s an emergency, send an owl. They’ll find me.”

“I will,” fWhip promises.

And the conversation lulls. It’s come to an end, fWhip can feel it has, but he doesn’t want it to. But Scott steps away now, leaving fWhip’s hands trailing behind him. Snow has started to fall around them, slow and soft.

It settles on Scott’s hair, gleaming in the sun.

fWhip wants to say all sorts of things. Things like I’ll miss you and things like I love you. He doesn’t say any of it, though, because… at the end of the day, he knows Scott knows. And he knows it’ll only make this hurt more.

fWhip knows he can’t stop him. Despite how badly he wishes for the contrary, fWhip cannot stop him. And he knows Scott wouldn’t cope with fWhip following. Even if fWhip wanted to, he …can’t. because even outside of the ‘powers’ thing, it isn’t really, politically, the best of times to leave. But fWhip won’t tell him that. He’ll just have to… to try to cover Scott’s tracks for him.

Scott now leaves five, now six, now seven, now eight empty paces between them, before he smiles, so sadly, so scared, at fWhip; and… there. In that moment right there, fWhip knows that this expressionwill be the face that will haunt his dreams from now on.

“Goodbye, Count fWhip,” Scott whispers. It’s almost as soft as the snow falling around them, but it falls louder than an avalanche on fWhip’s ears.

fWhip swallows hard.

“Goodbye, King Scott,” is all he can whisper back. Helpless. He feels helpless, watching Scott extend his wings, put his back to fWhip, and hesitate only once before he takes off.

Scott circles once, overhead. What gold he’s still wearing catches in the sunlight, as does his hair. fWhip has always thought his hair looks particularly fetching in the sun. It makes his heart lurch now. With a few mighty beats of powerful wings, Scott is soaring into the distance.

Just like that, he’s …gone.

fWhip stays rooted to the spot until Scott’s out of eyeshot, and then a little longer, just for good measure. Snow settles on his hair, his shoulders, his wings. fWhip stays, still as a statue, frozen in place until he can’t stand the cold anymore, and he cracks. fWhip wraps himself up in his wings, finally giving in and shivering as he rips his eyes away from the horizon.

 He feels barer – colder – without his scarf.

As fWhip drops his head, gritting his teeth, something sparkling catches his eye. fWhip makes a sound – a sound that’s a little too close to a sob to play it off, before he leans down, and scoops up a handful of Scott’s frozen tears. He cradles them in his hands, watching them glint in the morning sun.

They are small and delicate in the palms of his thick, dark, leathery gloves.

…It’s only morning. He has a whole day ahead of him. Buildings to build. Councils to meet with. Treaties to negotiate. Paperwork to finish. Inventions to fix.

He…

H-he needs to replace his scarf first.

fWhip stands, turns sharply, and spreads his wings too, closing his hands around the tears. They don’t even seem to be melting, yet. And they don’t the whole way home, and not even when he takes off his gloves and cups them in his bare hands, where they sit, freezing and lonely, against his skin.

fWhip leaves them on his windowsill, in his bedroom, by his bed. He puts his back to them as he huddles by the fire long enough to stave all the cold off, replaces his scarf, though he gave Scott his favourite one. …It was bloodsheep wool. Sausage had made it for him, years ago.

…It’s one he can probably never replace, nowadays.

Eventually, fWhip rises to his feet, making to leave, to try function for the day, and ends up turning back to the window. fWhip can’t help but notice with detached curiosity and buried pain that, even in the full sun, Scott’s tears aren’t melting.

Well then. Good to see fWhip’s got something to hold onto, too.

So, fWhip doesn’t let himself cry. fWhip plasters on his best smile, and leaves, trying to put some fake pep in his step as he goes to meet up with his civil planning committee to try suss out the last of the preparations for their newest building project, and does his best not to slam his bedroom door behind him, as all he can do is to… continue on with his life, and hope for Scott to come back.

[carry-on-my-wayward-gays]

Jimmy Solidarity should get a doll skin JUST for Halloween and ONLY to use it to play a Other Mother type character. Like do a whole "don't you want to be a toy too?" plotline. Like. Imagine him just creeping around Tumble Town as a full on doll.

Like limbs that are held together by stitching, skin that's polyester stuffed with cotton, button eyes, yarn hair. It's creepy. Especially considering he can't blink, his eyes are unmoving black buttons after all. His sewn smile never moves either, no one knows how he talks.

Everyone thought it was funny at first. "Oh he finally accepted he's a toy! It's canon!" But then Jimmy gets weird. He moves oddly, like a baby deer just getting the bearings on its legs. His movements are jerky and he stumbles around like he's about to fall over any minute.

Anyone that brings up the fact that Jimmy is actually a toy now is always stared at for a minute or two. It's a long awkward pause after comments like "awe man you forgot the pull string!".

Black button eyes stare empty at you, through your soul and at the rock behind you. Jimmy barks a laugh. It's punched out and loud, just one syllable.

"oh yeah, it's a great time. Would you like to be a toy?"

"Uh-"

"Cause I know a guy! He did all this to me, after all. It's so wonderful." There's always nervous laughter followed up by that. You raise your hands in mock surrender and for some reason you feel the need to back up. But you stay put.

"your hair would make a lovely color of yarn." Jimmy reaches for you and you flinch back. His hands don't even have fingers, they're just mitten shaped pockets of stuffing and polyester.

"Right, yeah. Very scary Jimmy. Happy Halloween or whatever." You say, trying to hide your nerves behind dismissal.

"Halloween? Oh no you misunderstand. This is not a gimmick or a costume, this is permanent. You did know that, didn't you? When you cursed me to this form?" Jimmy tilts his head, but it flops to the side like a bag of rice. His face is unchanging. It sends a chill down your spine.

"No no I mean. Y-You can stop with this act now, stop trying to scare me, Jimmy." You dig your heel into the sand beneath your feet so you can turn and run at the drop of a hat.

"But this isn't an act! Being a toy is so wonderful! Which is why you made me one, right? Don't you wanna be a toy too?" His tone gets sharp and aggressive but his voice never raises. You flinch back with every word.

"No, I don't!" You wave your hands frantically in front of you. Jimmy takes a step forward.

"Oh but you can choose the color of your buttons." You swear his smile twitches, growing wider and wider. You do not hear the sound of tearing fabric though.

You never noticed you're hyperventilating now. You're scared, fully terrified. Your heart is in your throat and tears are building behind your eyes. You notice just in time that Jimmy is slowly reaching for you.

You don't want to stay to find out what will happen if he does touch you so you spin on the heel you've planted in the ground and run. You run and you don't look back at that town or its Sheriff even though you swear you hear the jingling of boot spurs behind you.

Joel doesn't get a chance to talk to the Sheriff who is suddenly a polyester doll. But he sees him. He sees Jimmy walking around with his jerky movements trying desperately to stay upright. It gives him goosebumps, especially when Jimmy will stop and jerk around to look at Joel, which is when the god stops looking.

And he's heard the stories the other rulers have spread. It's bone chilling but Joel pretends his paranoia doesn't spike when he sees Jimmy online. He pretends to not want to scream in horror every time he sees Jimmy and Jimmy sees him.

He was truly haunted by the ghost of a monster of his own creation.

After Halloween Jimmy goes back to normal. He's bubbly and bright and fiesty as he ever was. But now there's a subtle hint of mischief behind his eyes.

People have tried bringing up his Halloween bit and how it wasn't cool (you and others had nightmares for days) but Jimmy just asks "what are you talking about?" It unsettles everyone. No one talks about it after that. But they think of it. Every second of every day they think about the doll with Jimmy's voice, telling them to replace their eyes with shiny buttons.

[belovedgamers]

ANON PERIOD IS OVER! Hello, everyone! Wrote a little smth smth for @needlebeetles as part of the @mcytrecursive exchange! Have a little spy au Lizzie-centric fic inspired by @codes-and-stuffs‘ foxtrot in 3/4 work!

This was a lot of fun! Likes, reblogs and comments appreciated as always!

Fandom: Empires SMP Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

TOP SECRET EYES ONLY

Access to this file is restricted to those approved by the Agency.

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A look into the operations of one Agent [REDACTED] Rivers.

(OR: Lizzie, and a life of espionage.)

[lunarsands]

ESMP S1 Fanfic - A Garden's Path - Ch 1

Characters: Mythical Sausage, Scott Smajor, Bubbles the Dog, Sir Carlos, appearances by the rest of the cast of Empires SMP S1, featuring blaze-hybrid emperor TangoTek, and introducing: The Children of Mythland (specific characters to be tagged when they appear in each chapter)

Relationships: MythicalSausage/Scott Smajor, LDShadowlady/Smallishbeans, Shubble/Katherine Elizabeth, TangoTek & SolidarityGaming

Tags: Empires SMP S1 AU, scosage, adoption, fluff, wholesome, so much wholesome fluff you would not believe, a bit of angst here and there, Sausage has a few nightmares for Plot reasons, acknowledgement of amputation (not sure how else to tag that but just in case)

WARNINGS: fantasy racism (human v elf), loss of parent (with adoption inevitably comes orphans), minor character death in a later chapter

Chapter Summary: Sausage and Scott set out to Rivendell to start visiting orphanages, hoping to find a child who won't mind their differences. It ends up not being Sausage's prosthetic arm that is off putting, and yet it turns out they don't even have to worry about traveling elsewhere when they meet two young boys who are not only simply curious, but also a perfect match when it comes to compassion and magic.

(Also available on Ao3!)

[ Prologue ]

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Chapter One – The First Princes

Dressed in plain travel clothes and with an overnight bag on hand in case they needed to stay in Rivendell for any extra time, Scott and Sausage stepped up into the simple carriage devoid of any official heraldry that waited in the stable yard. They settled in across from each other as the carriage began to move, and for about the tenth time that morning Sausage adjusted the partial shirt sleeve over the top end of his prosthetic, trying to get it to lay just right.

“Nervous?” Scott asked.

“A little. I hope this thing doesn’t scare too many of them.”

“It’s your arm, plain and simple. Just think of it that way.”

“Maybe I should have asked fWhip for a full sleeve cover or at least a glove.”

“I remember him saying things like that could get caught in the struts or the gears when you move.”

“Well, I could just hold it still in that case.”

“What if one of the children wants a hug? You would need to move it then.” Scott smiled, knowing the magic word.

“Oh! Oh, yeah, that is true.”

“So nervous, you forgot about things like that. It will be all right, Sausage. This is you now. Just be yourself. There doesn’t have to be any final decisions today, either. We have time.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” He stopped fussing with the sleeve and gazed out the window for a while instead. When they passed the final border into Rivendell territory he began to absently rub at his right shoulder. He was still at it when the carriage stopped. Scott gently pulled his hand away and gave him a reassuring smile before exiting onto the dirt road.

A large cottage with a moss-dotted roof and matching extension to the right side sat in a slightly overgrown grassy field. Further down the road the rest of the village was visible, but the area certainly gave the orphanage a spacious feeling. Sausage tugged at his cloak as he followed Scott to the door where they were greeted by two elven women who spoke warmly in Elvish at first – Scott translated that they were grateful the couple had safely arrived and that they were welcome to come inside and walk around.

As they entered, one of the women did a doubletake upon seeing Sausage’s right arm but she only offered a sympathetic smile afterward. Relieved to have passed that much judgement, they continued further into the building where a large classroom was set up. Most of the space was clear of furniture so the younger children could play with toys on the floor while some of the older ones were seated at desks by the far wall with books or actual classwork. Scott remained near the door, chatting away in Elvish, while Sausage ventured into the room, making sure not to startle any of the children with his approach.

He smiled when some of the little ones looked up at him, giving a small wave with his left hand, then stepped closer to start offering comments on their toys. However, a few of the older children suddenly came over and pulled the smaller ones away while giving wary looks – but it was the side of his head they were looking at, not his arm.

Sausage brought his left hand up to trace the outside curve of his ear, realizing that him being a human was more of a concern than the appearance of his arm. He lowered his hand and turned toward the blackboard, pretending to study the words written there as if what had just happened hadn’t bothered him. He recognized a few of the letters and knew the sounds that went with them from what Scott had begun to teach him. Just to take his mind off the less-than-welcoming reception, he muttered a few out loud. “Lah-ela-ha. Sen dra-ah-din. Te…Tehn. Si-veh…”

“Almost got it,” said a voice to his right. “We’re learning constellation names. The accent can be hard on some of the syllables.”

Sausage glanced down to see a boy with a warm umber complexion, tightly curled orange hair, and amber eyes, who then reached up to tap one of the words. Another boy, pale-skinned with longer, dark green hair and light blue eyes stood behind him. “Sieveh.”

Sausage repeated the word, trying to imitate the melodic sound. The boy shook his head. Sausage tried again, then chuckled. “Sorry, I need more practice. I just started learning.”

“That’s okay. Common is hard to learn sometimes, too.” The orange-haired boy nodded sagely. “By the way, I’m Azahar. I’m eleven years old. This is my best friend, Elowen. He’s nine.” It came out sounding rehearsed. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. My name is Sausage. I’m here with my husband, Scott.” He pointed toward the door with his right hand, being the side closer to it.

Azahar nudged the younger boy and said quietly, “I told you it worked like a normal one.”

Elowen nodded enthusiastically then piped up, “Excuse me, can I ask about your arm? It looks really cool! Have you always had it?”

Relieved that they were interested over intimidated, Sausage gave a patient smile. “You can, and thank you. I think it’s cool, too. It’s actually pretty new.”

“Can I touch it?” Elowen asked, and Azahar nodded as well.

“Um, sure. Just be careful of the wiring and those overlapping parts there, they might pinch your finger.” Sausage got down on one knee so his prosthetic was closer, stretching out his fingers so they could get a look at the mechanics of his hand, too. He turned it over as they cautiously poked at some of the metal.

Azahar began looking over the parts connecting to his upper arm but refrained from lifting the partial sleeve. “Can I ask what happened to your real arm?”

An amusing thought popped into Sausage’s head. “A dragon ate it during a fight!”

“Whaaaat?” Azahar’s eyes went wide.

“That’s even cooler!” Elowen exclaimed. “Did it hurt when the dragon bit it?”

“Yes, but I have a friend who is good with healing magic and she helped me.”

“Did you try to get it back?” Azahar asked.

“No, the dragon really wanted it for lunch.”

“Where did you get this one?” was the orange-haired boy’s next question.

“A friend who invents lots of cool stuff made it for me.”

“How does it wo—”

“What happened to the dragon?” Elowen cried, interrupting. Azahar didn’t seem to mind, and was actually looking happy to see the younger boy so engaged.

“Well, I had to take a break from fighting because that was also my sword arm, but my friends defeated it.”

Elowen was beaming, although still attempted to be a little quiet as he said, “I could have a dad who fights dragons? That’s so cool…”

“Two, actually. He helped me.” Sausage pointed again to Scott, who had noticed the exchange going on and was now walking over. “Scott, this is Azahar and Elowen. We were just chatting about dragon battles.” He gave a quick wink.

Azahar asked something in Elvish, to which Scott laughed and spoke a reply where the only word Sausage understood was brave. Then Scott switched to Common. “So, boys, I hear it’s lunchtime soon. Would you like to sit with us and talk some more? Besides about his fascinating arm?” He grinned, directing the look mostly at Sausage.

“Yeah!!” Elowen cried, then ran back to the desk he had previously been sitting at.

“We have to put away our schoolwork before eating,” Azahar explained. He glanced after Elowen, then gave the two adults something of a sad smile and looked up at Scott in particular. “His eyes are like yours.” Then he walked back to his own desk.

Sausage and Scott traded glances and then started toward the door. Scott asked quietly, “Did – Did you tell them we were only looking for one?”

“No, it didn’t come up,” Sausage answered. “They just wanted to know about my arm. Both of them,” he abruptly marveled. “And neither seem to mind that I’m human, which…the others do care about.”

“Maybe we’ve gotten lucky that there are two who are accepting of the situation,” Scott murmured thoughtfully.

“I think Azahar was trying to make sure we at least choose Elowen. They’re already close friends…”

“We could take both…”

“Let’s see how lunch goes. Maybe… just to make sure they’ll be okay with other stuff about us – uh, aside from that part about where we live. Ahem.  We could talk about some other things besides the obvious. Do you want to show them some ice magic, to be on the safe side?”

“I could. Let me talk to the lead caretaker.” Scott broke off to wave at one of the women, while Sausage wandered further from the classroom door, not wanting to be a disruption when the children left for their lunch at wherever the eating area was.

As an accommodation some food was brought to him, Scott, Azahar, and Elowen in the classroom so they could talk without stares from the others. The boys asked about things like their adventures and hobbies, while Scott and Sausage volunteered as much information as they could without giving away their full identities. Azahar grew increasingly more involved when it became obvious that they were both being considered together.

Scott revealed a few tricks he could do with conjured ice magic, making the boys even more curious and intrigued, leading to questions of whether they would be allowed to learn magic. It was agreed that it could be included in their education, prompting them to promise they would do their very best at all their studies and then they showed off some of that day’s classwork.

Not long after that, the boys were sent to pack up their belongings while Scott and Sausage finalized documents with the lead caretaker. She eyed the official seal of Mythland that Sausage placed after his name before hiding the stamp back in his pocket. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell them who you really are before you leave?” she asked in Common.

“We’re certain,” Scott replied. “We’re just two fathers starting a family.” He did trade another glance with Sausage, however. “If for any reason it doesn’t work out, we’ll do the right thing and let you know. But we both hope the next you hear will be about them settling in at their new home.”

When they met the boys at the door, they each took a bag to carry for them, letting Azahar and Elowen run ahead to the carriage, where they none-too-quietly speculated about the size and style belonging to a noble, and asking if it had been rented for the trip since Sausage had told them over lunch that they would be travelling a fair distance to get home. Once their bags were stowed they inspected the interior, having never been inside an enclosed carriage before. Scott and Sausage sat together and watched them with amusement at their curiosity, fielding more questions as the journey home began.

The boys eventually settled down, each taking a side to stare out the windows as the scenery changed from the familiar lands of Rivendell’s climate to the different hills and fields of the neighboring empires. When the first outlying settlements of Mythland came into view, Sausage reached for Scott’s hand with his left, seeking a little reassurance for his nerves.

“Are those giant mushrooms?” Azahar asked, peering out the window at an angle as if to look up under the plant’s cap. “I’ve seen this kind of forest in a book before, it looks amazing up close!”

“We can take a walk out to see some tomorrow,” Sausage suggested. “You’ll be able to see them from the – house, too, when we’re actually home. This is just the outskirts of where we live.”

Elowen looked over with wide eyes. “How big is this forest? It just keeps going! There’s no mountains anywhere!”

Sausage chuckled. “The forest of Mythland is mostly flat, but you’ll be able to see more when the trees thin out.”

The boys went back to watching the outside pass by, having the occasional comment but staying calm until the carriage finally rolled into the main city. Then Elowen gasped and beckoned Azahar over to his side. “Look, look! There’s a big castle!”

“Whoa! Are we going to go past it? Who lives there?”

Sausage couldn’t contain a grin. “We do, and now so do you.”

Azahar turned a look of disbelief toward him. “Wait, that means you… are nobles? So, you own this carriage?”

“Well, not just any nobles,” Scott said, grinning as well. “Our official titles are Lord Sausage of Mythland and King Regnant Scott.”

“K-King? …W-Wait, that means we’re…” Azahar looked at Elowen and wondered if he understood the implications.

“You are the new princes of Mythland,” Scott declared warmly.

Azahar sat back against the seat, digesting the news while Elowen seemed to still be working things out. “So…my new dads fight dragons and are kings of a whole big place with giant mushrooms and no mountains… This is kinda weird but it’s still cool!”

Azahar gave a little laugh and patted his friend-turned-brother on the head. “So, are we supposed to call you ‘Lord’ and ‘King’, um, ‘King Regnant’, too? I don’t know how being a prince is supposed to work except what’s in fairy tales.”

“You can just call us Dad,” Scott indicated himself, then pointed at Sausage, “And Papa, if you like. Or just our regular names. Titles are for use outside the family. You’ll meet some of our friends who go by names like Count fWhip and the Wizard GeminiTay. fWhip was the one who created Sausage’s prosthetic arm. He’ll be like an uncle to you. You’ll see him around because that arm needs regular maintenance, so you’ll see it when he’s not wearing it, too.”

“I hope that won’t bother either of you?” Sausage put in.

The boys shook their heads and Azahar replied, “We’ve seen – what’s it called – ampu…tees? Before. There are some old veterans in our village. But none of them have anything like that.”

“It’s a fWhip original,” Sausage explained, and then began to think of asking the inventor if he was interested in doing similar projects.

Scott had more he wanted to tell them, but at that moment the carriage came to a halt. “Here we are,” he said instead. “Mythland Castle. I am going to ask that you not run around right away. It’s a big place and you could maybe get lost.”

“We won’t, sir—uh, Dad.” Azahar paused then gave a delighted smile at being able to say the word. He helped Elowen get down from the carriage and held his hand to make sure he didn’t start wandering off, since the younger boy was already looking around in fascination.

Sausage followed next and took all of the bags as Scott handed them out to him. Then all four of them went up the steps to start a tour of the boys’ new home. One of the first stops was their bedrooms, down the hall from the royal chambers, and Sausage was now glad he had the foresight to clear a second room previously intended for guests.

However, the boys looked very confused by the options, each staring into the same room, with Elowen questioning, “Where’s my bed?”

“You can each have your own room!” Sausage pointed to the other doorway. “See, there’s another right across from here.”

“No, I wanna be in his room.” Elowen suddenly clung to Azahar’s arm.

The older boy spoke quietly to him in Elvish, and Scott flashed a sympathetic look as he overheard, then Azahar asked, “Can we share one for now? I’ll help move a bed over if you need me to.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll get it,” Sausage chirped, and set down the bags to bustle about in the second room, removing the bedding. Scott directed the boys to stand to the side and went to help him, and a short while later they had rearranged the agreed upon room to accommodate everything. They left the bags to be unpacked later and continued the tour, which included the library, treasury, dining hall, and a stop off in the courtyard for an introduction to Bubbles, which lead to more delight from the boys when they were offered a chance to run around with her.

Sausage told them that she had her own castle to look after but she visited often, so she was their dog to play with, too. Bubbles gave her approval of the children – not that Sausage ever thought she would doubt his decision in the matter. Not long after, he joined in the running around, pretending Bubbles was a scary beast that required fleeing, with extra flee. At one point he hoisted Elowen onto his shoulders, getting him out of range as Bubbles feigned nipping at his ankles. She jumped repeatedly, not getting much higher than Sausage’s stomach, causing Elowen to laugh.

Azahar, meanwhile, drifted over to where Scott sat on a bench watching with his own joy at seeing Sausage having such unrestrained fun. He commented to the older boy, “You’ve been watching out for him for a while, haven’t you?”

“He was really shy when he first got there. I don’t know what happened to his family, but I wanted to help.”

“I heard you were there for a long time.”

“Yeah. I just wanted the littler kids to get a home. I thought I could just, you know, grow up there, and work there. That seemed okay.”

Scott’s heart broke a little at hearing the tone of his voice, the weight of too much knowledge for his age. “If that’s something you would like to do when you’re grown up, we’ll support you. But you’re allowed to be a kid right now, and we’re here to look after Elowen now, too. So go play some more.” He turned a kind smile to him.

“No, let him have Papa to himself for a while. I’d like to sit here with you, Dad.” Azahar returned the smile and sat down. For the next hour or so they simply chatted in Elvish while Sausage and Elowen tired themselves out chasing or being chased by Bubbles.

~*~

Later, after dinner, the boys returned to their room to unpack their things. Azahar had a few of his favorite books that he placed across the top of his dresser. Elowen held up a picture book of his own, which the older boy smiled at and put next to his. Then he helped Elowen organize his clothes before hopping up on his bed to think about the day’s events.

Elowen took a slightly ragged-looking teddy bear out of his bag and climbed up next to Azahar, hugging the doll as he, too, thought about things. “Do you think they’re going to let us stay?”

“I think they’re very happy to have us. Papa is… different, and the other kids didn’t like that.”

“But he’s nice! And a lot of fun! And he has Bubbles!”

Azahar chuckled. “Well, we didn’t know about Bubbles before, either.”

“He let me ask all those things and didn’t get mad and was nice at our home. I don’t know why everybody else didn’t want to talk to him. They didn’t even try to ask him anything!”

“I’ll explain it to you later. Are you going to sleep in your own bed, or do you want me to tuck you in over here?”

“Umm… Can I stay here?” Elowen squirmed. “This place is nice but it’s… kinda scary, too?”

“Well, it’s a lot bigger than we’re used to, and it is a castle.” Azahar went over to get an extra pillow from the other bed, then arranged the blanket over Elowen and smirked. “There might even be ghosts hiding in some secret passage!”

“Nooo! That’s too scary!”

The older boy laughed. “Don’t worry, our dads are brave heroes, remember? They wouldn’t let ghosts or anything else hurt you. We’re their family now, right?” He climbed back onto the bed and made himself comfortable, letting the younger boy snuggle against him for familiarity’s sake.

“So, if we’re princes now, do we have some kind of job we have to do?”

“I don’t know. You can ask tomorrow. But I think we just get to be kids, and run around and have fun like you did today.”

“Okay. … … I’m gonna be extra good, just in case. I wanna stay here.”

Meanwhile, down the hall, the two newly minted fathers were also settling in for the night. Scott picked a stray leaf out from under a strut on Sausage’s prosthetic as he put it away. He looked at the leaf with amusement as he twirled the stem between his fingers, then set it on the windowsill before turning to his side of the bed.

Sausage was already laying down and gazing at the ceiling, then he looked over at Scott. “We have kids now. Two kids. Two… sons.”

“I know. I was there.”

“H— come on, now! Don’t ruin the moment!”

Scott laughed lightly. “I’m sorry. You did seem to be having a lot of fun out there.”

“I’ve ended up always being too busy to play with Bubbles most of the time. But today it felt different, anyway.”

“Now you have someone to share that with you, and meeting Bubbles was like a new experience for them, too.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Sausage went back to staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, then said, “I hope they’ll want to stay. Mythland is going to be different for them.”

Scott thought back to some things Azahar had told him. “It’s something of an adventure for them. Give it some time and we’ll find out how they feel. But I think we made the right choice.”

~*~

Over breakfast the next morning the boys were more subdued and being extraneously polite, with a few ‘sir’s slipping out as food was passed along the table. Sausage cast a couple of worried glances at Scott, who wanted to assure him that they were still adjusting but didn’t want to say it out loud in case it might make them feel like they were doing something wrong.

Finally, it was Elowen who broke the tension. “Excuse me, I wanna ask ‘cause Azahar didn’t know – do we have to do anything special because we’re princes now? Do princes have jobs? I know they rescue girls sometimes but that’s always in stories! What do they really do?”

“Well,” Scott replied, “Princes your age don’t have to worry about jobs yet. You might learn some things about the work we do when you’re older, but even I was only a prince until I married your papa. My brother, who is now also your uncle, has the job of a ruler, and I would only help out if he needed it.”

Azahar waved his fork. “So, if you lived in Rivendell instead of here, we would still be princes?”

“That’s right. Your whole family is royalty.” Scott smiled, feeling that he got past the technicality of having also been a king elsewhere. “Sausage does most of the work because this is his kingdom. The only work you have to do is your studies. We’ll set something up in the library later for that, but this morning we can all go out for a walk or look around the castle more if you like.”

Then Elowen remembered. “The giant mushrooms!”

Sausage nodded, also recalling the boys’ fascination from the day before. “There are some right behind the castle. We’ll go out after everyone is done here.”

Elowen excitedly began eating faster to finish his breakfast, although Azahar quietly reminded him to not eat too fast.

On the way out they ran into Bubbles, so the boys had another good run through the trees until they came across one of the giant mushrooms, which they inspected and made a brief attempt to climb. This time Scott was the one to lift Elowen on his shoulders to reach the underside of the mushroom’s cap, with Azahar watching from below while Sausage had a word with Bubbles.

Apparently, there was something important she needed him for, so after helping Elowen down from Scott’s shoulders, Sausage excused himself but promised to meet back up with them for lunch. The three elves walked for a little while so Scott could show them some of the paths that led either to other outside parts of the castle or into town, then they headed back inside for the remainder of the tour they hadn’t finished the previous day.

They ended at the library, with Scott saying, “I have someone else for you to meet who will help with some of your studies. Please wait here while I go get him.” He held the door open and the boys began to wander around to get a better look at the inside of the library. Elowen hopped up on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, glancing at the books someone had left on the table beside it, while Azahar went to the nearest bookshelf and looked at some of the titles.

Scott returned a few minutes later with some paper and quills tucked under one arm, and the boys were extremely confused to see that he was being followed by a… chicken. A chicken wearing armor with red and yellow heraldry, but still very much a chicken. “Boys, this is Sir Carlos. He’ll be teaching you Mythland’s history and helping with some other lessons.”

Sir Carlos tilted his head at each of the boys in turn, then clucked and said, “Young master Azahar, young master Elowen, it is a pleasure to meet you. I understand your studies center on Rivendell, so I will include that in your lessons. You are welcome to ask any questions about Mythland and I will do my best to answer.”

The two boys couldn’t help staring. Sir Carlos clucked quietly, then sighed. “Yes, I am currently a talking chicken. No, I wasn’t always a chicken. Your… papa has endeavored to return me to my original form but the spell was cast so long ago that it has been lost to time. I have gone on several quests to find the solution, and yes, I will tell you about them, but that will come later. Sire,” he nodded to Scott, who motioned for the boys to join him at one of the reading tables, where he set out the paper and quills, with one set of each for himself, as well.

Sir Carlos flapped his wings and got himself up onto a chair, then onto the table where he began to walk back and forth. “Firstly, tell me about your schoolwork so far, then we will choose a curriculum from there.”

Scott explained the concept of a curriculum in Elvish, then proceeded to help, translate, and take notes of his own. He and Sir Carlos soon had a general list, and then it was Azahar who reminded them about the possibility of learning magic. That one was out of Sir Carlos’ realm of expertise, but Scott decided he could get them started on some of the casting forms for ice magic, while another tutor would be needed for other types.

A little while later Sausage returned from the business with Bubbles for lunch as promised. He put in his thoughts on school lessons and agreed to sit in on the ones about Mythland’s history when the boys asked if he could tell them stories about their new home, too.

~*~

Extra-curricular lessons ended up diverging after a few days, however, when Scott was teaching them how to shape spell sigils in the air and, while Elowen was able to get it on the second try, Azahar struggled – with not a wisp of spell energy being conjured. It soon became clear that he simply didn’t have the propensity for magic. Sausage stepped in and offered to begin his sword fighting training early so that he would have something to do while Scott helped Elowen develop his burgeoning skills; Azahar was, of course, happy for his brother, especially because it looked like ice magic could be his specialty, and it gave them each a different way to bond with their new fathers.

What he lacked in magic he made up for with agility and analysis while using a blade, quickly picking up on the forms, if not yet having the strength to back up his strikes – although those, too, were only meant as examples, and Sausage didn’t push him too hard during practice. He enjoyed the chance to spend time with Azahar, though, getting to know him and making up for the slight lack he felt about not being able to hold full conversations in Elvish like Scott. The boy, in turn, helped him work on learning the language in between their own lessons and Sausage’s kingly duties that kept him busy.

Around three weeks later, everyone seemed to have settled nicely into their new routine, and there were no more worries on either side about whether things would work out. The boys were out playing in the garden with Bubbles during an afternoon off from lessons. Scott sat reading a book and occasionally glanced up when they ran by, although it was something mentioned in the book that made him get up and wander off in search of Sausage.

He found him where he expected to, standing over a desk sorting through a wide assortment of papers with requests from around the kingdom. Scott leaned on the doorway, tapping the spine of the book against his chin. “Sausage, I was just reminded of something. Do you remember how old you were at your debut gala?”

“Ummm, I think maybe I was ten.”

“Oh. It’s different for the elven court. But since this is Mythland, we could start thinking about having one for Azahar soon, since we missed that window.”

“Well, I think my parents waited for one reason or another. Considering the stories, they might have been waiting out a curse or something.” He laughed but cut himself off. “Uhm, maybe it’s not that funny actually, eh-heh. Okay, well, we could just make our own tradition. Split the difference and have one now for both of them, instead of introducing them separately. That might…actually work out better for Elowen, you know? I noticed he, um, gets a bit clingy toward Azahar when new people are around.”

“That’s true,” Scott agreed quietly. “I do like the idea overall. It might be easier on them to experience that part of royal life if they’re sharing a special day.”

“How big are we going to make this thing? Mine was open to the whole kingdom because I was the sole prince at that point. I don’t want to put too much pressure on them.” Sausage then added in a mutter, “Also, remember what happened at that one party after the wedding…”

“I think we’ll at most invite our friends, with the rulers of all the empires being a courteous necessity. It isn’t a secret to our kingdom anyway, but this will be one of those official introduction things.”

“Okay!” Sausage grinned and pushed all the missives into one pile, then took out a fresh sheet of paper and a drafting pencil. Then he began to rattle off fancy phrasing in an ostentatious voice, “Dearest friends, allies, and others, you are hereby invited…”

Scott chuckled as he continued with an exaggerated courtly tone and waited until he was done writing to pluck the pencil from his hand, turn the paper around, and start adding decorative flourishes around the border.

~*~

Everyone had just settled down for breakfast when Sausage announced, “Lessons today will come later, boys. We have an appointment at the tailor shop for something special.” He couldn’t help throwing an excited look at Scott. “We decided we’re going to have a special party for you that royal families hold when introducing a new child to the kingdom called a debut gala. Usually, it’s for one child at a time – well, unless there are twins or triplets, or something – but we’re going to have it for both of you at the same time, so you can share it. We thought you would prefer that.” He smiled gently at Elowen, whose eyes had gone as big as saucers.

Azahar seemed to be fighting back some tears of his own. Then he blurted out, “That – That sounds like it really makes things official! That we… we really do get to stay!”

Now Sausage and Scott traded alarmed looks, and the latter said with concern, “Of course you’re staying! You’re our sons. I – I’m sorry if anything in the last few weeks made you think we weren’t going to keep you.”

Sausage abruptly stood, nearly knocking his chair down, and hurried over to enfold Azahar in a hug. “We - We’ve been worried you might not want to stay, because things are different here, and we’re a little different, but… we love having you here with us! We want you as our family.” He tried to convey his sincerity without squeezing the boy too hard with his metal arm.

Elowen let out a sort of squawk and ran around the table to throw his arms around Scott. “We love you, too! I told Azahar I would behave really good because I really wanted to stay! I’ll keep being really good! A big party sounds scary but I still wanna be a prince!”

Scott gently patted Elowen’s back. “It’s not going to be too big. We’re inviting just our friends and other rulers so they’ll know we have more family now. It will be a bit fancy, but you still don’t have to worry about knowing everything about being a prince. You’ll be introduced to everyone by name, then everyone dances and has some food, and they might ask you some things to get to know you a little. We’ll be right there if you’re not sure about something, or even if it is a little scary.”

Sausage returned to his seat after straightening the chair. “And there’s one more thing: you’ll each get your own special crown! Not like my silly old thing, but something nice that you can wear whenever you want, or not at all – unless there is another fancy event that you’d like to go to.”

Azahar asked curiously, “Then, what will they look like?”

Sausage grinned. “It’s a surprise. But you do get to pick out the outfit and colors you want to wear for it! We’ll head out after breakfast, so eat up!”

As with almost all of the recent trips into town, such as the last time they had gone out to get the boys some new clothes in general, the more people they passed the more Elowen retreated into himself. He clung to Azahar’s hand and shied away against him despite the warm greetings from citizens who were merely happy to see their king and his husband out among them. By the third instance of a shopkeeper attempting to draw a smile from the shy boy, Sausage fell in beside Elowen and offered his left hand for him to also hold, acting as a second barrier to what was meant as politeness, yet was obliviousness on the part of the outgoing citizens.

By the time they reached the tailor’s shop, Elowen had begun to peek around with more curiosity toward his surroundings. Inside, the tailor also greeted them kindly before bustling off to the back room. He returned a moment later with an assistant and a small basket. From it he took three bobby pins with tassels made from metallic string on the ends. He gestured for Scott to lean forward, then he slid a pin with a red tassel into his hair near his ear, then turned to smile at the boys. Azahar accepted a gold one threaded carefully into his hair, while for Elowen the tailor knelt and gently slipped a silver one onto the cuff of his shirt sleeve.

Elowen looked at the tassel dangling from his cuff and the tailor lightly flicked it to make it sway. Elowen smiled and began playing with it, neatly distracted. The tailor then moved to get a tape measure from the basket and took Azahar’s measurements, with the older boy following instructions for how to stand and when to hold out his arms. When it was Elowen’s turn, the tailor asked him to hold out the tassel in different ways, effectively getting him to make the same poses for measuring.

The next step was picking out the style of outfit they wanted. The assistant brought out some examples, which were decidedly on the Mythland side of fashion. Seeing that both of the boys were uncertain, Sausage suggested they could get the same thing in different colors. Azahar glanced at Scott a few times then asked if they could get something similar to his elven tunic with a Mythland-style doublet over it (after he figured out what the clothing pieces were called).

At that point Elowen began to clutch at the tassel instead of still playing with it. Sausage held out his hand again, and now the boy practically buried himself in his papa’s cloak. The tailor cast a sympathetic look at Sausage and Scott, then quietly asked if Elowen would like to touch the fabrics; he didn’t even have to choose one, it was okay for him to just see what they all felt like.

Elowen nodded, and soon he and Sausage were walking through the shop patting at the assorted bolts of fabric with Sausage commenting how soft one was or how the textured pattern on another was weird, getting Elowen to laugh a few times.

Azahar smiled after them, then turned his own attention to choosing something he liked. He eventually settled on scarlet and yellow, hoping to lend significance to the colors of Mythland’s banner as his new home. After some gentle coaxing from Sausage, Elowen went back around and patted some dark blue fabric to indicate his choice.

With everything settled and a follow up day for a fitting agreed upon, they set off back home. Elowen was quiet the entire way and only relaxed once they were on the castle grounds. Instead of departing right away to tend to daily work, Sausage nodded meaningfully to Scott, then nodded toward Elowen as the boy seemed to meander aimlessly away whereas Azahar set off immediately toward the library for the expected delayed lessons.

Sausage moved to Elowen’s side with Scott a step behind. “Elowen, can we talk out in the garden for a moment?”

The boy glanced around for a second, but not seeing Azahar for reassurance, he silently nodded then lowered his head. Sausage gently took his hand and the three of them walked down to the doors leading to the securely walled-in outside area. Once there, Elowen continued to look at the ground. “Sorry if I didn’t act like a brave prince should today. I’m… I’m…” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I get scared sometimes…”

Sausage lowered himself to one knee to get closer to eye level. “You know what? It’s okay if being around a lot of strangers makes you nervous. All those people out there were happy to see us, and they’ll be nice to you, but if you’re nervous about it, you just tell one of us, and we’ll be right there to keep you safe. We don’t expect you to be brave all the time. I mean, we appreciate if you be a polite young elf, of course. But if there’s something you want to talk about so we can help things not be so scary…” He attempted to drop a hint without being pushy. He couldn’t help wondering if something in the boy’s past had contributed to this.

Scott, however, was the one to pick up on the hint. He placed his hands on Elowen’s shoulders. “Um. We’ll listen and help you with anything, but you don’t even have to talk about it right now. We just want you to know that as your dads, we’re here for you.”

Sausage smiled up at Scott with a sheepish look, realizing he was softening the potential pushiness. Sausage then placed his right hand on Elowen’s arm. “It’s always okay to say if something scares you. Adults get scared of things, too.”

Elowen glanced at Sausage’s prosthetic arm, then put a hand over the metal and gave a small smile before hugging his human father. “Thank you, Papa, Dad. …I don’t wanna talk about anything right now, but I feel better. I’ll try not to be so scared next time.” He stood back but kept his hand on Sausage’s prosthetic and said quietly, “Getting bitten by a dragon must be scary, too, and maybe too scary to talk a lot about.”

Sausage smiled back at him then ruffled the boy’s hair with his left hand. “That’s a good point! I’ve got an idea for something else we can do today that’s more fun than scary dragons: Why don’t you help me finish the invitations and get them sent out? You know all those ravens that hang out on top of the tower? We can tell them to go to Uncle fWhip and everyone that’s invited to the party! Let’s go find your brother!”

The three of them quickly went to collect a surprised Azahar from the library, but he caught on to Elowen’s enthusiasm after the quiet walk home. They relocated the stack of invitations – and Sausage’s stack of daily paperwork – to the dining room table to have space for all of them to work.

Now that they had an idea of when the boys’ outfits would be ready, they could set an official date for the gala, which Azahar and Scott wrote in the space left blank in the original draft. Scott signed each one, then passed them to Elowen, who put them in a neat pile for Sausage to sign in between his other missives. Elowen then took each one back and carefully rolled it up. Scott showed them how to apply enough wax before pressing the seal of Mythland into the middle to show that this was an approved royal message. He put the boys in charge of keeping hold of the dozen invitations while they waited for Sausage to seal some other scrolls, then up they went to the raven aerie.

The majority of the ravens were out on the rooftops. Sausage took care of a few unrelated missives first with quiet instructions, then turned a big grin to the boys. “Okay, where should we start? Alphabetical in Common? The closest first? The farthest – oh, we should probably send Tango’s to Jimmy, I don’t think any of the ravens know how to get to that particular Ancient City, um. Hmm…”

Elowen glanced at a raven that was hopping around on the nearest windowsill. “Are we gonna go by their first names or the name of their empire?”

“Good question!” Sausage replied. “What do you think? Which ones do you remember better from geography lessons?”

Elowen placed his set of invitations on the floor so his hands were free to count on his fingers. “Uncle fWhip is in the Grimlands, Auntie Gem is at the Crystal Cliffs… Auntie Pearl is in Gilded Heel-lee-lanthia—”

“Helianthia,” Azahar corrected.

“Umm, so, Auntie Pearl would be first by the closest empire, but Auntie Gem would be first by name…”

“Wait,” Azahar put in, “Would the Cod Empire be first by empire, or does it go under ‘the’ instead of ‘cod’? …That would mean the Grimlands wouldn’t go under ‘g’ either, huh?”

<i>”Cod! Cod!”</i> the raven on the windowsill called out.

Azahar nearly dropped the scrolls he was holding. “D-Did that one just say ‘cod’ or ‘caw’…?”

Sausage tried to suppress a giggle but failed. “Crows caw, ravens have a deeper kind of <i>grunk.”</i>

“Cod! Cod!” the raven repeated. “Cod Empire!” It then tilted its head and looked at the invitations Elowen had put down. “This letter is for Jimmy!” It hopped down to the floor and began to poke at the scrolls with its beak.

Scott scooped one up and held it out to the raven. “They don’t have individual names on them, but you can deliver this one to Jimmy, in the Cod Empire.”

“Cod! Cod! Jimmy is a cod!”

Scott smiled with a chuckle of his own. “Close enough.”

The ruckus got the attention of a few more ravens, who fluttered onto the windowsills and were soon calling to each other as word got around among them that there were quite a few scrolls in the hands of their young masters, as Elowen picked his up to start offering them to whichever raven ventured near. “This one goes to… GeminiTay at the Crystal Cliffs,” he said, trying to sound authoritative while keeping the order of empires listed in his head – since the choice had been decided for them. “Oh! This one goes to Tango the Blaze Emperor, he’ll get his from Jimmy – in the Cod Empire,” he said to the next raven, almost forgetting what Sausage had said earlier.

After he had gone through his half of the invitations, Azahar took over. “This one goes to King Joel in Mazelea. This one goes to Queen Lizzie in the Ocean Empire. Next is Shrub… no, Princess Katherine, in the Overgrown. Heh, I kinda keep messing up the Overgrown and the Undergrove, sorry.”

The next raven croaked at him then plucked at the scroll still in his hand. He hastily handed it over and continued with the rest of the list. He and Elowen then ran to a window to watch the ravens flying off in various directions, including the two going the same way to their neighboring empire.

~*~

Sitting on the dock outside the humble, littlest shack in the Cod Empire, Tango the Blazeborn Emperor held his feet just above the water, casually humming while watching Jimmy swim around under the surface. He was generally careful to not touch the water himself, out of an overabundance of caution, but he did lean over to look at how his fires, black cloak, and blazerod crown was reflected between the ripples.

The mirrored image of two birds flew into view, then they circled and landed at the edge of the shack’s roof. Tango could see they each had a scroll clutched in the talons of one foot. He stood up and held out his hands. “Those are for Jimmy, right? I’ll give them to him. You can’t swim either, can you?”

“Jimmy the cod!” croaked out one. The birds – ravens, Tango now remembered they were called – looked at each other. The second one croaked, “Give it to Jimmy! For Tango the Blaze!”

“Hey, that’s me! So, you were going to give both to Jimmy, and he’d give me one? He’ll probably be up in a minute, but it works the same way: give both to me, and I’ll give him one!”

The ravens conferred with each other in quiet creaking sounds, then both fluttered off the roof. Tango held his hands out again, only for both birds to drop the scrolls while remaining a distance above him, missing his hands completely. He realized they probably didn’t want to get too close to the flame atop his head. “It’s okay! I don’t take it personally!” he called after them as they flew off back the way they had come.

Tango picked up one scroll and broke the seal, softening the wax with his touch but reining in his heat to not set the parchment itself on fire. He unrolled it then tilted his head as he puzzled over some unfamiliar words.

The Codfather climbed up onto the dock a few seconds later and noticed his companion’s look of concentration. “What have you got there?”

“Hey, so – what’s a gala? And what are princes?”

“What? Let me see.”

“Oh, there was one for you, too! I guess they’re the same, but…” Tango turned and bent to pick up the other scroll that the ravens had dropped. “Here! Tell me if yours says it, too!” He handed it over and rather eagerly bounced on his toes while Jimmy struggled for a second to break the seal with his still-damp fingers.

Tango waited patiently for confirmation and an explanation, but all Jimmy did was exclaim, “Wait, since when has Mythland had princes??”

[Chapter Two - The First Gala ]

[azurecake16]

“Who are you?” She asked carefully, watching Shelby dismount from her broom

“Uh, Hi! I’m Shelby, the Witch of Evermoore forests, It’s great to meet you! Um…who are you exactly?”

The person seemed a bit startled at the question, hesitating

“You said you’re a witch? So you can fix curses?”

My valentines gift for @mysticotta ! Hope you enjoy reading, I definitely had fun writing it:D

This was made for the @mcyt-valentines exchange!

[valoisfulcanellideux]

Thinking about them so much right now...

[Art commissioned from Sabira | Flower of Laurelin. Full cover artwork is here.]

[thetomorrowshow]

the night got deathly quiet

a secret side storyline is resolved in this update. Can anyone tell me what it is?

cw: violence, mild gore (lots of dead people), death

~

They hadn't expected the war so soon.

Jimmy had figured they at least had a couple of weeks. It wasn't exactly public knowledge that Scott would be touring Rivendell and therefore not available to make battle decisions, but Lizzie and Joel had both sent extra troops to strengthen Rivendell in case of an attack from fWhip.

And then the attack came from behind.

They hadn't received any reports that Mythland was even doing more than preparing armies, let alone mobilizing them. In order to surprise them, he must have moved fast.

And maybe, that's what Jimmy gets. After all, he's the one who decided to rebuild the Capitol right next to Mythland's border. Of course Sausage was going to attack, when Jimmy's certainly the weakest empire and the least likely to be prepared—and of course he managed to do it without alerting anyone, what with the Codlands right next door.

And when he does attack, it goes badly.

"Codfather, you’ve got to leave," insists Belgio, a senior member of the Cod Council. Two of his advisors had shown up at his door less than an hour ago, out of breath and terrified, to inform him of the coming armies. Emil had left almost immediately, still young enough to fight, but Belgio (old, his scales flaking in places) and remained, in some attempt to evacuate Jimmy.

Someone screams from far away, clear over the shouting of so many warriors—because all the normal noises of the city have gone silent, and even so far from the battle, in his small house at the dock, Jimmy can hear the war.

It calls to him, almost. The screams of his soldiers call for his help.

He isn't going to run from them.

"I can't," Jimmy says firmly, pulling tight the side buckles of his chestplate. "I swore an oath to protect this people—I carried them out of the clutches of the salmon, and—"

"And that is why you've got to be saved," Belgio says. "If you're to save us again, you have to make it out!"

"I can't let them die alone!"

Belgio falls silent, the rings of Jimmy's shout echoing in the small house, floating away like the dust that dances in the window's light.

Jimmy bites his lip, shifts his chestplate a bit.

"Can you get the buckle on the back?" he asks quietly. Wordlessly, Belgio moves behind him, tightens the strap and buckles it.

Jimmy lets his eyes flicker shut for a moment, almost in a wordless prayer. To whom, he doesn't know.

He just begs for the strength to defend those he loves.

"When I first saw you, I knew you were our leader," Belgio says after a moment, patting Jimmy's shoulders and snapping him out of his moment of piety. "We know that you've had lots of doubts over the years. Blood doesn't matter, Jimmy. You're our Codfather."

Jimmy nods, a lump in his throat. He doesn't know what he can even say, what he can do to make any of this situation better.

He's probably going to die, isn't he?

A year ago, he would have been more than happy to die for his country. A year ago, he would have marched out into battle without a care, only hoping to take down as many of Sausage's people as possible.

He wouldn't say he has more reason to live now. Sure, he has Scott. And Scott is . . . Scott is wonderful.

But he's always had his people.

The difference is that now, he knows the price of sacrifice. He knows that if this kingdom falls (if he leaves them without a leader), no Codlands will remain.

He has to go out. He has to try.

If he'd woken in Rivendell this morning, Scott would have stopped him from returning to the Codlands. And what good would that have done? Let it be conquered, let these people be utterly destroyed, and (being an imposter king) have no way to carry on their legacy?

At least if he dies here, he'll die a martyr.

Yet here he is, the noonday sunlight filtering in through his cabin's windows, dressing in the armor that has never seemed to fit quite right, and he wishes he were anywhere else.

He twists the ring on his left hand, once, twice, three times for good luck. He's probably not going to survive. Not a full-scale invasion. Unless he's taken prisoner, which he thinks would be unlikely—he still doesn't have the Codfather head, and his face is a little disfigured from the loss of his scales. As far as he knows, he isn't anyone recognizable. And even if someone does recognize him, the only reason he would be taken prisoner would be to gloat at Lizzie and Scott, or to torture him.

He doesn't plan on being taken prisoner.

With the addition of a wooden medallion that Belgio reverently lays around his neck (Jimmy lets him do so, shrugging away the guilt—if he remembers correctly, it signifies some prayer of strength, and he needs all the strength he can get), he's ready to leave.

He steps into the kitchen, checks his reflection in a pan hanging there. Awkward tan armor, his earfins swirling, his good old leather boots, the patchy scars on his face. Jimmy nods at himself, sweeps a hand through his perpetually messy hair.

This is it.

"I'll see you," he says to Belgio, who looks at him for a long moment before nodding, stepping out of the way of the door.

"At least think about escaping, all right?" he offers half-heartedly. Jimmy tries for a smile.

He's not going to do that.

He picks up the Codfather sword, leaning against the wall in its scabbard, and belts it onto his waist. He swallows back his anxiety, takes a deep breath, and pulls open the front door.

The dock is empty. A scrap of cloth blows through the street, the wind whistling just slightly in his ears.

And louder now, in the distance, Jimmy can hear the clashing of swords and the shouting of soldiers.

He hikes up his chestplate and starts running in that direction.

It doesn't take long at all to find the fight. He runs into some twenty of his soldiers soon enough, regrouping behind a cornerstore. The battle has already nearly reached the square beyond, and Jimmy can see more of his soldiers surging forward through the streets, weapons drawn and captains shouting.

This squadron has paused, their captain organizing them, when Jimmy runs up to them.

"Jimmy!" one of them gasps out, standing from where she's crouched behind the wall. "We thought you'd gone to safety! Why are you still here?"

"I won't abandon my people," Jimmy says, even as her face twists in distress.

"This isn't a fight, Codfather," she says urgently. "This is a massacre. We've sent as many children as we can to the Ocean, please join them and g—"

"I'm not running away." Jimmy pats her arm in what he hopes is a comforting manner, before turning to the captain of the group, identified by the blue ribbon tied hastily in their hair. "What's it like out there?"

"Mythland soldiers crawling all over the place," the Cod replies, giving him a quick salute. "They started with catapults, taking down the city walls. They've been moving in, forms of . . . thirty or forty, I'd say. Just one right after another. It's endless, sir."

"Any weaknesses?"

They shrug. "Their backs are unprotected," they suggest. "They're only in half-armor. But we haven't been able to get behind them."

They're wearing half-armor. Because of course, the Cod Empire isn't enough of a threat to bother with their backs.

It burns at Jimmy to know that they're right.

"Right. Well, we probably shouldn't sneak around behind them, we'd get surrounded," Jimmy says, turning the matter over in his mind. He thumbs the hilt of his sword consideringly. "Maybe a point formation? Break through their front line, then stab them in the back?"

"It could work," the captain concedes, glancing at a tall Cod, who shrugs hopelessly. "We'd need more numbers. Is there another group we can join up with?"

"I saw some running over there," a young Cod pipes up, pointing to the left of them, her too-big helmet slipping into her eyes. "Maybe twenty soldiers?"

"Forty isn't enough to wedge into Mythland's armies," another soldier says. "There's got to be thousands of them."

"If we can get a hundred, I'm willing to try," the captain says decisively. "There should be more on the east side, I heard from Mela that they're holding their own over there."

The east. That's the most populous part of the city. It would be best to head there anyway, make sure there aren't any more people who need to be evacuated.

"What do we know about the towns and provinces further inland?" Jimmy asks, suddenly struck by the question.

The captain shrugs. A soldier looks uncertainly at his feet.

Probably fallen or going to fall, then. There's rivers and canals running through most of the Codlands, so those could be a quick escape if the soldiers of Mythland aren't used to fighting fish hybrids. If someone could warn them. . . .

"You," Jimmy decides, pointing to the young girl. "Take the canals, go warn as many towns as you can that the war has begun. Get them out of there. Queen Lizzie or Lady Katherine will accept them as refugees, whichever empire is easier for them to get to. Got it?"

She nods, takes off at a sprint. Jimmy turns to the others, squares his shoulders.

He can do this. He managed about ten years of peace, which he thinks is pretty good for a war-ravaged kingdom. He can save it again now and lead it back into peace.

He doesn't know who he's trying to fool. He isn't even the righteous heir of this kingdom. Arguably, it's his rule that brought about this war with Mythland.

It was his rule, though, as illegitimate as it might have been. And he swore an oath when he took it upon himself to protect this people.

"To the east!" Jimmy declares, and takes off.

-

The east is chaos.

Yes, there are plenty of Cod defenders in the streets, but there are also hundreds Mythland attackers flooding the area. There's a house burning down (smoke is thick in the air, and those around are choking and tears stream from their eyes), a window being shattered, children screaming and running, someone is dying on his left and someone is killing on his right—

"Jimmy, behind you!"

Jimmy turns around, somehow has the ability to dodge a swing from an axe and draw his sword. He doesn't really know anything about facing off against an axe (his combat instructor had always told him to flee), so he just jogs half-backward, drawing the warrior in, until one of the soldiers in his group can stab the man in the back and take him down.

Then they keep moving, further into the battle, avoiding fights but gathering random Cod where they can, calling for soldiers as they go until they've collected a fairly large group. Probably a hundred, right? That looks like about a hundred.

"Form a wedge!" Jimmy shouts, for once glad of his naturally loud voice. The Cod soldiers obey, and they move down the large main street toward Mythland's advancing lines.

He can see the proper lines of soldiers, now, not just a mob of men in red with shining silver armor roaming the narrow Cod streets. It looks well-directed and terrifyingly intimidating, and surely far more impressive than his own small troupe must appear.

And it goes on forever. There's—the lines are endless, wave after wave of footmen rushing forward, killing Cod and barging into homes and destroying the town.

Jimmy stares for a moment, utterly overwhelmed.

His people are dying. They're being wiped out entirely, all at the will of a power-hungry king. Their culture had barely survived the centuries of subjectivity and war with the salmon. It won't survive this.

Jimmy shakes himself. It could survive this! He just has to . . . he has to save it.

"Wedge formation!" the captain from before shouts, then begins leading the pack, past individual battles and destruction and to the main lines.

It all gets blurry after that. Jimmy runs with them, storming toward the enemy, yelling instructions to his people, ignoring the way his voice shakes.

He fights. He raises his sword against people, stabs some in their unprotected backs, fights some head on. Face after face blends together as Jimmy almost mindlessly swings his sword (he's been training with it every week for the past ten years, and while he isn't perfect he's certainly a force to be reckoned with), one thought running through his brain on repeat: save them. Save them. Save them.

He isn't sure how long it is before he hears calls of retreat. The Cod numbers have dwindled around him, his soldiers collapsing one by one under the weight of just how many Mythlanders there are. And more are still coming—Jimmy looks up at some point and sees so many footmen, so many knights on horses, there's too many the world is going to end—

He falls back with everyone else, weaving into the smoky streets among fleeing and screaming people, shouting soldiers, a fry crying for its mother, all hazy and uncertain—

Then a shout rouses him from the depths of his mind.

"That's him! That's the Codfather!"

He whirls around, trying to spot anyone who might have—there. A smug-looking knight on horseback, pointing to him and shouting to his comrades, and now there are five or six or seven Mythland soldiers moving toward him.

Jimmy curses under his breath, wipes a trickle of sweat from below his ear.

He doesn't really want to die here, but maybe he can draw enough Mythlanders his way that he can distract them from his people.

It's not suicide. Maybe he can get to his cabin, grab his elytra off the hook by the door and get away—or jump into a canal and swim out.

A glance into the nearest canal tells him that others have tried the same thing. Bile rises to his throat; dead Cod are floating, belly-up, arrows piercing them all over, the canal running red with blood.

He hopes the young girl he sent made it out. He hopes she didn't have to swim by any bodies.

He fears that neither hope has any truth to it.

An arrow whistles past Jimmy's ear, and he takes that as his cue to start running.

Sausage's men must have a line of bowmen behind the main advances, and if one has shot for him, it must mean that the endless sea of red soldiers has an end, and behind that end is the archers. If Jimmy could gather another group, sneak in behind the lines, they could get the archers. Bows aren't really made for hand-to-hand contact, so they could probably just take them all out and stop any more airfire from hitting his soldiers.

But then that group would surely perish. Every one of those soldiers would be surrounded. Jimmy doesn't know if their wedge did any real damage—he couldn't tell from the thick of it—but they'd had a way out. Killing the archers would cost more than it would save.

And now he really has to get going, because there are more soldiers coming in droves and several of them are aiming for him.

He turns on his heel and sprints off, dodging the battle at every turn. There are still too many citizens among the fighting, why haven't they fled—there's an older gentleman that he shoves into a house, a child that he picks up with one arm and carries a short distance until he finds a fleeing man who can get her to safety.

He rounds a corner in a winding street (skipping over bodies all the way down, he knows he's headed toward more death) to find two Mythland soldiers fighting one Cod soldier, the Cod's energy clearly flagging. Jimmy leaps into the fight, stabbing one soldier through his unprotected side.

"Go!" he shouts to the Cod, and xe stumbles away, sword hanging loosely at their side.

Jimmy makes quick work of the other Mythlander, kicking her in the knees to get her down before knocking the hilt of his sword against her head. Then he continues down the street, covering his mouth as the stench of smoke grows stronger, until it opens up into a plaza—the plaza that Jimmy knows to be the center of the city.

The plaza is destroyed, entirely unrecognizable as what was surely once a pleasant hub of energy—there's people screaming everywhere, shattered pottery and trampled food and bodies on the ground, a dog barking, soldiers killing without consideration, market stalls burning and in disarray, horses rearing. . . .

There's so much, and Jimmy moves to go forward, eye catching on a Mythlander about to kill a defenseless Cod, when a hand catches his arm, pulling him back into the doorway of a shop.

"Codfather," this new soldier begs him, a Cod instantly recognizable as part of Jimmy's Rivendell guard, shouting to be heard above the turmoil. "Leave! Free us later, you can't save us now!"

Jimmy can't leave, though.

Not when his people are dying before his very eyes. Not when he can save at least one life.

He promised to be willing to die for these people. He has to keep that promise.

Anyone can lead a country—he's living proof. But not everyone will lay down their life for another, no matter their station. And the latter is the kind of Cod that Jimmy wants to be.

He claps the soldier on the shoulder. "You get out," he tells him. "Will you abandon your country in this time of need, or keep fighting to save those weaker than you?"

The soldier looks down at his feet, then back up, teary determination in his eyes, soot and dirt dulling his scales (as if the battle has drowned his light). "I fight with you," he says.

Jimmy grins. "Good. What's your name?"

"Micah."

"You've accompanied me to Rivendell before?"

Micah nods.

Jimmy squeezes his shoulder. "Well, Micah," he says, "maybe we'll both get to see those mountains again."

And with that, he hefts up his sword and charges into the fight.

He dispatches a Mythland soldier immediately, striking down a second one as soon as he gets near enough. Jimmy's blood is pounding in his ears, his heartrate elevated. He knows how to fight. Better than many rulers, probably, forced to fight since before he was even declared Codfather, and expected to defend if there was ever an attack.

He licks his lips, twists his sword around in his hand before plunging it into the back of another enemy. Maybe they can barricade off the plaza, only leave one street open so only one soldier can get in at a time? It wouldn't be permanent, but it might last long enough for them to hold their own until they had a chance to flee, or until some sort of back-up arrived.

There isn't back-up coming, though. Nobody knows this is happening. Nobody knows the Cod Empire is falling.

Jimmy fends off a spearman, knocking the spear out of their hands before slamming the flat of his blade into the side of their head. He's got this. He knows how to dance this dance, knows how to look for weak spots.

This soldier relies too heavily on his shield, blocking every one of Jimmy's hits with it rather than his sword. Jimmy goes for a wide cut on his unprotected side, takes him down, then spins to the side to dodge a swing from a man whose balance is off, feet too flat. He steps in past his range, shoulder-checks him to knock him back, then stabs him through the shoulder.

"The Codfather!" the next soldier greets him, smiling sharply. "I"ll be honored for killing you."

"Not if you're dead," Jimmy grunts, swinging his sword into the soldier's neck and partially decapitating him, his body collapsing instantly.

There's another one waiting behind, and Jimmy steps back to dodge a strike and something rolls under his feet—he slips back and trips, barely manages to catch his feet under him before he falls into the canal behind him. He glances down—just for a moment—and sees the arm of the Cod's body that he'd slipped on—

Then, with a burst of blinding pain, a sword drives its way around his chestplate and into his shoulder.

He gasps a little bit, the world slowing around him.

There's a sword in his body.

It cut through his flesh like a knife through butter, straight into that space between his shoulder and his chest, and there's metal separating tendons and flesh and he's going to die—

The sword is drawn out, and Jimmy stumbles forward with it, the shiiick of the sword being removed echoing in his ears.

He's—he's fine. It's not a fatal wound. It's just—just blood, soaking his tunic, sticking to his skin. He's bled before. It's not too serious to have it outside of his body.

"I got him!" a woman—the person who stabbed him—shouts. Jimmy glares at her, the world around him coming starkly (too starkly, everything just a little too bright) back into focus. Nobody who's smug about it is going to kill him.

He hefts his sword back up, ignoring the pain shooting out from his shoulder, ignoring the slight wooziness that tugs in the back of his mouth.

He swings at her, more precisely and accurately than he expected, cutting down into her shoulder and neck.

She collapses when he yanks his sword out of her collarbone, but her call had brought others. There are three more approaching, lifting their weapons.

Something that Jimmy would say is one of his worst qualities is his stubbornness. Lizzie has got on him time and time again for never backing down from a fight he can't win.

And this is one with no hope.

So Jimmy takes a deep breath and fights.

He takes down two of them before the third gets past his defenses, slashing a sword deep across his thigh.

His leg gives out, spurting blood everywhere, the cut burning somewhere beyond Jimmy's consciousness. He falls to his knees, stabs up under the chestplate of the soldier—and there are four more behind her.

His arm shakes as he stabs the knee of the first soldier, then hits them in the side when they twist downward. He adjusts his grip on the sweat-stained leather of his sword, adds his other (heavy, near-useless) hand to it.

He manages to kill the next soldier before he gets hit again—he dodges, bending to one side, but the sword swinging at his head manages to clip his earfin, neatly slicing off a piece of it that falls to the ground beside him. He aims up, stabs that man through the chin—

His back stiffens as cold metal shoves down in the back of his chestplate and pierces into his flesh, stabbing through his back—through—through—through his body and angling down, in his back and down, and Jimmy can't move, he's skewered on this sword, he chokes on nothing as his eyes go wide and it hurts—

Another shiiick with a tiny little squelch, and the sword is removed with a jerk that pulls a sound from Jimmy's lips that's something in between and grunt and a whimper.

The enemies around him (for they truly are surrounding him, at least five, hazy and out-of-focus) go still, their weapons lowering.

Jimmy's arms drop to his side. His grip on the sword loosens. Someone screams in the distance, distorted by his uneven ears.

No.

No.

One of the Mythlanders—a man with a grey beard, his armor old and unpolished—kneels before Jimmy, puts his hands on either side of Jimmy's head.

There's something proud about the way he holds his chin, something . . . something different in his eyes. Jimmy doesn't know what. All Jimmy knows is that he suddenly feels cold.

"You fought admirably, son," he says, voice low and gravelly. "There are those of us in Mythland yet who respect a warrior, despite the actions of our king. Go into the next life without fear, for you will be honored."

Jimmy stares blankly at him. There's hot blood pooling in the back of his tunic, running in rivulets down his back. He can't move his left arm, blood caking under it. His thigh is wet with the stuff; blood trickles down the side of his neck.

He's so cold.

The man tips Jimmy's head forward, places a scratchy kiss on his forehead. "Rest easy," he murmurs, before standing, picking his sword back up and turning away into a blur of color.

Jimmy slumps forward against his will, slowly falling onto his stomach, cheek landing against the dusty cobblestone. He doesn't feel the way the fall jostles his wounds. He doesn't feel anything but cold.

The boots that stand in front of his eyes are new, splashed with blood on the toe.

"Finally," the person says distantly. "I've been chasing him for twenty minutes. Fought like a dog."

And then, with a noticeable plop on his back, he spits on Jimmy.

One of Jimmy's other worst qualities, in his opinion, is pride. And somehow, his pride is stronger than the cold darkness pulling at him.

And his sword is still in his hand.

Gathering every last ounce of strength that he has, Jimmy strikes out to the side, slashing through those new boots and cutting into the calf.

The man curses, leaps away. Jimmy can't help but smirk a little, lips feeling numb. His fingers lose grip of his sword, his vision blurs further.

"Why isn't he dead already—"

A boot slams into his head and the fuzziness goes black.

-

"Just roll them into the canal. We'll have the Cods fill it up with dirt."

"Glad we don't have to carry them all the way to the fields. The savages fought hard, I heard they're still loading the wagons with ours."

"Have you heard anything about Daniel?"

"No, haven't seen him. Whose squadron was he in?"

"Twenty-third, Hal's group. He's my wife's brother."

"You'll probably have to be the one to tell her, then. If he's dead."

"And his husband. They'll be heartbroken."

"Mm. Oh, urgh—their weird scale things always grossed me out."

"It's the ears for me. Every time I went to market there'd be one of them selling something stupid. My daughter thinks they're terrifying, would scream when we passed by."

"She's right. They're freaky-looking. I was glad to kill a few."

"Are you two working, or talking?"

"Milord!"

"Working, sire, our apologies."

"Your majesty, what brings you out here?"

"I received an urgent report from one of my captains. You haven't seen a Cod body—hehe, Coddy—with scars on his face? Blond hair, tall, lots of scars?"

"None that match that description yet, sire. If we see one—"

"No need, I'll search with you. Are we just rolling them into this river-thing?"

"Yes, milord. Allow us—"

"Oh—"

"There it goes!"

"Right, and now the next—"

"Oh! Is this the one you're looking for?"

". . . Well. Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. Scott wasn't here to save you this time, was he?"

"Is that. . . ?"

"Friends, this is—or, was—the Codfather."

"Looks like he put up quite the fight. There are so many bodies around him."

"He's drenched in blood. Must have been painful."

"It was supposed to be fWhip to kill him, I think. He always wanted to. He isn't going to be too happy about this, let me tell you!"

"Do you need the body?"

"And stink up my kingdom by bringing back a dead fish? Roll him into the river with the others. But give me a second with him, all right?"

"Yes, milord."

"Of course, your majesty."

"Honestly, Jimmy, I think this look is an improvement! You think Scott is into this, all this blood and guts? You never know, elves are a little freaky! . . . Well, I can't say I'll miss you. I loved messing with you, but I can find a new game. Look, if you get to heaven, tell 'em to let in your old pal Sausage! And if you end up in hell . . . tell 'em the same thing! Covering all my bases, you know? . . . I guess this is goodbye! See ya, Jimmy!"

"It's close enough to the canal, we won't even have to touch it, really."

"Just kick it in."

"You two take care of that! Oh, I can't wait to tell Scott. . . ."

"All right, I'll just—"

"And I'll—"

"There it goes! Which one next?"

"Let's keep going along this way, and when. . . ."

-

That night, the Cod Empire is deathly quiet.

Smoke hangs like a cloud over the Capital, some buildings still burning (pointless from the beginning, yet even after the battle had been won there were celebrating soldiers setting fire to cabins and shops, destruction just a mark of victory). Bodies line the streets, half the canals filled with the dead.

There are some still living. Soldiers who had surrendered, children and caretakers and disabled who weren't able to escape but were able to hide. They do not sleep, fearing what the morning will bring. Will King Sausage order their deaths? Will he move through their land to the ones beyond? Will he demand slavery of them, even the children?

A father bundles up his baby and waits for a change in guard at the docks, then slips into the water and swims away, heading for the Ocean Kingdom. Another Cod tries the same thing and is caught with an arrow in their throat.

Those who remain hide in their homes, curtains drawn, and hold each other, too fearful to try to contact friends and family to see if they still live. They daren't go outside, lest they join the bodies in the streets.

They all know that their Codfather has fallen. That news had been shouted through the town, on every gory street and dock, until all in the town silently despaired and knew that they were doomed.

Lord Sausage, King of Mythland, returns home and writes a gloating letter of conquest, which reaches all of the empires before the night ends. One day of battle, and the Codlands has been conquered. He doesn't write of the fate of the Codfather, relishing the opportunity to tell the Ocean Queen and Lord Smajor in person.

In the canals are hundreds of bodies. An older Mythland soldier on guard frowns as he stares down at the disturbing piles of dead, on top the pale body of a guard named Micah, and shakes his head in disgust.

In the canal near the center of town, under two other bodies, completely submerged in the dirty water, is the body of the Codfather. His hair floats in the water, his face almost unrecognizable, bloated in death, painted with blood and mud.

It's the dark of midnight, not even lit by the moon, only the dim stars twinkling down. The body of the Codfather rocks a little bit with the shift of the water, little ripples coming from seemingly nowhere, traveling down each canal.

Something rumbles, deep underground.

The water picks up, tiny ripples becoming actual waves, crashing against the land and shoving the bodies from side to side, piles spilling over and sending dead Cod flopping to the land—almost as if a storm is brewing, though the skies are clear as can be.

The Mythlanders on guard around the town laugh nervously, step away from the canals, as the bodies seem to thrash in the choppy water.

And in the canal near the center of town, the Codfather lies in the water.

His eyes flash open.

[deityoftherain]

Oceanfolk Tradition made for Empires SMP S1 Lore

Bestowal is something my friend (@welcome-back-to-hoimycraf) and I came up with together. We went crazy in DMs just building up a tradition that I wanted to include in this fic (more info about it on Tumblr) when we didn't need to but when have we ever been sane about our block people and worldbuilding?

Just because I don't think I will be able to use it to its full extent in this series (I might/will probably recycle it and use it in the future for other oceanfolk fics as needed but some of these I don't see myself ever using it BUT THEY EXIST SEE I THOUGHT ABOUT IT ALL), I will share my notes of it that are in my worldbuilding/planning document. Copy and paste, my beloved.

Bestowal: Oceanfolk give shells to those they care about and they wear them on their person as a display of their love. They start wearing them and giving them out when winter turns into spring. There are different shells to show different types of appreciation, care, and love. Oceanfolk tend to wear a lot of shells on their clothing. The shells given are worn as necklaces/bracelets/hairpieces/etc for the spring and they are later sewn into clothes. The shells are passed down and reused, meaning many oceanfolk wear shells their ancestors had worn before. When they don’t want them anymore, there are take-a-shell leave-a-shell spots. Oceanfolk can trade shells there, donate shells they don't want, or take shells to be able to use if they can’t go out to find their own for whatever reason or if they just want extra for xyz.

Shell Code for ^: https://naplesseashellcompany.com/shell-types.html cowries/olives - for those you would like to acknowledge but don’t know well such as coworkers and classmates! They are common and they are the kind of thing you have children gather for activities when teaching them about the tradition bonnets - to give to those you want to know better for xyz reason strombus - to give to those you look up to or respect in your community, showing appreciation as a fan of sorts, etc (those such as teachers, guards, healers, performers, etc) spindle/tibia - (look like sperm soooo) related to sex and fertility however they want to interpret that (your friend with benefits, pregnancy announcement, telling them you want to have sex, etc) tritons/frog - for friends and other platonic relationships turritellas - for familial relationships such as parents, siblings, children, cousins, etc miters/auger - for romantic relationships that you want to get into (if you’re really bold) or to acknowledge an existing one abalones - reserved for engagements and formally committed relationships (marriage basically)

[simple-seranade]

What’s a god to a nonbeliever?

Jimmy is done with the jokes, the lack of respect.

Joel wants to see a toy? Oh, Jimmy will show him a toy.

TW: body horror, non-consenual body transformation, hurt/no comfort, blood, swords

(credit goes to this post by @theminecraftbee , sorry if the tag is unwanted lol)

______________________

“Jimmy, this is ridiculous! Let me GO!” Joel strains against the ropes pulled taught against his skin, wincing as the skin chafes.

That damned smile doesn’t leave Jimmy’s face. It looks so wrong, all sharp and so cold it burns. “Now why would I do that? I need you to play a game with me, after all.”

The words send a slimy kind of fear racing up Joel’s spine, and he fights back a wince at the feeling. “What in my name are you on about?”

He can’t move as Jimmy turns away from him, dragging the steel of his blade across a nearby anvil with a wicked screech. “Well, you see, Joel, you’ve been under the delusion that I’m a toy! Such a silly thought, coming from such a big, powerful god, right? Clearly, toys are just so far below you that you never cared to see what they actually were!”

The god barely restrains a screech as the sheriff spins, holding the horrifically sharp blade to his throat with practiced ease. “But not to worry,” Jimmy continues, tone as sweet and acrid as cyanide. “I’m here to help you!”

The metal is poking his throat now, burning hot from the desert sun. “T-Tim-”

“That’s the Sheriff to you.” With a jerk of a hand, the blade leaves Joel’s throat, leaving a thin line of gold as ichor drips from the newly opened wound. “And as your Sheriff, I’m going to show you something.” Jimmy leans in close, and for a split second Joel swears his brown eyes gleam red.

“I’m going to show you what a real toy looks like.”

Joel can only choke back a scream as Jimmy shoves a vial of potion down his throat, the taste thick and ashen and sickeningly sweet. It slides slowly down his throat, coating it and making him cough. His lungs seem to tighten, something tickling in the back of his throat as he coughs again. Golden ichor splatters against Jimmy’s white shirt as blood enters the fray, Joel near heaving in an attempt to clear whatever the hell is in his chest-

Until suddenly, he can’t cough. 

His eyes widen as the air fizzles out of his lungs with nothing but a quiet wheeze. He tries to breathe in, get more air, only for nothing to happen. His mouth is open, he knows what he’s doing should be resulting in filling his lungs with air, but instead there’s just… nothing. A hand comes up and presses his chest, only for it to cave slightly under the pressure. The god fights back the urge to vomit at the sensation, feeling things shift inside him. 

“Rule one: Toys don’t breathe.”

He turns his panicked gaze to Jimmy, who looks at him with nothing but ice-cold apathy. His heart pounds in his chest as he feels his strength seep away bit by bit. Even holding his arm up feels like an impossible task, and he can only watch as it falls limply to his side.

“Rule two: Toys don’t move on their own.”

He’s frozen in place as he feels the steady thump in his chest begin to slow. His gaze is simply stuck looking up at the Sheriff.

“Rule three.”

Joel feels the irrepressible urge to scream with lungs and vocal cords that are there no more. The Sheriff leans down close, his face inches from the god’s as a divine heart takes it’s final beats.

“Toys have no heart.”

Joel screams and sobs from the glass prison of his mind as all connection with his body is severed. He doesn’t know how long he’s stuck there as his world becomes overwhelmed by pain in every single nerve, all while being unable to move a muscle. He’s even shrinking, getting smaller and smaller and Jimmy’s shadow looms over him. He doesn’t even notice when the pain stops, internally shouting from a conscious no one can hear.

He’s vaguely aware of rough hands picking him up carelessly, squeezing what should be his stomach and is instead stuffing. 

“This is really your own fault.” Jimmy says, almost conversationally, like Joel could even respond. “You gods are all the same. So caught up in the sound of your own voices, you forget where your power really comes from.”

The Sheriff leans in close, holding the now-doll up by a single arm. 

“A god is only as strong as their worshippers think them to be. And call me a heretic all you like, but even a ‘god’ such as yourself holds no candle to someone who never believed in the first place.”

[poisonheartfrog]

The sculk crawling across Shelby’s skin itches under the pastel gauze of her party dress. The spell may have hidden it from view, but she can still feel its every pulse. It writhes with a mind of its own. Combined with the buzz from Sausage's mojitos, she feels more than a little sick. At least the rum and lime covers up the taste of dank cave and rot in her mouth.

Fwhip and Oli chatter on either side of her, but she can barely pay attention to the words. The creeping infection speaks to her in a language of vibration. It calls to her to forget, to let it be a balm to cover up the pain. 

It can take away that shame that seethes in her heart, where every disappointed word from the Witch’s Academy, every failed spell, and every doubt lives.

She just has to give in.

Shelby clutches her glass a little tighter and paints on a smile.

She can feel the sculk squirm when Pix dies. 

*****

Katherine clears the long table, toned arms moving quickly from place setting to place setting. The glasses and plates gently clink together as she stacks them with the same precision Shelby has seen her use to separate monsters from their heads. 

Katherine is as kind as she always is, and her laugh is strawberries and spun sugar. She greets Shelby with a warm smile and Shelby replies with a blush.

Shelby wants to be close to her, to soak up her presence like sunshine. If her body were her own, Shelby would invite Katherine to visit her in the Evermoore, where they would stargaze under a velvet sky, or sit by the slow moving river and talk for hours.

But the sculk keeps burrowing into her skin. The itching turns to burning.

So Shelby begs for a cure, then lashes out with words that she doesn’t mean. Katherine winces and steps back, suddenly closed off. Shelby’s regret comes too late to make any difference.

Her shame seethes even more. 

*****

The sculk contains a galaxy, thousands of shadowy stars blinking in the dark. Every point is an opportunity. A promise that her thoughts will stop swirling and her mind will be at peace.

The itch is so strong now that she’s not sure she exists outside of it.

The catalyst sinks into the swirling fog at the heart of the Evermoore like it was always meant to be there.

Oli wanders in, like a lamb through an open slaughterhouse door. Killing him is almost too easy.

The sculk soaks up his blood and begins to bubble. It boils over and spreads, flowing through the mist and pooling around Shelby’s feet.

Tendrils lick up her legs and meet the veins already entwined around her. Shelby can hardly tell where she ends and the sculk begins, and a universe in shades of teal darkness is spread out before her.